Chapter Twelve #2
“Pardon me, Brice,” Gideon said. With his long stride, he caught Gwen easily. He placed a hand on the small of her back and followed her out.
In the corridor, she gazed up at him, wary and expectant.
“Evidently we have much to discuss tonight, Gwen.” Such as how she had come to know details of his youth.
“Shall I come to you, like last night?”
“Exactly like last night. One thing more.” He lifted his hand without conscious thought, intent on tracing the tendrils framing her face. At the last second, he caught himself and lowered his arm to his side. “Your hair.”
“Yes?”
“It looks very nice. You’re quite pretty—although, I’m sure you know,” he muttered. Why on earth had he said any of that?
She had started to smile, but the words he’d tacked on at the end brought a frown of displeasure.
He cursed inwardly. “That did not come out right.”
“No, I expect it did not,” she agreed without hesitation.
He barked out a laugh. He never knew what she would say, whether she’d be shy or bold, confident or hesitant, easily offended or impossible to ruffle. He damned sure hadn’t anticipated her spouting off anecdotes from his childhood. So many mysteries surrounded his bluestocking wife.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor, distant, yet clearly coming this way. The perfect excuse.
Without giving her an ounce of warning, he grasped her shoulders, leaned down, and pressed his lips to hers.
The contact was meant to be brief, but her lips tasted of peppermint and sugar and an indefinable sweetness that begged to be savored a little while longer. He slanted his mouth over hers, immersing his senses in the intoxicating elixir that was Gwendolyn Barnes.
Her lips were every bit as full and inviting as he’d known they would be. But he could not help noticing Gwen held herself statue still. Seconds, that felt like hours, ticked past. Then, her shoulders relaxed, her lips softened, and her face angled upward.
Satisfaction roared through him. She was not immune to him.
He flexed his hands on her shoulders, drawing her closer.
The light brush of her body against his was like wind feeding a hungry flame.
More, his body begged, enjoining him to back her into the cold plaster walls of the corridor to feel her lithe, sleek, pliant form under his.
No. This was neither the time nor the place.
With an effort of sheer will, he released her, lifted his head, and gazed down at her upturned face.
Her eyelids fluttered open, slowly, not rising past half-mast. She stared at him with those unblinking, bluer-than-the-Caribbean-sea eyes as if peering into his very soul.
An odd yearning twisted his insides, and the desire to kiss her again pummeled his restraint.
Try as he might—and he tried—he could not resist. He cupped her impossibly smooth cheeks with hands he could swear shook and lowered his mouth.
The split second before he made contact, the sound of humming, the clang of keys, and the accompanying footfalls reminded him of his supposed reason for kissing his fake wife in the first place. He froze, stunned by the derailment of his self-command.
The sounds abruptly halted. A moment later, whoever had happened upon them started in the opposite direction, moving in double-time.
He withdrew his hands, lifted his head, and somehow aimed a sardonic grin at Gwen, even as he absorbed the sight of her—lips parted, cheeks flushed from his kiss.
The Black Widow of Whitehall had asked if he found Gwen pretty. He’d admitted he did. Just now he’d told Gwen the same, albeit in the most back-handed compliment possible.
In both instances, he’d lied. The woman was, with her fine-boned, aristocratic features, straight, pert nose, and pale-gold hair, stunningly beautiful.
Irrelevant, he told himself. He was neither courting nor seducing her. He was playing a role, as was she, and he’d just cemented the legitimacy of their fake relationship in the eyes of the staff.
Keep telling yourself that, Devereux.
Seemingly unperturbed, Gwen squared her shoulders, smoothed her skirts, and nodded once, as if acknowledging her perfect understanding of what had just taken place.
For some reason, her calm demeanor annoyed him.
“If there’s nothing else?” she asked coolly. “I have work that I wish to attend.”
Without a word, he gestured for her to go, then jerked the door to his den open with, strictly speaking, more force than necessary.
He stepped inside to the sight of Brice leaning against the mantle, the picture of a man hitting his stride.
Not a hair out of place, not a whisker marring his cheek, the gleam of his hessians visible even from where Gideon stood.
To look at him, no one would guess his middle-class roots as the firstborn son of the magistrate of a small farming village.
His dark eyes danced with sardonic amusement. “My God, Gid, you’re beyond smitten. I had my doubts—not that I would’ve blamed you, for inventing the pretense as the marriage settles matters for you very tidily.”
Gideon rolled his eyes but bit back the denial on his tongue over the man’s audacious claim. After all, he needed his and Gwen’s marriage to go unquestioned. But smitten? Ridiculous.
“To be honest, I also wanted to assure myself you hadn’t bound yourself with another Fannie.
To look at her…” He broke off, holding his hands palms up as if two sides of a scale.
“But now that I’ve seen the way you look at her…
” He left off, placed his hand over his heart, and pat in the rhythm of a heartbeat.
The gold rings he wore glinted in the lamplight.
Gwen was no Fannie. Any fool could see that.
Although, to be fair, he’d assumed as much upon meeting her. The perfect English rose, poised and polished, and likely as not, equipped with thorns as sharp as a feral cat’s claws.
He strode toward his desk, rounding it to take his chair. “If by all that you mean we appear to get on well together, you are correct. Her temperament suits me. She makes very few demands.” He paused deliberately. “As you’re here, I have a few questions for you.”
Brice sauntered to the armchair facing Gideon’s large desk.
“Very few demands? That’s it? That’s what recommended her, why you offered marriage?
You expect me to believe that drivel?” He sat, studying Gideon as if working out a puzzle.
“Did you know her before sailing? Is that the real reason you left when you did?”
Brice had Gideon’s full attention, now. “An interesting assertion.”
As if he’d caught the scent of the hound, Brice went on.
“Yes, that makes perfect sense—a lot more than the two of you meeting aboard a ship and falling in love.” He waggled his index finger in the air as if on the verge of making a brilliant discovery.
“Let me see if I have this figured correctly. You sailed for Calcutta with her and her father, already with the intent of marriage.”
Gideon held himself still. An interesting assertion, and one he didn’t want to deny. It would add another layer to their story.
Brice’s eyes narrowed in evident concentration. “You kept her secret because…” Abruptly his brows shot up. He snapped his fingers. “You didn’t want Grayson sniffing around her like he did with Fannie, is that it?”
Gideon’s blood turned to ice. Mentioning his late wife was one thing.
Bringing up Grayson and Fannie in the same sentence was quite another.
To this day he didn’t know how much Brice had worked out about the events of that summer, when Gideon had returned home to England and within a month, wed Lady Frances ‘Fannie’ Rothman.
“I have no notion of what you mean,” he said, his voice very soft.
Brice’s gaze filled with sympathy, or pity, Gideon couldn’t say, and he wouldn’t ask. No matter what had happened, Grayson was his brother.
“He’s a grown man now, Gideon. You should put the past away. Forgive and forget—”
“Enough,” he growled.
Brice crossed his arms over his chest, arching one perfectly shaped brow.
“You are in a mood, aren’t you? Never mind.
” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Far be it from me to tell the great man himself how to conduct his private affairs.” He examined his manicure.
“I’ll just say congratulations, then, hm? ”
“Thank you,” Gideon said, crisply.
“What did you want to ask me?”
“Grayson and Mrs. Dove-Lyon informed me you filed a claim for the consortium’s loss, rather than waiting for me to do it.”
He had the grace to flush.
“Is it because you’d heard the rumors alluding to my death and chose to believe them?”
Brice drew himself up with obvious affront.
“Good God, no. If you must know, I needed my share of the money. I only did what you would have upon your return, which, I expected months ago. Mind telling me what on earth kept you, as your wife apparently voyaged home with her father a good two months prior to you?”
“You knew I had a serious rat problem in my import business.”
Brice snorted. “A rat who kept nibbling away at your inventory?”
Gideon inclined his head.
“Did you rid yourself of the infestation?”
He decided not to share what he and Gwen had both reasoned out—he had found no evidence of foul play because there was none to be found. “The problem has been resolved.” Or so he suspected.
Brice met Gideon’s eyes. “Taken en route, then?”
He’d drawn the same conclusion as everyone else.
Dirk Kennedy, his trusted captain, his loyal friend, had pilfered Gideon’s goods en route from Calcutta to England with increasing boldness, and then, in a final act of betrayal, stole not only the rifles bound for Spain, but the cargo ship on which they sailed.
Gideon must’ve shot Brice a glare, because he spread his arms open wide. “What else, Gideon? Who else? You gave the man too much rope, and he hung himself with it. I’m truly sorry.”
Gideon heaved a sigh as a great weariness settled on him. “Where do we stand with the insurance claim?”
Brice steepled his fingers. “You know of the investigation Lloyd’s initiated? The…” he shifted in his seat, “suspicion the Spanish navy threw on you?”
“I do. Evidently, half the polite world is aware. Any idea who leaked the rumors?”
“None. No one I ask seems to have a clue—and you better believe I did ask, as well as tried my best to convince my contacts at the Home Office that the claim against you was nonsense—after they finally had the good grace to share the report with me. I pointed out rather vocally that the so-called evidence was nothing but conjecture.”
“I appreciate that.”
He smiled his crooked smile. “The on dit is, the Home Office will close the investigation now you’re back and married. Hopefully the insurance company’s investigation follows suit. My wife’s spending has me nearly bankrupt.”
Gideon snorted. “Your wife? Say, is that a new suit?”
Gold rings flashed as he smoothed both hands over an expensive-looking brocade waistcoat. He sent Gideon a wry grin. “Not everyone has your mystique and can pull off austere black, Gideon. We mortals must find some way to compete.”