Chapter Thirteen
Soon after the evening meal, Gwen excused herself, retiring to her chambers. This time, when Clara arrived to assist with her toilette, she dismissed the maid out of hand, although she did not refuse the steaming basin of sweet-smelling water.
She did not think it proper for her to strip out of her dress and underclothes again before visiting Gideon’s chamber and she suspected Clara would find it odd if she did not.
After the spectacle they’d made of themselves today outside Gideon’s den, casting doubt on their supposed attachment to one another would be counterproductive.
She sat at her vanity and removed her stockings.
Wriggling her freed toes, she closed her eyes and, for what seemed the hundredth time, relived the kiss they’d shared.
His mouth, slanting over hers, searching and achingly tender, had not felt like any sort of act though she comprehended he’d orchestrated the entire event.
Still. She’d never been kissed like that in her life. Reggie’s kisses had been…not like that. And Mr. Landry—No. She did not want to think of what had occurred with him.
Setting her stockings aside, she padded to the basin and dipped a hand towel into the steaming water, then bent to scrub it over her legs and feet, enjoying the delicious warmth.
Gideon’s kiss had made her feel…She couldn’t precisely say. Good was certainly one word to describe the sensation, and warm. Very, very warm. And rather excited. And…aware?
Yes. Aware—of Gideon and nothing else. In fact, she’d all but forgotten he had commenced the business with an audience in mind.
She straightened and set the soiled towel on the cart.
Several hours had passed since the incident, and, oddly, she still felt hot inside, almost feverish, not to mention jittery.
Throughout dinner, concentrating on anything other than that kiss proved a struggle.
Now, too. Perhaps she was coming down with something.
Perhaps.
Unfortunately, she rather suspected she was developing a fascination for Gideon. A most ill-judged notion. Nothing good could come of that.
She soaked a fresh towel to wash her neck and décolleté. Allowing the warm water to trickle down her back and under her bodice, she forced herself to contemplate her more pressing concern—how to explain her knowledge of Gideon’s youth of which she’d boasted to Brice.
She really had no choice in the matter. She would have to be honest with him.
Moving back to her vanity, she chided herself for giving in to the impulse to open her mouth. Why had she?
She removed the beautiful combs Amelia had gifted her, set them on her vanity with care, and reasoned her outburst had been intended to prove to Mr. Tyrell that she and Gideon knew each other, and that he’d shared details of his life with her. But…that was not the only reason.
Stroking her silver brush through her hair, she silently admitted she had taken an instant and unfair dislike of Gideon’s friend because, for some odd reason, his mannerism, perhaps, he brought to mind Mr. Landry.
Though she had not seen the man for years, everything in her had recoiled at the unpleasant reminder.
She scooped her hair over one shoulder, braided the length of it, then extinguished the wall candles, and made her way to the dividing door.
Gideon opened the adjoining door and inhaled the pleasant scent of doused candles, underlaid with same elusive floral aroma he’d noticed last night.
“Hello again.” Her voice had a breathless quality that had his skin prickling with awareness.
She’d left a lamp burning in her antechamber and the soft glow provided enough illumination to tell him she had not changed from her evening dress as she had last night. No doubt that meant she also wore the accompanying ensemble of undergarments.
Squelching an indecorous pang of disappointment, he told himself he was grateful. Very grateful. It meant he would not find himself distracted by the enticing outline of her body again tonight.
Keep telling yourself that, Devereux.
“Good evening, Gwen. Come in.”
She crossed the threshold and made for the same armchair she had chosen the previous night. She sat, arranging her skirts with a grace of movement that belied the unflattering, high-necked gown she wore. Navy, tonight, which, at least, suited her coloring.
“You implied earlier you wished to discuss something.” As she spoke, her voice pitched higher.
“Yes. Several things, in fact.”
“Such as?”
“I thought I should prepare you for your audience with the duke and duchess.” He huffed out a laugh. “You should have some idea of what you’ve signed on for.”
“A wise call, no doubt.”
“My father is…” he broke off, an irrepressible grin tugging at his mouth, “the consummate duke. Be prepared for him to say whatever he wishes, whenever he wishes.”
She nodded her understanding, a small, answering smile playing at her lips. As opposed to last evening when she’d opted to sit ramrod straight on the edge of the armchair, tonight, she sank back, resting her head against the seat cushion as her gaze drifted to the dancing flames in the grate.
Against his better judgment, he took the moment to study her, unobserved.
She was so damned arresting. What was it about her?
That long, golden hair he’d made the mistake of touching so now his fingers constantly itched to sift through it?
Her delicate face and porcelain skin that could as well belong to a mythical fairy as a mere human?
Those cupid-bow shaped lips that he’d suspected, and now knew beyond a shadow of doubt, were lush and sweet as ripe berries.
All of those things, added together, would set her apart from the crowd.
But her eyes truly captivated him.
Her wide-set, blue-as-the-sky eyes, framed with thick, curling lashes demanded his attention, whether sparkling with interest, shining with undisguised intelligence, or gleaming with humor.
She cleared her throat.
Bloody hell. Caught staring like a pauper eyeing the baker’s cart.
He shoved up from his chair and made for his antechamber, returning with two goblets of Madeira. “My apologies. I nearly deprived you of your ritual nightcap.”
She cradled the goblet with one elegant hand, and drew it to her lips. Watching her, he had the sudden fierce desire to feel her palm, pressed against his nape, her fingers, tangled in his hair.
With a low groan, he lowered onto his chair, reminding himself she was not his mistress.
She slanted him a speculative glance. “If you are tired, Gideon, tomorrow is soon enough for you to tutor me on your family dynamics.”
“Exactly when tomorrow?” he demanded in a too-curt tone, for no good reason.
She did not look the least fazed. If anything, the look she gave him seemed to say, “I told you so,” as if his brusqueness owed to fatigue.
It did not. It owed to his increasing fixation on her. With effort, he spoke in a civil manner. “I am not tired. Thank you.”
She inclined her head. “As you say.”
A thought, brewing in the back of his mind, pushed to the fore. They were two consenting adults. A widow and a widower, neither in search of a replacement spouse. There was no reason they could not conduct an affair.
True, on the surface, entering into physical relationship at this juncture seemed like a terrible idea thanks to the inherent potential for mayhem and confusion on the female’s part which he had, unfortunately, suffered through on more than one occasion.
But, in this case, the merit outweighed the risk.
He wanted her, certainly, and was almost certain she returned the sentiment. Almost.
Too, nothing could be more convenient. As a fake married couple, they shared a home and adjoining rooms, and would, for the foreseeable future.
Finally, at the affair’s conclusion, assuming he was not for the gallows, one of them—as yet undecided—would depart London, making for an easy, amicable split. What could be simpler?
“You were saying, about your father?” Gwen prodded, her words tinged with impatience.
He contemplated her another moment, inwardly wrestling over whether to broach the subject of an affair or not.
Gwen continued to stare, all bluestocking, zero coquette.
He suddenly felt like a dirty lecher drooling over an innocent debutante. He could swear he’d read sexual interest in her gaze on more than one occasion. Or was that all wishful thinking on his part?
Bloody hell. The woman might drive him insane before the end of this.
He shoved thoughts of a liaison from his mind.
“The duke, for all his arrogance and inherent certainty that the world should dance to his tune, is a fine man, worthy of all due respect. I regret having to mislead him concerning our situation. Still, I’d rather that than have the truth come out and implicate him in any way. ”
Never embarrass your father. You owe him that much.
Her eyes gleamed with understanding.
“As for the duchess, you will find her above reproach, if unwilling to suffer fools. She has only one weakness.”
“Lord Ashwood, the younger,” Gwen said.
He wondered for a moment how she’d guessed. But then, Grayson was the most likely answer. “Yes. My brother, whom you’ve met. I believe he will behave more cordially when next your paths cross.”
She waved that off. “It does not signify, Gideon. Your brother merely had your interests at heart. You are lucky to have a sibling that so idolizes you.”
Gideon snorted. “Looks can be deceiving, Gwen.”
“Hm,” she uttered, noncommittal.
He sipped his wine. “Have you any questions for me?”
“I do have one,” she said, nibbling the tip of her index finger. “What of your birth mother?”
“My mother?” He set the goblet on the inlayed table beside him.
“Yes.”
“What of her? She is long dead and no one you need concern yourself with to survive tomorrow’s dinner.”
“I understand that. I simply wish to hear your reflections of her.”
“Why?”