Chapter Fourteen
She had entered his chambers tonight knowing this moment would come. After spouting off about his childhood antics and claiming he had confided them to her, when they both knew he had not, she had no doubt but the truth must come out.
His already swarthy complexion darkened, made all the more ominous by the amber-and-golden flames alight in the hearth. “You. What?” he asked, annunciating each word.
She fisted her hands in her lap ’til her nails bit into her palms. “I moved into your town house under the misapprehension you had died, sir, not to mention under the guise of having married you. It’s only natural I would wish to know details of your life.”
He still looked cross, but, to his credit, did not deny she spoke sense.
“I did glean quite a bit from simply observing your living space,” she offered, hoping to distract him by invoking his innate curiosity. She bit back a grin of triumph when her ploy worked.
“What could you possibly discover about me from my home?”
“May I have another glass of wine?” she asked, buying time to allow his temper to cool.
Frowning, he nevertheless fetched the decanter. Grace and stealth etched his movements, bringing to mind the majesty of a lion. The undisputed king of his domain.
Watching him return, his unblinking gaze locking on her, her breath went choppy again. Her pulse raced. Her fever spiked.
She was no fool. She knew what this was, even if the sensations running roughshod through her were alien to her.
She knew. She knew she liked looking at him and the sound of her name on his lips.
She liked imagining him when he was not in her vicinity and, now that he had kissed her, liked reliving the moment, again and again.
He picked up her glass, refilled it, then handed it to her. Their fingers brushed and it seemed to Gwen as if he lingered over the contact, as if he felt a little something of what she did.
Steven Landry, the poet who had stayed with Reggie and her, had done that, several times—brushed his hand over hers. His touch had never sent a thrill of awareness through her the way Gideon’s did.
He dropped into his chair. Or rather, sprawled in it, long legs parted and extended, chest open, one arm looped over the back of the headrest. He gazed at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Well, then, Gwen. Tell me what you discovered about me.”
She forged ahead. “You like your furniture large and well made, but not flashy. Everything about your decor is lush and of superior quality, but nothing is meant for show. You’re a man who likes quality over quantity and you don’t skimp on your little luxuries.”
He sipped, eyeing her over the rim of his glass. “Luxuries?”
“Your cognac, your wine, the ingredients Cook acquires for your meals.”
“That’s hardly unusual. Who doesn’t prefer excellent wine to swill? I can afford it.”
“My mother-in-law had buckets of money from birth. That did not translate into her spending it on what she termed nonessentials.”
“Your mother-in-law?”
Why had she broached anything of her past? The wine must have loosened her tongue. She set the refilled glass aside and ignored his question in favor of continuing her list.
“Sliding between your sheets is like experiencing a slice of heaven, so cool and silky smooth are they.” Dear God, why had she broached the subject of his bedsheets?
An odd, crunching sound momentarily distracted her. She angled her head, listening intently. “Did you hear that?”
“I have no idea what you mean. What of my heavenly sheets?”
Heat pulsed through her, settling low in her belly. “They are another mark of your high standards.” She resisted the urge to fan herself. “Then there are your servants,” she added, grateful for something to focus on that did not involve his bed.
“What of them?”
“They bend over backward for you.”
His long fingers traced the stem of the goblet he’d propped on his knee. “What conclusion could you possibly draw from that?”
She stared at his fingers, tracing, up and down, up and down.
“Gwen, I asked what possible conclusion you could draw. Regarding my servants,” he added when she showed no sign of responding.
She gave herself a mental shake and refocused her thoughts. “Your treatment of them speaks to your character. You are generous and fair.”
He snorted and sipped his wine. A tell-tale ruddy stain crawled up his cheeks.
The evidence of his humility charmed her beyond measure. She really did like the man. “What’s more, the fact you treat those who serve you with respect says you do not suffer an inflated ego.”
His expression turned bemused. “How in hell did you deduce that from my apparent soft streak?”
She laughed, delighted by his description of himself. “Because, in my experience, men who feel the need to boast or treat others with disdain often suffer from a lack of confidence.”
“Hm.” He gazed at her, a considering glint in his magnificent eyes. “We’ve strayed from the relevant subject. You invaded my privacy. What am I to do about that, Gwen?”
She ducked her head. “Why should you do anything? Sir, I thought you were dead. I found a cache of your notebooks on a shelf in your office.” And several more in his bedchamber, but she decided that was beside the point.
“I picked one up out of curiosity for the man whom I supposedly married. I kept reading because of the intriguing manner in which you convey your thoughts. I found myself laughing more than once, deeply touched at times, and…” she hesitated, sensing he would not welcome this particular insight, but unwilling to stop now, “awed, by both your depth of self-reflection and inability, or perhaps unwillingness, at times, to challenge certain beliefs held by others, pertaining to you.”
Thick brows furrowed, he was silent a long moment. “I suppose I cannot hold your curiosity against you,” he finally muttered.
“Quite right. Only consider that I do make my living reading the words of others. And you happen to use them well.”
He shot her a peeved look. “I must insist, however, you cease riffling through my personal papers now that you know I am very much alive.”
Should she mention the project she’d begun? It was now or never, she decided. “Yes, well, as to that, I’ve been meaning to talk with you about a small undertaking of mine.”
“Undertaking?”
“A compilation.” She paused, then added, “From your journals.”
He looked so utterly appalled, she nearly gave in to a fit of nervous giggles. Then he launched himself from his chair to loom over her, and her amusement died a swift death. She glared at him. He had an annoying tendency to do that, in spite of the fact that she’d told him how she loathed it.
“To what end?” he demanded. Bellowed would not be too strong a word.
She pushed to her feet, unwilling to be cowed by his superior height and build. The heat from his body enveloped her in an instant, sending sprays of gooseflesh over her.
“To publish them, sir, as a Literary Miscellany of Reflections. Anonymously authored, of course.” When he did not immediately balk, she pressed on. “We could work together on the project.”
His initial look of shock gave way to…she could not say precisely. His nostrils flared. His jaw tightened. Clearly he was caught in a vortex of strong emotion.
“Gwen,” he finally began, his voice low and husky. “You are the most…” He jammed a hand through his thick, sun-streaked hair and emitted a low growl, for lack of a better word.
“The most what?” she demanded. The warm sensations he conjured in her, which she now recognized as attraction, but which she had no notion of how to deal with, swarmed through her.
He grasped her shoulders and gave her the tiniest shake.
“The most impossibly complex, one-moment-innocent-the-next-brazen, unassuming, yet utterly compelling woman I have ever had the good fortune—or misfortune, depending—to meet.”
She blinked, not at all certain how to take his pronouncement.
“I kissed you earlier without asking.” The low rumble of his voice sent a delicious shiver through her.
“I assumed…” She drew in a choked breath. “You did it because…” Another breath. “You wanted us to appear convincing before the servants.”
He said nothing, just glowered down at her, gripping her shoulders, the heat from his palms burning through the sleeves of her muslin gown.
“Is that why you kissed me, Gideon?” she asked, not at all sure she wanted to hear the answer.
“Yes,” he gritted out. “No,” he contradicted himself a half second later.
Her legs and arms began to liquify. Gideon was certainly the cause. If she had any doubt before, she now had none. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you? I told myself I kissed you for that reason. I lied.” His fingers flexed on her shoulders.
A small tremor started in her belly and spread throughout her body.
He noticed immediately. “Are you cold?”
She shook her head, and met his unblinking stare. “You won’t credit it, sir, but the oddest sensations have been plaguing me. Heat in my belly. Weakness in my legs. A shivery sensation along my spine. I’ve determined the cause is…you.”
“Are you toying with me, Gwen?”
She shook her head.
“That’s grand,” he growled. “Because, I assure you, I am suffering the same affliction.”
“You are?” A little thrill coursed through her at his admission.
“I’m going to kiss you again, Gwen.”
She could manage no more than a hushed, “Now?”
“Unless you have an objection.”
Oh, yes, she wanted him to kiss her. A tremulous smile curved her lips. “None whatsoever.”
He shook his head, and eyed the ceiling, even as he dragged his palms, pleasantly calloused and somewhat damp, to cup her nape. “You’re driving me mad, Gwen. You know that, don’t you?”
She sent him a half-hearted, apologetic smile.
He returned her smile, briefly, then lowered his head, slowly, so slowly his hot breath tickled the tiny hairs on her cheek. Anticipation, the likes of which she had never known bubbled up inside her.