Chapter Sixteen
Much to Gideon’s astonishment, Gwen awaited him in the drawing room when he entered at ten minutes to seven, ahead of their appointed meeting time.
In his experience, women insisted upon making an entrance after primping and preening for an event.
Leave it to his bluestocking wife to expose any inherent weakness in his preconceived notions.
She stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out at the manicured gardens.
Her blonde hair was fashioned in a loose chignon, elegant in its simplicity.
An ornamental, blue enameled comb secured the twist and glinted in the amber rays of the setting sun.
She wore a flowing gown of azure blue that fit her slight frame to perfection, from behind at any rate.
With any luck, the front of the gown…His mind went blank as she turned to face him.
“Good evening, sir.” A pleasant smile curved her cupid’s-bow lips. From her long, graceful neck and the generous swell of her breasts above her décolleté, to her trim waist and gently rounded hips, she was everything feminine and soft and alluring.
It took a moment for him to realize her welcoming expression had turned to one of alarm. Frowning, she glanced down at herself as if searching for something conspicuously out of place. “Is something wrong, Gideon?”
Yes. “No,” he all but snapped. “Why do you ask?” he added with as bland a smile as he could muster.
This afternoon, when he’d glimpsed her standing before a three-fold mirror, a seamstress pinning her into a butter-cream gown, he’d gone momentarily daft, unable to remember why he’d knocked at her door in the first place.
But now, at the sight of Gwen dressed in her silk evening gown, bathed in the waning light, the effect was ten-fold.
Thanks to this game she’d decided to play with him, however, he would keep his own counsel on that score rather than lose the ground he’d gained last night.
He knew her ploy, of course. He’d dallied with more than one society lady who wished to enact the role of virginal debutante.
For some reason, he just hadn’t expected such a contrivance from Gwen.
She wanted to tangle with him? Fine. Let her think he meant to walk away, to leave the fruit on the table. She’d come to him, by word or deed, tomorrow, or perhaps a matter of days. They always did.
However long it took, he could wait her out. In the meantime, perhaps he should resume relations with Emily.
Belatedly, he realized Gwen had not responded with the alacrity of a practiced game master. No quip, no rejoinder to pry a compliment from him. She merely eyed the tips of her slippers as a pink stain crawled up her neck, even tinging her delicate ear lobes. Confounding woman.
He closed his eyes briefly, as her disquieting blend of innocence and self-consciousness left him feeling more like a horse’s arse than an accomplished contender in a game of wits. “I was merely surprised by your punctuality.”
A mollified smile tugged at her lips. “I do have a tendency to be overly prompt. It can be off-putting, I’m told.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and joined her at the window, the evidence of her humility acting like a cattle prod on his tongue. “Nothing wrong with a person keeping to a schedule. May I say how well that shade of blue suits you?” he said, despite his intention not to.
Her face lit with unabashed pleasure. “Thank you. I thought perhaps you did not care for the gown.”
He watched her gloved fingers trace the drape of her skirts with unpracticed awe.
“Quite the opposite,” he admitted. “In fact, I’d say it was the sight of you, garbed in something other than a dreary—”
She held her hand toward him, palm out, her expression instantly pained. “Say no more. Please.”
He grinned. “The glimpse I had into your atelier this afternoon tells me your shopping foray has cost me a pretty penny.”
Her gaze met his, blue eyes unapologetic and dancing with merriment. “Very astute, sir. I remind you, you have only yourself to blame.”
The moment stretched, shifting from teasing to charged in a matter of seconds.
Hell and damnation, but he wanted to kiss her, to pull her close and run his hands over the thin silk, to memorize every hollow and curve concealed beneath the shimmering folds of fabric.
He inhaled long and deep, cursing his pertinacious desire for the woman. “No doubt the groom will have the carriage ready, awaiting us at the curb. Shall we be on our way?”
She nodded.
“Oh, before we go…” He broke off and fished in the pocket of his waistcoat for the small leather box which, on impulse, he’d removed from the safe located in his bedchamber before exiting his rooms.
He placed the box on his palm, popped the clasp, and peeled it open to reveal the ring inside, featuring a lustrous ruby encircled with diamonds.
Gwen gasped in evident shock.
“It was my mother’s.”
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. Her sky-blue eyes never wavered from the gemstone.
Little wonder. It was a magnificent piece. The quality and cut of the ruby were such that it captured any surrounding light, seeming to glow from within.
One corner of his mouth crooked upward as pleasure from her reaction coursed through him. As she made no move to take it, he removed the ring from its velvet cradle and reached for her gloved hand. The ring slid easily over her finger as if made for her. “Consider it a costume of sorts.”
She found her tongue. “But it’s a priceless heirloom, Gideon. Your mother’s. I hardly feel it appropriate for me, a virtual stranger—”
He held one finger to her soft lips and a jolt of awareness tightened his insides. “Not quite a stranger. You’re living in my house. You stand between myself and the gallows. Besides, I think it will take something of this magnitude to convince my father we are truly married.”
Her expression softened. She placed her fingertips on his forearm. “He gave her the ring, did he not?”
“You figured that out on your own.” Of course she had.
She arched a quizzical brow as if uncomprehending of his meaning.
“I’m certain I did not write of it in my private journals,” he quipped. And if he had, Gwen would have learned of his first wife’s tantrum over not receiving the ring. But then, he had never been inclined to write about romantic nonsense.
She flushed and withdrew her hand. “Yes, well, it does not take much imagination to discern the truth of the matter.” She gazed at the ring she now wore. “Anyone can see this ring has a rare beauty.”
A rare beauty, indeed, he thought, studying Gwen. “Shall we?” He proffered his arm, and she slipped her satin-glove-covered fingers into the crook of his elbow.
Standing this near to her, her sweet scent, a conflagration of herbs and flowers and something innately Gwen, wafted up at him, assaulting his senses and battering the self-mastery enabling him to wait her out.
Tomorrow, he vowed, silently. Tomorrow he would pay a call on Emily—unless Gwen made her move tonight. Somehow, he doubted he would be so lucky.
Gideon helped Gwen down the carriage steps onto the forecourt of number 38 Grosvenor Square, then tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her along the stone walk toward the grand entrance.
She glanced around at the meticulous gardens surrounding them. A mélange of sweet-smelling blossoms scented the air. No sounds of city life assaulted her ears. She could almost believe they’d arrived in the country.
As they started up the broad steps leading to the front doors, she glanced at him from beneath her lashes.
His proud profile, erect posture, broad, squared shoulders, and the effortless way he moved said he could be a prince or a duke—or a pirate, for that matter.
He could be anything he chose. He emanated power and grace, and something more elemental that drew her like a cat to a bowl of rich cream.
His valet had done an excellent job taming his thick, sun-streaked waves.
Nevertheless, at some point during the drive, he’d scooped his fingers through the mass as he sometimes did.
Far from detracting from his appearance, the tousled locks only added to the man’s arresting appeal, as if hinting at a wild streak no one could tame.
She thought of what her friends told her today about the man’s legendary mystique amongst the ladies of the ton, how he typically kept a mistress.
How his name was linked with one in particular, in his recent past. A widow.
She found she did not care for the idea.
Nay—she detested it—though she herself had no intention of filling the role and making of herself just another widow to add to his collection.
“Is everything all right, Gwen?” he asked as they stood before the massive, paneled doors.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
He flicked a glance at her fingers on his arm. “You’re squeezing my bicep like a vice grip.”
“Oh.” She relaxed her hold and searched her mind for an explanation, something other than an admission of what she’d been contemplating. Nothing came. “Apologies.”
He crooked a finger under her chin and guided her face up. Locking gazes with her, he held her captive as surely as a practiced mesmerist entrancing his subject. “Just be yourself, Gwen. My father is sure to fall under your spell, just as…” He drew in a sharp breath, then coughed into his fist.
Gwen’s heart swelled until it seemed nearly too large for her chest. Just as I have, he’d been about to say, she was sure of it. Warmth and a giddy sense of lightness invaded her insides.
The front door swung open with a whoosh. Facing forward, she found an elderly, silver-haired man in formal butler’s attire aiming a jovial grin at the two of them.
“Welcome, Master Devereux.”
Gideon led Gwen inside and greeted the butler with a warm smile that lit up his face. “Mr. Lyle, allow me to present Mrs. Gwendolyn Devereux, my wife.”
The butler beamed. “A pleasure to meet you, madam.”
Gwen could not help but return the genial smile. In truth, she was still floating from Gideon’s near slip of the tongue.
“Where is the duke?” Gideon asked, as Mr. Lyle took their outer garments.
“The duke and duchess and Lord Ashwood await you in the formal drawing room. I don’t mind telling you, His Grace has been as excited as a boy on Christmas morning, anticipating your arrival.”
“In that case, best we not keep him waiting.”