Chapter Eighteen
Gideon’s gaze sharpened on Gwen as he crossed the library toward her. For the last quarter of an hour, he’d felt a tug in his gut to go to her. To protect her, of all things.
Ridiculous, really. She had started this farce. Fully informed as to whose family she supposedly married into, she’d chosen to act as his wife to satisfy her own ends. Moreover, she was a grown woman who could certainly handle an hour alone with the duchess.
Nevertheless, when the duke suggested they go in search of the ladies, Gideon had pushed back from the table, all but upending the heavy dining chair. He’d exited the hall, feigning ignorance of both the gleaming amusement in his father’s eyes and the speculation in his brother’s.
Now, glimpsing Gwen’s translucent cheeks, he cursed the rationale that had kept him from seeking her out sooner. Had the duchess said something to upset her, or was maintaining the facade of a newlywed couple what had stolen the color from her cheeks?
He lowered onto the chair nearest hers, catching her eye.
Her mouth curved in a brave little smile. Battered but not defeated, then.
An odd sense of pride welled up inside him, almost as if she really were his wife, weathering the trial of meeting his family for the first time.
“Now, then. What have the two of you been discussing? I hope my wife has not been belaboring drivel from the past.” He slanted the stately woman a hard look.
“Not at all,” Gwen answered, twining her fingers in her lap. “Lady Ashwood expressed the normal curiosity one would expect.”
“Normal curiosity,” he aped, not shifting his gaze from the duchess.
She sent him a steely smile which he did not return. Instead, he moved on, addressing the room as a whole. “I have decided Lady Ashwood and I will return to Averly Abbey on the morrow.”
“So soon?” Grayson demanded, brows furrowed.
Lady Ashwood gazed on Gideon’s brother—her beloved son—regret etching her features, and reproached the duke. “Ashwood, did I not tell you Grayson would wish for us to extend our stay?”
He waved that off. “Nevertheless, we must return home. Business awaits which requires my personal attention, and then I’ve decided upon hosting a house party—a week from today.” He turned to Gideon. “You and Gwen will make it a point to attend?”
“Well, as to that…” Aside from spending time with his father, the idea of rusticating for days at the abbey held no appeal, not to mention this business with the Home Office hanging over his head.
He glanced at Gwen to gauge her reaction and was gratified by the renewed color in her cheeks. Too much color. She practically glowed.
She gazed at him with eyes as wide as saucers. It dawned on him, then, what she must be thinking.
Stifling the urge to grin, he answered his father. “Of course, sir. We wouldn’t miss it.”
“Excellent.” The duke rubbed his hands together. “It will be a small affair. Family, close friends, a few key guests. Gwen, Gideon tells me you have a ladies’ club you attend. You must give me the members’ direction so that I can see they’re invited.”
“That is most thoughtful, Your Grace,” she murmured. She did not look grateful. She looked like a cornered hare.
“I thought we’d moved past that,” he chided before turning to Grayson, expression resigned. “We can continue our discussion there, in a more relaxed atmosphere.”
Grayson’s shoulders seemed to lose some of their starch. “I look forward to it, sir.”
Abruptly, Gwen turned to Gideon. “That reminds me, sir. I ran into one of your friends at the modiste’s.
I apologize for not mentioning this sooner, but it slipped my mind.
She asked me to give you her regards and requested that you call on her soon.
What was her name…” She squinted in concentration, finger tapping her chin.
A woman at the modiste shop. Gideon could think of only one woman of his acquaintance who might ask him to call on her. He did not much care for the idea of her approaching his wife—in the world’s eyes at any rate. “It’s not important, Gwen. It grows late. Perhaps we should take our leave.”
“Mrs. Trent!” she said with unmistakable triumph.
Silence greeted her pronouncement.
She glanced around the room, her expression growing discomfited as she seemingly realized she’d said something regrettable.
The duke developed an inordinate concern with the polish on his boots, while Grayson’s study of the portrait of the previous Duke of Ashford hanging over the mantel suggested he was viewing it for the first time.
The duchess, however, smiled her feline smile and addressed the duke. “If she’s a close friend of Gideon’s, my lord, perhaps we should invite her and her husband to our fête.”
Gideon felt a stab of annoyance which he quickly squelched.
There was no way the duchess would know of his previous relationship with the attractive widow.
It was hardly as if the duke or Grayson would have broached the subject with her.
He racked his brain for a viable reason not to invite the woman other than she’s my previous paramour.
“No, I don’t believe that will be possible, unfortunately, Mother,” Grayson said, his tone brooking no argument.
All eyes turned to him.
“Whyever not, dear?” Lady Ashwood asked.
“I ran into Mr. Trent during my ride in the park today,” he answered. “Alas, Mrs. Trent turned her ankle during a cricket match, apparently while trying to best her competition.” He sent Gideon a bland smile.
Gideon’s first thought was that he owed his brother for his quick thinking. His second was to ask himself why, in the privacy of his own thoughts, he kept referring to Emily as someone with whom he no longer associated when he fully intended to call on her at his first opportunity.
“More’s the pity,” Gideon’s father said, sounding anything but sorry. “By the by, Gwen, you mentioned a local modiste? Which one is that?”
All eyes turned to the duke.
He awaited Gwen’s reply, by all appearances uncaring that everyone present found his question odd in the extreme. But then, his father rarely felt the need to explain himself.
“One of my friends from the Ladies’ Literary Society, introduced me to her—Madame Eloise, on Bond Street,” Gwen replied, her manner distant as if she was lost inside her own head mulling over some problem.
His father nodded, seemingly satisfied.
Soon after, the two took their leave.
As the carriage lurched into motion, Gideon lounged back into the cushions to contemplate Gwen.
A pensive expression tightened her features, which should have detracted from the esoteric beauty she possessed, that nameless quality about her that caused his gaze to gravitate toward her whenever in her vicinity.
It didn’t detract from it, though. Not one iota.
There she sat, posture perfect, her skin glowing with the luminescence of a rare pearl, reflecting the low burning carriage lamps.
“It wasn’t too taxing for you, maintaining the pretense?” he asked once they’d departed the square.
She inclined her head briefly, but did not look at him. “Not at all. Your father, in particular, made me feel quite welcome.”
“Glad to hear it.” Despite her words to the contrary, the tension radiating off her told him something weighed on her. He could wager a guess as to what, but best not to assume.
“My brother, Grayson, treated you with more respect than in your previous interactions, I trust?”
“He was most kind.” She gazed on the passing scenery with rapt attention though the glare of the infrequent streetlights in the thickening night fog would, no doubt, inhibit her view.
“And the duchess?” He tensed inwardly. Lady Ashwood had taken him unaware when she announced her intention to retire from the dining hall with Gwen. Showing a marked interest in him via his wife broke with a pattern years in the making.
Gwen scowled with evident distaste, but waved a dismissive hand.
“Something is bothering you, madam.”
She heaved a sigh and, finally, deigned to glance in his direction. “I would not say I’m bothered so much as concerned.”
“What concerns you?”
She sniffed and plucked at her skirts. “This house party your father has planned.”
Just so. “What of it?”
She shot him a sharp look. “Sir, do not be deliberately obtuse. It does not suit you.”
“I shall hazard a guess. You take issue with the sleeping arrangements?”
She lifted her chin. “Precisely, sir.”
He sank back into the shadows, spreading his arms over the top of the bench cushion and hoping his pleasure at the thought wasn’t written all over his face. Certainly it would be at the end of her virginal ruse. “We shall certainly be expected to share a suite.”
Her lips pursed.
“You know this, Gwen. It cannot be avoided if we expect anyone to believe our claim of marriage. Have you a viable alternative?” He waited, half expecting she would propose one. His pretend wife was nothing if not clever.
“No,” she admitted. A moment later, she brightened visibly. “Unless we can, somehow, avoid attending?”
“No,” he said with finality.
“I was afraid you’d say that.” She huffed and turned to gaze out the window, clearly put out.
“Gwen, we are both adults, not children fresh from the schoolroom. Or do you anticipate having difficulty of a…” he paused for effect, “lascivious nature?”
She gasped in what appeared to be legitimate shock. “Me? Heavens, no, sir.”
He did not know whether to chuckle or scowl. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear it,” he said dryly.
She flushed and resumed plucking imaginary lint from her skirts.
“I assure you, I have no intention of ravishing you, madam, if that is your concern.”
“Of course not,” she said in a breathless rush, but the small pucker between her brows was back. “You have already shown yourself to be a man of honor in that regard.”
“I remind you, this charade commenced at your behest.”
“I’m aware.”
“It’s settled, then. We shall attend my father’s house party, keeping up appearances as man and wife.”
He took her lack of reply as acquiescence.
A perverse sense of anticipation filled him at the thought of sharing an intimate space with Gwen, even knowing having her so close, so accessible, while at the same time totally untouchable would cause him no end of torment—unless she gave in to her own sensual nature.
Why had she not? She, a widow, and one clearly attracted to him? Was it her husband’s memory that held her back? Jealousy, swift and fierce and totally unexpected rushed through him. Annoyed with himself, he batted back the ineffectual emotion.
The carriage slowed, turning onto Portman Square. Soon they would arrive at his home. Gwen would retire to her chamber, Gideon to his. “Was there anything else you wished to discuss? Anything at all?” Such as the two of them commencing an affair?
He was grasping at straws, and he knew it. If Gwen were interested, she certainly would not have objected to the house party, he thought dourly.
“Well, there was one thing worrying me, but that turned out to be the work of my own imagination.” She sent him a chagrined smile.
“Oh?” He twitched the curtains aside to gauge their distance from home.
“I thought, for a moment, when I mentioned your friend…”
Gideon’s gaze snapped in her direction as shock reverberated through him. It couldn’t be.
“I had made a mull of it.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
She shook her head, laughing softly, and smoothed her skirts. “It does not signify.”
He stared at her a long moment.
She was referring to her casual mention of Emily’s name in his father’s library, of that, he had no doubt. At the time, the room had gone understandably silent, and it had seemed she realized she’d said something amiss, but had no notion as to what.
Now, if she were to be believed, something had led her to conclude she’d said nothing untoward.
Unless the whole thing was an act, staged by her, to draw out a confession from him, followed by his groveling proposition that she take Emily’s place.
He had no way of knowing, damn his eyes, not without commencing an open discussion about his mistress—Oh, who was he kidding?
His ex-mistress. Unfortunately, there was only one woman he wanted in his bed, and she was either proving herself now to be a master manipulator or incredibly naive.
As the latter made no sense, he was betting on the former.
“Oh. Here.” Gwen slipped his mother’s ring off of her finger and reached across the aisle to hand it to him.
He accepted it without a word. In truth, he had not intended for her to return it until their pretend marriage was at an end.
“I think your idea to have me wear it tonight was very clever, indeed.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment.
A moment later, the carriage stopped in front of number 22 Portman Square.
Gideon helped Gwen down the carriage steps, escorted her into the manse, led her up the flight of stairs.
All the while, an invitation to his chamber for a glass of Madeira hovered on the tip of his tongue.
But he’d told himself she would come to him, and caving now would be tantamount to begging her. He did not beg.
He’d wait. He’d bloody well wait her out.
He halted at her bedroom door.
Gwen, still on his arm, glanced toward his bedchamber, then back at him with wide eyes. Everything in him tightened.
Then, with a look of what he interpreted as regret, she turned toward her door and bid him good night.