Chapter Nineteen
Tonight marked the sixth night since their visit to the duke, not that he was counting.
“Would you care to join me for a game of chess, madam?” Gideon asked after the footman cleared their dinner plates.
She eyed him, rubbing one temple with her long, elegant fingers. “Perhaps just an after-dinner drink, as we leave in the morning for Surrey and I’d rather not arrive looking like I’m half dead.”
He leaned back in his chair, and allowed his gaze to roam over her. She was in no danger of shocking anyone with a paucity of winsomeness.
For one thing, she’d ceased donning the hideous dresses with which she’d arrived.
Tonight’s gown of deep green had a demure, velvet-trimmed bodice which showed her creamy skin and the tantalizing swell of her breasts to advantage.
The rich color of the fabric seemed to darken the sky-blue of her eyes ’til they resembled twin pools the color of a storm-tossed sea.
She wore no jewelry, as usual, and had bound her blonde hair in a simple braid that fell over one shoulder, exactly as he’d seen it at breakfast, and then again when he visited her in her commandeered bedchamber-turned-atelier late that morning to ask if she’d like to join him for luncheon.
She had.
He’d never known a woman who kept herself so infernally busy.
He’d glimpsed her, practicing what she referred to as her craft several times now, unobserved, before she came up for air to note his presence in the doorway.
He rather enjoyed the sight of her, pouring over manuscripts, making notes in the margin, scratching out lines, surrounded by an abundance of newspapers, atlases, scientific journals, and any and all type of reading materials she could get her hands on.
Her expressive face told him all he needed to know about her thoughts on a particular work. He’d catch her smiling in approval, rolling her eyes in disdain, or, occasionally, scowling. Sometimes he’d pass by her closed door and hear her laughing aloud.
“Do I have another ink stain, sir?” she asked, fingering the skin above her upper lip.
The gesture drew his gaze to her mouth. It took a moment for him to shake his focus off of her pink lips to replay her question in his mind.
“Ah. No.”
Cheeks flaming pink in the candlelight, she nevertheless gazed a question at him.
As usual, her boldness coaxed a smile from him. “I was studying you for signs of fatigue. Your statement led me to wonder if you’ve been pushing yourself too hard, dearest wife. Perhaps this trip to the country will provide you a much-needed respite from your work, and you’ll return refreshed.”
She looked doubtful.
A vision of the two of them lying in a shared bed at his father’s estate flashed in his mind and he slammed a mental fist on the image to blot it out.
Not for the first time he asked himself if he’d been too hasty in ending things with Emily as he had several days ago, then he dismissed the thought. He’d had to. He had no taste for anyone but Gwen.
Not that she had broached the subject of an affair. He had all but concluded she wouldn’t. And he was going out of his ever-loving mind.
“If you’d rather retire early, I can certainly make do on my own for one night.
” He awaited her reply like a teenage boy who’d asked the girl of his dreams to dance during etiquette lessons and feared her rejection.
Ridiculous how quickly he’d taken to having Gwen around. It wasn’t as if she was truly his wife.
She wasn’t even his lover.
“Oh, no. I doubt I could sleep, even if I tried. I would very much enjoy a glass of your fine brandy, Gideon, and your company. Just not the chess tonight. I don’t think I could give a good showing.”
He grunted in disbelief. She’d beaten him squarely more than once, something no other woman of his acquaintance had ever done. Few men could best him, for that matter.
He pushed back from the table and rose, offering his hand.
They strolled side by side to the drawing room as they had each night since the evening after their visit with the duke.
“Have a seat,” he suggested.
She took her customary armchair before the fire, arranging her skirts as she sent him a slow smile that hit him like a punch to the gut. Precisely why, he couldn’t say. Perhaps it was because he would swear she had no idea of the impact of that smile.
Or perhaps he simply wanted her, and she was not to be had.
He poured two snifters of brandy and joined her, handing her one before taking the armchair adjacent to hers.
She cupped the snifter in her palms, taking time to warm the amber liquid before swallowing her first sip, as usual. He’d learned that Gwen had a particular fondness for his brandy, though she never accepted more than one glass.
“Tell me about your day,” he urged. “What has taxed that brilliant brain of yours?”
She arched her fair brows, her eyes bright with amusement. “I daresay, no one has ever accused me of brilliance.” She tilted her head in thought. “I completed edits on Lady—on one of my author’s latest novels. Afterward, I visited my publishing house.” A satisfied smile played at her mouth.
“Ah. Of course. Your absence this afternoon would be thanks to that, or one of your club meetings.”
When she wasn’t busy with her editing, she spent time at Bell & Company. The sale of the publishing company had evidently gone through. He still didn’t quite understand the contingency aspect of the agreement, but Gwen seemed disinclined to discuss it.
“What is it you actually do there? As far as I can tell, your magical editing happens here.”
She laughed, the sound musical and uncontrived. “My pressman would tell you I grill him mercilessly. But I merely wish to learn the mechanics of the machinery.”
He arched a brow. “You’re hardly a printer’s apprentice. You own the business. You can hire someone for all of that and, no offense intended, but should it come to you running the press, things have deteriorated badly.”
She lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “I think it’s important to show the employees I want things done properly and that I know what that looks like.”
“I understand.” He did. It reminded him of how he ran his business. He’d always been hands-on. Dirk had been instrumental in instilling the habit.
The thought of his old friend caused his stomach to burn like he’d swallowed acid.
“What is it?” she asked. She reached over the narrow table between them to lay one hand atop his forearm, her bright eyes concerned.
He gazed at her, considering. His first instinct was to brush off her question. He had yet to discuss his investigations with a living soul. With some surprise, he realized he wanted to share his struggle.
“If you must know I’ve been searching for any news of Dirk or his family since arriving in England.”
Her rapt gaze never wavered. “Since arriving in England, you said, not London.”
She was so very clever, his wife. “Yes. I first made port in Portsmouth and began my inquiries there. Then I made my way home, to be reunited with my wife.”
She had not removed her hand, and only after Gideon flicked a brief glance at his arm, where she gripped him, did she seem to remember it was there and attempt to withdraw.
Without thinking, Gideon captured her fingers in his. He turned her hand and pressed a lingering kiss to the tender side of her wrist, reveling in the pulse that trembled under his lips, the scent of her skin, an indistinct herbal sweetness that caused his mouth to water with devastating hunger.
He released her, cursing himself for his weakness until he noted her eyes, glazed with confusion, and, maybe, longing. Maybe.
Certainly, she was not unaffected by him. He took a degree of satisfaction from the belief, even if she truly did not want him in her bed—unlike almost every other widow of the ton whose path he’d crossed over the years.
The fact she had made no move to advance their physical relationship, coupled with her reticence to discuss her late husband, led him to the distasteful conclusion she pined for the man whom she’d touted a perfect gentleman, and all that was charming and kind.
“Where was I?” he asked, his voice gruff.
“You were telling me about your search for Mr. Kennedy and his wife and child.”
He arched a brow at her, momentarily amused. “I forgot you’d read of him in my journals.”
She bit her lower lip. “You speak of him with the utmost admiration. Despite an inauspicious start to your friendship, he earned his place as one of your closest friends, a man of very few whom you trust.”
He snorted. She’d clearly read about his time in India, when Dirk had taken him under his wing, in spite of Gideon’s initial rejection of his assistance.
“Evidently my judgment was faulty. Dirk betrayed the consortium and the country. Hell. He betrayed me.” He scraped a hand over his jaw.
She gave him a gentle smile. “You do not believe that, sir.”
“No? How can I not? He sailed my cargo ship into enemy waters and landed me in all this trouble.”
She said nothing, just gazed at him with bottomless, compassion-filled eyes.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what, Gideon?” she asked softly.
“Like you feel sorry for me,” he snapped. “Like you learned my beloved horse broke a leg thanks to my recklessness and had to be put down.”
She shuddered with distaste. “I do admire your way with words—normally.”
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I don’t like being pitied. Especially when it’s because I’ve been a fool.”
“I do not believe for one moment you’ve been a fool, at least not as concerns Mr. Kennedy.”
He snorted. “No?”
“No. Nor am I convinced Mr. Kennedy betrayed you, at least not of his own accord.”
He made a scoffing sound, though everything in him wanted her to prove he, and everyone else, was wrong about Dirk.
She took a tiny sip of brandy and held the liquor on her tongue as she often did. Her mouth worked as she regarded the flames in the hearth with the concentration of a seer who could discern mystical truths.
And he sat in utter thrall.