Chapter Twenty-Three
After being greeted by the duke and duchess upon arrival, a servant showed Gwen to the suite she and Gideon would share for the duration of the weekend.
Gideon had not accompanied her, claiming the duke wished a private word.
Gwen had only a short time to refresh herself before joining the ladies present for a tour of the gardens, followed by tea.
When she returned to the guest suite to prepare for the evening’s festivities, she assumed she and Gideon would have an opportunity to talk.
Instead, she discovered that someone had closed the adjoining double doors separating the two halves of the suite which had previously stood open.
The maid dispatched by the duke and duchess to assist Gwen with her toilette did not blink an eyelash over the arrangement, and eventually, Gwen understood the closed doors were meant to provide her with privacy.
The only sign he had been present was the jewelry box he’d left on her vanity containing his mother’s gorgeous ruby and diamond ring, purportedly for her to wear this evening.
Slipping it on her finger, she admitted to herself she had hoped Gideon would collect her and escort her downstairs for the requested seven o’clock assembly in the drawing room.
When the clock neared the appointed time, she was forced to conclude he would not come for her.
She let herself into the corridor with a wistful sigh. She had allowed that morning’s interlude to color her thinking, specifically what had occurred during the first half of their journey.
Best to focus on the second half of their drive, during which he had seemed to retreat into his own head following her inelegant questions regarding his wife.
He had rebounded, a stubborn part of her argued, neatening the bow of her bodice, and smoothing her hair.
No. She mustn’t read too much into his small kindnesses. In all likelihood, he had wanted to avoid any raised eyebrows by her indecorous appearance upon arrival.
Reaching the last stretch of corridor, her palms grew damp. She might not know precisely how she felt about Gideon, nor he, her, after what had transpired in the carriage, but the anticipation of seeing him again had her breathless.
Her eyes lit upon Gideon the moment she entered the lavish drawing room.
Bathed in the light of the setting sun spilling in through several sets of open terrace doors, he stood erect, looking solid and unbearably handsome in his evening finery—a crisp white shirt and simple cravat, an evening suit of black superfine, expertly tailored to fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The sun-kissed streaks in his thick, brown hair gleamed in the sun’s rays, the wavy mass of it looking mussed, as if he’d raked his hand through it, repeatedly.
As if she’d called his name, he ceased his conversation with a dark-haired man of similar build, and looked directly at her. Their eyes locked. Without hesitation or a word for his companion, he started toward her at the drawing room entrance.
Upon reaching her, he bowed over her fingers, brushing a kiss over the back of her gloved hand. “Good evening, Gwen,” he murmured.
“Good evening.”
Straightening, his green-gold gaze did a thorough sweep over her, starting at her slippered feet and rising in no particular hurry up the length of her skirts, lingering over her deep bodice, her hair—styled by the maid, of course—before finally, settling on her face.
He opened his mouth to speak, seeming to hesitate. “You look…ravishing.”
The husky quality of his voice, as if the words had been torn from him, the way he looked at her, his eyes heavy lidded and half accusing, slammed through her with such intoxicating heat she could barely force out her murmur of thanks.
He sent her a slight smile, as if he’d noted her discomfiture and it somehow lessened his. “I see you found the ring I left for you.”
She inclined her head.
“I trust you spent an enjoyable afternoon with the ladies?” Not waiting for her reply, he flagged a nearby footman to procure two crystal flutes of champagne and handed her one.
“I did. It was thoughtful of your father to invite my friends from the Ladies’ Literary Society, along with their respective spouses. It says much about how he feels for you.”
His white teeth flashed in a genuine smile. “He makes no secret of his affection for his offspring.”
She flicked a glance toward Grayson, Lord Ashwood, who hovered at the duke’s side.
The duke appeared oblivious to his younger son’s presence, apparently immersed in conversation with Sir Phillip and Mr. and Mrs. Floyd—Nancy, a member of Gwen’s literary club, and a dear friend.
By Grayson’s stance, she gathered he hung on the older man’s every word.
A short distance away, standing sentinel before the hearth, Lady Ashwood observed her son and husband, her expression watchful, like that of a mama cat whose kitten is venturing into a potentially dangerous situation.
At the lady’s side, the polished Mr. Tyrell leaned against the mantle, gazing on the trio, as well.
Abruptly, he leaned to whisper something in the duchess’s ear.
Gwen turned her attention back to Gideon. “I half expected you to collect me before coming down, sir,” she said, before she could stop herself. Had she not just reminded herself he owed her none of the indulgences a husband might show a wife?
He arched a single, thick brow. “I beg your pardon, madam. In fact, I had hoped for the same. However, I received a summons from Mr. Tyrell asking to speak with me privately. He bid me arrive early, before the other guests.”
His admission mollified her. “I see.”
“There have been some developments pertaining to the charges looming against me which we should discuss.”
“I see,” she said, again, excitement sparking through her. “What’s happened?”
“Later,” he murmured.
Later. An image of the two of them sharing a glass of Madeira in the intimate setting of the suite they shared flashed in her mind’s eye, followed by a rush of anticipation.
“Come, we should mingle with the other guests.” He tucked her fingers into the crook of his arm. “The duchess has very stringent rules on party etiquette, and I’d rather not find myself on her bad side.”
The duchess’s bad side, indeed. The woman’s sense of superiority, and evident belief in Gideon’s inferiority, inflamed Gwen’s ire like nothing had in a long while.
She glanced around as Gideon led her across the elegantly furnished chamber, taking in the high, plastered ceilings, ornate wall panels, brocade-and-velvet cushioned upholsteries and gleaming wood, marble, and gilt surfaces.
Gideon had grown up here. What would living with a woman like the duchess do to an impressionable and sensitive child as he must have been?
For despite being blessed with more than his share of surpassing physical attributes, Gideon’s true nature was that of an artist. It was there in his preference for quality over quantity, in his musings put to paper about things not everyone even deigned to notice.
Had he recognized Lady Ashwood’s expertly aimed barbs to lower him for what they were? Or had he simply absorbed the incessant disparagements to ultimately see himself as a pauper, lucky to receive a chunk of stale bread from his betters?
At least his father and brother held him in high regard. He deserved their respect. He’d earned it.
She glanced at him from beneath her lashes, fierce admiration welling up inside her. Honorable to the core, self-sacrificing, brave, clever, strong. He made her feel safe.
He slowed to a halt, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Have I dribbled champagne over my cravat?” He shifted to face her, as if submitting himself for scrutiny.
Affecting a playfully serious expression to cover her mortification for having been caught gawking, she searched his face. Smooth, sun-kissed skin. Full lips—but not too full. Broad, high cheek bones. Thick, brooding brows set over shockingly intense eyes the color of a forest in spring.
He bore the look of no one she had ever known. He was both utterly masculine and breathtakingly beautiful.
On impulse, she reached up to smooth a nonexistent wrinkle from his perfectly tied cravat. “There,” she murmured, her voice gratifyingly sublime, considering the chaotic feelings running roughshod through her.
His eyes met hers and heightened color splashed across the bridge of his nose and the taut skin over his cheekbones.
“Here she is,” came the cultured and unmistakable voice of Mr. Brice Tyrell, approaching from behind Gwen. “The woman of the hour, Mrs. Gwendolyn Devereux.”
Gideon shifted, bringing the two of them to face Brice before relinquishing her hand.
“Good evening, Mr. Tyrell,” she said, working hard to keep her unwarranted distaste for the man from her voice.
“Mrs. Devereux.” Brice bent over her fingers with aplomb, then grinned affably at Gideon. “Mr. Devereux,” he said with sardonic formality.
Nearby, Lady Amelia, stunning as ever on the arm of a man Gwen surmised was her husband, Lord Colonel Chase Culver—he had been the man with whom Gideon conversed when she arrived—swept back to widen their circle.
Gwen sent smiles of greeting to all.
In addition to the Culvers, she glimpsed Lady Georgina, her dear friend as well as her most prized client, Lady Mary Tyrell, Brice’s wife whom she’d met this afternoon, and, Mr. Arnold Tyrell, his father.
During today’s lengthy garden tour, Lady Mary offered Gwen a brief history lesson concerning the Tyrells’ tie with the family that, combined with her knowledge gleaned through Gideon’s journals, filled in gaps.
Arnold Tyrell had been the local village magistrate when Gideon and Grayson were boys.
The elder Tyrell’s many visits to the abbey with Brice in tow, whether under the guise of consulting with the duke on civic matters or as a frequent dinner guest, had fostered a natural friendship between the three boys that persisted to this day.
“I say, Gid, do you have any idea what this event is the duke has planned day after tomorrow?” Brice asked. “He’s ordered all of us to vacate the abbey in the morning and return by noon and refuses to so much as hint as to why.”
Gideon shook his head. “None whatsoever.” He looked to Gwen. “What say the ladies?”
“None of us has a clue.” What’s more, based on Lady Ashwood’s response when asked the very same question today by Lady Harriet, the only one among them who had dared, Gwen gained the distinct impression the duchess was equally in the dark.
“One of the duke’s famed surprises, no doubt,” Lady Ashwood had drawled. “Perhaps he’s purchased an elephant and plans to give us all rides ’round the estate.”
Lady Tyrell had squealed in delight. “I do hope so. That sounds entirely fun.”
The duchess’s look of scorn had caused the lady to retreat into herself for the rest of the afternoon.
“It’s to be a dressy affair, as I understand. An afternoon ball?” Gwen offered.
Gideon shrugged. “Mayhap the duke’s hired a traveling troupe of actors and means to put on a production for our benefit.”
“Mm. That’s good. I’ll run the notion by the duchess,” Brice said.
Gideon flicked him a look of astonishment, and Gwen wondered if he meant to question Brice on the man’s overt familiarity.
Instead he asked, “She doesn’t know? That’s unusual. Father normally keeps her abreast of any goings-on beneath her roof.”
“It’s the dressing up again to which I object,” Arnold Tyrell muttered, sidling up to their small party. He glanced over his shoulder as if to ascertain the duke had not overheard him.
Brice gave his father a peeved look that vanished almost the moment it appeared. Gwen had to wonder if she’d imagined it when he slapped the senior Tyrell on his back in a commiserate gesture. “Come now, Father, you remember Mother’s rules?”
The thinning-haired man ducked his head in chagrinned admission. “When in doubt, dress up—”
“Not down,” Brice finished. “If you need something, Father, I’m sure one of my suits can be altered—”
“No, no, lad, I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of one of your prized, tailor-made ensembles,” he said in a mocking French accent. “I’ll make do.”
“Suit yourself,” his son said, laughing aloud at his own pun.
Gwen forced a smile. For the life of her, she could not see what Gideon and the overly suave man had in common, other than their shared youth.
She recalled an event recorded by Gideon which seemed to have clinched the long-standing bond between the two.
It involved an accident, whereby Gideon had fallen over an escarpment into the Mole after a time of heavy rains.
Gideon had no real memory of what occurred, because, according to Brice, he’d fainted before tumbling over the edge.
Brice, with Grayson arriving in time to lend his assistance, had risked drowning himself to pull Gideon out.
Gideon might have died without Brice’s timely intervention. Gwen shivered at the thought and ordered herself to rethink her dislike of the man. There had to be more to the showy—no, dashing—Brice Tyrell than met the eye.
During her musings, Lord Culver and Mr. Tyrell had struck up a conversation concerning the upcoming parliamentary session, and topics they wished to see addressed.
Veterans’ aid, justice reform, land management.
No mention of women’s issues, she noted, and wondered how they would react if she broached the topic.
“Gideon, I hear tell Dreyfus wishes to restrict trade of—” Brice paused to wince in her direction. “Apologies, madam. Going forth we shall restrict our discussion to one all, including the ladies present, might enjoy.”
“Please, do not trouble yourselves on my account, gentlemen,” she began, with a polite smile. “There are no shortage of ladies with whom I can strike up an appropriate conversation.” If she stressed the word appropriate a little more than necessary, more was the pity.
Turning from the men, she saw the glint of amusement in Gideon’s magnificent eyes. Then he and Lord Culver exchanged looks. The baron’s expression seemed to read, I understand and good luck all at once.
But then, he was Lady Amelia’s husband. The woman was nothing, if not an original.