Chapter Twenty-Five
Gideon gripped the cool, polished banister as he mounted the stairs en route to the third floor and his bedchamber. His shared bedchamber.
With each step, his insides clenched with heightened anticipation, like a watch spring turning, tighter and tighter, inching ever closer to the breaking point.
Instead of staying away from Gwen in favor of imbibing a sufficient amount of alcohol to numb his senses, he was venturing headlong into unchartered seas, fully alert and deeply aware he faced a potentially long night of torture, sequestering himself with the woman.
Potentially.
He untied his cravat with practiced tugs and left the silk to hang loose over his shoulders.
Gwen had returned to their suite over an hour ago. She was, in all likelihood, asleep. No reason she should remain awake. No point in her waiting up for him.
Today, making love to her, he’d experienced the nearest thing to ecstasy he had ever known. He’d told himself it would take only once for his obsession with the woman to fade. He’d been dead wrong.
He reached the landing and raked a hand through his hair before starting down the dimly lit corridor toward the guest suite where Gwen lay sleeping.
Gwen was the last sort of female he should dally with. She was not a hardened lady of the ton, content to dabble with the likes of Gideon in search of sexual gratification and nothing more. She was incapable of such a shallow relationship precisely because she could not help but give of herself.
Yes, that was the thing eating Gideon.
Upon learning Gideon might be tried for treason, had she run? No. Instead, she’d vowed not to abandon him, thereby subjecting herself to scrutiny by the Duke and Duchess of Ashwood.
Damn it, Gwen deserved a man who would honor her and protect her—unlike her first husband. A man worthy of her who would give her his name, whom she would be proud to call husband.
Gideon was not that man, but he burned for her, nonetheless. He wrapped his hand around the cold brass knob and felt his insides fist into a hard knot.
He opened the door.
Cool, night air wafted out of the dimly lit chamber, making him realize just how stiflingly hot they kept the abbey. Evidently, Gwen had not called anyone to stoke the hearth. She’d be freezing by now.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The soft click resounded in the silent chamber. He held still and listened for any sounds indicating Gwen stirred. He heard nothing.
He glanced toward the bed where Gwen slept. She’d left one wall lamp burning low, but most of the large, double-chamber suite lay in shadow making it impossible to see past the posts and dark velvet bed hangings shielding the mattress.
Pulling off his boots with care, he set them aside and crept across the thick carpet. He did not want to wake her, but he needed to see her, to glimpse her face, unobserved.
He scooped the velvet aside, and froze. What the devil? She had not opted to take the bed?
Swift anger rose up in him, and he swung around, searching for her. There, visible in the light of the dying embers, she huddled with a pillow and blanket in an armchair before the hearth.
He stomped toward her, no longer caring if he woke her.
No surprise, he did.
She sniffed, murmuring something odd, like Hm. You don’t smell bad at all. Then, reaching her arms overhead, she stretched like a cat, uncurled her feet from beneath her nightclothes, and planted them on the stone tiles. She retracted them at once. “Cold,” she exclaimed. “Hello.”
He glared down at her. “Nice to know what you think of me.”
She blinked, her face soft with sleep. “I beg your pardon?”
“Did you think I’d attack you, if I found you on the bed? Or perhaps you find me so brutish, you would expect me to take the bed, while leaving you to make do with the floor.”
She yawned. “Are you quite finished?”
“Yes. No. What did you mean about me not smelling badly?”
Her mouth curved in a sleepy grin. “Every romantic or horrid novel I’ve read to date with a house party has a requisite scene whereby the gentlemen stay up half the night drinking and smoking cigars. I cannot abide the smell of cigar smoke.”
He snorted, unable to hold onto his irritation thanks to her never-ending ability to say the unexpected. “No cigars for me, tonight, I’m afraid.”
“But you imbibed copious amounts of liquor?” she asked, sounding hopeful.
A reluctant huff of laughter loosed from his lips. “Again, sorry to disappoint.”
“Hmm. As to your other assertion—concerning the bed, we are two adults, embarked on a shared course. Of course we can manage a shared bed for the span of two nights.”
His loins reacted at once, his manhood stiffening to a near full erection at the thought, and he realized why he had berated her. Self-defense. “Yet, here you are,” he grumbled, half-heartedly, sweeping his hand in a wide, encompassing arc.
She rose to her feet, and tightened the sash of her wrapper. “Yes, here I am, waiting up for you.”
Blood hammered in his ears, that fast. “W-waiting up? For me?”
“Sir, you must know by now I possess an excessively curious nature. We’ve had nary a moment to talk since we arrived. I wish to know your news concerning the…” she broke off and lowered her voice to a whisper, “treason charge. Forgive me if I nodded off. It has been an excessively long day.”
He’d stammered. He’d bloody well stammered thanks to the inane hope she’d waited up in hopes of another illicit encounter. As far as he could tell, that was the last thing on her mind.
“I see.”
A small shiver coursed through her.
“You’re cold. Why didn’t you call for someone to stoke the hearth?” His hands flexed at his sides as he struggled against the need to pull her close and offer her his warmth. And, all right, feel her against him.
She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I somehow got the impression you prefer a colder atmosphere in which to sleep.”
He stared at her a long moment, bewildered, unwillingly moved. The damned woman. How did she do that? How did she see so much?
“Was I wrong?” she asked, sounding uncertain. “We can call for—”
“No,” he said gruffly. Desire ate him alive—to take her in his arms, carry her to the big bed, lie her down, and feast on her sweet lips, for starters. Had he ever craved any woman like this?
He turned away from her and started for the basin. “Lie down, and I’ll tell you everything while I prepare myself for bed.”
After a brief hesitation, she started for the four-post bed.
He moved with sure steps to the wardrobe, withdrawing his robe, then headed for the basin, where he paused. “I intend to strip, in case you wish to avert your eyes.”
He heard the bedsheets rustle, not daring to glance over at her.
“Thank you,” she said, the muted sound of her voice telling him she faced away from him.
Even knowing that, his flesh felt feverish and over-sensitive as he removed his clothing and set about washing. The water in the pitcher had grown quite cold, he realized. Good. Mayhap it would help cool his ardor.
“Well, sir?” she prodded. “Tell me your news.”
“The duke decided not to wait on the Home Office to make its decision. Hence the presence of Sir Phillip, the Solicitor General.”
“I thought as much,” she said.
He smiled to himself. Of course. He enjoyed the quick working of her mind. “Sir Phillip procured the file, and the testimony,” he told her as he dried.
Minutes later, finished with his ablutions, Gideon slipped into his silk robe and tied the sash, uncertain what to do with himself now. He supposed, head for the bed.
Like a man walking the plank, he padded over. As he did, Gwen, lying under the bedcovers, rolled to face him. She levered herself up on one elbow. He could see she watched him, but could not make out her expression.
He eased onto the mattress, atop the bedcovers, his back against the headboard. “Where was I?” he asked, his voice husky to his own ears.
“Sir Phillip took possession of the file,” Gwen answered, somewhat breathlessly, he was gratified to note.
“Yes, right. He read it, found the accusation against me circumstantial, and has declared it a nonissue. I will not be charged.”
“But that is wonderful.” In a flurry of excited movement, Gwen sprang into a kneeling position, dislodging her lacy white cap in the process. She still wore her robe over her night rail.
He nodded, his eyes drinking in the sight of her, his nostrils breathing in the scent of warm, sweetly fragrant woman emanating from her side of the bed. God he wanted to kiss her. More now than he ever had.
“Yes. It would appear I am off the hook. Do not, however, take this to mean our arrangement is at an end,” he heard himself say.
“Of course not,” she murmured. She appeared to fixate on the silk duvet bedcover, and her fingers smoothed over the folded edge again and again.
“It would hardly do for your alibi to disappear in the wink on an eye. I expect you might fancy yourself free now to sail away as you see fit, but I must point out you cannot possibly hope to continue your search for answers regarding Mr. Kennedy if you do. Additionally, I believe my presence here might aid you in that endeavor by simplifying matters.”
She was rambling. He could only conclude a degree of anxiousness on her part. But anxious about what?
Then he realized he had no idea what she meant. “How?”
Her incessant smoothing ceased. “How?”
“How would your presence simplify matters?”
“Oh.” She twined and untwined her fingers. “Only that you…I’m not certain,” she finally admitted.
That was new. Something his little bluestocking was not crystal clear on. That made two of them. Very little was clear to Gideon presently, save one thing. “Gwen, there’s nothing about your presence in my life that simplifies matters for me other than providing me with an alibi.”
“I see.”
“That didn’t come out right,” he ground out.
She regarded him, unsmiling. “No? What did you mean to say, Gideon? Speak plainly.”