Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
She focused on her boot tips, and on keeping her breathing normal.
“The manner of concluding it, sir.” She braced herself for his response, telling herself that facing reality was the only hope she had for avoiding doing something stupid, like allowing herself to believe their pretense would go on indefinitely.
He halted so abruptly, she would have stumbled if not for his steadying arm.
“I hardly think this is the appropriate venue to discuss the matter, Gwen. I have every intention of dealing with the situation once we have returned home. Is that soon enough, madam, or has acting as my wife become so abhorrent to you that you feel you must continually broach the subject of ending this affair?” His voice, so deliciously warm only moments ago, had taken on a decided chill.
His blast of irritation and thinly veiled accusation could not be borne.
She turned to face him, to give him a thorough set-down for his boorish tone, only to find his green-gold gaze blazing with…
she couldn’t say. Hurt? Longing? Or was wishful thinking causing her to read something that was not there in his eyes?
Whatever the case, her pique vanished as quickly as it had come. She pressed her palm to his chest in a soothing manner and felt a small shudder go through him, which she did not trust herself to interpret and so did not even try. “Calm yourself, sir,” she said, gently.
He slanted her a sullen, yet mollified look which, for some reason, caused her to smile. “Kindly do not mistake my desire to protect both of our precarious interests with a desire to unburden myself of you. I assure you, that is not the case.”
He flicked a glance beyond her toward, she assumed, the remaining guests.
“Very well. May I kiss you, madam?”
“May you…” At the swift change of subject, words escaped her.
Evidently, not requiring an answer, he ducked his head and pressed his mouth to hers in a breathtakingly tender kiss that had her knees wobbling under her skirts.
When he straightened several seconds later, he smiled down at her and traced the back of his knuckles over her cheek.
On the positive side, all evidence of his previous ire had vanished.
On the negative, Gwen was starting to fear she had done something very foolish. Perhaps the most foolish thing she had ever done. She had fallen head-over-heels in love with her fake husband.
The moment the carts arrived at the abbey, liveried footmen herded the guests inside and up the stairs. In the event anyone thought to disregard the footmen’s suggestion and bypass the staircase, the duke himself stood sentinel in the corridor making it clear no one would pass.
None of the guests seemed to mind. Indeed, the mystery of whatever awaited them in the grand parlor only heightened the sense of anticipation.
For his sake, Gwen hoped he had something impressive planned, or the surprise would likely fall flat. She liked the Duke of Ashwood. She rather hoped he pulled off his event with a big splash.
Upon reaching their guest suite, Gideon and Gwen discovered they were expected to enter through separate doors.
Evidently, the adjoining doors between their rooms had been once again closed.
Gwen had to admit there was something to dressing privately and then witnessing Gideon’s favorable reaction.
Certainly he no longer frowned upon her wardrobe.
Life would certainly be dull when she no longer shared it with him.
Gideon rolled his eyes, but waited in the corridor, ever the gentleman, for Gwen to enter her side of the chamber.
Closing the door behind her, she blinked at the scene that greeted her. Gigantic bouquets, spilling with red, pink, and white roses in full bloom covered most of the large surfaces, and their divine scent permeated air.
A maid awaited her, hands clasped behind her.
She stood next to a mannequin, of all things, adorned with a magnificent bone-white dress.
It glittered, capturing the sunlight pouring in from windows that had been opened wide.
Gwen peered closer and noted tiny crystals embedded in the overlay of tulle covering the gown.
She flicked a glance at the servant, intending to suggest the gown had been delivered to the wrong chamber. Then she blinked, hardly able to believe her eyes.
“Madame Eloise?” she asked, even though she could plainly see that, yes, it was the French modiste who stood in her chamber.
“Bonjour, Madame Devereux,” the smiling woman greeted.
“But what are you…” Her words died. “Is this my dress? Am I to wear this today?”
The modiste smiled a coy smile. “Indeed.”
“But I do not recall trying this on. And…I’m pleased to see you, of course, but…” She did not even know how to phrase her questions.
“Zis dress was purchased for you. A gift from ze Duke of Ashwood, madame. It would seem he wishes to celebrate his son’s marriage, n’est-ce pas?”
“I see.” She’d thought her blue evening gown, acquired for the purpose of meeting the duke and duchess, beautiful. It did not compare to what she beheld now.
“Come. Let us get you dressed. We ’ave little time and much to do.”