Chapter Thirty-Four
Gwen lay in the dark, ears straining for sounds of Gideon’s return, body zinging with an unnatural alertness that left every inch of her tense and taut.
When she heard the front door open and close, then muted voices—Higgins and Gideon exchanging words, no doubt—she flung her bed covers off, swung her feet over the edge of her mattress, and rose to wait.
Hearing the unmistakable thunk of his door bedchamber closing, she marched to the adjoining door in instant affront. He had promised her he would report to her the moment he arrived home, and he would keep his promise. She’d make sure of it.
Not bothering to knock, she opened the adjoining door and found Gideon’s large frame, silhouetted by golden candlelight, blocking her path.
Overwhelming relief surged through her. “Gideon,” she cried and launched herself into him.
He stumbled back under the impact, but his strong arms caught her.
“I must miss dinner more often,” he said dryly.
The solid feel of him, hard and lean, the elusive scent of him, warm male and subtle cologne, tempted her to hold on to him a little while longer, but she wanted answers.
She released him and took a small step back. “I was worried. It’s been hours and hours. My mind conjured all sorts of nefarious scenarios.”
He plucked her lacy white sleep cap from her head and tossed it aside in a cavalier manner, then traced her cheek with slightly calloused fingertips. She took a bracing breath, telling herself that, this time, she would not allow him to distract her.
“As you can see, I am returned, hale and hardy—which is more than I can say for Rory.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Night cap?”
“Please.” She made for her usual armchair.
Gideon took a moment to stoke the remnant coals in his hearth, igniting a small fire before disappearing briefly into his antechamber to fetch the Madeira.
A moment later, he returned with two wine goblets, each filled with a hefty portion of the ruby liquid.
“Well, sir? What happened?” She accepted the goblet he offered.
“Brice and I found Mr. Rory’s home deserted. It appeared he gave his staff the night off in anticipation of…” He broke off and scrubbed his free hand over his jaw, eyeing her with concern. “It’s not a pleasant tale, and I worry it will stir memories you’d rather not revisit.”
She peered at him over the rim of her glass, clutching the stem tightly. “Nevertheless, I must know how this story unfolds.”
Gideon held her gaze. “We found Rory slumped over his desk. He appears to have shot himself after writing a note confessing to orchestrating the treason involving the consortium’s rifles.”
Gwen gulped a large portion of the wine in her glass. Thus fortified, she said, “I see. What did the note say?”
He stared into the fire and the stuttering light danced over his hard face. “He said he could not live with the crime against England he’d perpetrated.”
“And what of you? Did his note mention your shipments, or your friend Dirk?”
He shook his head. “The confession was terse.”
Her aroused senses had not subsided. Unable to sit still, she rose to wander the shadowed chamber, wine glass in hand. “When?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“When did he commit suicide? Had he been there for several days? Or was it hours?” She had a strong feeling it would be the latter.
“I’d say he did the deed this afternoon.” He unfolded from his chair and leaned back on the mantle. “Why?”
She joined him there. “The timing is odd, is it not? The very same day you set out to find him, to speak with him, he decides to…do what he did?”
“What are you getting at, Gwen?”
“I’d say, at the very least, someone told him of your interest in speaking with him.”
“Someone like who?” he asked.
“It may have been one of his colleagues.”
Gideon said nothing, merely watched her as if he knew what she would say next.
“Or Mr. Tyrell.”
His mouth twitched. “Poor Brice. He’s really made a cake of himself with you, somehow.”
“I’m only saying, he might have warned the man. He had time,”
A derisive scoff sounded in his throat. “First you imply he brained me years ago and shoved me into the river, unconscious, before rushing in after me to then save me, now you suppose he warned Rory, then accompanied me to his house to accuse him.”
She slanted him a peeved look. “You must admit the timing is odd. However, I shall not press the issue. The important thing is that the affair seems to be settled for you. You know who set you up and who induced Dirk’s unfortunate actions—not to mention the Home Office will surely conclude your innocence in light of Mr. Rory’s confession, if they haven’t already. ”
He rolled the wine glass’s crystal stem between his fingers and stared into the liquid.
“The timing is odd. Perhaps, as you said, someone tipped him off that I visited the customs hall and asked after him today. He may have feared his misdeeds would soon come to light. In any case, Rory’s confession does seem to conclude matters. It does not lessen the sting.”
“Oh, Gideon,” she said. “I am so very sorry.”
He nodded once in acknowledgment and changed the subject. “How was your Literary Society meeting today? Did you and your friends come up with a solution to manage the so-called miscommunication?”
“The miscommunication is of no consequence, as I already told you. However, I do have exciting news to share. One of my much-lauded authors has written a short story, a prequel, if you will, to an upcoming release. I shall print and sell the story at Mrs. Margaret Sheridan’s bookshop in little over one week’s time.
To promote the event, I’ve taken an ad out in The Times.
The booklets shall be autographed by the author and available exclusively at the one-day event.
I expect demand will be quite high. Additionally, the fanfare surrounding the event will certainly heighten excitement for the author’s upcoming release. ”
“My wife. So very clever.” His praise, combined with the look of admiration he sent her, warmed her to her toes.
In a meandering stroll, he crossed the chamber toward his big bed. “I shall make a point to attend. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“That is most kind of you, sir. I cannot think of any better way to show your support than by attending.”
“The offer stands should you think of anything else.” He eased a hip onto the side of the mattress.
Her glass was nearly empty. And their conversation had reached its natural conclusion. She did have one last topic she wished to broach, however. With a toss of her head, she finished her wine and set the goblet on the side table near her vacated armchair.
“Gideon,” she began. “I’ve been thinking quite a lot about what occurred at your father’s estate. Do you think we ought to discuss how our arrangement, assuming we continue, ought to—”
“Gwen, would you come over here?”
At the low rumble of his voice, her nerve endings shivered. She would not become distracted, she told herself.
“Over there?”
The dying glow from the hearth illuminated his large, still frame. He studied her with an unreadable expression. He did not answer.
Moving on legs that felt suddenly unsteady, she inched toward him.
“Sit,” he urged when she neared him.
Butterflies erupted within her. She perched on the mattress and tried to think over the rush of sensations storming through her.
Gideon shifted closer. He scooped one hot palm around her nape and wrapped his other hand around the curve of her waist. Lowering his head, he nuzzled the underside of her jaw, brushing feather-light kisses down the column of her neck.
“You were saying?” he breathed. His hands moved over her in a slow exploration of her back, her hips, her cheeks, her décolletage, not hurrying, but never staying in one location for long.
Heat pooled low in her belly. Seemingly of their own volition, her own arms wound around his neck. Anticipation of the magic he created with his mouth, his hands, his body, sang through her veins. What had he asked?
Oh, yes. She wanted to talk.
“I thought a small discussion—ah,” she breathed on a long exhale as he eased her back, onto the pillows.
His lips danced over hers, teasing, tantalizing, tormenting. She wanted his mouth fully on hers, his weight pressed atop her.
With a whimper of need, she tugged his shirttails from his pantaloons then slid her hands under the hem to glide them over the hard contours of his sleek back. His skin was hot, his muscles supple.
“Yes, Gwen, touch me. Don’t stop touching me.” His harsh command was akin to tossing dry kindling on fire and it set her ablaze.
He hoisted himself up long enough to strip off his shirt and unbutton his fly, then he was pressing her into the mattress, one knee wedged between her legs.
She parted for him as excitement and hunger clashed within her.
With seeming no effort at all, he lifted her nightdress and the chill night air whispered over her exposed lower limbs.
“Mm,” he murmured against her lips as his fingertips cruised over her bare thighs, her hip, her low belly. Gooseflesh spread over her.
“What shall I do with all this deliciously soft skin? This?” He skimmed his fingers up her inner thigh to her apex, parting her with gentle precision. “Yes,” he hissed. “So wet. So hot. So inviting.”
She drew a shuddering breath and scored his back with her nails as he slid one long finger inside her.
His thumb found the small, excruciatingly sensitive bud nestled under her curls and rolled over it.
“Does it feel good, sweetheart? Do you want more? Tell me what you want. Shall I lick you? Put my tongue inside you? Shall I suck you? Or maybe I’ll play here with my fingers a little longer and taste you here?
” His lips brushed over her nipple through her bodice.
She could not answer him. She could hardly breathe. What he did to her body. The fire his words, his mouth, his touch built within her threatened to engulf her in flames.
His lips closed over one nipple, pulling, pulling. With every suckle, an answering tightness coiled inside her. Then his teeth nipped, so gently, tugging, tugging.
“Please,” she finally managed to choke.
He brought his mouth to hover over hers. “Look at me.”
She had not realized she had closed her eyes.
She slitted them open to gaze into the green-gold depths of his eyes, eyes that seemed to capture all the remaining light in the chamber, and blazed with a ravenous hunger that heightened her own. “This? Is this what you want?” he purred.
His fingers moved into her, out of her, over her, faster, faster, brushing her sensitized flesh with the merest pressure that nevertheless brought her passion to a dizzying precipice.
Then his manhood nudged at her entrance, easing into her, barely, barely, while he touched her, all the while watching her, his breath tickling the hair on her cheeks. “Now. Come. Come for me.”
She sucked in a desperate breath as pleasure exploded through her. Her hips arched upward, pressing into his.
He shuddered and choked out a surprised groan as he plunged himself into her. His lips sealed over hers in a demanding, voracious kiss as he took her, again and again and again.
She held onto him, arms, legs, mouth, whispering pleas for…she didn’t know. His surrender, some instinctual part of her answered. She wanted him as lost to her as she was to him. She shoved at the waist of his pantaloons, baring his hips, squeezing his firm, round bottom.
“Gwen, Gwen, I…God. You…feel…so…good.” All at once he reared up, face contorting, torso swiveling with the power of his climax.
She stared, awed. He was so beautiful, so utterly magnificent, and somehow, hers.
Spent, he fell atop her, chest heaving with his breath. She wrapped her arms around him, smoothing her hands over every part of him she could reach as tears pricked her eyes.
Was he hers? She didn’t really know. Every time she tried to discuss the future, to learn how he foresaw things unfolding, he mesmerized her with his love making. Surely it was a coincidence.
He rolled off of her onto his back with a satisfied moan, and sent her a contented smile. Then he reached to smooth her hair from her face. “I’m rather tired. It has been a very long day, has it not?”
It was like having icy river water dumped on her from a sound sleep. Her stomach lurched. “I beg your pardon. I shall…” She made to get up, and found herself locked in place when Gideon flattened his palm on her chest.
“As you are already prepared for bed and look so wonderfully sated, you may as well stay here, with me—if you have no objection?”
He waited, not blinking. She would swear something lurked in his eyes—uncertainty?—but the light was by now too far diminished for her to be sure. Could it be that he struggled with worries of his own, similar to hers?
A slow, hope-filled smile spread over her face. She shook her head. “No objection.”