He’d taken one look at Winnefred, her face lit by laughter, and he hadn’t been able to resist offering to dance. He wanted to be the one she was laughing with, the one she was stumbling into. He wanted to dance with her and knew he might never have another chance. A reel at full speed was more than his leg could manage, but the slow stop-and-go method of a dancing lesson was well within his capabilities.
It was a damn good thing two dance lessons had not been within his capabilities. Every smile, every intentional brush of the hand and accidental bump of shoulders had been exquisite torture. A torture he would have gladly continued had he been able. For the first time, he was grateful—albeit begrudgingly so—for a limitation set on him by his injury.
He’d heard it said that infatuation with a woman could make a man feel drunk, but he’d never before experienced the sensation. He’d been intrigued by women in the past, charmed by them, and certainly desired them, but he’d never been in jeopardy of losing his head.
Gideon glanced at Winnefred as they stepped outside into the sunlight, and he decided it wasn’t like being drunk. It was like being tipsy—with just enough sense left to know one more drink would propel a pleasant headiness into outright inebriation, but not enough sense left to keep from reaching for the bottle.
He shouldn’t have reached for Winnefred in the parlor. He’d known it would be a mistake to offer his services as a dance partner. He’d known exactly what he was doing and exactly what the consequences would be. And he’d done it anyway.
“You’re very quiet all of a sudden, Gideon.”
There was a thread of uncertainty in Winnefred’s voice, prompting him to make a conscious effort to set aside his frustration and relax the hand gripping his cane. He’d brought Winnefred outside to surprise her, not worry her. “My apologies. I was woolgathering.”
“Does it have something to do with the messenger that came this morning?” She reached for his arm. “It’s not bad news, is it?”
“Not at all.” He could feel the warmth of her fingers through his coat sleeve. “It’s something I have been anxious to receive. Something for you.”
“For me?” She dropped her hand. “But—”
“My first morning here, I told you, and Lilly, you could have anything you wanted from the Engsly estate as restitution for my stepmother’s crimes. You asked for nothing.”
“That’s not true. I asked not to go to London.”
“So you did,” he conceded with a smile. “Well, I hope this makes up for the denial of your request.”
“But I have plenty, Gideon. I don’t need—” She broke off when he pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “What is this?”
“Look for yourself.”
She unfolded the paper and read the tidy script. It was, in essence, a deed to Murdoch House, or as close to one as an unmarried woman could hope to retain within the constraints of the law. It granted Miss Winnefred Blythe the letting of Murdoch House for the period of five hundred years, the amount due for such a time having been recognized by the Engsly estate as having been paid in full. In addition, the contract, and all rights granted within, was transferrable upon death to the inheritor of her naming.
She stared at the contract a long time without speaking.
“Does it please you?” Gideon asked softly.
She looked at him, back to the contract, then back to him again. Her expression was one of shock and marvel. “It’s . . . When . . . Can you do this?”
“I can and have. I wrote to my brother’s solicitor last week and requested he draft the lease immediately.”
“It’s mine,” she breathed. “Murdoch House is mine.”
“To do with as you please. The contract clearly states you are not required to answer to the Engsly estate for the condition of the land. You can restore the house and grounds, run a hundred sheep on the land, or you could burn the house to the ground and build a haberdashery in its place. The choice is yours.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I would give it to you in full, if I could.”
“No. This is . . . This is plenty. So much more than . . . It’s more than I’d thought to even imagine.” The stunned look faded from her face, and in its place came wonder and unbridled joy. She laughed suddenly and, to his considerable surprise, stepped forward to throw her arms around him. “Oh, thank you. Thank you.”
Gideon told himself it was simply instinct that made him wrap his arms around her in return. Instinct and a need to regain his balance—she had bumped his cane, after all. But even as he made the excuses, he knew them to be lies.
He wanted the feel of her. He wanted the warmth and smell of her. He wanted a moment to feel surrounded by something good and beautiful and innocent, and he wanted to enjoy that moment without envisioning turning it into something decidedly . . . less innocent. But that, apparently, was too much to ask. The smell of lavender teased at his nose, and he could feel the soft weight of her breasts pressed against his chest. Every muscle in his body tightened. Carefully, ever so carefully, he disentangled himself and held her at arm’s length.
If she noticed his discomfort, it didn’t show. She was looking at him just as she had the day he’d brought Lilly a new gown, with that wonderful wide mouth grinning, and those beautiful amber eyes lit with happiness. He dropped his arms and took a step back.
“I’m glad it pleases you.”
She laughed and held up the contract. “You’ve given me Murdoch House. Pleased does not begin to describe what I am. Overwhelmed, perhaps, or . . . Oh!” She danced a little in place, and the silliness of it made him chuckle, easing his tension. “Oh, I have to show Lilly. May I show Lilly? Do you mind?”
“Of course not. Why should I mind?”
“I haven’t thanked you properly. But I don’t know how. I . . . Thank you.” She laughed again, a girlish bubbling sound of pure joy that pulled at his heart. She stepped up to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.”
She grinned at him once more, then spun on her heel and raced toward the house. Gideon watched her go and found himself grinning in return when she let out one very unladylike hoot of excitement at the top of the front steps.
He lifted two fingers to his cheek where the warmth of her kiss still lingered and told himself there was nothing wrong with having pretended to be a knight-errant for a few minutes. Hadn’t that been his intention when he’d first come to Scotland, to play the hero?
Yes, it had been, and he’d been confident in his ability to fill the role because his only task had been to hand over an apology and a bit of coin. His responsibility had been to literally play the hero. As long as he refrained from trying to actually be one, everyone would remain happy . . . and safe.
Chapter 11
Winnefred lifted her hand to knock on Gideon’s door, hesitated, then dropped her arm. There was a possibility, a very real possibility, the conversation to come would result in a disagreement.
Just the idea of it made her wince. She didn’t want to argue with Gideon. It had been little more than twenty-four hours since he’d given her Murdoch House. The monetary value of such a gift was staggering, but it was the kindness of it that had made her chest tighten and the air catch in her lungs when she had read the contract. Gideon had handed her a dream, as sure as he was handing one to Lilly by taking them to London.
She could scarcely wrap her mind around the enormity of what he had given her. Now here she was, standing outside his chambers, about to ask for more. And willing to argue with him to get it.
She shuffled her feet, bit her lip, and told herself she wasn’t asking for a great deal more. Just a small favor. One she was requesting only because Lilly had insisted upon it, and she was only nervous to do so because Lilly had made such a fuss to start.
“A few hours of time,” she mumbled to herself. “It’s nothing, really.”
And there was no reason for her to feel ill at the possibility of disagreeing with Gide
on. He had given her a gift for which she would always be immeasurably grateful. Gratitude, however, should not be mistaken for obligation. She would ask him the favor, and if he had a problem with granting it, he could take the matter up with Lilly.
Pleased, if not entirely confident, with her line of reasoning, she knocked on Gideon’s door and let herself in at his answer.
She found him seated in one of a pair of seats before the window, an open book in his lap.
He looked up and frowned at her a little. “Something the matter, Winnefred?”
“No. No.” She sincerely hoped not. She crossed the room to stand before him and decided to get straight to the matter at hand. “Lilly has decided it is no longer appropriate for me to walk alone to the prison.”
Strictly speaking, Lilly had never been of the opinion that it was appropriate, but there’d hardly been a choice in the matter.
Gideon stared at her a long, long moment before speaking. “I cannot adequately express the number and ways in which I am currently in agreement with Lilly. Why the devil have you been going to a prison? Alone?”
In the interest of avoiding an argument, she met his shock with calm composure. “Some of the guards are willing to pay a nice fee for a well-mended shirt or coat, and Lilly has always been gifted with a needle and thread.”
“There is no longer any reason for either of you to be sewing for money. If there’s something you need or want—”
“The work was done before you arrived, Gideon. We’d simply forgotten about it during all the commotion. I can’t very well keep them, can I?”
“Of course not. Send one of the footmen.”
Exactly what Lilly had told her, and exactly what she didn’t want to hear, let alone do.
“I’d like to go myself, if it’s not too much trouble.” She refused to give in to the urge to start fidgeting. “I’ve . . . other business there.”
“Other business,” he repeated slowly. “At the prison.”
His tone rankled. It was one thing for him to disapprove of her past behavior, but it was something else altogether to speak to her as if she were a dim-witted child. She tipped her chin up. “I believe I just said as much. Now, will you take me, or shall I go alone and leave you to explain to Lilly why you couldn’t be pulled from your . . .” She leaned forward and cocked her head to look at his book. “. . . Tales in Verse, by Mr. George Crabbe, to see me safely a few miles down the road? . . . Do you really read poetry?”
He shut the book carefully, placed it on a side table carefully, and spoke so very carefully, he succeeded in unnerving her a little. “On occasion. Now, have a seat, Winnefred, and tell me, exactly, what this business of yours entails. If I find it unsatisfactory, a footman will deliver the shirts and coats. If I believe you’ve adequate reason for going, I’ll consider taking you myself. You may, if you choose, inform Lilly of whichever course of action I have decided upon. But let us be clear—I explain myself to no one.”
She considered him quietly. He hadn’t shouted, or cursed, or even snapped at her. His voice had remained perfectly even. But the authority—in the tone, in the words—was all but palpable.
She took the seat across from him, suddenly fascinated. “I’ve been wondering how you managed to captain a ship for all those years. I was beginning to suspect you injured your leg during a bout of mutiny.”
“Delighted to have satisfied your curiosity,” he answered in the same unforgiving voice. “Your reasons, Winnefred. I’ll have them now.”
She sat up straighter in the chair. “I am not a sailor aboard your ship to be ordered about. And my reasons are none of your concern.”
“On the contrary, and to my considerable frustration at the moment, you, and everything you do, are my concern until I deliver you into the care of my aunt.”
The mention of frustration at having to care for her until he could hand her over to someone else made her heart stutter and the edges of her vision turn red. It was an irrational and disproportionate reaction to an offhand comment, she knew, but she was helpless to stem the anger. She’d had her fill of being delivered from one person to the next as a child.
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “I have no interest in being anyone’s burden, Gideon. And I will not be passed between members of the Haverston family like an inconvenient head cold.”
She rose from her seat and turned to leave, but Gideon stood and caught her hand before she could escape.
“Sit down,” he said softly.
“No.” She tugged her arm. “Let go.”
“Winnefred, please.”
She stopped pulling at his plea but didn’t resume her seat.
Gideon gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “My frustration is with this particular conversation, not with you. I apologize for my poor choice of words.”
“The conversation is with me.”
“It is not our first disagreement.” He gave her a disarming smile. “Can we not settle this one as we have others?”
“I haven’t a rifle to hit you with.”
“We’ll make do.” He let his hand slide away. “Will you sit?”
She didn’t want to, particularly, but neither did leaving in a fit of temper still appeal to her. She sat reluctantly.
Rather than follow suit, Gideon rested on the arm of his chair. “I received a letter from my aunt this morning. She is looking forward to having two young ladies in her house. I apologize for giving the impression neither she nor I care for your company.”
“A poor choice of words, as you said.” Because she didn’t care to have it known how deeply his words had cut, she shrugged and strove for a light tone. “Heaven knows I’ve no ground to stand on when it comes to choosing the correct words—”
“You’ve a right to be angry.”
“Yes, I do. But I don’t wish to be angry with you.”
“I’m grateful for it.” He bent his head a little to catch her eye. “Are we friends again?”
They were only words, she told herself. “I would like to be.”
“Excellent. Then why don’t we try broaching the subject of the prison once more, and see if we can’t work our way toward an agreement.”
“How do you propose we do that?”
“By starting from the beginning. Like this.” He made a show of taking a proper seat in his chair and then cleared his throat dramatically—a silly affectation that succeeded in making her smile. “Winnefred, dear, would you care to tell me your reasons—which I’m certain are fine ones—for wanting to visit the prison?”
She winced, fisted her hands in her skirts, and twisted. “No. I really wouldn’t.”
A pained laugh escaped from Gideon. “Oh, for—”
“I’m not trying to be stubborn, Gideon. I’m not. I . . . Couldn’t we try starting somewhere else?”
“No.”
She went from twisting to tugging. “If I agreed to tell you, would you promise not to poke fun or lecture?”
“I’ll promise to do my best not to hurt or discount your feelings. Will that do? If, however, you’re about to inform me you’ve been playing cards and drinking scotch with the inmates, I’m going to lecture. And if you tell me you’ve been instructing the men in the art of needlepoint, I am most certainly going to laugh.”
A laugh was clearly what he’d been hoping to gain from her with that small speech, but she remained silent, avoiding his eyes and tugging on her dress.
In the face of her reticence, Gideon went very still except for the rounding of his eyes. “Holy hell. Tell me you have not been playing cards and drinking scotch—”
“Certainly not . . . Not the scotch part, anyway.”
He lifted a hand to jab a finger at her. “You are never, never again to step foot in—”
“There’s a young man,” she cut in, desperate to explain before he finished his ultimatum. “A young man I wish to see.”
He dropped his hand slowly. “A young man you play cards with?”
“No. Well, once, but only as
a means of gaining trust.”
“Of course. Cards and trust,” he drawled. “They’re naturally suited.”
“They can be, when one makes certain to lose a sixpence and pays the debt on the next visit.”
“Five pounds a year and you lost a sixpence on purpose?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Who is this man?”
“His name is Thomas, and he isn’t a man. He’s hardly more than a boy.”
Gideon blinked at this bit of news, then relaxed against the back of his chair with a bit more emphasis than she thought was strictly necessary. “A boy.”
“He can’t be more than thirteen years of age, though he would insist otherwise. I certainly do not believe he is the fifteen he claims.”
“Even a boy of thirteen can be dangerous,” Gideon said quietly.
“No doubt. But Thomas was caught stealing oranges from a vendor’s cart in Langholm. Hardly the act of a vicious criminal. He’s so very young, Gideon, and I thought . . . I thought perhaps, if he had a skill, or a bit of education . . . I’ve been teaching him to read.”
There was a long pause before Gideon spoke again. “I see. Why did you hesitate to tell me this?”
“Well, it’s not entirely acceptable behavior for a lady, is it?”
“I’ve seen you in trousers, swearing, and talking to a goat.”
“Yes, but that was before. Before you and Lilly set your sights on seeing me . . . I don’t know—reformed, I suppose. I didn’t want you to think I’m wholly incapable of being educated, or that I’m ungrateful. And then there’s the fact that most people would think it foolish to teach a common thief to read—a senseless expenditure of time and effort.”
“What I think,” he said gently, “is that there are two very different sorts of ladies and gentlemen in the world. There are those, like Lady Engsly, who hold the title by the questionable virtue of birth and marriage. And then there are those who merit it by virtue of their actions. Your willingness to help this young boy exhibits, in abundance, the very quality used to define what it means to be a lady—grace.”
Nearly a Lady Page 10
