"No. Oh, you can be very intimidating, especially with that frown, which is quite fierce, by the way. But underneath that crusty exterior is…" She tapped her finger on her chin and gave him a thorough look-over. "Porridge."
He leaned back and blinked, nonplussed. "Crusty? Porridge?"
"Yes. Indeed, you remind me of a loaf of perfectly baked bread: hard on the outside, soft on the inside."
"I've never heard such rot," he muttered, shaking his head, torn between mirth and masculine indignation. "Loaf of bread. Unbelievable."
She hiked up a brow. "You disagree with my assessment?"
"Heartily."
"Hmmm. You sound… peeved. I assure you I meant it as a compliment."
"To compare me to a loaf of bread?"
"That's not nearly as bad as you comparing me to a drunken porcupine." Before he could say another word, she snapped her fingers. "That's an even better description of you. You're like a porcupine-all sharp quills on the outside."
"Thank you. So much. And on the inside?"
"Oh, still porridge."
"What sort of porcupine has porridge on the inside?"
"The sort I'm comparing you to."
"There is no such thing as a porcupine with porridge on the inside."
She planted her hands on her hips. A tapping noise sounded, and he realized it was her foot rapping against the wood floor. "Fine. On the inside you're porcupine innards-that are the consistency of porridge."
"Oh, thank you," he said in his driest tone. "That's much better."
"You're welcome. Has anyone ever told you that you don't accept compliments very graciously?"
He couldn't help but laugh. "No, Princess, they haven't. I assure you I can accept them just fine-when one is actually given."
A knowing look came over her features. "Ah. Now I understand. You prefer pretty, flowery words."
"Certainly not. Bow Street Runners don't like anything to do with flowery words."
"Then you'll have to make do with either a loaf of bread or a porcupine with porridge for innards."
"I don't see why, as I don't agree with either description."
"Fine. Has anyone ever told you that just because you disagree you don't need to be disagreeable?"
"Has anyone ever told you you're incredibly fickle? A moment ago I was a perfectly baked loaf of bread. Now I'm disagreeable."
A slow smile curved her lips. "Only because you disagreed with me."
His gaze lowered to her full lips, curved in that captivating smile, and he felt as if he were being sucked into a vortex. Bloody hell, she was enchanting. Literally so, as it appeared he'd fallen under some sort of spell. A spell cast by a beautiful princess, but one who kept proving herself so much more than merely beautiful on the outside. This princess was beautiful on the inside as well.
"Are you ready for your lesson?" she asked. "I thought we'd try the waltz-unless you already know it?"
He shook his head-both as an answer and to shake off the stupor he'd fallen into. "No, I don't know it. But I must warn you: your toes stand in grave jeopardy of suffering as much as your ears did this afternoon."
Her eyes went soft, and his insides seemed to turn to-bloody hell-porridge. "I suspect you'll be a marvelous waltzer. And I'm not the least bit worried about my toes."
"Well, you should be. I'll be like an ox stomping about."
"Then we have our work cut out for us and had best begin. After all, I must retire early. Can't have those unsightly dark circles under my eyes, you know." The grin she shot him was downright naughty, and he found himself smiling in return-and biting his tongue to refrain from telling her that she couldn't look unsightly if she tried.
She reached out and clasped his left hand, lifting it to chin height, elbow bent, then settled her other hand on his shoulder. "Set your right hand on my back," she instructed.
Heat sizzled up one arm and down the other, and for several seconds he felt as if he couldn't breathe. Damn. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. He looked into her eyes. She appeared expectant-and quite annoyingly nothing else. Certainly she didn't seem as if she were about to go up in flames as he did. Well, hell. If she could tolerate this, so could he.
He settled his right hand on her back and forced himself not to drag her closer.
"A bit lower," she said. "Right at the base of my spine."
He slowly slid his hand down, his palm brushing over the smooth material of her gown, his mind's eye envisioning the gentle curve of her back.
"Here?" he asked softly, pressing his palm to the small of her back.
Her breath caught slightly, and grim satisfaction filled him. Good. She wasn't as unaffected as she'd like him to think. Why should he be the only one suffering? Of course, she chose just then to moisten her lips, a flick of pink tongue that increased his suffering far more than he would have liked.
"Yes, right there." She cleared her throat then continued, "The waltz is a very simple dance, and done to a three beat. As the man, you are the leader, and as your partner, I shall mirror your steps."
"Which means you'll be treading on my toes as well?"
"You must cease this worrying about my toes. I'm not as delicate as I look. We'll go very slowly. Now, on the first beat, you step gracefully forward with your left foot. At the same time, I'll step back with my right. Ready? Begin."
He stepped forward, but apparently not gracefully, because his boot landed squarely on her foot.
"Bloody hell," he said, immediately releasing her and stepping back. "Are you hurt?"
"My toe is fine. Not to worry, I have nine others."
"Which I'll no doubt crush on beat two."
"There are only three beats, Gideon. So how much damage can you possibly do?"
The sound of his name coming from her lips gave him the incentive to at least attempt to redeem himself. "Hopefully not much."
Once again she took his hand, and he settled his at the base of her spine. "This time take a smaller step," she said. "We're not trying to get across the room in a single bound."
"Would have helped if you'd said that the first time," he grumbled.
He managed to execute the first step without mishap. "Now what?"
"For the second beat, you're going to step forward and to the right with your right foot-rather like tracing an upside down letter L."
He tried but obviously traced too large of an L, because his knee banged into hers thigh, a mistake that arrowed heat up his leg. His gaze flicked to hers, and to his annoyance she once again appeared completely unruffled while he felt hot and uncomfortable and as if his clothes had suddenly shrunk.
"Try again," she said, nodding in an encouraging fashion. "Just take a smaller step."
He obeyed, and continued obeying her instructions, which she repeated with unfailing patience, in spite of his many missteps and toe crunches. At first he felt ridiculous and clumsy and utterly ungainly, and the only thing keeping him from quitting was that he couldn't walk away from this opportunity to hold her in his arms. Indeed, he might have done better if he'd had a different teacher-someone whose every touch didn't set his skin on fire. Made it bloody damn difficult to concentrate when a matter of mere inches separated their bodies. Could she feel the heat and desire pumping off him? Didn't seem possible she couldn't, as it felt to him as if it exuded from his pores like vapor rising from a hot spring.
"Very good," she said, as they made their way around the floor at an excruciatingly slow pace. "One, two, three. One, two, three. Now let's add a slight turn to the left so we go in a circle."
The slight turn to the left threw him off, and again he stepped on her toes. "Damn," he muttered. "I'm sorry. I'm not usually so inept."
"There is nothing inept about you, Gideon," she said softly.
He jerked his head up from where he'd been glowering at his feet and found her serious blue gaze resting on him with an expression that did nothing to cool his want of her.
"All you need is a bit of practice,"
she said, giving his hand a gentle, encouraging squeeze. "A quarter hour from now, you'll be waltzing as if you were born doing so."
"Doubtful," he muttered. A quarter hour from now he needed for this lesson to be over. Before he gave in to his ever-increasing desire to forget the bloody waltz and lower her to the hearth rug and end this hunger gnawing at him.
Gritting his teeth, he tried again, counting one, two, three, one, two, three furiously in his head.
"Excellent," she praised a moment later. "Now you need to do that very same thing, but looking at me-with a smile-instead of glaring at your feet. It is a dance, you know. Not a funeral march."
He raised his gaze, looked into her eyes, and instantly stumbled over his own feet. And stepped on hers.
He uttered what felt like his hundredth apology, but she didn't miss a step, just slowly kept going, around and around, counting softly. After they'd made a complete-albeit extremely slow-circle of the ballroom without mishap, she offered him a beaming smile.
"Excellent. Now we're ready for some music." She began to softly hum a slow melody. After a moment he asked, "What song is that?"
"Just one of the dozens of songs I know about flowers and sunshine and grass-filled meadows." Her lips curved in a mischievous grin. "Shall I sing 'Apple Dumplin' Shop'?"
He grinned in return. "Shall I?"
She laughed. "Good heavens, no. I'll hum another." She began again, and this time he recognized the song as the one she'd played earlier today. "That is the tune you composed," he said. "'Dreams of You.'"
She stopped humming and nodded. "Yes." Her serious gaze rested on his, and she whispered, "'Dreams of You.'"
Again she hummed the haunting melody, and with his gaze locked on hers, unable to look away, they slowly circled the floor. He found himself imagining they stood in a crowded ballroom, and he was dressed in the finest evening attire, and he had every right in the world to approach her, an earl's daughter, and ask her to dance. To take her in his arms where she fit as if made for him alone and circle the ballroom while every other man wished he were Gideon. Who was the luckiest man in the world to be waltzing with her. The most beautiful, desirable woman in the world.
She reached the end of the song, and her sweet hum faded into silence. Their steps slowed then halted. Her eyes glowed up at him, and she smiled. And everything inside him seemed to simultaneously melt and go still.
"I hate to say 'I told you so,'" she murmured, "but…"
He had to swallow twice to locate his voice. "Actually, I don't think you hate to say it at all."
"Perhaps not. You are a lovely dancer."
"You are a lovely teacher." Unable to stop himself, he brought their joined hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the backs of her fingers. Her breath caught at the gesture, and he felt a tremor run through her, one he longed to feel again.
"Thank you," he murmured against her fingers. "For the most enjoyable waltz I've ever experienced."
A breathless-sounding laugh escaped her. "That was the only waltz you've ever experienced."
True. But he knew damn well that even if he'd experienced a thousand of them, that one still would have been his favorite. He wanted to tell her that, wanted to let her know how heartbreakingly beautiful she looked. How incredible she felt in his arms. How easy it would be to simply stand here all night long, just looking at her. Breathing in her subtle vanilla scent. How much he wanted to kiss her. Make love to her. Make her his.
Bloody hell, he needed to get away from her. Now. Before a simple dance turned into something very complicated. Something they'd both regret.
The memory of them together flashed in his mind… of Julianne lying on the drawing room hearth rug, her skirts bunched about her waist, his head buried between her silky thighs, and desire slammed into him like a fist to his gut.
He released her and quickly stepped back. "Our bargain is now satisfied," he said, his voice rough with the want he was trying desperately to hide. "And it's time for you to retire."
There was no missing the disappointment that filled her gaze, but he refused to acknowledge it. "Very well," she murmured, "but first I need to snuff the candles."
He suspected that was merely a stalling tactic-no doubt there was a servant whose sole responsibility it was to snuff out candles-but he didn't argue. Instead he walked to the opposite side of the room and grabbed a long-handled engraved brass candle snuffer from a side table and helped the process along.
When they finished, he moved to the door and said, "I'll escort you to your chamber. Make certain the room is secure."
She looked up at him, lit now only by the back glow of the fire, and he felt himself drowning in her eyes. "And then what?"
"And then I'll do my job." He forced his gaze away and gave a soft whistle for Caesar, who'd been patiently standing guard in the corridor with his fur-draped cohort.
"Gideon, I-"
"Let's get you settled for the night," he broke in, his voice coming out harsh. Based on the yearning so obvious in her eyes, she planned to say something he didn't want to hear. Something that would surely tempt his already shaky resolve. "Now. Before your parents return home and find you haven't yet retired."
He didn't wait for a reply, just began walking down the corridor. She caught up to him several seconds later.
"Gideon, I-"
"I meant to ask you something earlier," he broke in again, this time in desperation. He couldn't risk her saying what he saw in her eyes. Couldn't let her voice the admiration and longing he saw there.
She hesitated then asked, "What do you wish to know?"
"I'm curious about the book that was mentioned at tea. The Ghost of Devonshire Manor. The mere mention of it caused a very interesting reaction in you and your friends."
"Interesting?"
"Yes. Lady Emily seemed quite devilish, and the rest of you blushed and were very eager to change the subject. Given my inquisitive nature, I can't help but wonder what it is about the book that would cause such a reaction."
"I…I suppose we were merely surprised when Emily broached the subject. The book was the latest reading selection of our book club, and we normally don't discuss our choices outside our small circle."
"And why is that?"
"Because they are not books that would necessarily be considered… classics. In the classic sense. Precisely."
Understanding and interest dawned, and he nodded. "I see. So they are scandalous."
A scarlet flush washed over her cheeks. "I suppose a certain type of person might think so."
"And what type is that?"
"A person who can read."
He couldn't help but chuckle. "Well, well. Proper Lady Julianne reading improper books. It would seem the lioness has not only claws but teeth as well. Interesting."
They entered the foyer where Winslow assured them all was well. After bidding the butler good night, Gideon and Julianne climbed the stairs. When they reached the top, she said, "Since you are so curious, you may borrow the book, if you'd like."
He knew he should refuse, but the thought of having, even temporarily, something that belonged to her, especially something that had brought such a becoming flush to her cheeks, was too irresistible to refuse. "All right," he agreed. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. I'll get it for you now." She stopped in front of her bedchamber door-the room where he would be staying tonight, in hopes of the intruder coming back so Gideon could capture the bastard.
"Wait," he said softly. He entered the room ahead of her. A fire had been laid, bathing the room with a warm, golden glow. He made certain the windows were locked, noting as he made his way around the room that his portmanteau had been unpacked and his personal items were neatly lined up next to a washstand and pitcher filled with water.
He motioned for her to enter. She did so. Then, with her gaze steady on his, she slowly closed the door behind her.
He stilled at the quiet click, a soft sound that reverberated through his head with the final
ity of prison bars clanging shut. He stood rooted to the carpet, watching as she crossed the room then opened the wardrobe. She crouched down, arose, then walked toward the bed, carrying what appeared to be a wooden box.
"Is that where you keep all your scandalous books?" he asked, forcing a lightness into his voice he was far from feeling.
She shook her head. "This is my Box of Wishes and Dreams. It's where I keep all my treasures and most prized possessions."
His better judgment warned him to keep his distance, but his curiosity to see the contents of the box won out. He approached the bed and looked down.
"I discovered this box several years ago in a shop on Bond Street and instantly fell in love with it," she said, tracing her fingers over the delicately painted design on the lid. It was of a woman, standing in profile, her arms outstretched. In the woman's one hand dangled her bonnet ribbons and in the other her shoes. Her long blond curls and pale blue gown billowed behind her in the unseen breeze as she ran, hatless and barefoot, through a field of colorful wildflowers. The woman's face was raised to capture the sun's golden glow, and a smile filled with pure joy curved her lips.
"She immediately captured my imagination with her carefree exuberance," Julianne said quietly, brushing a single fingertip over the lid. "I could almost hear her jubilant laughter. She was a brave and daring woman, one free of restrictions and rules, and I recognized her instantly."
Gideon's brows rose. "Recognized her?"
"Yes." She looked up and met his gaze. "She is the woman I've always longed to be. The woman who lives in my imagination."
Taking a small brass key, she unlocked the box and slowly lifted the lid. "As soon as I arrived home with the box, I dubbed it my Box of Wishes and Dreams, and in it I keep things I've collected that represent my fondest desires."
She opened the box, and he looked down. And frowned. In spite of her claim not to be enamored of jewelry, he'd expected the box to be filled with glittery gems and other expensive trinkets. He wasn't certain what all those things in the box were, but not one of them sparkled. He leaned closer and recognized the shape of an object on the top.
"A seashell?" he asked, wondering what that could possibly have to do with wishes and dreams.
Seduced at Midnight Page 20
