Finally he said, "Clearly something is afoot. And I intend to find out what it is."
And God help me if he does.
"And I intend to see to it that no harm befalls you." His gaze raked her face. "It appears that note was left as a threat to you. Do you have any idea who might have left it?"
"No." Could he tell that single syllable was an outright lie? She studied his eyes in hopes of finding the answer but instead found herself drowning in their intensely dark depths. And holding her breath.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt you?"
"No." That much at least was true. "I find it difficult to suspect any of the servants. They've all been with us for years."
"Perhaps more time to build up some sort of resentment. And servants have friends. Families. Cohorts. Aside from them, a parade of suitors made their way through your home today."
Julianne couldn't hide her surprise. "Surely you don't suspect one of them."
"Why wouldn't I? Because they're wealthy? Titled? Men in their positions are capable of criminal acts."
"What possible motive could they have? I'd hardly be a viable bridal candidate if I cocked up my toes." A humorless sound escaped her. "I'm worth much more alive than dead, believe me. But surely the words 'yor next' merely referred to my family's jewels—that they would soon be stolen—rather than as a threat against me. Surely Lady Ratherstone and Mrs. Greeley were killed because they came upon the thief during the commission of the robbery."
"I considered that both women would still be alive if they hadn't happened upon the thief; however, it's just as likely—more so in my opinion—that the ladies both knew their killer. That that's how he gained entry into their homes. And were killed for their trouble. Therefore I think it's rather odd for the robber to give warning to his next victim. To afford your family the time and opportunity to take precautions against an imminent theft."
Julianne frowned. Botheration. Perhaps she'd overplayed her hand. Still, she hadn't asked Johnny to leave the note; the enterprising young man had done that on his own. How could she have known that by hiring the coal porter to make ghostly noises he'd improvise in such a way?
Of course, she could have just ignored his note. Slipped it into her pocket and pretended she hadn't seen it rather than bringing it to her father's and Gideon's attention. But at the time it had seemed the most expeditious way to accomplish her goal—to make her ghost story real enough to convince both her father and Gideon. So that Gideon would investigate. Thus enabling her to spend time with him. It had all seemed perfectly plausible, but now, with Johnny acting on his own without consulting her … she needed to tread carefully so as not to trip into the dark abyss of her own lies.
She cleared her throat. "Yes, a robber giving his victim warning does seem a bit odd, although it's no secret my parents are hosting a ball next week. More than two hundred guests are expected."
"In Lady Ratherstone's case, precisely the sort of occasion after which the criminal struck."
"Perhaps our would-be thief isn't concerned, because he truly is a ghost."
"I'm afraid I don't share your belief in the fanciful. A real, live person left that note in your bedchamber." He leaned toward her just a bit, but it was enough to make her forget how to breathe for several seconds. Not only because of his nearness but due to the unsettling sensation that he could somehow see directly into her soul. Discern each and every one of her falsehoods. "Make no mistake—I will find out who's responsible."
She prayed she didn't sound as breathless as she felt. "Excellent. Yet so far your only suspects are servants who have been loyal to my family for years and esteemed members of society seeking my hand in marriage." She cocked a brow. "Are you always so suspicious?"
"Yes. It's the only reason I'm still alive." He moved a step closer to her. Now only two feet separated them. She could see the fine grain of his clean-shaven jaw, skin her fingers itched to explore.
"Everyone lies, Lady Julianne," he said softly, and she found herself nearly lulled into a trance by the movement of his lips.
Pulling her gaze back to his eyes, she asked, "Even you, Mr. Mayne?"
"Everyone, Lady Julianne." Before she could think up a reply, he lifted his hand. And she stared.
Dangling from the end of one long finger were her embroidery scissors. She blinked, and her hand flew to the pocket in her gown. Her empty pocket.
"How did you—?"
"Everyone," he repeated softly. "Although it appears your claim that you carry embroidery scissors was truthful."
"Of course it was." There was no need for him to know that she'd developed her long-standing scissor-carrying habit only that morning. Adopting a very put-upon air, she held out her hand.
"Everyone has secrets," he said, setting the small gold scissors in her palm. His calloused fingertips brushed her skin, and she pulled in a quick breath at the contact. "Facets of ourselves we don't share with anyone else."
She couldn't refute his words, as she'd never shared her inner longings with anyone, not even her closest friends. She'd never heard anyone voice such an opinion, and it prompted her to say, "It's as if there are different people inside us … people known only to ourselves."
"Yes." He inclined his head and studied her. "Who are those different people inside you, Lady Julianne?"
Daring, adventurous women. Who want to know all about you. Who want to touch you. Kiss you. Who want to feel again the magic you made me feel last night. "No one you would recognize, I'm sure. Who are the people inside you?"
Something flickered in his eyes, then a curtain seemed to fall over his features. "No one you would care to know."
She shook her head. "I disagree. I think you're—" She pressed her lips together to cut off her words. Before she admitted too much. Allowed him to see just how intriguing and compelling she found him.
He leaned forward and set his hands on the pianoforte on either side of her. "You think I'm … what?"
Fascinating. She could feel the heat emanating from his body. She drew in a deep breath, and his clean scent flooded her senses. It was all she could do not to arch her back and curve into him. "I … I think you're … wrong. I'd like to know about the people inside you."
"Indeed? Now why would a purebred princess like you want to know about a mutt like me?"
Princess. A flash of annoyance tempered her rapid heartbeat. "I'm a student of human nature; I enjoy studying people." She gave the mere foot of space between their bodies a pointed look. "You have a habit of caging me in, Mr. Mayne."
"You have a habit of allowing yourself to get trapped, Lady Julianne."
Botheration. Had she just thought him fascinating? "Has anyone ever told you you're quite irritating?"
To her further annoyance, his lips twitched with clear amusement. "No one who's ever lived to repeat the sentiment."
Recalling that they'd shared a similar exchange last evening, Julianne's own lips threatened to curve upward. Instead, she adopted a stern expression. "Then allow me to be the first. You're quite irritating."
"You don't fear my reprisal?"
"Not at all. Do your worst."
His eyes seemed to darken. "So … the porcupine has quills. Interesting."
A half-dismayed, half-amused sound escaped her. "Porcupine? That's hardly flattering. I much prefer your 'rose has thorns' analogy of last evening. Do you have any idea what a porcupine looks like?"
"Of course. There's one painted on the sign leading to the Drunken Porcupine pub. I pass it every day on my way to Bow Street
."
"And this is what I remind you of? The Drunken Porcupine? "
"Yes. Well, except that you're not drunk. At least I don't think so…" He leaned forward, brushing his cheek against hers, and drew in a slow, deep breath, effectively stalling her own. Then he leaned slowly back. "You smell like dessert, not spirits. Definitely not drunk."
Perhaps not. But dear God, she felt intoxicated. "That's n
ot very … complimentary."
"You think not? I actually meant it as one."
"Indeed? It's not one I've ever heard before."
"Then perhaps you'll remember it. I'm certain you don't need another man to tell you you're beautiful."
In spite of herself, her lips twitched. "I'm certain I don't need another man to tell me I remind him of a drunken porcupine."
A ghost of a smile whispered across his face. "Good. I'm delighted to be in a category unto myself." His gaze lowered to her mouth, and her lips involuntarily parted. When he raised his eyes to hers, his seemed to glow with a banked flame. "About your invitation…" He leaned slowly toward her.
"Invitation?" Dear God, was that breathless sound her voice?
"Yes. You invited me to do my worst." His lips hovered just above hers. "But I'd much prefer to do my best."
Oh, my … Her entire body tensed, humming, tingling with anticipation. Waiting … wanting…
A sharp yip sounded. Then another.
She blinked her eyes open. No lovely male lips hovered anywhere near hers. Indeed, Gideon had stepped away from her and was scowling at the carpet.
"What in God's name…" he pointed toward the floor, "is that?"
Feeling bemused—and decidedly unkissed—Julianne followed his gaze and stared down at the white ball of fluff returning Gideon's scowl measure for measure. A ferocious growl rumbled in her pet's throat—or at least as ferocious a growl as something barely larger than a teapot could manage.
Julianne scooped up the bristling, protective bundle of fur, cuddling it close to her chest. "This is Princess Buttercup."
For several seconds the only sound was Princess Buttercup's rapid sniffs as she stretched out her bejeweled collared neck and quivered her nose in an attempt to catch Gideon's scent.
"Princess Buttercup…" Gideon repeated slowly. Then he briefly pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "And just what exactly is Princess Buttercup?"
"She is a Maltese."
"A Maltese? I suppose that's some fancy breed of dog?"
His tone raised her hackles and her chin. "Of course she's a dog. What did you think?"
"At first I thought it was a long-haired, yipping rat."
Annoyance rippled through Julianne, and she hugged her baby closer to her chest. "That's very unkind," she scolded, her voice a hissing whisper. "Princess Buttercup looks nothing like a rat."
"She's the size of one." His scowl deepened as it raked over her pet. "Are those bows in its hair?"
"Yes. You'd wear bows, too, if your hair hung in your eyes all day long."
"I assure you, I would do no such thing." He craned his neck a bit then asked, "Good God. Is it wearing a … dress?"
Julianne hiked up her chin another notch. "Certainly not. It is a short, tulle skirt. She doesn't wear dresses or gowns—they inhibit her walking."
"I suppose next you'll tell me she has a tiara."
"Only a small one. For very special occasions. For everyday outings she prefers hats."
His gaze shifted back to Julianne. "You're joking."
"On the contrary, I'm perfectly serious."
He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "bloody most ridiculous thing I've ever seen."
Irritation pursed her lips. "You're acting as if you've never seen a dog before."
A humorless sound escaped him. "That"—he nodded toward Princess Buttercup—"is not a dog. That is a yapping, dressed-up, miniature ankle biter."
Julianne gasped, covered Princess Buttercup's tiny ears with a protective hand, then lowered her voice. "That is a completely inaccurate, not to mention unfair, assessment. For your information, dogs are supposed to bark. She didn't bite your ankle—although she clearly should have. She's merely very protective of me, and you're a stranger to her. As for me dressing her up, she's the closest thing to a sibling I've ever had, and as we both enjoy it and it harms no one, I can't see that it's any of your concern."
With indignation fueling her, Julianne advanced a step toward him and shot him her most scathing look. "Regarding her size—she cannot help it if she's smaller than normal. She was the runt of her litter, and no one else wanted her. I prefer to call her petite."
She pressed a kiss to Princess Buttercup's soft fur. "We've heard Mr. Mayne's opinion of you. Let's see what you think of him." She set her pet back on the carpet. The little dog immediately approached Gideon's boots, which were given a thorough sniffing examination. Julianne grudgingly gave Gideon credit for remaining still, even when Princess Buttercup went up on her hind legs, rested her diminutive front paws on the shiny black leather, and continued to sniff.
Finally the dog circled around Gideon once, then plopped her bottom on the carpet. After a series of sharp yips, she hoisted herself upward, front paws clawing the air, tail swishing, and pranced about.
"Does that mean I pass muster?" Gideon asked, and Julianne thought she detected a note of reluctant amusement in his voice.
"Hmmm … it would seem so," she said, not adding that Princess Buttercup, whom she deemed a very good judge of character, had had a very different reaction to her earlier callers. She growled at all of them and had particularly disliked Lord Haverly. "Actually, that particular move means she wants to be held."
"Then perhaps you should pick her up. Before she trips on her skirt."
"She's prancing for you. You pick her up."
Julianne had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing at his expression. "Me?"
"Yes. You. Surely a big, strong man like you isn't afraid of a … what did you call her? Oh, yes … a miniature ankle biter?"
He frowned. "Of course I'm not afraid. I simply wouldn't want to break the little beast."
"Oh, she's quite sturdy. And quite fierce." She scooped up the prancing dog. "She won't bite you." She stifled the smile threatening to curve her lips. "Probably."
Before he could protest further, she settled Princess Buttercup against his chest. His hands came up, and to his obvious discomfort he found himself with a palmful of panting white fluff.
"Um, I really think—" His words were cut off when Princess Buttercup's eager pink tongue proceeded to bestow a bevy of kisses to the underside of his jaw.
Cuddled in those large, capable hands, held against his broad chest, enthusiastically kissing his skin—for the first time in her life, Julianne found herself envious of her pet.
"Bloody hell, cut that out," Gideon said gruffly, stretching his neck to the side to avoid the barrage of canine adoration. Yet even as he said the words, Julianne noticed how gently he cradled the little dog. How his fingers tenderly stroked her.
And for the second time in her life, Julianne found herself envious of her pet.
"It appears she likes you," Julianne said.
"You sound surprised."
"Actually, I am. She's never taken to any gentleman so thoroughly. Indeed, she normally snaps and snarls at them."
He looked at her over Princess Buttercup's head. "In my experience, dogs are very good judges of character."
She couldn't help but smile. "If that's the case, then, given her reaction, you must be a prince among men."
His gaze seemed to bore into her, heating her from the inside out. "Not even close." Princess Buttercup gave an enthusiastic yip and strained upward. "Does her tongue ever stop?" he asked as the bit of pink flicked over his chin.
"When she's asleep."
He bent down and gently set the energetic dog on the carpet. Then rising to his full height, he said firmly, "Sit." Princess Buttercup's tiny white bottom instantly hit the carpet.
Julianne blinked in surprise. "Heavens, you're good at that. She normally never listens to anyone except me." She watched Princess Buttercup cock her tiny head and look up at Gideon with adoring black button eyes, as if waiting for him to tell her what she could do next to please him.
"It's all in your tone," Gideon said. "Dogs respond to the voice of authority."
Julianne pulled her gaze away from her clearly besotted pet—and really, she could hardly blame the beast—to look at Gideon. An odd flutter occurred in her chest when she saw him shoot the dog a quick wink. "You say that as if you own a dog."
"I do." Unmistakable affection flickered in his dark eyes, and a slow smile curved his lips. And she could only stare. Good Lord, the man was absolutely devastating when he smiled. "A man's dog."
"Ah. An enormous, drooling beast with plate-sized paws."
"Any dog is enormous compared to yours. And Caesar doesn't drool."
"Caesar? What sort of name is that for a dog?"
He hiked up one dark brow. "Asks a woman who shackled her pet with Princess Buttercup."
She hiked a brow right back at him. "And what would you have named her?"
He glanced back at the dog, who still looked up at him with adoring eyes. When his gaze returned to rest on hers, Julianne caught her breath at the heat simmering in the dark depths. "Lucky. I'd name her Lucky."
She had to swallow twice to locate her voice, which his intense stare had stolen. "Why Lucky?"
"Because she belongs to you."
The air between them seemed to crackle, and for the space of several heartbeats Julianne simply forgot how to pull it into her lungs. All she could do was stare. And want.
Then he cleared his throat, breaking the spell or whatever it was that had fallen between them. "If you'll excuse me, I must continue with my duties."
She roused herself from the stupor his words and unwavering regard had lulled her into. "Duties?"
"Yes. Before your father departed, he instructed me to make certain all the windows were securely fastened."
"Departed?"
"He left for his club immediately following our interview. You mother, by the way, departed at the same time to call upon friends."
"Fastened?"
"You have a habit of asking one-word questions."
Because you have a habit of making me forget how to speak English. "My habit is to be concise."
"I … see," he said in a dry tone that made it clear he didn't see at all. "Your father hired me to patrol the grounds this evening in hopes of discovering the source of the noises you've heard the past two nights and hopefully the identity of the person who wrote the note you found. In case there is some threat to you, he wishes for you to stay home for the remainder of the day. He also wanted me to make certain all the windows in the house were secure—which is the task I was undertaking when I entered this room."
SEDUCED AT MIDNIGHT Page 8
