Desperate for something to say other than I want to touch you so much I can barely stand still, she nodded toward Caesar. "It appears he's guarding the entryway."
Gideon nodded. "That's precisely what he's doing. If anyone approaches, we'll know."
Which, Julianne realized, meant that in spite of the door being open, they were ensconced in privacy. Exactly where she needed them to be to continue this afternoon's doggie-interrupted interlude.
No sooner had the thought entered her mind than a low growl sounded from the doorway. Caesar jumped to his feet, his gaze fixed on a point in the corridor. With lightning speed, Gideon slipped his knife from his boot then moved to stand directly in front of her.
"Someone's coming," he whispered. "Stay behind me."
"Surely it's just Winslow," she whispered back. She prayed her parents hadn't yet returned.
"Most likely. But I'm not taking any chances."
Another growl sounded from Caesar. Julianne peeked around Gideon's shoulder. A tiny ball of fluff appeared in the doorway. Caesar barked. Once. A low, deep woof. And Julianne could only stare as Princess Buttercup, her little black nose quivering, sidled up to Caesar. Caesar, who could swallow Julianne's diminutive dog in a single gulp.
Alarmed, Julianne started to move around Gideon, but he put out a restraining arm. "Wait," he said softly.
"For what? For your dog to make an hors d'oeuvre out of mine? I think not."
"He wouldn't do harm unless he sensed a threat. A teacup-sized fluff ball dressed in tulle is hardly a threat. He'll no doubt just nudge her out of his way."
"One Caesar-sized nudge could knock her over." Julianne elbowed her way by him, but he wrapped his fingers around her upper arm. She halted, rendered motionless by his touch.
"Just because he's large doesn't mean he can't be gentle," he whispered close to her ear.
A heated shiver raced down her spine. She turned her head, and for several seconds their gazes locked. Then his flicked down to her mouth. Her breath caught. Was he going to kiss her? Please…
To her disappointment he instead released her, although her skin continued to tingle. Somewhat relieved by his words, Julianne watched as the two dogs sniffed each other, her worry dissipating when she noted the pair of vigorously wagging tails. Princess Buttercup nudged Caesar's front leg with her nose then gave the spot a quick pass with her pink tongue. Caesar responded by licking his chops then nudging her rump with his snout. Princess Buttercup then hoisted herself up on her haunches and waved her dainty front paws at Caesar. His answer was a lick to her ear. As if that settled everything, Caesar then planted himself back at his post in the doorway. The Maltese snuggled up against his side, yawned once, then closed her eyes.
Julianne's brows arched upward. "Nudge her out of his way, will he?" She had to press her lips together to contain her mirth at Gideon's nonplussed expression. "Obviously you underestimated Princess Buttercup's charms."
"Obviously." They both watched as Caesar bestowed a gentle lick to Princess Buttercup's head then cast his gaze once more toward the corridor. "Good God, I think he's … infatuated."
She smothered a giggle at his shocked tone. "It appears the feeling's mutual."
"But they're so … so…"
"Different?" she supplied helpfully when he appeared at a loss.
"Incompatible."
She shrugged. "Whatever their differences, 'tis clear they worked through them." She shot him a sidelong glance, drew a deep breath, and summoned her courage. "Amazing what a few swipes of the tongue can accomplish."
He turned toward her so quickly she swore she heard his neck snap. His gaze latched onto hers, and the fire that flared in his eyes nearly scorched her where she stood. "Yes, amazing," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth.
Her entire body tensed in anticipation, but instead of pulling her into his arms as she'd hoped, he nodded toward the towels resting on the settee next to the fireplace in which flames snapped. "May I?"
With her tongue—her sadly unswiped tongue—tied in knots, it took her a full ten seconds to find her voice. Dear God, he must think her a nincompoop. A mute nincompoop. She cleared her throat and managed, "Of course."
She crossed to the settee and lifted one of the soft white towels embroidered with the Gatesbourne crest. Botheration, since he hadn't picked up the gauntlet she'd tossed, clearly more drastic measures were called for. She was beginning to understand the frustration Maxwell had suffered with the reluctant Lady Elaine. Thanks to her Literary Society readings, Julianne wasn't ignorant regarding ways to get a man to kiss her. At least in theory. Obviously, in practice was something else altogether.
He approached her slowly, his gaze steady on hers, trapping her as surely as his arms had that afternoon. He looked large and dark and masculine, yet guilt pricked her at his wet, disheveled appearance—which shouldn't have been attractive, yet was. Wildly so. While she'd remained in the dry warmth, he'd gone back into the rain to search for the intruder, during which time her fright had abated enough for her to realize with no small amount of chagrin that tonight's culprit had of course been Johnny.
She'd speak to the young man first thing in the morning—very firmly. Tell him that he mustn't do anything like that again. Good heavens, he'd nearly scared her to death. She'd merely expected him to make some ghostly moans and groans, not frighten her so badly that she temporarily forgot her plan.
Gideon stopped a mere two feet from her. He may have required the fire's heat, but she did not. Indeed, she felt uncomfortably warm. And as if her skin had somehow shrunken several sizes.
He reached for the towel. His fingers grazed hers, and she pulled in a quick breath. She expected him to simply take the towel and withdraw his hand. Instead, when his fingers touched hers, he went perfectly still. His skin was rough and still bore a trace of chill, and another wave of guilt washed over her at the discomfort he'd suffered—but it was nearly drowned out by the heat that suffused her at his touch. Propriety demanded she step back. Move her hand away from his. Yet she remained rooted in place, greedily drinking him in as if she were parched. Propriety had no place in her plans for this evening.
She moistened her lips, noting his gaze flick to her mouth again and the flames that kindled in his dark eyes. "Like Mrs. Linquist, I'm very glad you're here. I'd never been so frightened in my entire life."
For several heartbeats he said nothing, just studied her with those dark, unreadable eyes. "I won't allow anyone to hurt you," he said quietly, his expression and voice utterly serious.
Her imagination instantly took flight, picturing him dueling ghosts, tossing hooded knife wielders into the Thames, then sweeping her up into his strong arms and carrying her off to his kingdom where they would—
He took the towel from her and stepped back.
Julianne's fanciful thoughts disintegrated, and she blinked, pulling herself back into the present. She picked up another towel from the stack and approached him.
"Let me help." She reached up and pressed the towel against his cheek. And felt his entire body tense.
A muscle in his jaw ticked beneath the towel. Her gaze dropped, and she noted the white-knuckled grip with which he strangled the towel he held.
A thrill of feminine satisfaction raced through her. Clearly he was tempted. And fighting that temptation.
She could feel the tension emanating from him. Sensed him combating what he clearly wanted—or at least what she desperately hoped he wanted: to finish what they'd started in the music room. To touch her. Kiss her.
Determined to see him fail in his struggle, she leaned toward him. He inhaled sharply, and his full, firm lips parted. Just when she thought he was about to capitulate, he practically snatched the towel from her hand then backed up a step. "I can do it," he said, his voice sounding as if he'd swallowed gravel. "Why don't you see to the tea?"
Good heavens, the man actually looked … nervous? Certainly she'd unsettled him. Surely the notion that he was shouldn't delight her so
, but it did nonetheless. Why, he looked as if he wanted to bolt from the room.
Her delight instantly wilted. She didn't want him to bolt from the room. Best she not unsettle him too much. Therefore, even though she wanted nothing more than to help him dry off, she forced her feet to cross the Turkish rug. "I'll see to the tea."
After settling herself on the settee, she reached for the teapot, wrapping her fingers around the curved silver handle. Unfortunately, she then made the tactical error of glancing toward Gideon. And completely forgot about tea. Forgot about everything save him.
He stood with his back to her, bathed in the golden glow of the fire, his jacket half-on, half-off. She watched in stupefied fascination as he shrugged the garment the rest of the way off his broad shoulders. His cravat and red waistcoat followed, leaving him clad in his white shirt, which adhered to his body as if painted on. Julianne's avid gaze took in the breadth of his shoulders. The play of his muscles as he rubbed the towel over his chest and back, then down his arms, blotting the wetness away.
When he crouched down to spread the clothing he'd removed on the hearth to dry, his damp breeches clung to his backside in a manner that made her mouth go dry. Before she could recover, he stood and turned.
Their gazes collided, and she felt the impact of his intense regard down to her toes. He no longer looked nervous. In fact, he appeared so in command of himself, she wondered if she'd misinterpreted his reaction earlier. If she'd been capable of speech, she would have told him he looked delicious, er, drier, but sadly, anything as complicated as stringing two words together was currently beyond her.
Her knees seemed to have turned to liquid, and she sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she was already seated. How was it possible that he could reduce her to such a boneless state with a mere look? Surely the fact that he could should have frightened her. Appalled her. Something other than breathlessly exciting her.
He approached her slowly, the towel dangling from his long fingers. He looked big and dark, deliciously damp and dangerous, and she couldn't have torn her fervent gaze from him if her very life had depended upon it. He stopped an arm's length away from her, and her gaze focused on the fascinating front of his snug breeches with the zeal a starving dog would bestow on a mutton chop. Oh, my. Those breeches left no doubt that Gideon was very perfectly and very generously made.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
Her gaze snapped up to find him watching her with an inscrutable expression. Heat flooded her cheeks. No. I am not all right. You're throwing all my fine plans into utter disarray. How could she possibly entice him to kiss her when it apparently required all her wits to remember to breathe? "I'm fine."
He studied her for several more seconds, then nodded slowly. "Yes, I can see that you are. Indeed, you appear well recovered from your fright. Remarkably so."
Was that a twinge of suspicion in his voice? Before she could decide, he continued softly, "There's something you're not telling me."
Clearly that was suspicion in his voice. She had no doubt that given enough time he would unearth the truth—and be very angry with her when he did. Rightfully so. He'd no doubt never forgive her. Rightfully so. No doubt never want to speak to her again, let alone kiss her. Which meant she needed to do everything she could to insure that time didn't come too swiftly.
Lifting her chin, she said, "Contrary to what you obviously believe, I am not prone to the vapors or artfully arranging myself on fainting couches. I am made of sterner stuff and don't require days to recover from unsettling experiences." She offered him a small smile. "Besides, I feel very safe with you here."
He didn't comment, merely set aside the towel then sat on the opposite end of the settee. She glanced down and noticed that mere inches separated his knee and her yellow muslin gown. Far too little distance to be proper. Far too much distance for her liking.
She cast about in her blank mind for something to say. Something to divert his attention from her remarkable recovery. Something witty and interesting that would engage him. Perhaps draw a smile from those lovely, firm lips—before he laid them upon hers. But his nearness once again rendered her mute with longing and wants so overwhelmingly strong she feared when she did finally speak they would simply just pour out of her like a dam burst free. Touch me. Kiss me. Put out this raging fire you've started in me…
He leaned toward her, and what little breath she had remaining expelled from her lungs. She felt herself leaning toward him, as if blown by a strong wind, and her lips parted in expectation.
"It would be much easier if it were in the cup," he said softly.
She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
He nodded toward the table. "The tea. It would be considerably easier to drink if it were actually poured into the cups."
Julianne jerked her head around and stared at her hand, which still gripped the teapot's handle—the teapot that remained resting on its silver tray. A hot flush of embarrassment and self-directed annoyance rushed into her face, and she quickly lifted the pot. It was one thing for the man's presence to make her forget what she was about; it was quite another to allow his profound effect on her to be so patently obvious.
"Of course," she murmured, filling both cups then passing him one, managing only thanks to years of experience not to slosh the hot liquid over the cup's edge.
She took extra care in selecting a trio of biscuits for his plate, using the time to compose herself. She'd longed for and had gone to great lengths for an opportunity such as this: time alone with him. She had no intention of wasting this chance to get to know him better. Both Gideon the man and Gideon the extraordinarily excellent kisser.
She passed him the plate of biscuits. "Are you feeling warmer? Do you need more towels?"
"I'm fine, thank you."
Yes, he certainly was. Much more than fine, actually. Supremely, extraordinarily fine. Good heavens, he was beautiful even when he chewed a biscuit. Although she couldn't deny he also appeared… displeased? Her heart sank at the thought. Certainly he didn't appear particularly happy about sitting here, sipping tea with her. A depressing state of affairs, as she was nearly giddy with excitement.
A dozen questions sprang to her lips, things she wanted to know about him. Actually, she wanted to know everything about him. Where he lived. Where he'd grown up. His family. His likes and dislikes. His favorite color. If he enjoyed reading. The details of his dangerous and adventurous work. If he thought of her even a fraction of the number of times she thought of him.
How it was possible that such a devastatingly attractive man wasn't married or spoken for.
Or was he?
The thought struck her like a cold slap, and before she could stop herself, she asked in a rush, "Are you married?"
He looked at her over the rim of his steaming cup. His eyes narrowed slightly, then he slowly lowered his tea. "No."
A ridiculous wave of relief surged through her—ridiculous because, what did it matter? Whether he belonged to someone else or not was irrelevant. He could never belong to her. Still, in her heart she'd known he wasn't married. Had known he wouldn't have kissed her if a wife waited for him.
"Betrothed?" she asked.
"No. Why do you ask?" His gaze hardened. "Do you think I would have kissed you if I had a wife or fiancée waiting at home for me?"
His words so closely mirrored her thoughts that she wondered for an insane instant if through his intense regard he could actually read her mind.
Don't lose your nerve now, her inner voice whispered. Carpe diem.
Yes. If she didn't seize the day, here and now, she might never get another chance. Before she found herself married to a man she didn't love. A man who would plunk her down in Cornwall and likely leave her there to rot. After demanding his husbandly rights. A shudder of revulsion ran through her. Dear God, the thought of the duke's hands on her made her flesh crawl. And spurred her to action.
Drawing all her courage, she answered, "No—I believe you too honorable to kis
s me if you were married. Yet, surely dozens of women are madly in love with you."
His gaze seemed to pierce hers. "The way dozens of men are madly in love with you?"
Julianne shook her head. "There is no one in love with me."
"Says a woman whose suitors litter the path leading to her door."
"They wish to marry me. For money. They care nothing about me."
"They seem quite besotted to me."
"They are. With my very generous dowry."
Something that looked like annoyance flashed in his dark eyes. "You make it sound as if that is all a man would admire about you. Which sounds like false modesty. And a fishing expedition for compliments."
There was no missing the rebuke in his words—one that stung. "I'm not seeking compliments, especially from a man who clearly has a disinclination of bestowing them. Nor do I possess false modesty. I know I am admired for my looks. I simply take little pleasure from that fact."
"Really? Why is that?"
There was no missing his skepticism, and she debated how honest to be with him. She'd planned to use this time to find out more about him, yet he'd somehow turned the tables on her. Still, if she told him something of herself, perhaps he would be more inclined to reciprocate. "Do you truly wish to know?"
"Indeed. I cannot wait to hear why a princess such as yourself doesn't wallow in her looks." He leaned back and raised his brows, looking like a man expecting to be entertained by a troupe of jesters.
Vexing man. How did he manage to make her desire him yet wish to shake him at the same time? Annoyance rippled through her, nudging aside her shyness. "Wallow? Has anyone ever told you you're condescending?"
"Condescending?" he repeated in an incredulous tone. "A commoner like me? Never. Has anyone ever told you you've no idea what you're talking about?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. Almost daily. Neither of my parents credit me with the least bit of intelligence. They think the only thing I'm capable of is being decorative—and they demand that I be so. You cannot begin to understand how much I loathe being nothing more than an ornament. As if I have no thoughts or feelings. No ambitions." She moved her leg so that her knee touched his. "Or desires."
SEDUCED AT MIDNIGHT Page 11
