He reached out to give the bird a chuck to the chin. Gwen stepped backward, and the bumblebee bobbed a cheerful nod.
He smiled as another buoying sensation washed through him. It felt as though the sleep was knitting into his muscles now. He began to feel quite . . . alert. “Come in,” he said.
Her manner was stiff as she ran a pointed eye down his bare chest. “The porter said he could not rouse you. But I’d assumed that you would be dressed by now. No matter. I’ll be outside.”
“Wait,” he said as she turned away.
She paused. “What?”
He opened his mouth. But what was there to say? Strange thing: until last night, he’d had no idea that Richard’s death still weighed so heavily on his conscience.
It was not within her power to absolve him, of course.
Yet he felt absolved. Jesus Christ. He felt weightless.
He stepped back. “Nothing,” he said. “Only—modesty seems a bit disingenuous, now that I’ve had my hand on your—”
“I have no desire to watch you dress,” she said sharply.
“Does the word offend you?”
She glared at him silently. Her color was rising.
“Or do you not know the words?” That was far more likely. “There are several to choose from,” he said helpfully. “For all that you’re determined to be wicked, I expect you’d favor the ladylike ‘quim.’ For the male apparatus, ‘cock’ is the term generally favored, although you may use ‘manhood,’ if you’re feeling vaporish.”
“Do we require soap?” she asked icily. “Apparently you haven’t washed your mouth yet this morning.”
He laughed. “What a prudish mood you’re in. Is this my punishment for failing to shag you?” Properly, he deserved a bloody award for restraint. A hotter sight than her writhing on his bed beneath his touch, he’d never see in his life.
Unless he reconsidered his policy on shagging her. Then he might see other things, too.
Her face was now a very interesting shade of pink. Bordered on purple, really. “I don’t know that word either,” she said. “So I can’t answer you.”
“Oh, if your blush is anything to go by, I expect you’ve drawn the right conclusion. Come now, step inside. Unless you’ve changed your mind in the night, and fear for your virtue?”
She made an irritated noise, then shoved past him into the room, stalking—or attempting to, for the size of the room would not allow for drama—to the window. There she turned, giving him her very best glare. “You’re entirely obnoxious,” she said.
He offered a smile in reply. Had he any artistic talent, he would have sketched her like this, silhouetted against the window behind her, framed by the green velvet curtains caught up at either side by gold tasseled sashes. Angry Young Miss En Determined Route to Ruin would be the public title, and the private, A Damned Nuisance I Could Have Avoided by Turning Back at Gibraltar.
Except that the first title seemed flavorless, and the second . . . dishonest. He certainly could have avoided her by turning back for South America. But to what profit? She was amusing. She evinced surprising bravery, tossing over her little world and throwing off every restriction she’d ever known. And she was right: this Richard business was a poor excuse to trammel her. The Maudsleys had done their best by Gwen; had designed a path for her that many women would have been happy to walk. But Gwen herself had not proved content with it. The intentions of the dead should not have a hold on the living.
A new title, then: The Unexpectedly Interesting Former Debutante.
Ah, well. It seemed that he lacked a talent for titling, too. Happily, the scene would make a lovely painting no matter what one called it. The sunlight dancing through the window played over her hair, picking out, from amidst the predominant auburn, strands of gold and cinnamon and a shade (he would wager a year’s profits on it) that could only be true crimson. Her hair seemed like a minor miracle, in fact—a national treasure far more inspiring than the Elgin Marbles or groaning, crumbling palaces. He had touched it last night simply for the tactile pleasure.
“Ginger is such an unjust name for the shade,” he said.
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Although you do have bite,” he said. “And you bite quite nicely, too. You take direction well. Did you enjoy that?”
Surprise parted her lips. That rouge the other day had been overkill; her mouth required no aid. It was her second chief beauty, long and full, tinted a natural pink. He enjoyed watching her eat radishes with it. Did she realize that in the bluish tint of gaslight, the color of that vegetable exactly matched her hair? And complemented her lips besides.
“You are flirting with me,” she said slowly.
He considered it. Was he? “Yes,” he said. “I am.” The realization was strangely satisfying. He was flirting with Gwen Maudsley as he might have with any woman who had caught his fancy, whose brother had not been his closest friend, who did not retreat from the world behind a screen of hypocritical and simpering formalities. He’d never had a taste for girlishness.
A strange expression crossed her face. He did not know how to interpret it. That was intriguing, too. Until so recently, he’d fancied her more transparent than glass. “Does it bother you?” he asked. If it did, he supposed these half-formed ambitions would need crushing.
She rolled her eyes. He’d never seen her do that before. “No, it does not bother me,” she said. “But you really must make up your mind, Alex. You are becoming more fickle than a debutante.”
He felt his jaw drop. And then, out of nowhere, he began to laugh. Good God. She was right.
She inspected him narrowly. He wanted to say . . . hell, he didn’t know what, but something in her expression made him laugh harder; he had the fleeting insight that he had probably looked at her in just this way when he’d encountered her on the stairs, the day of her would-be wedding. The idea somehow heightened the hilarity, and now he was breathless for air; this was the work of sleep deprivation, of course, except he’d just slept longer than he had in four years’ time, so that didn’t explain it. He struggled for a breath, trying to reclaim his composure, to say something that would address the sneer creeping over her lovely mouth.
She did not give him a chance. With a disgusted snort, she pulled her skirts tight and swept past him. At the door, she turned back, magnificently straight-spined. “Get dressed, you loon.”
The door slammed behind her.
The drive toward Côte Bleue wound along the edge of the coast. On one side lay the aquamarine sea, glittering fiercely beneath a sky of brilliant blue; on the right, up the rolling hills, stretched groves of olive trees and palms. The climate and vegetation invited a very particular sort of landscape, Gwen thought, and she was not disappointed when the carriage turned down the graveled drive into Mr. Barrington’s property and deposited them at the front steps of Côte Bleue.
The house was two modest stories of mellow pink stone, and vines of purple bougainvillea twined down its face, like strands of a woman’s hair. Its green shutters were thrown open to the warm air and to the view of the terraced garden, tiers of lush vegetation that flowed down toward the cliffs overlooking the sea. Behind the house, on the wild hill above, blossom-spangled orange trees seemed to sag beneath the weight of their ripe, hanging fruit.
Alex exited the carriage first. He’d provided surprisingly agreeable company during the drive, making charming observations about the various towns they had passed, cracking jokes that she’d had to work not to laugh at. Indeed, the temptation to laugh had become its own form of hurt, cutting her just as deeply as his courteous façade. For all she knew, this was some sort of twisted game he’d devised to amuse himself: how many times could he tempt her into throwing herself at him? If that was the case, she would not cooperate. Men had humiliated her before, to be certain, but she had never and would never aid their efforts. She would not laugh at his jokes.
All during the long drive down the coast, then, she raged at hersel
f. The loss was not great; there was no call for her to ache, so. But it took effort, sustained and pointed effort, to think of him just as she’d thought of those other men. To each of his comments, she made herself smile and reply with perfect courtesy. (The art of discouragement through flirtation was rather like badminton, she thought. So long as the birdie was kept afloat—a compliment offered in return for each one that was served—no points would be scored on either side.) If this was a game, she meant to win. Her earlier delusions about him, her stupid fancies, would not cripple her. She would be spitted and fried before she begged for his attentions again.
Alex lifted her out of the coach now into the warm, sunlit air. A melody of scents played over her—roses baking in the sun, the salted sea air, the sweetness of honeysuckle, the fresh bite of citrus. Beneath these lay the faintest note of spice. She took a deep breath and tasted its sharpness, then glanced up the hill again, knowing now what to look for. Pepper trees hid amongst the oranges. At dusk, their smell would strengthen, overwhelming the flowers’ sweetness.
The inevitable effect caught her fancy. The gardens must create a shifting symphony of scents, dependent on the hour of the day. She did not spot any night-blooming jasmine, the presence of which would have made the advent of evening all the more noticeable. It was not a pretty plant, she supposed. Could one design a landscape organized by smell instead of sight but make it visually pleasing all the same?
The challenge was turning in her mind when Mr. Barrington bounded down the drive to greet them. In Paris he had looked a hair shy of bohemian; now, in a white linen suit with a straw boater crushed beneath his arm, his cheeks ruddy and his hair tossed by the wind, he looked more in the way of a yachtsman returned from a day at the races.
She wondered if Alex realized how much he had in common with this man. Both of them looked comfortable no matter where they popped up. It was not, perhaps, a trait to merit one’s trust.
Mr. Barrington seized her hand and carried it very dramatically to his mouth. “Your majesty!” he said. To Alex, he offered a cordial nod. “You’re the last to arrive; I’d begun to fear you lost.”
“But we came straightaway,” Gwen said with a frown.
“Perhaps the others departed before the invitations were issued,” Alex murmured.
Barrington laughed, as if this were a very funny joke. “Come,” he said, and turned on his heel to lead them into the house.
The front lobby of the villa was spacious and cool, a fountain splashing in the light cast by a domed glass cupola two floors above. Tile mosaics bordered the pink stone floors, which were uncarpeted save for silk runners that formed a narrow path down the hall through which they walked toward their rooms. On the walls hung Renaissance paintings from the Italian school, and bright murals that Barrington said had been painted by local artists—tableaus of Nice’s famous Battle of Flowers, its Mardi Gras revels, and sunset seen from the Promenade des Anglais.
Barrington drew them to a stop at the very end of the corridor, by a set of wooden doors carved in a rough, rustic style. “Drinks at five o’clock in the garden,” he said. “Dinner at seven; we keep very early hours, to allow guests to pop over to Monte Carlo and catch one last round of cards before bed. Carriage leaves promptly at nine o’clock; usually we keep another for the casinos in Nice—open all night, you know—but we had a broken axle last night, so it’s Monte Carlo for the time being or bust, as they say; which perhaps is how it always should be, don’t you think? If one’s going to gamble, might as well do it in style. Now.” He took a breath. “I expect you’ll want a bit of rest before joining the fun. Although I must say, Miss Goodrick, you look fresh as a daisy, positively ripe for the plucking.”
It had seemed a lovely compliment, until he’d reached the bit about ripeness. “Thank you,” Gwen said hesitantly.
“Alas that harvest season has concluded,” Alex said pleasantly.
Barrington chuckled. “So it has, so it has. Well, we’re out on the terrace right now, so do feel free to wander out if you feel up to it. The Rizzardis—you don’t know them, by any chance, do you? Giuseppe and Francesca? No? Well, they popped up yesterday, so I’ve put them in the room next to yours; they are great fans of Bizet, and over the moon at the prospect of a worthy delivery from Miss Goodrick. Oh—hold on there a moment.” Still clinging to the door handle, he leaned around the corner. “Moakes! Come back here, you rascal.”
A small, silver-haired man of advanced years stepped around the corner, a tray of champagne in hand. “Take one, do,” Barrington urged them. “Lafittes and Margaux, of course; I drink nothing but. Might as well start the holiday in style. Here, I’ll also lift a glass.”
Gwen slid a glance to Alex, who was studying Barrington as though the man’s face held the key to some riddle. Perhaps it did, at that: at odd intervals, the corners of Barrington’s mouth kicked up. It was the smile of a child struggling to keep some wonderful secret.
“Cheers,” said Alex. He took a drink, his lips smiling but his eyes deadly intent on their host.
Mr. Barrington seemed oblivious to the regard. He turned his boyish smile on Gwen. “I must confess,” he said in a low voice. “I noticed something alarming upon your arrival.”
“Oh?” Heart beating faster, she wondered if she’d already betrayed herself, somehow. Or perhaps he’d stumbled across a photograph of her. She could imagine that the London newspapers might have run one after the recent debacle.
“Your parasol, my dear.” He eyed her, a salacious angle slanting his lips. “I do believe you’ve forgotten it again.”
Gwen laughed. “Oh, I hardly require one now.” She hooked her arm through Alex’s. “I have brought a much bigger stick, you see.”
Alex choked on his drink. Barrington, brow lifting, gave him a respectful nod, although the cause for it seemed obscure. “I will take your word on it,” he said to her and slid the bar free, opening the suite doors. “Here then: your home for the next few days—or, indeed, so long as you wish to remain. We do not believe that old adage about guests; the longer you stay, the merrier.”
He took his leave with a bow. As predicted, he had allotted them a single suite. The sitting room was quite large, done up in taupe and ivory, filled with light from the broad French doors that opened onto a balcony with an ocean view.
“Strange man,” Gwen murmured.
Alex paused by the doors to look out toward the sea. “Why do you say that?” he asked.
She frowned at his back. “You don’t think he’s odd?”
“Certainly. But I’d like to hear your perception of him.”
She thought about it a moment. “There is his accent,” she said slowly. “He works very hard to sound like a public school boy. But he learned the accent too late; it doesn’t fit comfortably with his vowels.”
“Which doesn’t condemn him, of course.”
“Of course not! Goodness, for my sake, I should hope not. I suppose, beyond that, it’s simply a feeling he inspires. No real cause for it.”
“But intuition should never be dismissed,” he said. He walked onward through the next door, and she followed. A minuscule dressing room opened onto a bedroom with wallpaper of pale peach and gold. The single window in the far corner looked onto a man-made lake at the side of the house. A transparent mesh mosquito net framed the bed. Sleeping was clearly meant to be an afterthought here; all the attention had been given to the sitting room, which was much larger.
Or perhaps not. Gwen paused in the doorway, looking at that bed. It would have been large enough for Henry VIII and half of his wives, to boot. It dominated the room completely.
Alex walked onward, apparently oblivious to how terribly awkward it was going to be to spend the night here. Perhaps he would be a gentleman—absurd thought, but since he’d done the tediously gentlemanly thing last night, the pattern might well continue—and he would offer to take the floor. Otherwise, she knew what would transpire: she would lie with her back to him, her agitated breath making the n
etting stir and tremble, too afraid to sleep lest her hands betray her and climb across his chest, as they had been longing to do even in the coach, while her dignity and pride had spat curses at him and her brain had marshaled words of cool, pleasant civility.
What sort of talent was it that led a woman to unerringly fix on men who did not want her in return?
Surely there was another kind of man out there?
“Lily. These are lovely flowers,” Alex announced.
She looked up. He was poised by a vase of roses that sat in the corner opposite the window. “Those aren’t lilies,” she said dryly.
“Very funny, Lily.” His intent stare gave her a start. So, even in the rooms they would play these roles?
“I always aim to amuse you,” she said lightly.
“Then come have a closer look.” His smile now teased. “You’re some sort of expert on flowers, aren’t you? A budding botanist, I hear.”
Her temper strained. Not surprising; its restraints had endured a great deal of friction today. “I told you I am not particularly attached to flowers. I am not a gardener.”
“Nevertheless,” he said, and then paused significantly. His long fingers parted the petals to reveal a patch of the flocked velvet wall. “Come have a look.”
It penetrated that he was not interested in the flowers at all. She glanced around in alarm, wondering if somebody was hiding behind the curtains to prevent their free communication.
He gave her a subtle shake of the head. “Come here,” he said more softly.
Slowly she walked forward. He slid his hand around the back of her neck, fingers closing in a firm grip as he brushed his lips across hers.
She went still. Last night, she’d tossed for hours, powerless to turn her mind from the memory of that shattering pleasure he’d given her. Now, the faintest pressure of his mouth raised an echo of that wonder. A hot, delicious weakness trembled through her.
Wicked Becomes You Page 19
