by Music Box
Bryce’s expression remained impassive. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about Gaby—and the best way to help her. Do you agree with my reasoning? Will you let me take over as tonight’s sentry?”
A weary sigh. “I do and I will. My only prayer is that your plan works. Frankly I’m not sure just how much more Gaby can take.”
“You didn’t tell her about Delmore, did you?” Bryce asked quietly, shifting to the other topic that was nagging at him.
“No.” Hermione massaged her temples. “I decided to keep the news from her, as I did from the rest of the family. I don’t customarily shield Gaby as fiercely as I do the others. But this case is different, given the magnitude of the crime and the severity of Gaby’s current state. I know my niece. News like this would devastate her. It wouldn’t matter that she wasn’t acquainted with Mr. Delmore. The idea of a man being murdered so close to home—worse, a fine man, with a wife and a family, now left alone—Gaby would have been crushed.” Hermione inclined her head at Bryce. “I suppose you think I’m foolish, trying to protect my family to this extent. You’re a barrister. You believe in facing life’s harsh realities. Well, I don’t—at least not in all cases. And when it comes to my family, I safeguard them with every fiber of my being. I always will.”
Warmth softened Bryce’s voice. “I, better than anyone, know that. And you’re wrong, Hermione. I don’t think you’re foolish. I think you’re every bit the grand lady I perceived when I was a boy. As for Gaby, you made the right decision. She’s in no condition to deal with news of a murder.”
Hermione’s lips trembled. “Thank you for your faith.”
“I seem to be acquiring a fair amount of that these days,” Bryce murmured, half to himself. Snapping back to the issue of Delmore, he folded his arms across his chest. “Hermione, do you know anything about a yacht your brother commissioned years ago?”
A quizzical pucker formed between her brows. “A yacht? What yacht?”
“One he was planning to sell to Delmore.” Bryce filled Hermione in on all the missing details he’d learned at Whitshire, from the purpose of Delmore’s visit to the contents of the document delivered to Thane. “I wonder if there could be any connection between Delmore’s destination this morning and the fact that he was murdered. Frankly, I find the idea of a highwayman committing this crime to be a bit farfetched.”
“Far-fetched—why? Thane is a very wealthy man, and the road leading to Whitshire is heavily treed and private. Why wouldn’t a highwayman choose such a spot to lie in wait?”
“Perhaps. But if he had, wouldn’t Thane have been his target? Or at least one of Thane’s titled and affluent associates? Wouldn’t it defeat a thief s purpose to attack a plain, modest carriage—not to mention doing so in broad daylight?”
“I see your point,” Hermione concurred. “It is odd that he would choose Mr. Delmore as his victim.” She frowned. “But to return to your question, I haven’t a clue what yacht you’re referring to. As far as I know, Richard owned no yacht, nor would he have wanted to. The man loathed the water. He always did, from boyhood on. He never set foot on a boat, even as a passenger.”
“Yet I know for a fact that he did own one,” Bryce mused. “I read the contract of sale; it’s quite authentic. This mystery grows more puzzling by the minute. If your brother hated the water, why would he purchase a yacht? Unless, of course, he did so strictly for investment purposes. Even so, it seems strange that neither you nor Thane knew anything about this boat’s existence.”
Bryce gave a hard shake of his head. “Something doesn’t feel right here. It hasn’t from the onset. I don’t yet know what it is—but I will. Thane will be riding to Nevon Manor first thing in the morning to discuss this subject. I’d like you to be present when we meet. Perhaps the three of us can come up with a plausible explanation for all this.” Bryce cast an anxious glance at his aunt, who was already nodding her compliance. “That is, if you’re up to it. Thus far, we’ve only danced around the subject of your health. I’m not terribly pleased by what I’m seeing. You’re extremely pale. And extremely exhausted—which doesn’t surprise me. You’ve had a harrowing day, a harrowing week.” A heartbeat of a pause. “Part of that is my fault. I should have stayed at Nevon Manor—for many reasons. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
“You’re wrong, Bryce.” Profound wisdom registered in Hermione’s eyes. “You had to leave—for the very reasons you’re alluding to. The important thing is that you’re here now. And I’m glad. Very glad.”
Something tugged inside Bryce’s chest. “No gladder than I.”
With a delicate cough, Hermione glanced at the clock. “Oh, dear, look at the time. Have we covered the most pressing matters? I think we have.” She provided her own answer. “You’ll act as Gaby’s sentry—and, I hope, as her confidant—tonight, and I shall meet with you and Thane tomorrow. And on that note”—slowly, Hermione rose to her feet—“I must dress for dinner.” A twinkle. “You’d best prepare as well. Given your week-long absence, I suspect that mealtime will consist of a deluge of questions and an outpouring of news. So brace yourself for the onslaught.” She smiled, gazing up at Bryce with a tender expression. “You’ll soon see how much you were missed, by the children, the adults—everyone.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Bryce assured her. “By the way, you have my word—although you haven’t requested it—that I will not mention Delmore’s murder to anyone at Nevon Manor other than you or Chaunce.”
“I haven’t requested your word because I knew I had it,” Hermione stated simply.
The knot in Bryce’s chest tightened, and he nodded, pivoting slowly and heading toward the door.
“Bryce?”
He turned.
Hermione’s heart was in her eyes. “Welcome home.”
The rest of the evening flew by, a series of rush-and-tumble events that left no room for thought or even sustained conversation. Dinner felt like a cozy robe Bryce had slipped into—one he’d misplaced and whose familiar warmth and comfortable fit he was only now rediscovering. Marion and Goodsmith proclaimed the news of their wedding, set to take place in a fortnight. Wilson bellowed that he had a whole new batch of primroses to describe. On the other side of the table, Bowrick waved his newer, thicker-lensed spectacles in the air, and Mrs. Gordon brandished Dora’s walking stick, which she had polished to a gleaming shine. All the while, Cook beamed as she carried out trays of food and listened to Peter recite the facts he’d gleaned from Bryce’s texts. The rest of the children withstood the legal chatter for as long as their patience could hold up. Then they interrupted with their own news: Crumpet’s latest mischief, the kittens’ reunion with Sunburst, Lily and Jane’s handmade doll.
The turmoil was heartwarming.
So was Bryce’s ten-minute lesson with Peter, during which time he learned just how sharp the boy’s mind really was and how quickly he was able to learn despite sophisticated concepts and a wealth of interruptions, from people and pets alike.
Bryce’s music room chat with Gaby was even shorter, lasting less than three minutes before Lily, Jane, and the kittens exploded into the room, dashing in circles as they chased each other about.
Needless to say, nothing significant got discussed, including Bryce’s plans for Gaby to attend the symphony.
The rest of the evening passed in equally chaotic warmth as the activity shifted upstairs, both in an effort to get Bryce settled in and as a gentle reminder to the children that bedtime had long since come and gone. Cook delivered tray after tray of refreshment to Bryce’s chambers, chuckling as Henry and Charles tripped over each other in their haste to unpack his bags, while Sunburst watched sleepily from his newly claimed position on the windowsill.
It was nearly ten o’clock by the time the children had calmed down sufficiently enough to be put to bed, and half after midnight before the last of the adults ambled off to their rooms. A weary but radiant Hermione said good night along with the children, allowing Bryce to escort he
r to her chambers only after she’d seen for herself that Chaunce was indeed relinquishing his post by the entranceway door in order to get some rest. The butler nearly sagged with relief at the prospect of a good night’s sleep, thanking Bryce in his customarily dignified manner before dragging himself off to bed.
Long after silence settled over Nevon Manor, Bryce sat in his armchair, looking around his chambers and reflecting on the events of the day, the extremes that had defined it.
The morning had begun with the cold and shocking finality of death, the senseless murder of an innocent man. How tenuous it made life seem, how very dark and futile.
Then, just hours later, Bryce had experienced the embodiment of life at its richest: his arrival at Nevon Manor.
With a surge of wonder, he marveled at the overwhelming reception he’d received—an abundance of affection that not only humbled him but also provoked in him the most unexpected and profound mixture of emotions. He felt proud, touched, grateful—surfeited with a sense of caring and belonging.
He felt at home.
And at the very heart of that home was a beautiful, sensitive young woman who, simply by virtue of being herself, compelled him to do things he’d never done, crave things he’d never craved, and feel things he didn’t even understand.
A young woman who needed him.
That realization spawned another—that being how very late it was getting. Somewhat disoriented, Bryce rose, shaking his head in the hope of recommencing rational thought, putting an end to the unsettled direction his musings had taken.
His attempts were unsuccessful. Nonetheless, he knew where he had to be. Gathering up a legal text to peruse during his nighttime vigils he drew a steadying breath and left his chambers.
The hallway was dark and quiet as Bryce made his way around the twisting corridor that led to Gaby’s room. Fortunately her chambers were in the same wing as his and Hermione’s, separate from the rest of the residents. As a result, Chaunce’s presence outside Gaby’s door had gone undetected, and no one else was aware of the ongoing trauma that had taken place here this past week.
Not that anyone could remain awake as late or rise as early as Gaby anyway, Bryce reminded himself with a wry grin. Given how little sleep she required, it was doubtful anyone was about when Chaunce either took up or left his station. Gaby’s energy was inexhaustible, her need for rest almost nil.
As if to support his premise, the tinkling notes of Gaby’s music box reached his ears, the beautiful strains of “Für Elise,” broken only by the sound of the grandfather clock down the hall as it chimed one. Reaching the closed door, Bryce paused, listening to the rustling movements from within and contemplating the fact that Gaby was obviously still awake.
The very notion that they were the only two people about at this hour felt oddly right, curiously intimate. Abruptly, Bryce suppressed that thought, berating himself yet again for behaving more like a poet than a barrister. What in God’s name was wrong with him tonight?
With a self-censuring frown, he pulled up the chair that stood nearby and was about to lower himself into it when the bedroom door flew open.
“Bryce.” Gaby was modestly belting her wrapper as she spoke. “Come in.” Eagerly she beckoned, standing aside to allow him to pass. “I’ve been waiting forever for you to arrive. I’m bursting with curiosity and excitement. Tell me what you arranged with regard to my attending the symphony.”
Clad in white, illuminated by the subtle glow of gaslight, Gaby looked as delicate and captivating as an angel, the living epitome of heaven.
Bryce nearly groaned aloud. Instinctively he steeled himself, searching for and finding the ragged filaments of his self-discipline. He resisted the urge to comply with her request, forcing himself to consider the lateness of the hour, the inappropriateness of the situation—and of Gaby’s attire. He knew how impatient she was to discuss the symphony, but everything about these circumstances was wrong, especially given his uncharacteristically muddled frame of mind. He was still reeling with first-time perceptions, struggling to understand this new and unanticipated surge of sentimentality he was feeling, and Gaby, as its most fundamental cause and its most vulnerable recipient, was the last person he should be alone with. At night. In her bedchamber. When she was wearing nothing but a thin gown and wrapper.
“Bryce, please.” Oblivious to his inner turmoil, Gaby stepped into the hallway, grasping his forearm and tugging him toward the room. “I won’t shut an eye until you tell me.”
He had to refuse. To do otherwise was too bloody dangerous. Bryce’s defenses were down, his reserve dissipated, his emotions raw.
The refusal hovered on his lips—and died as he gazed into those bottomless blue eyes. “All right,” he heard himself say. “But only for a minute. Then you must promise to go to sleep. It’s already after one.”
“Very well. I promise.”
With a quick glance along the deserted hall, Bryce entered her chambers and shut the door.
He commanded himself to stare at the dressing table, but his gaze was immune to the order. Instead, it focused on Gaby, shifting from the anticipatory glow on her cheeks to the sparkle in her eyes to the delicate curves of her body, accentuated by the fine material of her nightgown and wrapper.
Every fiber of his being reacted—physically, emotionally. Warning bells pealed their censure, as the stern voice of propriety issued an alert.
Coming in here had been a flagrant mistake.
One he couldn’t seem to reverse.
“Gaby,” he began, unable to stop staring at her, drinking her in from head to toe. “Let’s wait until morning. I think—”
“When can I go?” Still engrossed in her thoughts, Gaby rushed forward, clutching the lapels of Bryce’s coat, a thousand questions in her eyes. “Soon? With whom?”
“With me,” he heard himself say.
“With you?” she repeated carefully. A pause. “What about Miss Talbot?”
Who? Bryce almost found himself asking. “She’s not interested in returning to the symphony.” Bryce threaded his fingers through Gaby’s hair, knowing damn well he shouldn’t be touching her and finding he was unable to stop. “And I’m not interested in taking her.” He cupped Gaby’s face between his hands. “Will you accompany me?”
Awareness had begun to dawn in Gaby’s eyes, followed by a sparkle of exhilaration. “Alone?” she breathed without a shred of reticence.
God help him, he was drowning. “We’ll take Marion along. She’ll serve as your chaperon. She can keep Goodsmith company on the ride to London. If Hermione’s up to it, she can join us, too. If not, or if the staff becomes too unnerved by the thought of her absence, she can remain at home. Either way, you’ll have both an escort and a chaperon. How will that be?” He didn’t give a damn how it would be. In fact, he was having a hard time remembering what they were talking about.
Gaby’s cheeks were flushed with pleasure, and now she rose up on tiptoe and kissed Bryce’s jaw. “Thank you. Your solution is ideal. I can hardly wait.”
Bryce didn’t answer. He simply pulled her to him, tugged her head back, and covered her mouth with his. “Gaby,” he breathed against her soft, willing lips, “kiss me.”
She did, without pause or question, her arms gliding up to twine about his neck as if she understood his turmoil, sensed the rawness of his emotions.
The kiss began slowly and deliberately, their lips moving together in exquisite harmony, touching, tasting, then blending like two perfectly contoured pieces of a puzzle, only to break apart and begin anew. Again and again, they repeated the kiss, each time longer, hungrier, their mouths clinging more fully as they sought a deeper joining.
Bryce’s hands shook as they clenched in Gaby’s hair, his lips hardening, moving more insistently as they urged hers apart, issued a silent command—or perhaps it was a plea.
Gaby responded instantly, her lips parting in unwavering invitation. With a shivery sigh, she pressed closer, her fingers tightening about Bryce’s
neck, sharing rather than yielding to the intensifying embrace, fusing their mouths more completely.
Their tongues touched, Bryce’s stealing inside to meld with hers, to claim the sweetness he’d sampled earlier that day. Gaby’s breath caught, her entire body trembling as she savored the new, heart-stopping sensations this deeper joining aroused. Bryce indulged her—and himself—his tongue stroking hers in slow, heated movements meant to awaken the budding sensuality hovering just inside her.
He awakened himself instead.
With erotic innocence, Gaby reciprocated his caress, her tongue gliding into his mouth, tentatively stroking his, her breasts flattening against the hard wall of his chest as she strained to get closer.
It was as if a dam inside Bryce had burst, releasing a torrent of need, revealing an empty, famished stranger whose entire soul craved fulfillment. His arms tightened around Gaby like steel bands, locking her against him, and his lips seized hers, possessing her in a series of endless drugging kisses. His tongue plundered her mouth, gliding over every tingling surface before withdrawing and plunging again, desire exploding within him like cannon fire. Again and again his tongue captured hers—melding, mating, parting, beginning anew—his urgency so fierce he could taste it.
Gaby shivered, and Bryce savored her whimper of pleasure, lifting her from the floor and molding her entire body to his.
For the barest of seconds, she tensed, their first explicit contact making her blatantly aware of Bryce’s hardening contours, despite the inhibiting confines of their clothes. A heartbeat later she relented, melting against him, her warm, soft body fitting his so perfectly that it was staggering.
This time Bryce couldn’t stifle his groan, and it rumbled from his chest into Gaby’s open mouth. His hands were shaking violently, one anchoring Gaby against him, the other caressing her as they kissed: her hair, her face, the silky column of her throat, the delicate curve of her shoulder. His lips followed suit, leaving hers to blaze a trail of hot, hungry kisses down to the neckline of her gown.
