She winced, both at his easy use of the word ‘genitals’ and because his claim was true. “Not by choice, I assure you,” she whispered, her face once again taking on a pinkish cast.
Staring into her bright green eyes, Gabe wondered if she would wish to obliterate his genitals after what he was about to do to her. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispered.
Her eyes rounded, and Gabe thought of saying how she reminded him of a doe that frequented the Trenton property near Wolverhampton. Instead, he lowered his head to hers, until their noses touched. “Close your eyes,” he breathed, his own lids lowering over his blue eyes.
Frances swallowed. Despite his command, she kept her eyes wide open as his lips took hers. How could a man be blessed with such long lashes? she wondered as she opened her lips enough so his lips could take purchase.
This wasn’t a kiss of claiming, or the kiss bestowed by a lover just before bedtime, or even the innocent kiss of two young lovers.
She had experienced all three in her lifetime.
This was far different.
A kiss of exploration. Of determining whether or not future advances would be welcome. Of whether or not she might be considered a candidate for his bed. Of whether or not he might be welcome in hers.
The thoughts had her nearly pulling away.
“Your eyes aren’t closed, are they, my lady?”
His whispered query had Frances suppressing a grin, especially when his forehead continued to rest against hers. “If they were, I could not admire your long eyelashes,” she whispered.
His eyes shot open even as his brows furrowed. “Eyelashes?” he repeated. “My lady, you’re supposed to be admiring my... skill at... at kissing,” he murmured, just before he settled his lips on hers again.
She ended that kiss quickly and said, “I can do both at the same time. Did you know your lashes have golden tips?”
Gabe blinked. “My eyelashes?” He pulled away slightly and made a sound of disbelief. “I hadn’t noticed, my lady.”
This time she was the one to pull away. “Oh, surely you’ve seen them. In a mirror, whilst shaving,” she argued. When she noted his look of denial, she added, “Certainly a man who notices the tiniest detail on an Attic black and red pot would notice such a detail on his own person.”
He was about to argue—he only noticed the tiniest details on items that were of special interest to him, and his eyelashes weren’t of special interest—Gabe instead said, “Yours are dark and curled into perfect little arcs.”
He positively loved how her expression changed just then. How her lips parted and made it possible for him to take up where he had left off with the kissing.
After a moment, she pulled away again. “You did that deliberately,” she accused.
“Did what?”
“Complimented something on my person so that I would...” She couldn’t finish the complaint when his lips settled over hers again.
When Gabe finally ended the kiss, he allowed a sigh of frustration. “I must end this,” he whispered.
“Must?” she repeated, not sure if she felt disappointment or relief at hearing his words. At any moment, someone might come into the workroom and discover them.
“I’ll have you thoroughly ruined if I do not stop,” he murmured, hoping she hadn’t noticed how aroused he had become in the short time he’d been kissing her.
What was he thinking to accost the poor woman in her workroom?
“Thoroughly?” she repeated. She gave her head a shake. He would think she was a parrot if she continued repeating his words. But ‘thoroughly ruined’ implied something far more scandalous than the kisses he’d been bestowing on her. Something that might involve unobliterated genitals.
“I know you may find this hard to believe, my lady, but I am a man.” At her arched brow, he added, “I suffer the same effects as most men when in the company of a female I’ve been guilty of kissing.”
Frances blushed as if she was a chit fresh out of the schoolroom. Did his words imply that he was aroused? And if so, was he frequently in the presence of females upon which he bestowed kisses?
And did he kiss often?
“You do this often?” she asked, anger bubbling to the surface.
He shook his head. The one atop his neck. “Not of late, my lady,” he replied, noting her rising color. “Which might explain why it is I thought to kiss you.” Even as he said the last, he knew she would not understand his meaning.
“I do believe I am offended, Mr. Wellingham,” she stated as she whirled around and moved to her counter, busying herself with the scattered puzzle pieces of a Greek amphora. “Thoroughly.”
“My lady, I...”
“Out, Mr. Wellingham,” she ordered. “I have work to do.”
Gabe allowed an audible sigh before he gave a bow and took his leave of her workroom.
Oh, how Gabe wished his mother was still at Trenton House instead of on a steamship bound for the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. Surely she would know what words he could use to make things right with Miss Longworth.
Settling onto his uncomfortable wooden chair in his small office, Gabe regarded the other krater that had him heading for Miss Longworth’s workroom in the first place. He was sure she would know how to repair the tiny crack and replace the missing divot that occurred in the middle of the image of Apollo.
He could release the piece to Mr Harris, knowing it would gain a place among the other ancient Greek treasures that populated the wing devoted to Ancient Greece and Rome. But Apollo was the most important figure on the Attic krater, and the flaw across the middle of his body would be apparent to anyone who viewed the piece up close.
Gabe set the krater aside, thinking he could simply bring it to Miss Longworth’s attention on the morrow. Perhaps by then, she would have forgotten his ill-mannered behavior.
He rolled his eyes.
By tomorrow, she would have had twenty-four hours to think about what he had done to her. Twenty-four hours to fume and pontificate. Twenty-four hours to make him into the world’s largest ass.
“Really, Mr. Wellingham,” Frances said from somewhere to his left.
Gabe nearly knocked his chair over as he quickly came to his feet. “My lady?” was all he could manage to say.
She angled her head to one side. “I do hope you weren’t thinking to give that krater to Mr. Harris for display?”
Shaking his head, Gabe said, “No, my lady. There’s a crack—”
“And an unfortunately placed piece missing right in the middle of Apollo,” she remarked as she studied the krater.
Gabe felt a combination of relief and trepidation. “I was hoping you could repair it. It’s one of the reasons I went to your workroom in the first place,” he said, unable to meet her gaze.
“Well, of course I can repair it,” she huffed.
Gabe watched as she lifted the piece into her arms and carried it off to her workroom.
He watched her go, admiring the sway of her skirts as she walked away.
Prickly and proud, he thought to himself.
Well, at least she was still speaking to him.
Chapter 13
Dinner for Two
Later that night at Woodscastle
Emily regarded the opened tome on the library table and allowed a sigh. Although the copy of Debrett’s Peerage & Barontage wasn’t current—this one was from nearly five years ago—it included enough information on the Burroughs family for her to sort the relationships.
She expected James for dinner, and she wanted to be sure she knew all the names in the event he might mention any of them.
The charts also helped her discover her paternal grandparents’ place in the family that included Mary Margaret Merriweather, Fourth Countess of Torrington, as its matriarch.
The countess’ youngest son, Roger, had married Sophia Burroughs in 1770. The daughter of William Burroughs II, Duke of Ariley, and his duchess, Sarah Pendleton, Sophia had been a sort of feather in the co
untess’ cap.
With two older brothers, there was no hope Roger would ever inherit a title, but having the daughter of a duke for a wife lent a bit of caché. It also helped cover the less than advantageous match made by the oldest daughter, Lucy.
Too bad Roger died of pneumonia after siring only one son. That son had been Gregory, Emily’s father.
Meanwhile, the oldest boy in that family, George, who had inherited the earldom in 1759, sired Milton, the current Earl of Torrington, and Michael, who died young.
Emily traced the line from her grandmother, Sophia, back to the Burroughs’ tree.
Sophia was the youngest in a family of five, where the oldest boy, Henry, had been the sixth Duke of Ariley. While married to Margaret Merriweather—the niece of Mary Margaret—Henry had sired five children, the youngest of whom was Andrew Maximillian.
James’ father.
The oldest was also named James, and he was the current Duke of Ariley.
Emily took a deep breath as she mentally worked through all the relations.
She felt a slight headache coming on when she realized she and James were second cousins, straight across.
Not sure why she felt disappointment at learning they were related at all, she closed the book with a thud at the very moment the front door was doing the same.
James.
She lifted her head and attempted to see beyond the library window, wondering how she could have missed the sound of the town coach as it rattled into the drive.
The oddest sensation gripped her chest just then.
Between arranging the menu for this week’s dinners and ensuring the household was in good stead, she had spent the entire afternoon preparing for his return.
She had looked forward to his arrival.
Imagined what it might be like to welcome him home.
Could she do what her mother did whenever her father arrived? Hurry out to the hall and bestow a kiss on his cheek? Ask how his day had been. Ask if she might fetch him something from the kitchens. Mention that his posts were on a salver in his study.
Even though there was no mail for James, Emily was about to head for the hall to welcome him home when she found her feet wouldn’t move.
Which was probably just as well. She was about to make a fool of herself.
She wasn’t married to James.
But the idea of being married to him seemed so right. Even more so than marriage to Henry. Especially after what she had learned about him.
Did James suffer from the same character trait? Would she discover he wasn’t the perfect gentleman she had imagined him to be? The perfect friend? The perfect mate?
Well, even if James wasn’t perfect, he was still her guest. Greeting him at the door would be the sort of thing a good hostess would do.
Her feet obeying, she waltzed out to the hall, allowed a brilliant smile upon seeing James, and moved to join him as he gave his hat and topcoat to Humphrey.
“Good afternoon. How was your first day at the bank?”
James regarded her with a grin and afforded her a bow. “Better than I could have expected,” he replied.
Emily curtsied. “You must tell me about all of it over dinner,” she said. “I expect it will be ready in less than a half-hour. I hope that’s not too soon?”
“Oh, not at all. I’m starving, but I wish to take a moment to change for dinner,” he replied.
“Of course. Would you care for a brandy before dinner? Or a coffee?”
He shook his head. “Whatever you’re having will be fine.” He bounded up the steps to his bedchamber as Emily watched from the hall.
“Would you like me to summon a maid to help you dress, my lady?” Humphrey asked.
Dress for dinner?
Emily hadn’t dressed for dinner since the rest of the family had taken their leave the month before. “No, thank you. I’ll manage,” she murmured as she headed for the other set of stairs.
The entire way to her bedchamber, she imagined what she looked like in every dinner gown she owned. When she opened the wardrobe door, she knew exactly which gown to pull out. She gave the coral confection a quick shake, hoping the silk wasn’t too wrinkled from its weeks of hanging in the wardrobe.
Stepping out of her day gown was easy. Getting into the dinner gown was easy.
Doing up the buttons at the back proved impossible.
She knew she had missed at least two, possibly three, but there wasn’t time to put on a different gown.
She moved to the dressing table and repinned her hair into a simpler style, her gaze briefly falling on the reflection of the gold chain that hung around her neck.
The ring was still hanging from it, but given the shape of the neckline of her gown, the ring fell behind the edge of the lace trim and wasn’t visible. It was just as well, since the dark blue gemstone set in the ring didn’t suit the gown.
About to leave her bedchamber, she paused to change shoes and took one last look in the mirror.
James regarded his reflection in the mirror over the bathing chamber sink, secretly glad his beard was blond. Given its coloring, he could forgo another shave and instead use the limited time to take a quick sponge bath.
Like Bath, London was a city. Unfortunately, it was far dirtier, and James felt as if soot covered his entire body. At least the town coach was clean, as was the bank. Every other place he had called on that day suffered the same effects of a cold winter day—slush and mud.
When Humphrey appeared and asked if he might see to his muddy boots, James was quick to take him up on the offer. He pulled a pair of shoes from his trunk.
“Are dinners on the formal side here?” he asked of the butler.
“Probably not as formal as you are used to, sir,” Humphrey replied.
James felt relief at hearing the words. After spending time in so many offices, meeting so many people, he looked forward to an evening spent in quiet solitude.
Although he wouldn’t necessarily mind a few words with Emily over dinner. He had questions about some of his new acquaintances. Perhaps she knew them and could provide a bit of background.
Emily.
Twice that day he had thought of her. Wondered what she might think of his office. Wondered if she had taken her inheritance. Since her affianced had died, perhaps she had resigned herself to a life of spinsterhood.
Would she remain at Woodscastle the rest of her life, though? Or use some of her funds to purchase a seaside cottage? A thought of a townhouse in London didn’t seem to suit his idea of her, but then, he barely knew the young woman.
Well, he could remedy that over a few more meals. If she didn’t offer the information, he could ask as a means of keeping up his end of the conversation.
He finished washing his body and helped himself to a linen, his gaze sweeping the bathing chamber. Although Woodscastle was old, he knew this room had to have undergone a renovation. The plumbing was modern, the tiled floor and walls appeared as if they had been recently installed.
When he finished dressing, he was about to check his chronometer when he heard the sound of a bell in the distance. Drawing his comb through his hair, James took one last look in the mirror and then made his way down the stairs.
About to make the turn into the corridor that led to the dining room, he paused when he realized Emily was making her way down the stairs from the Grandby wing of the house.
His first thought was that Humphrey had lied to him. Emily had not only dressed for dinner, but she wore a gown that would have had every line of her dance card filled had she been wearing it to a ball.
With her dark blonde hair, light complexion, and height, the coral silk gown had her looking as if she were attending a court dinner rather than an evening meal in a country estate.
“You look lovely,” he murmured as he offered his arm.
A blush colored her face as she joined him. “Thank you. I wish I felt as much.”
“What’s wrong?”
She glanced around, making su
re there were no servants about. “The lady’s maid who usually sees to my mother and I went to Cherrywood with my mother, and I’ve lost track of the housemaid.”
“So... you have no lady’s maid,” he guessed.
She leaned in toward him. “I’ve missed at least two buttons,” she whispered as she jerked her head back over one shoulder.
“Oh, allow me.” James was quick to move behind her, his bare fingers making quick work of the first two fastenings. The expanse of skin above the edge of the gown had him slowing his efforts with the last button, though, his forefinger tracing the fabric so he barely touched her. The temptation to do more—to allow his finger to continue its exploration—was almost too much. Instead, he pretended to check to be sure the top button was completely fastened.
“Tickling is not fair,” she said as her body shivered.
Although he intended to claim it wasn’t deliberate, James decided to own up to it. “Apologies. I couldn’t resist,” he murmured as he stepped back to her side and afforded her a smirk.
“Thank you,” she said with a grin. “I do hope dinner is to your liking,” she added as they entered the dining room. “I rather like this new cook’s recipes. A bit more daring than the one we had before.”
“I like just about anything,” he assured her as he held her chair for her.
She took a seat and motioned for the first course to be served. “Is all well at the bank?”
“It is. Much as I expected, although there are obviously some new people working there,” he murmured. “Tell me, are you familiar with a Mr. Henry Simpson?”
Emily was about to lift her spoon from the bowl of soup. “Your cousin, you mean?” Perhaps the time spent reading Debrett’s was worth it. “The clerk at the bank?” If he hadn’t been her uncle, she would have welcomed him as a suitor. His excuses as to why he still wasn’t married were much the same as Tom’s.
James blinked and then made a sound of disbelief. “That’s Henry?”
“You didn’t know it was him?” Emily chided. “He’s my father’s half-brother, and he’s worked as a clerk at the bank for at least ten years. He’ll be head clerk when Mr. Streater retires in a few years.”
The Puzzle of a Bastard Page 8
