“It was fortunate Gideon was near you in the ballroom,” Lilly said at length.
“I suppose it was.”
“Surprising too. He’s not been in your company much of late.”
Winnefred hesitated before responding. She’d not mentioned her troubles with Gideon because she hadn’t wanted to detract from her friend’s new happiness with Lord Engsly. And, truth be told, she simply hadn’t wanted to talk about it. She was trying so very hard not to think about it. But if the speed in which Lilly had turned on Gideon in the sitting room was any indication, her friend was already aware that something was amiss.
She sighed and resigned herself to the conversation. “We had a falling out of sorts.”
“Over what?”
“Marriage. He won’t marry me.”
Lilly made some sort of choking noise in her throat and came to a stumbling halt. “Freddie, you . . . You didn’t ask him, did you?”
“No, of course not. It came up . . .” When she’d propositioned him in a general sort of way. “It came up, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Lilly blew out a long whoosh of air and looked up at the sky. “Oh, thank heavens.”
“He doesn’t want to marry anyone,” Winnefred added, eager to move the conversation forward.
“Did he say why?”
“It’s complicated,” Winnefred hedged and started them walking again. “But the short of it is, he doesn’t want to be responsible for anyone but himself.”
Lilly pondered that for a time before asking, “Do you want to be married?”
No. Maybe . . . If it was to Gideon. “I don’t know. And it’s not relevant, really. He made it clear he’d not even consider the idea.”
Lilly’s response was to glance down another path and say, “Huh,” and then look over her shoulder and add an equally distracted, “Hmm.”
“That’s not particularly helpful, Lilly.”
“Lord Gratley is coming.”
“What?” She turned her head to see the gentleman making his way down a path that intersected with their own. She rather liked Lord Gratley, but she was in no mood to talk to anyone besides Lilly. “Oh. Do you think we could slip away?”
“No.” Lilly took her arm and brought them to an abrupt stop. “You’re going to stay.”
“What? Why?”
“Because Gideon is watching from the terrace.”
She would not, absolutely not turn around. “Where Gideon is looking is no concern of mine.”
“Of course it is.” Lilly lowered her voice as Gratley drew closer. “You are going to stay here and flirt with Lord Gratley, and prove to Lord Gideon Haverston that you don’t care one jot what he thinks of marriage.”
“But why?”
“Because it will make you feel better.” Lilly’s eyes flicked toward the terrace. “And Gideon strikes me as the jealous sort.”
“Don’t be—”
“Oh, look,” Lilly chimed in a slightly elevated voice. “Did you know there was a fountain by the roses? How lovely. I must have a look. Wait for me here, won’t you, Freddie?”
Winnefred didn’t even try to call Lilly back. The fountain was only twenty yards away or so, and in clear view of the path. Strictly speaking, she was still being chaperoned.
And now that she thought on it, perhaps her friend was right. Perhaps a mild flirtation with another gentleman would provide a balm to her wounded pride.
Let Gideon see her enjoying Lord Gratley’s company. Let him be reminded he wasn’t the only gentleman who might care for her, that there might even be a gentleman who wanted to keep her.
She turned and smiled at Lord Gratley with all her teeth.
Let Gideon see that.
Chapter 32
Gideon saw. With the exception of the red haze steadily creeping toward the center of his vision, he saw Winnefred perfectly.
What the devil was Lilly thinking, leaving her alone with Gratley for so long? What could possibly be so fascinating about a bloody fountain that it warranted a half hour’s inspection?
Winnefred had been near to fainting not a half hour ago. She ought to be sitting down, inside, alone.
He told himself he was being a fool, even as he shifted his position on the terrace for a better view. And he told himself he was being irrational, even as he decided the best view would likely be from the bottom of the terrace steps.
Oh, yes, it was a much better view. He stood in the shadows between a set of torches—too far away to hear what was being said, but close enough for him to make out the shape of Winnefred’s eyes, the strands of gold in her hair, and the bright smile on her wide mouth.
His hand clenched around his cane.
She ought to have been smiling at him.
Damn if he hadn’t tried to make her. He’d made several overtures of peace in the first days after their falling out, and every one of them had been met with a cool rebuff. There’d been nothing for him to do but accept her feelings and stick to his plan of keeping a physical distance.
It had been bloody hard keeping his distance.
No . . . No, that wasn’t right. It had been bloody hard in Scotland, catching sight of her about the house and sharing a moment or two of laughter with her before walking away. And it had been torment when they’d come to London and he’d sought her out, knowing he couldn’t keep her. But this . . . This was hell.
He’d been so sure he could do it. He’d been so certain he could force himself to stay away from her. But he hadn’t stayed away, not really.
He watched her from the edges of ballrooms and parlors. He came home early from visits to his friends and his club, telling himself he was tired, and knowing it was because he hoped to catch sight of her before bed. Even tonight, he’d not been able to sit through more than a single game of cards before going to look for her, and he’d come out to the terrace, knowing Lilly would insist Winnefred take a stroll in the fresh air.
He wished Lilly would stop staring at the damn fountain and insist Winnefred take a stroll back inside.
He also wished he could plow his fist into Gratley’s nose. The man was standing entirely too close to Winnefred. And he had no business bending his head down to hers as if they were sharing some sort of secret. He already had her alone. Why the hell did he need to whisper?
Because whispering required a bent head, he thought darkly, and a bent head provided a better view down the front of a low-cut gown. Gideon wouldn’t have guessed Gratley to be a rake and libertine, but the evidence was there now for anyone to see. Anyone but Winnefred, apparently. She tipped her face toward Gratley’s, laughing at whatever bit of stupidity the man had whispered, and reached out to touch him lightly on the sleeve.
That cut it.
Winnefred wasn’t sure what sort of reaction her little flirtation with Lord Gratley might garner from Gideon, but she certainly hadn’t expected to see him leave the terrace and come marching down the path.
How interesting.
Gideon came to a stop before them and bowed.
“Gratley. Miss Blythe.” He turned in Lilly’s direction and said rather loudly, and very pointedly, “Miss Ilestone.”
Gratley bowed. Winnefred curtsied. Lilly gave him a small, cheerful wave. Winnefred wanted to laugh at the sight of it—her friend had grown fairly cheeky since becoming the probable future wife of a marquess—but Gideon looked sufficiently annoyed already.
“Something the matter?” Winnefred inquired.
“Your presence is requested in the library.”
“Oh.” That was considerably less interesting. “Lady Gwen, I suppose. Do excuse me, my lord.”
“Of course.” Gratley bowed again. “Miss Blythe, it has been a pleasure. Miss Ilestone!”
“My lord!”
Lord Gratley’s lips twitched once before he walked away.
He really was a fine gentleman, Winnefred thought. He was clever and amusing, and he’d talked to her of fishing and not poked fun when she’d forgotten she wasn’t supposed to
know anything about fishing and offered her advice on bait.
Pity he hadn’t been the one to come to Scotland.
“Did you just sigh?” Gideon demanded.
She threw him a cold glance and headed toward the house. He followed her in silence, up the stairs, through the sitting room, and into a side hall. But when she would have turned left to go to the library, he took her elbow and pulled her right toward a back stairwell.
She instinctively tugged at her arm. “What are you doing? I thought I was needed in the library.”
“No.”
“But you said—”
“I lied. I want a word with you.”
She looked over her shoulder for Lilly, but her friend was nowhere to be seen. She tugged her arm again. “If you wish for my audience, you may ask for it.”
Gideon stopped, turned, and glowered at her. “Will you come with me, or shall I—?”
“Yes, I will follow you,” she said calmly and very, very quickly. If he’d finished that threat, she would have had to resist on principle’s sake. She wasn’t interested in resisting. Not now that it appeared Gideon had been affected by her flirtation with Lord Gratley after all.
She remained quiet as Gideon led her to her chambers, ushered her inside, and closed the door behind them. She would have spoken then, but Gideon didn’t give her the chance. He turned from the door and gave her a smoldering look.
“What the devil did you think you were doing out there?” He bit the words out and she noticed for the first time that the hand gripping his cane was white at the knuckles.
Well, good, she thought. Let him be angry. Let him get well and truly furious. She could do with a good row.
“What I think,” she began with careful poise, “is that I was having a perfectly innocent, perfectly lovely conversation in the garden with Lord Gratley.”
“Lord Gratley.”
“Clearly, you do not approve.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” she told him with a small shake of her head. “You repeat things when you don’t approve.”
“I do not.”
She sent him a pitying look. “Prison. Highwaymen. Beat me with my own cane. Lord Gratley. You always repeat what I say when you don’t approve of what I’m saying.”
“I’m seeking clarification.”
“Yes. Of things of which you do not approve.”
She could have sworn she heard him growl. “You were flirting with Lord Gratley.”
“I believe we’ve had this conversation before. And so what if I was? You’ve made your intentions clear.” She made a show of straightening a velvet ribbon on her sleeve. “And so has Lord Gratley.”
He took a few steps closer to her. “What are you planning, Winnefred?”
“Absolutely nothing.” She plucked a piece of lint from her gown. “For now.”
“Explain,” he ordered, every inch the naval captain.
She lifted one shoulder in a careless manner. “I made a promise to behave as a proper debutante for this season, and I will keep that promise.”
“And after the season?”
“Well, I’ll not be a debutante forever, will I? I’ll not even be in London. I’ll be enjoying the independence of being an old maid in rural Scotland.”
“Lord Gratley resides here.”
“Yes.” She gave him a smile, as wicked a smile as she could manage. “But he often travels for sport.”
She held her breath and waited for Gideon to explode. She waited for him to shout and storm and demand she never lay eyes on Lord Gratley again. It surprised her how badly she wanted that from him, how much she needed for him to show some sign, any sign of passion toward her.
But he didn’t explode. He neither shouted, nor stormed, nor demanded.
Oh, he was livid, she could all but see the fury come off him in waves. But there wasn’t a hint, not a whisper of lost control. He was in absolute command of himself—perfectly still but for the coiling of muscle in his shoulders and the slight, almost imperceptible lowering of his head.
He stared at her, unblinking, and suddenly, she knew she had lost the upper hand.
“Did you expect me to believe that?” he asked in a dangerously soft voice.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, you do.” He took a step toward her. “You most certainly do.”
She began to back up without thinking, and he moved forward in return. Slowly, steadily he stalked her across the room.
“Do you think me a jester, Winnefred?”
“What?”
“A fool to poke fun at because I’ve made you laugh a time or two?”
“No. I—”
“Harmless then, because I kissed you in the moonlight and let you go?”
“I never—”
“Is it the limp? The cane?” In a move so fast it took her breath away, he swept forward and pinned her to the wall. “Did you think I couldn’t catch you?”
Before she could even think of responding, his mouth swept down on hers and devoured. It was nothing like the kiss he’d given her in Scotland. Nothing at all like the sweet meeting of lips they’d shared by the bridge. He used his body to keep her pressed against the wall, his hands to grip and tug her wrists over her head.
“Stop me, then,” he breathed against her mouth. “Stop me. Show me why you thought it safe to play your little game.”
For a moment insult and fear warred with desire. But then she felt it—the tremble in his hold, the hard crash of his heart against her chest, the quickened breath against her skin. He was struggling as she was.
She had promised herself she would not wait and hope, but she’d never promised not to take a chance. “I played . . . because I knew you would win.”
His grip tightened, his eyes went black as night, and then his mouth slanted over hers again.
There was no time for her to sink gently into the heat as she had in Scotland, no chance for her to find her way into the moment. She was pulled instantly, and willingly, into a battle of teeth and tongue and lips.
He shifted, sliding a knee between her legs. She heard herself moan in pleasure and press forward in a wordless plea to be closer. Her fingers flexed and un-flexed beneath his grip, needing to reach for him. But Gideon didn’t relent; he kept her trapped and immobile against the wall.
The ache became a need as he dragged his mouth away to taste the line of her jaw, the lobe of her ear and the column of her throat. She felt the rough scrape of his teeth and the soothing flick of his tongue. He nipped lightly at the sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder, and she gasped at the startling sensation.
He went still at the sound, his weight pinning her, the ragged catch and release of his breath hot against her skin. Slowly, his hands loosened and slid from her wrists, and for one terrible moment, she feared he would let her go completely.
He didn’t. In a sudden change of mood, he slipped an arm around her waist and gently pulled her away from the wall. Then he was kissing her softly, languidly, as if he could spend hours just tasting her. His hands no longer sought to trap or take but arouse through her gown with long, slow strokes and light, feathery brushes. As if he had suddenly decided to take care. More—that he wanted to take care.
Her last rational thought was that this is what she wanted. To feel needed and cherished, and loved.
Gideon had stopped thinking altogether. He reacted on feeling and instinct alone. His mind was blank but for thoughts of the woman in his arms. There was no ship, no battle, and no responsibility. There was no more anger or the wild need to brand what was his. There was only Winnefred . . . The feel of her fingers in his hair, the weight of her soft body against his, the sweet taste of her mouth and the faint scent of lavender on her skin.
She overwhelmed him, drowned his every sense, and washed away all but the need to sink further into the feel and taste and scent of her. Almost of their own accord, his fingers began to work the row of buttons down
the back of her gown. The material slipped from her shoulders. He nudged it further, down her slender arms and waist until it pooled on the floor in a circle at her feet. Firelight danced behind her, outlining her form through the thin white chemise and lighting her upswept curls.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, reaching up to pull the pins from her hair. She was so beautiful.
He undressed them both in stages, stopping to touch each inch of her skin as it was exposed, and giving her a chance to do the same. She was both tentative and tenacious in her explorations, letting her fingers investigate his bare chest and arms, and her hands brush over his hips and waist. She hesitated when he removed his trousers, but only briefly.
His eyes closed on a groan when her small hand sought out the proof of his desire. He stilled, allowing them both the pleasure of her discovery, until that pleasure grew too keen. Keeping an arm firmly around her waist, he drew her hand away and walked her backward to the bed.
He followed her down to the counterpane and started the process of exploration all over again. She was a study in contradictions. So small, he thought, so fragile, but there was strength in her arms, and he felt the long, lean muscles of her legs as they moved against his. He dipped his head, tasting her neck, her collarbone, her breast. Her skin was impossibly soft, terrifyingly delicate, and yet he could feel the reminders of her calluses as she ran her palms across his back. She was both pale and flushed with passion. She was helpless, and in command of his every thought, his every move, his every desire.
That desire grew sharp and ruthless as he watched her sigh and moan and arch beneath him. The need to take clawed at him, and still he held off. He wanted her blind with need, lost to the demands of her body.
He took a nipple in his mouth, teasing it into a hard point with his tongue and teeth. He ran a hand down her side, over the subtle flair of her hip, and across the silken skin of her thigh to reach the softness between her legs.
Nearly a Lady (Haverston Family Trilogy #1) Page 27
