Page 15 of When a Lady Kisses a Scot
She stepped soundlessly into the chamber. “Good evening, Mr. Stanwyck.”
He turned. His response seemed deliberately casual. Only the slight narrowing of his eyes seemed unscripted, beyond his conscious control. His perceptive gaze fixed on her mouth. Her pulse sped, and she clung to her tenuous control as if it were a lifeline.
Quietly bold, that one. He studied her, penetrating the shell she’d attempted to erect. If he’d stripped her gown from her body in that moment, she might have felt less exposed.
“Good evening, Miss Devereaux.” The flicker of movement at his mouth betrayed a hint of emotion. “I trust you’ve prepared for an invigorating evening.”
A waistcoat in a vibrant shade of indigo deepened the blue of his irises. Only his hair betrayed any semblance of disorder. Silky, burnished chestnut strands grazed his forehead, rebellious as his grin when he’d faced down the brute McNaughton. As if driven by some primitive instinct she couldn’t hope to understand, her fingers curled and uncurled, longing to touch that contrary wave of hair.
“Of course.” She kept her tone cool, so very civilized. A miracle that, when her skin heated so, beneath his attention.
“I thought we might begin with an excursion to my father’s final resting place.”
How very logical he sounded, his tone free of emotion. She could not say that about his gaze. An enticingly wicked glint lit those blue eyes of his.
Still, a whisper of doubt echoed in her thoughts. She’d no desire to traipse through a cemetery, much less after dark. A little shiver chased over her skin, but she dismissed the instinctive warnings. She had a job to do. Apprehension had no place in her inquiries.
“Very well,” she said, mustering a crisp tone. “I’ve never endeavored to make contact in such a setting, but the graveyard might well prove a viable locale.”
The gleam in his eyes intensified. He slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid I have not made myself clear. I do not intend a visitation of my father’s tomb. Not tonight, at least. I’m much more interested in Father’s true final resting place—the bed where he last laid his head.”
Oh, this man was too arrogant for his own good. Final resting place, indeed. Did he truly believe she’d accompany him to a bedchamber—after dark, no less? Perhaps she’d tell him what’s what and request that the Agency assign another agent…perhaps a male agent, built like the stone wall of a garrison, to surveil the arrogant buck.
She regarded him with a deliberately wide-eyed expression. “You wish me to visit his—your—home? Tonight?”
A frown pulled at his mouth. He folded his arms and stared down at her, regarding her as if she’d suggested they sail around the world in a balloon. “Really, Miss Devereaux, do I seem the kind of cad who’d chance a scandal?”
How very ironic. Stanwyck seemed to relish playing the role of wolf. Before staking his claim to his father’s enterprises, he’d been less than discreet in his dalliances. As a second son, he’d made no secret of his affinity for widows, especially those whose dearly departed husbands had left behind so much blunt they’d no need for a marriage-minded heir. And then, of course, there was the opera singer who’d loved him madly, until a wealthier paramour had swept her away to his country estate. Did Stanwyck truly believe she was unaware of his prolific reputation, or was he merely testing her?
Trask shot Sophie a meaning-filled glance. Blast the man and his greed. If he had his way, she’d blindly follow Stanwyck’s dictates. The cheat would not hesitate to throw an innocent to the wolves.
Bloody good thing she was not an innocent. Not a true innocent, at least. She’d enough experience of the ways of men to sense Gavin Stanwyck did not desire an easy conquest. It wouldn’t do to play the placid one with him, not given the combustion of their earlier interactions. No, the man savored a challenge.
She’d certainly lead him on a merry chase.
Sophie fashioned a smile. Evidently anticipating sugary words to drip from her mouth, Trask nodded his approval. Too bad the unscrupulous bloke would be disappointed.
“I am afraid your reputation precedes you, sir.”
She paused, taking in the flash of Stanwyck’s gaze. At his side, Trask had turned red as a fresh picked apple.
To her surprise, Stanwyck smiled. Not a full smile, mind you. But a hint of amusement flickered over his features. Ah, yes, he would pick up the gauntlet she’d laid down.
“Does it now?” His voice was cool, even as the expression in his eyes warmed.
She gave a crisp nod. “You do relish flaunting propriety.”
“Ah, I can only assume you’ve read the papers. The press—especially that rag, theHerald—portrays every transgression as debauchery better suited to some Roman emperor.” His protest was as insincere as Sophie’s placid expression.
Sophie set her features in a bland mask.Rag.How peculiar that he’d cite theHeraldas the bane of his bachelor-scoundrel’s existence. Perhaps he was baiting her. Could he have discovered her true identity?
“Do tell, Mr. Stanwyck. I’ve little knowledge of what’s in the papers. I’d simply heard talk about town.” She paused for effect. “Quite a bit of talk, in fact. It seems you’re a very busy man.”
He cocked his head ever so slightly as he watched her, as if trying to puzzle her out. “All highly exaggerated, truth be told. If I engaged in a fraction of what’s been credited to me, I’d lack the energy to stand here before you. I won’t deny I’ve indulged my tastes, to a point. As my father’s spare, I had little reason to toe the line. That was my brother’s role.”
Was that pain darkening Stanwyck’s eyes at the mention of his father’s heir? Cameron Stanwyck had died a hero’s death in the Queen’s service. Evidently, Gavin had been more affected by the loss of his sibling than his glibly spoken words let on.
She debated pursuing the truth of his feelings, but quashed the impulse. She was here to investigate Trask and determine Stanwyck’s true business with the spiritualist, not to cause the man pain.
