Page 4 of Mine This Winter
Oliver appeared. “That’s enough, Garrick. Flanders will show you to your room. I pray you’re in a more congenial mood tomorrow. We’re here to celebrate the festive season, not squabble amongst ourselves.”
If anyone should berate the man, it was Gwen.
She deserved answers—a detailed explanation as to why he had promised her the world, only to disappear as quickly as smoke up the chimney.
Yet, despite everything, her heart softened. The need to defend him against a barrage of criticism forced her to say, “I’m sure Mr Garrick is merely tired after his long journey.”
The gentleman met her gaze, the power of it throwing her off kilter. “As you say, Miss Caldwell, I wouldn’t want the guests to mistake my intention. All warfare begins with deception.”
And after that cryptic comment, he left.
While Oliver agreed to join Mr Payne in a game of cards, and made light of the incident to calm the guests, Gwen stared at the door.
Mrs Astley approached and thrust a glass of sherry into Gwen’s hand. “Good Lord. There’s nothing more appealing to a woman than a dangerous man. Mr Garrick’s disregard for propriety has left me all hot and flustered.”
Gwen could not disagree. Her body glowed. Her heart had not thundered in her chest since Mr Garrick laid her down on the picnic blanket and touched her intimately.
But these ripples of lust were the least of her worries.
A troubling emotion took precedence. Despite a five-year separation, she feared she was still in love with Simon Garrick.
CHAPTER 2
Simon mounted the stairs two at a time, keen to distance himself from the woman who haunted his dreams. The need to release the breath he’d been holding since entering Westmore Hall left him gasping.
He would throttle Mowbray for this.
Had the blackguard concocted a story about spies to force Simon to confront his past? If only he’d not downed too much wine and stupidly revealed his secret. If only his tongue hadn’t been as loose as a bawd’s drawers.
He paused on the grand staircase, gripping the bannister as if it were his employer’s blasted neck. How the devil was he supposed to focus on the case when in the company of Gwendolyn Caldwell?
Just one more job before you retire.
You won’t need to spend a day in France.
Intelligence says this spy is working close to home.
Simon had gathered a wealth of information, spent weeks planning and preparing for the operation, only to find the north of England his destination—Whitehaven, to be precise.
Whitehaven!
Of all the godforsaken places!
He’d hoped never to set foot on Cumbrian soil again, let alone visit old haunts and stir unwanted memories. Like ghosts keen to make themselves known, visions of stolen kisses slipped into his mind. He heard echoes of promises made, of every romantic word he’d whispered as he nuzzled Miss Caldwell’s neck.
Guilt surfaced.
Should he have tried to resolve their differences?
Should he have spoken to her before leaving England?
A sudden cough drew his gaze to where Flanders stood waiting on the landing. “I beg your pardon, sir, but it may be unwise to linger on the stairs. After downing three glasses of sherry, Mrs Astley has a habit of wandering into the wrong bedchamber. Doubtless she’ll not be far behind.”
Simon hardly knew Mrs Astley, but only one woman had dared to scan his body like she wanted to devour him whole. And it wasn’t Gwendolyn Caldwell.
“How many glasses has the lady consumed?” he said, finding solace in the amusing conversation.
“Six at the last count, sir. Enough to make her indulge in the much-loved sport of swapping beds.”
