Page 6 of Mine This Winter
Only a fool would marry a pauper.
It was hard to believe those words had fallen from her lips.
Simon slipped his fingers inside his cravat and tugged it loose. The need to breathe clean air and rid his mind of these crippling thoughts had him striding to the door.
While the guests were engaged in a lively game of charades, he snatched his greatcoat from the cloakroom and headed out through the terrace doors into the garden.
The biting wind nipped his cheeks and ruffled his hair, but he pulled his coat tightly across his chest and braved the winter weather.
It made sense to venture along the path and check how easy it was to access the beach. Few spies conducted their unlawful transactions by day. A man needed to move quickly through the darkness. In these treacherous conditions, it paid to know the route.
He passed the fountain, the water frozen like his heart, and rounded the high hedge. Beyond the stile fifty yards ahead, he noted where the path met the cliff edge. A rickety wooden fence would hardly keep a man from tumbling to his death.
Simon was busy chastising himself for not bringing a lantern, when the crunch of snow and a feminine groan reached his ears.
Damn, Mrs Astley. The woman was probably scouting the bedchambers and had watched him leave. He hadn’t the patience to deal with her pathetic attempts at seduction.
Hoping the darkness would deter her, he hid behind the verdure but had to bite his tongue when snow tumbled from the high topiary hedge and landed on his head.
The footsteps came closer.
Water trickled down his temple and cheek. An ice-cold rivulet ran down his neck. He pursed his lips to avoid making a sound, but a shadow stepped from blackness into the moonlight. A dark-haired shadow with porcelain skin and rosebud lips.
“Gwendolyn!”
She jumped in shock. “Simon!”
“Mr Garrick,” he corrected, his anger surfacing. She had forgone the right to use his given name. “What are you doing outdoors, Miss Caldwell? You’ll freeze to death. And these paths are treacherous.”
He sounded like a vicar, not a dangerous bastard who caught criminals for a living.
“I—I saw you leave. I know you enjoy a late-night walk along the beach, and thought someone should warn you about the path. It’s no longer safe.”
The muscles in his abdomen tightened as he remembered kissing her beneath the full moon, the whoosh of the sea like a soothing sonata. “Thank you. You have done your duty and may return to the house.”
She blinked rapidly but gathered herself and tilted her proud chin. “You might sound a little more grateful.”
“Grateful you invented an excuse to follow me?” He let his anger swamp all feelings of love and lust. “Go back to the drawing room, Miss Caldwell. The men there are vying for your attention. I’m sure one will have the honour of being your betrothed before the week is out.”
She jerked as if reeling from a blow. “I have no intention of marrying any of the gentlemen my brother invited.”
Was this a callous joke? A means to torment him? “Can you not find anyone worthy amongst the wealthy men here tonight? Heaven forbid you were forced to marry a pauper.”
Her bottom lip quivered. “How can you even say that?”
“Say what?” What right did she have to feel affronted?
“Suggest I care about money after all that has passed between us.” Gwendolyn straightened her shoulders. “Why are you here? Have you finally come to claim your inheritance?”
There wasn’t a day that he didn’t consider returning home. “Inheritance? Do you know how much it would cost to repair the damp-ridden Whitney Grange?”
Finding funds was not the problem. He’d earned a small fortune while working for the government. The problem was living close to a woman who still held his heart in her talon-like grasp.
“I’m told you’re a capable man.” Her gaze dipped to his chest, and she swallowed deeply. “Your wild adventures abroad have had a marked effect on your physique.”
Good God! Had he heard a hint of admiration in her tone?
Was he good enough to bed, just not good enough to marry?
