Page 20 of The Lyon Returns
Now he wondered if she would arrive on time, or indeed, if she would grace him with her presence at all. He knew nothing for certain of the woman and her predilections. However, he rather suspected she would oblige him, and that she would be punctual.
He glanced at the tall clock. The second hand reached the six, marking thirty seconds prior to the requested meeting time of seven-thirty pm.
The sound of a throat, delicately cleared, reached his ears.
Punctual, as he’d surmised. He turned to see Mrs. Gwendolyn Barnes hovering in the threshold, looking as anxious as a debutante at her first ball.
He took his time, digesting her appearance. She wore a simple evening gown of lavender muslin that was a marked improvement over the navy linen day dress she’d had on this afternoon. It had a demure, scooped neckline and capped sleeves, both trimmed in whitelace. Her hair had been fashioned in an intricate weave atop her head that somehow called attention to her wide set eyes and fine boned face.
She wore no jewelry. An argument could be made that she didn’t need any, thanks to her swan-like neck and creamy complexion.
In short, she looked quite fresh and lovely, even if she had not exactly dressed for the homecoming of her newly wed husband.
She also fairly radiated anxiety. He hoped that did not spell disaster for him in regard to his request they continue to enact this charade.
“Good evening, madam wife. Don’t be shy. I won’t bite—just yet.”
Already moving into the luxuriously appointed drawing room, she paused at his off-hand, decidedly flirtatious remark. Her face and décolletage bloomed scarlet.
A split second later, though still flushed with color, she gave him a chiding look and continued toward him. “Good evening, Gideon. I trust your appointment with the undersecretary went well.”
“It seemed to. Would you care for a sherry before dinner?”
“I would, yes.”
He strode toward a tall, inlayed table positioned near the sash window, where the sherry decanter and two wine goblets sat. He splashed a quantity of the pale-gold liquid into each glass, feeling her eyes upon him the whole while.
What did she think of his height and the olive skin and dark hair he owed to his mother, he wondered? His appearance had always marked him as different in a country of pale-skinned men of average height. He shrugged the too-contemplative thoughts off, likely spurred by his visit with the under secretary, and carried the wine glasses toward the sitting area near the glowing hearth.
“Come. Sit,” he urged. “I asked you to join me before the dinner hour to give us a chance to talk.”
He stopped before one large armchair, waiting to sit until she joined him.
She lowered onto the adjacent armchair and arranged her skirts before accepting the glass from him. “The staff is overjoyed at your return, sir.”
He sipped the sherry, enjoying the crisp, dry wine. He’d missed his private stock while away. “Are they? And what brings you to that conclusion, Gwen?” He rolled her name over his tongue. It suited her.
She gave a small start, but recovered quickly. “Because they insisted upon making your homecoming an event for celebration. I’m afraid I quite disappointed them.”
“What do you mean?”
She bit her lower lip. “They expected me to dress for the occasion. I’m afraid I haven’t anything nicer than what I’m wearing.” She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Indeed, Clara and Mrs. Leach insisted upon making my sad garment more presentable.” She laughed and the dimple he’d noted this afternoon made an appearance.
He used the excuse of her self-effacing statement to study her at length. The dress was indeed simple, as he’d noted immediately. Simple, but still becoming.
Then again, the woman would likely make a dress fashioned of potato sacks becoming. It was vexing how his gaze persisted in straying to her, like a piece of art in a gallery one could not take in with one viewing.
He swirled the wine in his glass, contemplating it rather than the woman beside him. “I gained the clear impression you were no pauper, madam. Was that a made-up story?”
She looked confused by the question. Then the light of understanding gleamed in her intelligent eyes. “Ah. My clothing. I’m aware fashions have changed.”
Gideon had a hard time believing the gown she wore had ever been in the height of fashion. “I’ve never been to Little Giddingford. I imagine it’s rather rural?”
“Not particularly. There are farms, of course, but I would say it ismore remote than rural. The properties there tend to be large, opulent, and rather spread out.”
“I see. You said your husband passed. How long ago was that?” He glanced at the open doorway, checking for eavesdroppers.
“Three years, give or take.”
