Page 30 of The Lyon Returns
At least his new wife had not seen fit to seat herself there, insteadopting for the place to his right.
“Apparently, all of London finds your return newsworthy.” Her eyes danced with merriment. “The Duke of Ashwood’s eldest son has returned to the fold,” she read aloud.
He snorted.The duke’s eldest son?He’d been called worse.
She went on, lush pink lips curving in a grin. “One can only speculate on the joyous reception he must have received upon reuniting with his estranged wife of seven months.”
Taking advantage of her preoccupation with the article, he slid his gaze over her in a lazy perusal.
She wore another matronly gown. This one fit better than last night’s and did appear well made, but the muted gray color, and high, unadorned neckline made it more something a hired lady’s companion might wear, and not by choice, unless she happened to be avoiding the advances of her employer. It begged the question: If she could afford quality garments, why would she opt for such unfashionable, unflattering gowns?
Perhaps it had something to do with mourning.
“How long ago did you say your husband passed?” he asked in a low voice, helping himself to the front section of the paper.
She seemed to hesitate before replying. “Some three years ago.”
He scanned the headlines. Nothing jumped out at him. “Three years, and now, purportedly, a newlywed. One would expect you to cease going about in mourning, Gwen.”
She cleared her throat. “You disagree, however?”
“I beg your pardon?”
She bit her lower lip, and ducked her head.
In the morning light streaming through the east-facing windows, her blonde hair, even bound as it was in a knot at her nape, glinted like polished gold.
“You must find me a terrible daughter, considering my father died so recently. In my defense, before his death, he exacted my solemnpromise not to go into deep mourning again, hence why I’m not wearing black crepe.”
It took a moment for him to grasp she thought he judged her fornotfollowing custom. Gideon opened his mouth to correct her misapprehension, then closed it with a snap. How could he phrase his low opinion of her clothing without insulting her?
A footman entered, carrying a silver coffee pot. He smiled politely and gestured toward the pot on the table. “May I, sir? We all know you prefer your coffee hot.”
“Thank you, Harry. How is your father getting along these days? Better, I hope?”
Harry’s smile widened as he made the exchange. “Very well, sir, thank you for asking. The special tea you gave us helps with his pain immensely.”
“Excellent,” Gideon said. “I shall see that you receive more.” He reached for the fresh pot and filled his cup.
He sipped, enjoying the bold roast and piping-hot brew. He slid a glance toward Gwen, curious to see if she, too, drank coffee, or if she stayed true to her British roots and preferred tea at breakfast.
The cup sat empty in its saucer.
He lifted his gaze to her face intending to ask if she’d like coffee. His words died in his throat when he found her blue eyes locked on him, her expression that of one who’s made a welcome, if surprising, discovery. Quite different from the blatantly sexual interest he was accustomed to receiving from women.
“Yes?” he drawled.
“Little wonder,” she murmured as if to herself, propping her elbow on the table and dropping her chin in her hand to continue her study. “The household staff seemed inordinately fond of you. I begin to see why.”
He forked up some eggs, noting the absence of a plate before Gwen. “I have no notion what you mean. Are you not hungry?” Hegestured to the empty space.
“I’ve eaten. I’m an early riser, generally, and prefer a light breakfast such as fresh fruit in the mornings, I’m afraid, dear though it is.”
He sliced off a bite of ham, his mouth twitching. She did have expensive tastes, his wife. Luckily, he could afford it. He returned to his previous topic. “You said your husband died three years ago. How, if you do not mind me asking?”
She stiffened visibly, her indulgent expression vanishing. “An accident.” Hurried movement followed, as if she suddenly remembered she had somewhere to be. She refolded the newspaper section she’d been reading, angled it toward him, and pushed back from the table. “I should get started on my day. What have you got planned, sir?”
He dabbed his mouth with his serviette and pinned her with a stare. “I must see to my backlog of correspondence and then I have several calls to make. What sort of accident?”
