Page 62 of The Lyon Returns
“I’m certain I did not write of it in my private journals,” he quipped. And if he had, Gwen would have learned of his first wife’s tantrum over not receiving the ring. But then, he had never been inclined to write about romantic nonsense.
She flushed and withdrew her hand. “Yes, well, it does not take much imagination to discern the truth of the matter.” She gazed at the ring she now wore. “Anyone can see this ring has a rare beauty.”
A rare beauty, indeed, he thought, studying Gwen. “Shall we?” He proffered his arm, and she slipped her satin-glove-covered fingers intothe crook of his elbow.
Standing this near to her, her sweet scent, a conflagration of herbs and flowers and something innately Gwen, wafted up at him, assaulting his senses and battering the self-mastery enabling him to wait her out.
Tomorrow, he vowed, silently. Tomorrow he would pay a call on Emily—unless Gwen made her move tonight. Somehow, he doubted he would be so lucky.
Gideon helped Gwendown the carriage steps onto the forecourt of number 38 Grosvenor Square, then tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her along the stone walk toward the grand entrance.
She glanced around at the meticulous gardens surrounding them. A mélange of sweet-smelling blossoms scented the air. No sounds of city life assaulted her ears. She could almost believe they’d arrived in the country.
As they started up the broad steps leading to the front doors, she glanced at him from beneath her lashes. His proud profile, erect posture, broad, squared shoulders, and the effortless way he moved said he could be a prince or a duke—or a pirate, for that matter. He could be anything he chose. He emanated power and grace, and something more elemental that drew her like a cat to a bowl of rich cream.
His valet had done an excellent job taming his thick, sun-streaked waves. Nevertheless, at some point during the drive, he’d scooped his fingers through the mass as he sometimes did. Far from detracting from his appearance, the tousled locks only added to the man’s arresting appeal, as if hinting at a wild streak no one could tame.
She thought of what her friends told her today about the man’s legendary mystique amongst the ladies of theton,how he typically kept a mistress. How his name was linked with one in particular, in his recent past. A widow. She found she did not care for the idea. Nay—she detested it—though she herself had no intention of filling the role and making of herself just another widow to add to his collection.
“Is everything all right, Gwen?” he asked as they stood before the massive, paneled doors.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
He flicked a glance at her fingers on his arm. “You’re squeezing my bicep like a vice grip.”
“Oh.” She relaxed her hold and searched her mind for an explanation, something other than an admission of what she’d been contemplating. Nothing came. “Apologies.”
He crooked a finger under her chin and guided her face up. Locking gazes with her, he held her captive as surely as a practiced mesmerist entrancing his subject. “Just be yourself, Gwen. My father is sure to fall under your spell, just as…” He drew in a sharp breath, then coughed into his fist.
Gwen’s heart swelled until it seemed nearly too large for her chest.Just as I have,he’d been about to say, she was sure of it. Warmth and a giddy sense of lightness invaded her insides.
The front door swung open with a whoosh. Facing forward, she found an elderly, silver-haired man in formal butler’s attire aiming a jovial grin at the two of them.
“Welcome, Master Devereux.”
Gideon led Gwen inside and greeted the butler with a warm smile that lit up his face. “Mr. Lyle, allow me to present Mrs. Gwendolyn Devereux, my wife.”
The butler beamed. “A pleasure to meet you, madam.”
Gwen could not help but return the genial smile. In truth, she was still floating from Gideon’s near slip of the tongue.
“Where is the duke?” Gideon asked, as Mr. Lyle took their outer garments.
“The duke and duchess and Lord Ashwood await you in the formal drawing room. I don’t mind telling you, His Grace has been as excited as a boy on Christmas morning, anticipating your arrival.”
“In that case, best we not keep him waiting.”
Chapter Seventeen
The first thingGwen noticed upon entering the lavish drawing room was the smell. Lemon oil, fresh cut flowers, and the indefinable scent of wealth. Ingrained-in-the-bones-of-the-house wealth, much reminiscent of Reggie’s family home.
Then her eyes fell on a man standing before a massive marble hearth. The duke. He could be no one else. Not nearly as tall as Gideon, but similarly broad shouldered, he boasted a headful of sandy-colored hair nearly the shade of his heir’s, salted with silver. He and Lord Ashwood the younger stood together, apparently engaged in a heated conversation.
“Poor Grayson. What has he done to provoke the old man now?” Gideon muttered as if to himself before raising his voice to be heard across the large room. “Good evening.”
“Good evening, Gideon. Good of you to make time for your family.” The modulated feminine voice came from a petite, silver-haired woman whose presence Gwen had not at first noticed, primarily because she stood near to one of the chamber’s floor-to-ceiling oriel windows, swathed in shadow.
“Your Grace,” Gideon said to her with a polite nod.
