Page 88 of The Lyon Returns
At least his father and brother held him in high regard. He deserved their respect. He’d earned it.
She glanced at him from beneath her lashes, fierce admiration welling up inside her. Honorable to the core, self-sacrificing, brave, clever, strong. He made her feel safe.
He slowed to a halt, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Have I dribbled champagne over my cravat?” He shifted to face her, as if submitting himself for scrutiny.
Affecting a playfully serious expression to cover her mortification for having been caught gawking, she searched his face. Smooth, sun-kissed skin. Full lips—but not too full. Broad, high cheek bones. Thick, brooding brows set over shockingly intense eyes the color of a forest in spring.
He bore the look of no one she had ever known. He was both utterly masculine and breathtakingly beautiful.
On impulse, she reached up to smooth a nonexistent wrinkle from his perfectly tied cravat. “There,” she murmured, her voice gratifyingly sublime, considering the chaotic feelings running roughshod through her.
His eyes met hers and heightened color splashed across the bridge of his nose and the taut skin over his cheekbones.
“Here she is,” came the cultured and unmistakable voice of Mr. Brice Tyrell, approaching from behind Gwen. “The woman of the hour, Mrs. Gwendolyn Devereux.”
Gideon shifted, bringing the two of them to face Brice before relinquishing her hand.
“Good evening, Mr. Tyrell,” she said, working hard to keep her unwarranted distaste for the man from her voice.
“Mrs. Devereux.” Brice bent over her fingers with aplomb, then grinned affably at Gideon. “Mr. Devereux,” he said with sardonic formality.
Nearby, Lady Amelia, stunning as ever on the arm of a man Gwen surmised was her husband, Lord Colonel Chase Culver—he had been the man with whom Gideon conversed when she arrived—swept back to widen their circle.
Gwen sent smiles of greeting to all.
In addition to the Culvers, she glimpsed Lady Georgina, her dear friend as well as her most prized client, Lady Mary Tyrell, Brice’s wife whom she’d met this afternoon, and, Mr. Arnold Tyrell, his father.
During today’s lengthy garden tour, Lady Mary offered Gwen a brief history lesson concerning the Tyrells’ tie with the family that, combined with her knowledge gleaned through Gideon’s journals, filled in gaps. Arnold Tyrell had been the local village magistrate when Gideon and Grayson were boys. The elder Tyrell’s many visits to the abbey with Brice in tow, whether under the guise of consulting with the duke on civic matters or as a frequent dinner guest, had fostered a natural friendship between the three boys that persisted to this day.
“I say, Gid, do you have any idea what this event is the duke has planned day after tomorrow?” Brice asked. “He’s ordered all of us to vacate the abbey in the morning and return by noon and refuses to so much as hint as to why.”
Gideon shook his head. “None whatsoever.” He looked to Gwen. “What say the ladies?”
“None of us has a clue.” What’s more, based on Lady Ashwood’s response when asked the very same question today by Lady Harriet, the only one among them who had dared, Gwen gained the distinctimpression the duchess was equally in the dark.
“One of the duke’s famed surprises, no doubt,” Lady Ashwood had drawled. “Perhaps he’s purchased an elephant and plans to give us all rides ’round the estate.”
Lady Tyrell had squealed in delight. “I do hope so. That sounds entirely fun.”
The duchess’s look of scorn had caused the lady to retreat into herself for the rest of the afternoon.
“It’s to be a dressy affair, as I understand. An afternoon ball?” Gwen offered.
Gideon shrugged. “Mayhap the duke’s hired a traveling troupe of actors and means to put on a production for our benefit.”
“Mm. That’s good. I’ll run the notion by the duchess,” Brice said.
Gideon flicked him a look of astonishment, and Gwen wondered if he meant to question Brice on the man’s overt familiarity.
Instead he asked, “She doesn’t know? That’s unusual. Father normally keeps her abreast of any goings-on beneath her roof.”
“It’s the dressing up again to which I object,” Arnold Tyrell muttered, sidling up to their small party. He glanced over his shoulder as if to ascertain the duke had not overheard him.
Brice gave his father a peeved look that vanished almost the moment it appeared. Gwen had to wonder if she’d imagined it when he slapped the senior Tyrell on his back in a commiserate gesture. “Come now, Father, you remember Mother’s rules?”
The thinning-haired man ducked his head in chagrinned admission. “When in doubt, dress up—”
“Not down,” Brice finished. “If you need something, Father, I’m sure one of my suits can be altered—”
