Page 23 of The Lyon Returns
“No.” He started toward her, his stride long and languid.
The firelight revealed that he, too, had changed out of his evening attire, and like her, had opted against donning night clothes. He wore his shirtsleeves, unbuttoned at the collar, and a pair of dark, loose-fitting trousers. No boots, no stockings.
Her gaze dipped to his bare feet. They appeared tanned in the shadowed room, and well-shaped with high arches. He kept his toenails neatly trimmed. She grinned, despite herself.
His toenails. Really. She did note the oddest things.
Apparently, she did think profusely.
She lifted her gaze to his face as he neared her, and there went her pulse again.
The man’s irises swirled with vibrancy, sparkling like a cache of jade and brass, and resonating with an innate intensity that seemingly sprang from deep within the man himself.
Suddenly, his eyelids dipped and his jaw went hard. He scrubbed a hand over his face and turned away from her to stalk to his antechamber.
She blinked. She had no notion what to say.Hadher unbound hair offended him? Perhaps she should return to her chamber for her lacy night cap. But he’d already all-but accused her of overthinking, and the question of her hair had been asked and answered.
She strained her ears, listening for a clue as to what he was doing in the other room. She thought she detected rummaging noises, then the thin sound of glass on glass. A moment later he returned, two winegoblets in hand.
He’d merely fetched after-dinner drinks for them. It was a nice gesture, though he might’ve told her what he was about.
“Here,” he said gruffly, extending one of the crystal glasses toward her before dropping into the nearest armchair. “Please. Sit.” The request sounded suspiciously like a command.
“Of…course.” With some hesitation, she lowered onto the edge of the chair, rather than sinking into it.
Like his other furnishings, these satin-covered wingback chairs matched his large frame. Meanwhile, they swallowed her whole. Though she had, on occasion, curled up like a cat in this very chair, she did not intend to do so now. She sipped his fine Madeira as she had on multiple occasions, enjoying the rich and slightly sweet taste on her tongue.
She had never had Madeira prior to taking up residence here. So many new experiences. She truly had begun her life anew.
“Who are you, Gwendolyn Barnes?” he asked softly.
His question caught her off guard. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
He shook his head and ran one hand through his thick, sun-washed hair. “I’m not sure what I mean, either, except I don’t believe I’ve ever met another person like you in all the world.”
“I see.” She sipped again. “Coming from you, who’s seen so much of the world, that’s saying something.”
He stared at her, his brows furrowed.
“That is, I assume you have, being a merchant.” In his current mood, she did not think it wise to mention having perused his journals, nor what she wished to do with them.
He eyed her, as if trying to work out a puzzle.
She cleared her throat. “Sir—Gideon, the hour grows late. Might I ask a few questions? I’ve been more than obliging with answering yours.”
“What would you like to know?” He leaned back in the chair andstretched his long legs toward the fire, crossing his ankles. His trousers appeared to be made of linen. They tied at the waist, rather than buttoning up the front, and fit loosely, as if fashioned for lounging in just such a manner. As he moved, the thin material revealed intriguing glimpses of powerful thigh muscles.
When next she spoke, her voice sounded as breathless as she felt—again. “According to Mrs. Dove-Lyon you should have reached London three months ago at the latest, hence her assumption you’d died. I accepted the story then, before I came to know…” She broke off. “That is, before I considered the fact you are a merchant. Why should a delay indicate your demise? No, sir, I think it more likely she had a reason to suspect you had died or been killed.”
A thought occurred to her and she sat up taller on the edge of the seat. She aimed her snifter at him. “You’re a spy—is that it? It explains why the Home Office wished to speak with you. They wanted a full report.”
A look of awe covered his rugged face and he stared at her like he beheld a heretofore never seen creature. “Incredible.”
“Am I correct?”
“No.”
Her spirits dimmed. “Very well. But mark me, Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s supposition does involve the Home Office in some way. They were clearly watching the house for your arrival.”
