Page 22 of The Lyon Returns
This time, he laughed aloud.
Chapter Six
Gwen retired toher bedchamber soon after the evening meal. Clara once again joined her, having brought with her fresh towels and a basin of steaming, fragrant water.
The maid proceeded to unpin and unravel Gwen’s long hair, which now boasted a subtle wave.
“Shall I plait it for you, ma’am?”
And destroy her new-found curls? “Heavens, no,” she exclaimed.
Clara gave Gwen an approving nod.
It occurred to her Clara assumed she wished to keep it loose for Gideon’s benefit. Her face throbbed with profound heat.
The young housemaid helped her from her gown, refusing to take no for an answer. Then Gwen learned why she’d brought the basin.
Gwen always washed as part of her evening ablutions. She did not always have the luxury of petal-infused, herb-scented, steaming water, however, nor someone to scrub her back and neck. As much as the extravagance appealed to her femininity, she couldn’t say if she felt more like a princess being readied for her prince or a horse being groomed for auction. In any case, she could hardly eschew the sweet-smelling bath without sending a message to the staff that she did notwish to please their master.
When she heard sounds emanating from Gideon’s chamber, her nerves grew taut. Fearing he might knock with the girl still present, she shooed Clara away. Only then did she consider what on earth to wear for her late-night rendezvous.
“Hold yourself in hand, Gwendolyn Barnes,” she muttered sternly. She was joining him in order to facilitate a private conversation, not to conduct an illicit liaison. She reminded herself she’d been alone with a man, Reggie, in the dark of night a handful of times in order to share a bed in the manner of husband and wife. The business had been terrible for both of them, and she had no wish to repeat the experience.
The first time had been her wedding night. As soon as she could get her mother alone, she demanded to know why she had not told her how awful a man and woman’s joining would be.
Her dear mother had looked at her with sympathy and a degree of amusement which Gwen had not appreciated in the least. “It will improve after the first,” she’d said. “Trust me.”
But it never had, and Gwen had never asked her mother about it again. The pain had lessened, of course. She had concluded that was what her mother meant by her cryptic assurance making love with one’s husband wouldimprove after the first.
And why was she thinking about such matters? Neither she nor Gideon had lovemaking on their minds.
That still left her with a decision as to what she ought to wear. Surely not her night rail? But she also had no desire to re-don her chemise. She decided on one of her less fitted day dresses.
Slipping it over her head, she sat at her escritoire, turned up the nearby oil lamp, and resumed reading the most recent book chosen by the Ladies’ Literary Society of London,Belinda.She had reached the intriguing part of the novel where the heroine, Belinda, in London visiting a family friend with the aim of entering high society, was beginning to perceive the superficiality, dysfunction, and self-interestof the upper class.
Though she found the novel engrossing and thought stimulating, the moment the clock in the corridor struck ten, she snapped the book closed. She lowered the lamplight, snuffed the remaining burning candles, rose, and crossed to the adjoining door. As she stood scrubbing her suddenly damp palms over her skirts prior to knocking, the door swung open.
Gideon, large and imposing, filled the doorframe. Near darkness engulfed the space beyond him, leaving the barest of light from the hearth to silhouette his impressive shape.
Her heartbeat skittered wildly and she had to work to steady her choppy breathing.Why?She did not fear the man. His writings and observations told her of the man’s stellar character.
Resisting the urge to scrub her palms again, she forced herself to speak. “I see you’ve turned down the lights. A good notion if we want the servants to have nothing to remark on.”
He stared at her, seemingly unblinking. She couldn’t be absolutely certain. The meager light from her antechamber did not provide enough illumination for her to read his expression.
“Always thinking, aren’t you, Gwen?” came his rumbling purr. He had a very nice voice. As for what he’d said, she could not decide if he meant the question as a compliment or a slur.
She may as well believe the former. “Thank you.”
He gave a soft huff of laughter. “Come in.” He stepped aside and she crossed the threshold. Glancing around the familiar chamber, she made for the sitting area by the hearth. Definitely, not the mammoth bed.
Turning her back to the fire, she clasped her hands behind her and waited. She would sit when he did. She would not find herself in the uncomfortable position of gazing up at him again as heloomed.
He did not immediately join her. Instead, he closed the door and leaned against it. “Your hair is…down.”
She touched a hand to her temple, instantly self-conscious. “Clara unpinned it for me, and I rather enjoyed the rarity of seeing it slightly curled.”
He said nothing, and she found herself prattling on. “It’s stick straight. Always has been. My mother could coax a wave out of it but I never could. Does it bother you? I could…” She gestured vaguely toward her chamber.
