Page 9 of The Lyon Returns
A large influx of cash would have greatly enhanced the lives of the remaining three.
Dirk planned to use the money to retire from his life at sea, to spend more time with his young wife and their infant daughter.
Brice wished to pay down his debts, owing to his lavish lifestyle. He lived like a man born to wealth, not the son of a rural magistrate he was. Through hard work and ambition, he’d pulled himself up by his own bootstraps to reach the rank of MP, and had become a powerful one, at that. His spending, however, outpaced his rise in stature by a long shot, despite his having married into wealth.
As for Mrs. Dove-Lyon, she was always looking to increase her solvency. But now Bessie had procured him a wife—on paper at any rate. Why? What did she stand to gain by this farce?
Of a certainty, Bessie had a motive other than aiding Mrs. Barnes in securing an absentee husband. Whether her choice of Gideon as Gwen’s husband owed to the events of five months ago, events that had turned him into a virtual fugitive, however, he did not yet know.
He eyed the woman whose existence had unwittingly made it possible for him to return home. His wife of some seven months, according to the papers. Of medium height, slender, with a full head of gleaming flaxen hair, and large, sky-blue eyes set in a fine-boned face.
In short, Mrs. Gwendolyn Barnes, aside from being an obvious dyed-in-the-wool bluestocking, appeared to be a perfect English rose—the latter quality making her the exact opposite type of woman with whom he would choose to cavort, much less marry. Nobody who knew him well would believe her tale. Bessie would know that.
“My brother, Lord Ashwood. Has he had occasion to call on you?”
She threw her hands in the air with such obvious vexation, she nearly coaxed a smile out of him.
“Lord Ashwood? The bane of my existence, sir. I do not mind telling you I will not miss his daily interrogations. Indeed, I assumed it was he who had arrived moments ago, intent on plaguing me yet again with his calculated questions meant to trip me up. I had quite made up my mind to send him away.” The flash of blue steel in her eyes heralded by the mention of Grayson abruptly faded. “Then, you walked through the door,” she said, a soft smile curving her lips.
He could almost believe her claim of gladness at learning he lived sincere. “In that case, you’re welcome.”
Her smile broadened briefly and the dimple he thought he’d noted earlier on her right cheek winked in and out of view.
“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, then, Mr. Devereux?”
“You don’t know?”
She arched wispy blond brows. “She said nothing to indicate a relationship existed between you.” Standing in the center of the chamber, she cast a longing look at her abandoned brandy snifter, still atop his desk.
Meanwhile Gideon blocked her straight shot. He could read her like a book. Like she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. She had no intention of coming into close range with him again if she could help it. Did he intimidate her, or had she felt the odd charge of attraction sizzling in the air between them?
Perhaps that had been all one-sided. It hardly signified, in any case.
Taking pity on her, he reached the desk in one stride, swiped up the glass, and returned to hand it to her.
Their fingers brushed. Hers were cool and silky smooth, long and graceful.
“Thank you,” she murmured and sipped, eyeing him over the rim unabashed, though it was not half past two in the afternoon.
He found her lack of restraint refreshing, not that he intended to share his observations. Nor, by God, would he continue to allow this slip of a woman, this bluestocking, to distract him. He needed answers, and quickly.
“Shall we sit? Or should we continue facing off like two chessmen on a board?”
Her dimple winked into view. “As you wish.”
He gestured toward the seating area before the hearth, stepping back so she could precede him without fear of brushing against him.
Even so, she gave him a wide berth.
She took one armchair, he took the one adjacent. “What, exactly, did she tell you, Mrs. Barnes?” Hearing her married name—her former married name—on his lips, he cursed. So many pitfalls to navigate to avoid disaster. “I should probably use your Christian name if we are to be believed. Do you prefer Gwendolyn? Or Gwen?”
She blinked. “Friends call me Gwen.”
“As your husband, I imagine I am your closest friend, Gwen.”
Her fine brows puckered, as if she did not quite know how to take his comment.
“Tell me what transpired when you visited the Lyon’s Den. Youdidventure into the Den, did you not?”
