Page 87 of The Lyon Returns
He had rebounded, a stubborn part of her argued, neatening the bow of her bodice, and smoothing her hair.
No.She mustn’t read too much into his small kindnesses. In all likelihood, he had wanted to avoid any raised eyebrows by her indecorous appearance upon arrival.
Reaching the last stretch of corridor, her palms grew damp. She might not know precisely how she felt about Gideon, nor he, her, after what had transpired in the carriage, but the anticipation of seeing him again had her breathless.
Her eyes lit upon Gideon the moment she entered the lavish drawing room.
Bathed in the light of the setting sun spilling in through several sets of open terrace doors, he stood erect, looking solid and unbearably handsome in his evening finery—a crisp white shirt and simple cravat, an evening suit of black superfine, expertly tailored to fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The sun-kissed streaks in his thick, brown hair gleamed in the sun’s rays, the wavy mass of it looking mussed, as if he’d raked his hand through it, repeatedly.
As if she’d called his name, he ceased his conversation with a dark-haired man of similar build, and looked directly at her. Their eyes locked. Without hesitation or a word for his companion, he started toward her at the drawing room entrance.
Upon reaching her, he bowed over her fingers, brushing a kiss over the back of her gloved hand. “Good evening, Gwen,” he murmured.
“Good evening.”
Straightening, his green-gold gaze did a thorough sweep over her, starting at her slippered feet and rising in no particular hurry up the length of her skirts, lingering over her deep bodice, her hair—styled by the maid, of course—before finally, settling on her face.
He opened his mouth to speak, seeming to hesitate. “You look…ravishing.”
The husky quality of his voice, as if the words had been torn from him, the way he looked at her, his eyes heavy lidded and half accusing, slammed through her with such intoxicating heat she could barely force out her murmur of thanks.
He sent her a slight smile, as if he’d noted her discomfiture and it somehow lessened his. “I see you found the ring I left for you.”
She inclined her head.
“I trust you spent an enjoyable afternoon with the ladies?” Not waiting for her reply, he flagged a nearby footman to procure two crystal flutes of champagne and handed her one.
“I did. It was thoughtful of your father to invite my friends from the Ladies’ Literary Society, along with their respective spouses. It says much about how he feels for you.”
His white teeth flashed in a genuine smile. “He makes no secret of his affection for his offspring.”
She flicked a glance toward Grayson, Lord Ashwood, who hovered at the duke’s side. The duke appeared oblivious to his younger son’s presence, apparently immersed in conversation with Sir Phillip and Mr. and Mrs. Floyd—Nancy, a member of Gwen’s literary club, and a dear friend. By Grayson’s stance, she gathered he hung on the older man’s every word.
A short distance away, standing sentinel before the hearth, Lady Ashwood observed her son and husband, her expression watchful, like that of a mama cat whose kitten is venturing into a potentially dangerous situation. At the lady’s side, the polished Mr. Tyrell leanedagainst the mantle, gazing on the trio, as well. Abruptly, he leaned to whisper something in the duchess’s ear.
Gwen turned her attention back to Gideon. “I half expected you to collect me before coming down, sir,” she said, before she could stop herself. Had she not just reminded herself he owed her none of the indulgences a husband might show a wife?
He arched a single, thick brow. “I beg your pardon, madam. In fact, I had hoped for the same. However, I received a summons from Mr. Tyrell asking to speak with me privately. He bid me arrive early, before the other guests.”
His admission mollified her. “I see.”
“There have been some developments pertaining to the charges looming against me which we should discuss.”
“I see,” she said, again, excitement sparking through her. “What’s happened?”
“Later,” he murmured.
Later.An image of the two of them sharing a glass of Madeira in the intimate setting of the suite they shared flashed in her mind’s eye, followed by a rush of anticipation.
“Come, we should mingle with the other guests.” He tucked her fingers into the crook of his arm. “The duchess has very stringent rules on party etiquette, and I’d rather not find myself on her bad side.”
The duchess’s bad side, indeed. The woman’s sense of superiority, and evident belief in Gideon’s inferiority, inflamed Gwen’s ire like nothing had in a long while.
She glanced around as Gideon led her across the elegantly furnished chamber, taking in the high, plastered ceilings, ornate wall panels, brocade-and-velvet cushioned upholsteries and gleaming wood, marble, and gilt surfaces.
Gideon had grown up here. What would living with a woman like the duchess do to an impressionable and sensitive child as he must have been? For despite being blessed with more than his share ofsurpassing physical attributes, Gideon’s true nature was that of an artist. It was there in his preference for quality over quantity, in his musings put to paper about things not everyone even deigned to notice.
Had he recognized Lady Ashwood’s expertly aimed barbs to lower him for what they were? Or had he simply absorbed the incessant disparagements to ultimately see himself as a pauper, lucky to receive a chunk of stale bread from his betters?
