Page 36 of The Hidden Lord
Henri blinked, struggling to focus on his words when her mind kept drifting back to the sensation of Gabriel’s tongue exploring her mouth. “Dinner?”
“Yes, miss. A more formal affair, I believe.” Mr. Tyne’s pale cheeks held a slight flush, as if he were embarrassed by whatever preparations had been made. “I shall return shortly to collect you.”
The key turned in the lock behind her, and Henri leaned against the closed door with a smile still playing about her lips. But it evaporated like steam into the air when she realized what had happened. Lord Trenwith had distracted her completely. The dratted man had not answered a single question during their entire encounter, and she knew no more about his work or his plans than she had before. He was so damn adept at keeping his secrets to himself!
“Fool,” she muttered to herself, moving to stand before the small mirror above her washstand. Her reflection showed flushed cheeks and slightly swollen lips. Clear evidence of her shameful surrender to his advances. “You let him manipulate you with a few kisses, like some green girl with her first beau.”
Henri gave herself a stern mental lecture as she paced the small confines of her chamber. She had spent years building her independence, creating a life where she answered to no one but herself. She would not throw all of that away simply because Gabriel Strathmore possessed the ability to make her knees weak with a single touch of his lips.
Marriage meant surrender. It meant becoming someone’s property, losing her independence, her very self. She had seen it happen to countless intelligent women who had allowed themselves to be swayed by passion or romantic sentiment. Henri would not join their ranks, no matter how skillfully Gabriel might kiss her.
She was still lecturing herself when Mr. Tyne returned with Lisette, unlocking her door with obvious purpose.
“Miss Bigsby,” Mr. Tyne said, “his lordship has arranged for you to prepare properly for this evening. We shall escort you to more suitable quarters.”
Henri followed them down the narrow staircase to a bedchamber on the second floor that was far more elegant than her attic room. To her amazement, a copper bathtub had already been filled with steaming water, and Lisette was arranging things about the room. On the bed lay the most beautiful gown Henri had ever seen—a creation of deep emerald silk that shimmered in the lamplight.
“I shall wait outside your door to … to provide you p-privacy,” Mr. Tyne continued, averting his gaze, then he retreated to the corridor, closing the door firmly behind him as Lisette began her preparations.
“Where on earth did Monsieur Grantham acquire such things?” Henri asked the maid, reaching out to touch the exquisite fabric. “Surely, he did not have evening gowns simply lying about in anticipation of kidnapping women.”
Lisette’s English was likely too limited to answer such a complex question, but she smiled and began unlacing Henri’s day dress with efficient movements.
The bath that followed was a revelation. Henri could not remember the last time she had enjoyed such luxury. Water hot enough to steam, French-milled soap that smelled of lavender and roses, soft towels that felt like silk against her skin. As she soaked in the perfumed water, she found herself wondering once again about Gabriel’s mysterious resources.
When Lisette helped her into the emerald gown, Henri gasped at her reflection in the large mirror. The dress fit as though it had been made for her, the bodice modest but flattering, the silk falling in elegant lines that emphasized her figure without being improper. Henri wondered if it was Mr. Tyne who was a wizard of arranging such things, althoughher journey from Danbury’s had certainly proven that Lord Trenwith was a resourceful man in his own right.
Lisette had somehow produced delicate combs for her hair, arranging the honey-brown strands in an elaborate style that made Henri look like someone she barely recognized.
“Très belle, mademoiselle,” Lisette murmured with obvious satisfaction as she made final adjustments to Henri’s appearance.
Henri studied herself in the mirror, hardly able to believe the transformation. She looked like a lady preparing for a grand ball, not a prisoner being held against her will in a distant port city. The realization was both thrilling and deeply disconcerting.
When Gabriel arrived to escort her to dinner, Henri’s breath caught in her throat. Gone was the understated merchant persona of Monsieur Grantham. Instead, he stood towering before her dressed in fine evening wear that left no doubt about his true station. Impeccably tailored black coat, pristine white linen, and a waistcoat that probably cost more than most people earned in a year. He looked every inch the wealthy viscount he was, commanding and elegant and utterly devastating to her hard-won composure.
“Miss Bigsby,” he said, offering a bow that was both respectful and somehow intimate. “You are absolutely radiant.”
Henri felt heat rise in her cheeks at the genuine admiration. “Lord Trenwith. You seem to have undergone quite a transformation yourself.”
Gabriel smiled, offering his arm. “Shall we?”
The dining room had been transformed as completely as Henri herself. What had been a simple chamber last evening was now set with gleaming silver, delicate china, and crystal that caught the candlelight like captured stars. The meal that followed was a feast worthy of any London mansion, withmultiple courses of expertly prepared French cuisine and wines that spoke of careful cellaring.
Throughout dinner, Gabriel was charming in a way that made Henri’s defenses crumble despite her best efforts to maintain them. He spoke of books they both enjoyed, shared amusing anecdotes about his travels, and listened to her opinions with the sort of genuine attention that was all too rare in her experience with gentlemen.
But it was the moments of vulnerability she glimpsed beneath his polished exterior that truly unsettled her. The way his smile sometimes faltered when he thought she was not looking. The careful way he chose his words, as if each one mattered tremendously. The intensity with which he watched her, as though memorizing every expression that crossed her face.
As the evening progressed, Henri began to comprehend something that shook her to her core. This elaborate seduction—the gown, the dinner, the careful attention to every detail—was not simply about convincing her to accept his proposal. There was a desperate quality to Gabriel’s efforts that suggested far more was at stake than mere convenience or duty.
And thus, Henri came to the startling realization that perhaps this evening was not about whether she needed him, but rather about him needing her.
The thought should have given her satisfaction, should have provided her with ammunition to use against his manipulations. Instead, it filled her with an unexpected tenderness that threatened to undo all her carefully constructed arguments against marriage. More than anything, her work with Uncle Reggie had always been the most rewarding when she had accomplished something that only she could have done. And, perhaps, accepting the role of Gabriel’s wife and political hostesswould not be such a hardship after all if the viscount desired it so fervently.
When Gabriel rose from the table and offered his arm, Henri found herself accepting it without thought. He escorted her back to the elegant bedchamber where she had prepared for dinner, and it was there, in the privacy of the candlelit room, that he drew her into his arms.
Henri was lost in a sea of desire, heady with the knowledge that Lord Trenwith genuinely yearned to make her his wife. His mouth found hers with the same skill and passion as before, but now Henri could taste something new in his kiss. A vulnerability that made her heart race and her resolve crumble like sand castles before the tide. Lord Gabriel Strathmore, the controlled and enigmatic viscount, needed her in ways that went far beyond simple physical craving or social convenience.
And Henri was beginning to suspect that she might need him as well, despite every rational argument her mind could marshal against such perilous sentiment. As his hands traced the silk of her gown and his lips moved against hers with desperate hunger, Henri found herself wondering if perhaps there were some risks worth taking after all.
