Page 20 of Bedding the Marquess
“I have my savings and a small pension,” he groused as he fussed over the bedding until he was satisfied that she was comfortable enough. “It should keep us sufficiently comfortable.”
“You, of all people, should understand my desire for activity and mental stimulation.”
He emitted a toneless huff of laughter. “I may, but this is a slower pace from my previous life. You, Angel, have never slowed down.” She turned into the pillow, and he brushed a lock of her white-gold hair from her cheek. “Perhaps we should go on holiday,” he suggested. “Spend some time in the countryside; enjoy the clean air.”
“If you aren’t careful, you may fall in love with it and never return to London.” Emily’s voice was already thick with sleep.
“The worst parts of London are thick in my blood, love; there is no leaving it behind for me. For you, though, I would go anywhere.” His heart swelled at her dreamy smile. He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, knowing she was already asleep before he finished dressing himself.
Oliver mulled over that exchange as he continued his winding path through Covent Garden toward home. Dawn would break soon enough and burn away the fog swirling about Oliver’s legs, but there was still enough time for all manner of dangers to lurk in the night’s long shadows.
Parts of London never slept. Even in the latest hours of the night and smallest hours of the morning, the noises of life provided an undercurrent of sound to Oliver’s footsteps. Werehis senses not so attuned to his surroundings, he might have missed the pair of feet following in his wake. Their owner was skilled, timing his steps to Oliver’s with near perfection, but Oliver was not most men. From the echo of their sound, his pursuer was less than one block behind him. Heartbeat slowing, senses sharpening, mind running, Oliver maintained the cadence of his steps and continued his circuitous route home. Never had he been more pleased that he’d ignored Emily’s annoyance that they always took a different and indirect route back to their townhouse. She’d believed him to be overcautious but had capitulated when she realized his habit had been born both from years of secret service to the Crown and his unimpeachable desire to see her safe. Though he’d retired, following the mission that had brought him and Emily together, and had buried his most recent alias of shipping heir, Marcus Holden, some reflexes were never forgotten.
He took two carefully timed turns down side streets and alleys, effectively leading his pursuer away from his home and toward the Thames. The continuation of the subtle sounds of someone behind him solidified his understanding of the situation. This was no mere coincidence. His eyes scanned his surroundings, gained his bearings, and remembered how, just ahead, there would be a false alleyway on his left—an alcove of what had once been a Medieval passthrough between buildings, but had since been closed off. The footsteps had advanced and whoever was there was now less than half a block behind him.
Muscles tense, Oliver turned left at the very last second and ducked into that alcove. As he spun to face whoever followed him, he ripped his knives from their sheaths within the waist of his breeches and waited…but there were no more footsteps. He listened carefully over the rush of his pounding pulse, but there was nothing.
Oliver sprang from the alcove and found only a deserted street cast in murky shadows. The watery light of dawn was beginning to lighten the cloudy, soot-streaked sky, but it would take a while before any of it filtered down to that darkened part of London. His eyes scanned the foggy street scattered with leavings and trash, but there was no indication that he wasn’t alone. No sound. No movement. No hint of who had been following him almost since he left Lady Night’s doorstep.
Palming his blades and slipping the handles up into the cuffs of his coat sleeves, Oliver decided to spend as much time as it took wandering the mazelike streets of London until he could be certain he was no longer being followed. The last thing he wished to do was lead anyone to Emily.
Maybe leaving London for a spell was not a bad idea at all.
Chapter Ten
The weeks passedlike the lazy clouds over Bray Castle. Caroline’s stomach began to round and she spent each evening examining the new shape of her body before the looking glass. She’d always possessed a pleasing figure and had been just vain enough to wonder what pregnancy would do to it, but she was discovering she quite liked the new fullness of her tender breasts and the gentle curve of her abdomen. There were still several months until the baby would arrive, so she anticipated a great deal of change to come, but she was content with her current progress. She’d even felt the baby move.
The first incident occurred during supper one evening. Gideon had been describing the book he’d been reading that day—something about political satire disguised as a description of pastoral life—and then she’d felt it. At first, she thought she might have been imagining the whisper of a flutter, but then, when it happened a second time, she suspected something about the meal disagreed with her. When Gideon laughed as he told his story, there was no mistaking the reaction inside her body.
Caroline had dropped her fork and clamped her hands over her abdomen, eyes wide with shock and joy. Gideon had immediately tossed down his utensils and knelt at her side. “What is it?” he’d asked with impressive calmness given the panic in his tight expression. “The baby? Are you in pain?”
“No,” she reassured him. “I—I felt it.”
“You…felt it?”
She’d nodded vigorously and, without hesitating, she took his hand and placed it right where she’d experienced the flutters. It was the first time Gideon had held her stomach and felt the small curve of her body as it swelled to accommodate the life within. His large palm nearly spanned the entire width as he cupped her protectively.
Another tiny flutter.
“There!” She practically bounced in her chair from excitement. Gideon frowned down at the place where his hand rested against her.
“I feel nothing.” The disappointment in his tone squeezed her heart uncomfortably.
She covered his hand with hers. “It is still early days; I am certain the movements will grow stronger and you will feel him soon.”
Gideon looked up at her from where he knelt on the floor. The molten silver of his eyes was breathtaking; even through her layers of clothing, the heat of his hand on her was intoxicating. Her skin ached to feel his once more. Her mouth watered with the desire to taste him once again, to feel his silken tongue dueling with hers. They were so very close to one another. She had only to lean forward and they would be kissing.
Immediately, she grew wet between her thighs, the persistent hum of need slowly drowning out all her rational thoughts. She’d had desires before, but nothing like what she’d been experiencing since the very beginning of her pregnancy. Most nights and mornings, she awoke damp and needy, mewling in desire, wishing it were Gideon who pressed his fingers through her dripping folds and found that sensitive bud that set her every muscle on fire.
Her every sense flared with his nearness; the slight hitch in his breath as she involuntarily leaned forward made her pressher thighs together. She didn’t know how much longer she could stand this tension—the simmering desire—between them.
And, when he pressed his lightly stubbled cheek to hers, she nearly combusted.
“D’you think…” he asked slightly unsteadily before trying again. “D’you think we might one day revisit what transpired between us after the Haverford ball?” Caroline couldn’t prevent her little shudder of pleasure when the tip of his nose grazed the sensitive lobe of her ear. Her cheeks warmed with a combination of need and nerves.
“Perhaps…” she said on a tight exhalation, the power of her own desire making it difficult for her to breathe, let alone speak.
“Good.” Gideon rocked back on his heels and stood. “Please excuse me.”
