Even this small amount of thinking felt difficult. Exercise, he thought groggily. He would feel more alert once he’d done his calisthenics. The burn in his muscles would force him awake. He could pay his penance to Richard in sweat.
He sat up slowly, a groan escaping him. Every bone in his body creaked, unhappy to rediscover the way of it. His head did not hurt, though.
He swung his legs off the bed, then paused. Why should his head hurt? This misery could not be the effect of the liquor. He’d had only a few glasses of cognac, over the course of seven hours.
It struck that something else was amiss: the train was not moving.
He leaned over and pulled back the curtain. The station placard outside bore a single word: Nice.
His hand dropped like a stone.
Jesus Christ. No wonder he felt as though someone had bashed his skull with a mallet. He’d slept for—he quickly calculated it—nine hours straight.
He stared in disbelief at the platform. It was Nice, wasn’t it? The sign wasn’t a sham?
Yes. He recognized the station, the distinctive scrolling archways that led toward the concourse proper.
He sat slowly on the foot of the bed, staring out. On the platform, a handful of men were shifting luggage. A woman stalked past, elbows pumping angrily, a parasol swinging from the ribbon at her wrist. The man at her heels made a quick sidestep to save his thigh, then uttered some protest that made the woman look back, her mouth a perfect O.
She came to a stop. So did he. He clasped his hands to his heart. Quite suddenly she laughed. The anger melted from her spine. He held out his elbow, and she took it, proceeding onward at his side.
It looked warm out there. The woman’s blue silk skirts gleamed. Lemony light bounced down on the green iron benches, called into blazing richness the crimson petals of the rosebushes beside the track. A bright day, sunny and alive.
His own lifting mood gave him pause. He had no right to feel cheerful. Had Richard been alive, the man would have been demanding Alex’s blood for last night’s betrayal. A pretty thing to do—indulging one’s own appetites with the sister of the man one had directed to his death. He had fallen asleep furious with himself.
That anger now seemed very distant.
His hand paused, shoved halfway through his hair. In fact, the very reflex to castigate himself—to revile his own weakness with regard to Gwen—felt limp and tired, like an overused muscle that no longer held any power.
He did not feel guilty at all.
A banging came at the door. Bit aggressive for a porter hoping for a tip. He rose on a curiously light sensation, opened the door and discovered his Achilles’ heel. Gwen stood with her arms crossed under her breasts, freshly dressed in a tweed walking outfit. On her head perched the most ridiculous hat he’d ever seen—some long-brimmed affair that featured an assortment of garden creatures, miniature birds and bees and butterflies, held aloft by rose stems made of gutta-percha.
He reached out to give the bird a chuck to the chin. Gwen stepped backward, and the bumblebee bobbed a cheerful nod.
He smiled as another buoying sensation washed through him. It felt as though the sleep was knitting into his muscles now. He began to feel quite . . . alert. “Come in,” he said.
Her manner was stiff as she ran a pointed eye down his bare chest. “The porter said he could not rouse you. But I’d assumed that you would be dressed by now. No matter. I’ll be outside.”
“Wait,” he said as she turned away.
She paused. “What?”
He opened his mouth. But what was there to say? Strange thing: until last night, he’d had no idea that Richard’s death still weighed so heavily on his conscience.
It was not within her power to absolve him, of course.
Yet he felt absolved. Jesus Christ. He felt weightless.
He stepped back. “Nothing,” he said. “Only—modesty seems a bit disingenuous, now that I’ve had my hand on your—”
“I have no desire to watch you dress,” she said sharply.
“Does the word offend you?”
She glared at him silently. Her color was rising.
“Or do you not know the words?” That was far more likely. “There are several to choose from,” he said helpfully. “For all that you’re determined to be wicked, I expect you’d favor the ladylike ‘quim.’ For the male apparatus, ‘cock’ is the term generally favored, although you may use ‘manhood,’ if you’re feeling vaporish.”
“Do we require soap?” she asked icily. “Apparently you haven’t washed your mouth yet this morning.”
He laughed. “What a prudish mood you’re in. Is this my punishment for failing to shag you?” Properly, he deserved a bloody award for restraint. A hotter sight than her writhing on his bed beneath his touch, he’d never see in his life.
Unless he reconsidered his policy on shagging her. Then he might see other things, too.
Her face was now a very interesting shade of pink. Bordered on purple, really. “I don’t know that word either,” she said. “So I can’t answer you.”
“Oh, if your blush is anything to go by, I expect you’ve drawn the right conclusion. Come now, step inside. Unless you’ve changed your mind in the night, and fear for your virtue?”
She made an irritated noise, then shoved past him into the room, stalking—or attempting to, for the size of the room would not allow for drama—to the window. There she turned, giving him her very best glare. “You’re entirely obnoxious,” she said.
He offered a smile in reply. Had he any artistic talent, he would have sketched her like this, silhouetted against the window behind her, framed by the green velvet curtains caught up at either side by gold tasseled sashes. Angry Young Miss En Determined Route to Ruin would be the public title, and the private, A Damned Nuisance I Could Have Avoided by Turning Back at Gibraltar.
Except that the first title seemed flavorless, and the second . . . dishonest. He certainly could have avoided her by turning back for South America. But to what profit? She was amusing. She evinced surprising bravery, tossing over her little world and throwing off every restriction she’d ever known. And she was right: this Richard business was a poor excuse to trammel her. The Maudsleys had done their best by Gwen; had designed a path for her that many women would have been happy to walk. But Gwen herself had not proved content with it. The intentions of the dead should not have a hold on the living.
A new title, then: The Unexpectedly Interesting Former Debutante.
Ah, well. It seemed that he lacked a talent for titling, too. Happily, the scene would make a lovely painting no matter what one called it. The sunlight dancing through the window played over her hair, picking out, from amidst the predominant auburn, strands of gold and cinnamon and a shade (he would wager a year’s profits on it) that could only be true crimson. Her hair seemed like a minor miracle, in fact—a national treasure far more inspiring than the Elgin Marbles or groaning, crumbling palaces. He had touched it last night simply for the tactile pleasure.
“Ginger is such an unjust name for the shade,” he said.
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Although you do have bite,” he said. “And you bite quite nicely, too. You take direction well. Did you enjoy that?”
Surprise parted her lips. That rouge the other day had been overkill; her mouth required no aid. It was her second chief beauty, long and full, tinted a natural pink. He enjoyed watching her eat radishes with it. Did she realize that in the bluish tint of gaslight, the color of that vegetable exactly matched her hair? And complemented her lips besides.
“You are flirting with me,” she said slowly.
He considered it. Was he? “Yes,” he said. “I am.” The realization was strangely satisfying. He was flirting with Gwen Maudsley as he might have with any woman who had caught his fancy, whose brother had not been his closest friend, who did not retreat from the world behind a screen of hypocritical and simpering formalities. He’d never had a taste for girlishness.
A strange expression crossed her face. He did not know how to interpret it. That was intriguing, too. Until so recently, he’d fancied her more transparent than glass. “Does it bother you?” he asked. If it did, he supposed these half-formed ambitions would need crushing.
She rolled her eyes. He’d never seen her do that before. “No, it does not bother me,” she said. “But you really must make up your mind, Alex. You are becoming more fickle than a debutante.”
He felt his jaw drop. And then, out of nowhere, he began to laugh. Good God. She was right.
She inspected him narrowly. He wanted to say . . . hell, he didn’t know what, but something in her expression made him laugh harder; he had the fleeting insight that he had probably looked at her in just this way when he’d encountered her on the stairs, the day of her would-be wedding. The idea somehow heightened the hilarity, and now he was breathless for air; this was the work of sleep deprivation, of course, except he’d just slept longer than he had in four years’ time, so that didn’t explain it. He struggled for a breath, trying to reclaim his composure, to say something that would address the sneer creeping over her lovely mouth.
She did not give him a chance. With a disgusted snort, she pulled her skirts tight and swept past him. At the door, she turned back, magnificently straight-spined. “Get dressed, you loon.”
The door slammed behind her.
The drive toward Côte Bleue wound along the edge of the coast. On one side lay the aquamarine sea, glittering fiercely beneath a sky of brilliant blue; on the right, up the rolling hills, stretched groves of olive trees and palms. The climate and vegetation invited a very particular sort of landscape, Gwen thought, and she was not disappointed when the carriage turned down the graveled drive into Mr. Barrington’s property and deposited them at the front steps of Côte Bleue.
The house was two modest stories of mellow pink stone, and vines of purple bougainvillea twined down its face, like strands of a woman’s hair. Its green shutters were thrown open to the warm air and to the view of the terraced garden, tiers of lush vegetation that flowed down toward the cliffs overlooking the sea. Behind the house, on the wild hill above, blossom-spangled orange trees seemed to sag beneath the weight of their ripe, hanging fruit.
Alex exited the carriage first. He’d provided surprisingly agreeable company during the drive, making charming observations about the various towns they had passed, cracking jokes that she’d had to work not to laugh at. Indeed, the temptation to laugh had become its own form of hurt, cutting her just as deeply as his courteous façade. For all she knew, this was some sort of twisted game he’d devised to amuse himself: how many times could he tempt her into throwing herself at him? If that was the case, she would not cooperate. Men had humiliated her before, to be certain, but she had never and would never aid their efforts. She would not laugh at his jokes.
All during the long drive down the coast, then, she raged at herself. The loss was not great; there was no call for her to ache, so. But it took effort, sustained and pointed effort, to think of him just as she’d thought of those other men. To each of his comments, she made herself smile and reply with perfect courtesy. (The art of discouragement through flirtation was rather like badminton, she thought. So long as the birdie was kept afloat—a compliment offered in return for each one that was served—no points would be scored on either side.) If this was a game, she meant to win. Her earlier delusions about him, her stupid fancies, would not cripple her. She would be spitted and fried before she begged for his attentions again.
Alex lifted her out of the coach now into the warm, sunlit air. A melody of scents played over her—roses baking in the sun, the salted sea air, the sweetness of honeysuckle, the fresh bite of citrus. Beneath these lay the faintest note of spice. She took a deep breath and tasted its sharpness, then glanced up the hill again, knowing now what to look for. Pepper trees hid amongst the oranges. At dusk, their smell would strengthen, overwhelming the flowers’ sweetness.
The inevitable effect caught her fancy. The gardens must create a shifting symphony of scents, dependent on the hour of the day. She did not spot any night-blooming jasmine, the presence of which would have made the advent of evening all the more noticeable. It was not a pretty plant, she supposed. Could one design a landscape organized by smell instead of sight but make it visually pleasing all the same?
The challenge was turning in her mind when Mr. Barrington bounded down the drive to greet them. In Paris he had looked a hair shy of bohemian; now, in a white linen suit with a straw boater crushed beneath his arm, his cheeks ruddy and his hair tossed by the wind, he looked more in the way of a yachtsman returned from a day at the races.
She wondered if Alex realized how much he had in common with this man. Both of them looked comfortable no matter where they popped up. It was not, perhaps, a trait to merit one’s trust.
Mr. Barrington seized her hand and carried it very dramatically to his mouth. “Your majesty!” he said. To Alex, he offered a cordial nod. “You’re the last to arrive; I’d begun to fear you lost.”
“But we came straightaway,” Gwen said with a frown.
“Perhaps the others departed before the invitations were issued,” Alex murmured.
Barrington laughed, as if this were a very funny joke. “Come,” he said, and turned on his heel to lead them into the house.
The front lobby of the villa was spacious and cool, a fountain splashing in the light cast by a domed glass cupola two floors above. Tile mosaics bordered the pink stone floors, which were uncarpeted save for silk runners that formed a narrow path down the hall through which they walked toward their rooms. On the walls hung Renaissance paintings from the Italian school, and bright murals that Barrington said had been painted by local artists—tableaus of Nice’s famous Battle of Flowers, its Mardi Gras revels, and sunset seen from the Promenade des Anglais.
Barrington drew them to a stop at the very end of the corridor, by a set of wooden doors carved in a rough, rustic style. “Drinks at five o’clock in the garden,” he said. “Dinner at seven; we keep very early hours, to allow guests to pop over to Monte Carlo and catch one last round of cards before bed. Carriage leaves promptly at nine o’clock; usually we keep another for the casinos in Nice—open all night, you know—but we had a broken axle last night, so it’s Monte Carlo for the time being or bust, as they say; which perhaps is how it always should be, don’t you think? If one’s going to gamble, might as well do it in style. Now.” He took a breath. “I expect you’ll want a bit of rest before joining the fun. Although I must say, Miss Goodrick, you look fresh as a daisy, positively ripe for the plucking.”
It had seemed a lovely compliment, until he’d reached the bit about ripeness. “Thank you,” Gwen said hesitantly.
“Alas that harvest season has concluded,” Alex said pleasantly.
Barrington chuckled. “So it has, so it has. Well, we’re out on the terrace right now, so do feel free to wander out if you feel up to it. The Rizzardis—you don’t know them, by any chance, do you? Giuseppe and Francesca? No? Well, they popped up yesterday, so I’ve put them in the room next to yours; they are great fans of Bizet, and over the moon at the prospect of a worthy delivery from Miss Goodrick. Oh—hold on there a moment.” Still clinging to the door handle, he leaned around the corner. “Moakes! Come back here, you rascal.”
A small, silver-haired man of advanced years stepped around the corner, a tray of champagne in hand. “Take one, do,” Barrington urged them. “Lafittes and Margaux, of course; I drink nothing but. Might as well start the holiday in style. Here, I’ll also lift a glass.”
Gwen slid a glance to Alex, who was studying Barrington as though the man’s face held the key to some riddle. Perhaps it did, at that: at odd intervals, the corners of Barrington’s mouth kicked up. It was the smile of a child struggling to keep some wonderful secret.
“Cheers,” said Alex. He took a drink, his lips smiling but his eyes deadly intent on their host.
Mr. Barrington seemed oblivious to the regard. He turned his boyish smile on Gwen. “I must confess,” he said in a low voice. “I noticed something alarming upon your arrival.”
“Oh?” Heart beating faster, she wondered if she’d already betrayed herself, somehow. Or perhaps he’d stumbled across a photograph of her. She could imagine that the London newspapers might have run one after the recent debacle.
“Your parasol, my dear.” He eyed her, a salacious angle slanting his lips. “I do believe you’ve forgotten it again.”
Gwen laughed. “Oh, I hardly require one now.” She hooked her arm through Alex’s. “I have brought a much bigger stick, you see.”
Alex choked on his drink. Barrington, brow lifting, gave him a respectful nod, although the cause for it seemed obscure. “I will take your word on it,” he said to her and slid the bar free, opening the suite doors. “Here then: your home for the next few days—or, indeed, so long as you wish to remain. We do not believe that old adage about guests; the longer you stay, the merrier.”
He took his leave with a bow. As predicted, he had allotted them a single suite. The sitting room was quite large, done up in taupe and ivory, filled with light from the broad French doors that opened onto a balcony with an ocean view.
“Strange man,” Gwen murmured.
Alex paused by the doors to look out toward the sea. “Why do you say that?” he asked.
She frowned at his back. “You don’t think he’s odd?”
“Certainly. But I’d like to hear your perception of him.”
She thought about it a moment. “There is his accent,” she said slowly. “He works very hard to sound like a public school boy. But he learned the accent too late; it doesn’t fit comfortably with his vowels.”
“Which doesn’t condemn him, of course.”
“Of course not! Goodness, for my sake, I should hope not. I suppose, beyond that, it’s simply a feeling he inspires. No real cause for it.”
“But intuition should never be dismissed,” he said. He walked onward through the next door, and she followed. A minuscule dressing room opened onto a bedroom with wallpaper of pale peach and gold. The single window in the far corner looked onto a man-made lake at the side of the house. A transparent mesh mosquito net framed the bed. Sleeping was clearly meant to be an afterthought here; all the attention had been given to the sitting room, which was much larger.
Or perhaps not. Gwen paused in the doorway, looking at that bed. It would have been large enough for Henry VIII and half of his wives, to boot. It dominated the room completely.
Alex walked onward, apparently oblivious to how terribly awkward it was going to be to spend the night here. Perhaps he would be a gentleman—absurd thought, but since he’d done the tediously gentlemanly thing last night, the pattern might well continue—and he would offer to take the floor. Otherwise, she knew what would transpire: she would lie with her back to him, her agitated breath making the netting stir and tremble, too afraid to sleep lest her hands betray her and climb across his chest, as they had been longing to do even in the coach, while her dignity and pride had spat curses at him and her brain had marshaled words of cool, pleasant civility.
What sort of talent was it that led a woman to unerringly fix on men who did not want her in return?
Surely there was another kind of man out there?
“Lily. These are lovely flowers,” Alex announced.
She looked up. He was poised by a vase of roses that sat in the corner opposite the window. “Those aren’t lilies,” she said dryly.
“Very funny, Lily.” His intent stare gave her a start. So, even in the rooms they would play these roles?
“I always aim to amuse you,” she said lightly.
“Then come have a closer look.” His smile now teased. “You’re some sort of expert on flowers, aren’t you? A budding botanist, I hear.”
Her temper strained. Not surprising; its restraints had endured a great deal of friction today. “I told you I am not particularly attached to flowers. I am not a gardener.”
“Nevertheless,” he said, and then paused significantly. His long fingers parted the petals to reveal a patch of the flocked velvet wall. “Come have a look.”
It penetrated that he was not interested in the flowers at all. She glanced around in alarm, wondering if somebody was hiding behind the curtains to prevent their free communication.
He gave her a subtle shake of the head. “Come here,” he said more softly.
Slowly she walked forward. He slid his hand around the back of her neck, fingers closing in a firm grip as he brushed his lips across hers.
She went still. Last night, she’d tossed for hours, powerless to turn her mind from the memory of that shattering pleasure he’d given her. Now, the faintest pressure of his mouth raised an echo of that wonder. A hot, delicious weakness trembled through her.
Anger chased it. Good Lord. The man was addled. He could not make up his mind, and he was going to make her addled in the process. Maybe that was his aim! Having received no success this morning, he was going to tease her to desperation, manipulate her into debasing herself again—
His mouth slid across her cheek to her ear. “Spy holes,” he murmured, his hand idly brushing the line of her waist. “Lean down to sniff the roses. Take a look.”
Spy holes? Great ghosts! What sort of business partner did Lord Weston encourage these days?
Alex began to nuzzle her neck. A pleasurable chill lifted the hairs at her nape. She shrugged his mouth away with one shoulder. He caught her shoulder and squeezed. “Someone might be watching,” he said into her ear. His hot breath made her shiver again. “Hurry up and take a look.” His tongue flicked along her lobe. “Or give them an excuse for your dallying here.”
She cleared her throat. “Let me have a look at these flowers!” she said brightly.
He winced and stepped back. All right, her delivery needed work. She would have to spend a few minutes mustering the Barbary Queen before she dared set foot outside their rooms.
She bent over, making a show of fingering one petal, meanwhile fighting the urge to reach up and touch her ear where he had licked it. He made her knees weak with one stroke of his tongue. This was not a magic any cautious woman would encourage.
His tanned hand slid over hers. “This one,” he said, lifting a finger to indicate a rose nearby. “Beautiful,” he said, and then stroked his finger back down hers, delicate as a man admiring the brushwork on a piece of priceless china. The contrast of his tanned skin against hers, the gentleness of his touch and the strength of his hand, riveted her. She almost missed the way his knuckles touched the wall before he removed his hand to his side. “The shade is striking. Dye, do you think?”
Had he not indicated the spot on the wall, she would never have noticed the spy hole. It was minute, pricked cleverly at the tip of one velvet floret.
Assuming, of course, that it was a spy hole, and not simply the shoddy workmanship of an underpaid assistant.
She straightened. “The roses are Gloire de Dijon, Alex. A lovely but not uncommon breed. I do not think dye was required.”
“Oh? I really must expand my knowledge of such things.” He was walking along the wall now, his fingertips lightly dragging across the wallpaper as he appeared to idly inspect the furnishings. A framed watercolor of the Venetian canals caught his interest; he paused before it, staring hard. “Remarkable taste Barrington has,” he murmured. “Have you ever been to Venice?” He glanced at her. “Stayed at the Piazza once. What a view it offered.”
She looked from the painting toward the bed. A very direct view, indeed. If people were spying on them, so much for hoping that he would sleep on the floor.
He walked to the far wall, then stopped before the mirror atop the toilette, brushing down his suit jacket, running his fingers through his hair. It struck her that watching him primp was almost comical; he did not wear spectacles in public, but in all other ways, he seemed to possess very little vanity.
Perhaps he skipped the specs for the same reason she did. She always felt vulnerable when she wore them in public. They stripped her of one of her greatest weapons: her ability to ignore what she did not wish to see.
The idea was curious. What might Alex wish to ignore?
His family.
Any cause to change his itinerant lifestyle.
She cleared her throat. “Have a clear view of yourself, then?”
He turned back toward her, smiling wryly in acknowledgment of the double meaning. “Yes,” he said. “I do wonder if this room is comfortable enough to suit you? I know you prefer something a bit more . . . ornate. We could always take a room in Cannes.”
Two rooms, even. How very tempting. “Let me take one more look around,” she said, and walked back into the dressing room.
A moment later, he joined her. The room was very small; when he walked inside, the enforced proximity set her nerves to firing. She stood very still, enduring the malfunctioning of these million small cells, which leapt and shivered at the prospect of some accidental contact with him.
It took him less than a minute’s scrutiny to conclude that it was not similarly sabotaged. In the course of this silent survey, some slight adjustment brought his thigh into her skirts. She would not pretend to fidget, would not conspire to heighten this intimacy. It was not even intimacy: his leg was only touching the fabric of her gown.
And yet . . . she could guess now what lay beneath his clothes. He was a tall man, built on lean lines, and she had seen him without his shirt; she knew beyond doubt that his broad shoulders were not merely a trick of his bone structure. Throat to chest to arms to thighs to calves, his body was strapped with muscle. Clearly he disciplined it as firmly as he did his business concerns, not to mention the affection he allowed himself for those who loved him.
And there was the problem, of course. Any other man—a man of more human dimensions—would have taken her last night. Alex had wanted her. She was sure of it. But while his refusal might have resembled, by mere mechanical coincidence, the actions of a gentleman, that coincidence should not and would not make him more attractive to her. She was not so much an idiot that she would now begin, after all her sad history, to romanticize rejection as proof of some admirable quality in a man.
“All right,” he said, and she realized she’d been holding her breath. “We can speak freely.” He looked down at her at the precise moment that she looked up, away from his body to his face.
His eyes narrowed slightly. That was the only sign of his sudden realization that they stood so close. His mind had been elsewhere. Now it was only on her.
A wistful thought slipped free. If only he—
No. She slammed shut the window through which the beginning of this wish had strayed.
She drew a breath that felt, and sounded, unsteady. “So . . .”
His hands lifted very slowly. His thumb touched her upper arm. It traced the bare skin, drawing a circle, light but for the slight scrape of his nail. The other moved to her hair, plucking out one hairpin, and then another. A lock of her hair tumbled past her temple. He caught it up, drawing it through his fingers, from root to tip.
The breath left her on one long, sibilant rush. “There are no spy holes,” she whispered. “Not here.”
“We’ll have to put on a good act outside. And practice makes perfect.” His warm fingers cupped her elbows, forming a light vise that he tested, his grip tightening slightly. “Shall we practice?”
She swallowed and stepped back. Her shoulder blades hit a shelf. “Not like this.”
He followed her. “Not like what?”
“Like . . . like you mean it,” she mumbled. She felt a blush start up her throat.
“But I do mean it,” he said with a faint smile. “That was never in doubt, Gwen.”
She glanced away from his expression, fighting the urge to take hope from that statement. She was done with wrestling flattery from his obscurities. She looked away from his face, to his throat; unlike his eyes, it did not have the ability to look back, to study her so closely that she felt flustered and infuriated and manipulated but also peculiarly exposed. “I suppose animal lust is not extraordinary.”
“Certainly not,” he said. As his head bent, his hair brushed her chin. With his lips pressed to her throat, he breathed deeply, as if the scent of her was enough to lure him, to turn his voice to a low, rough pitch as he said, “But animal lust is also very easily contained. This, on the other hand . . .” The tip of his tongue touched her. Her eyes closed of their own volition.
“I think we might call it resonance,” he murmured.
“Resonance.” She meant to sound scathing, but the word was too breathy, and it tipped up at the end like a question.
“Every object vibrates at a particular and specific frequency.” He dragged his mouth up to her jaw, and she felt, briefly, the edge of his teeth. Into her ear he said, “Place two of a kind side by side, and the first, if vibrating, will force the other to vibrate alongside it. I slept last night, the whole night, for the first time in six months. Did you?”
She fought for composure. It was true that when he was near, she felt attuned to him in every cell. But what was he implying? That their natures were the same? If he’d believed that, why would he have refused her? Why would he have any care for her virtue?
She averted her face. “I could not sleep for hours,” she said to the wall. “I am done being toyed with, Alex. You made yourself quite clear last night. I am Richard’s little sister to you. And while you play the rebel very well, you certainly sounded most conventional when refusing me.” She manufactured a short laugh. “Indeed, I’ve no idea why I’m surprised. You may criticize our rude, fat MPs all you like, but it was their work that opened the trade routes to your ships, wasn’t it? Why, even your rebellion suits our government. I’m sure you pay a fortune in taxes. You’re far more boring than you realize.”
He surprised her by laughing low in his throat, the warmth coasting over the skin of her temple. “A very neat set down,” he said. “Do try not to flash your intelligence at Barrington. He won’t expect it of the Barbary Queen.”
She twisted away from him and made a face. “So we do mean to stay here, then?”
“We can always visit from Cannes.” His light touch at her waist made her startle. “Shh,” he said. “Just getting you comfortably into the role. Can’t have you flinching when I touch you in public.” After a pause, he said, “The blush is beautiful, though. I would regret to see you lose that.”
She stared very hard at a hook set into the wall. Focus. “But what would be the point of staying so far away? Your aim is to gather information. It’s most easily done here.”
He traced a circle on her hip. This time, to her pride, she successfully denied any outward response to the touch, although inside, oh—low in her belly, in her fluttering chest, in the places he had taken and soothed last night—she was dissolving.
He spoke. “I don’t appreciate being spied on. That’s the point.”
She choked on a surprised laugh—and then, when he lifted a brow, she said simply, “The irony, Alex.”
After a moment, he smiled as well. “Touché. I suppose hypocrisy is the name of this game as well.”
“Then I should be good at it.” She paused. His hand still covered her hip, but when she focused all her attention on the task, instead of simply allowing her baser senses free reign, she could find it amusing, in an ironic sort of way. “You should be good at it yourself,” she said. “No need to touch me now; I’m done with flinching and gasping.”
His hand tightened on her hip. “Gwen—”
“Lily,” she corrected. “We’ll stay. We didn’t come all this way for nothing. And if at night they don’t see . . . well, what they expect to see, then we’ll simply have to pretend that we’ve quarreled. Yes? So we will act very coldly toward one another today.” In that regard, the spy holes were a blessing: she now had an excuse to curl as far away from him as possible. Perhaps even to lie on top of her traitorous hands, which would be sure, otherwise, to stray toward him.
His touch fell away. “I don’t think that’s wise,” he said. “Barrington might see it as an opportunity to make his address to you.”
“I can handle flirtation,” she said. “I’m no green girl. Not all men are well behaved in a ballroom.”
“All right,” he said at length. “But only provided this is the last unpleasant surprise we discover. If he proves dangerous—”
“I know,” she said in bored tones. “In your brotherly way, you will insist we leave at once.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing his face go dark before she swept back into the enemy territory of the bedroom.
By the time they had bathed (Gwen requested the tub to be placed in the dressing room) and finished changing out of their traveling clothes, the sun had begun to set and the temperature to drop. Gwen plucked out a pashmina shawl in a beautiful ruby red to wear over her low-necked evening gown to dinner. Alex, in turn, donned full coat tails, and the sight gave her a moment’s mute astonishment. She had not seen him so formally dressed in years. He never attended the parties that called for it—not in her circles, at least.
The look suited him. His jacket was cut to a more form-fitting silhouette than was fashionable in England at present, and it emphasized the sweep of his broad shoulders into his narrow waist, the long, muscled length of his legs.
“We are going to quarrel,” she reminded him. And herself.
He smiled at her, those gorgeous eyes of his dancing. “I’ll warn you,” he said. “I never lose a quarrel.”
“Ah, but you’ve never quarreled with me,” she parried. “Recall that with a mere smile, I have driven men to turn tail and run. Imagine what I can do if I put my mind to a scowl.”
He flashed her a brief look of evident surprise, then laughed and offered his arm. It occurred to her, a moment later, why he was startled: it was the first time she had ever made a lighthearted joke about her jiltings. She searched herself and found not a lick of wounded hurt to power the remark.
Heart light, she processed downstairs on his arm, and then, per their respective roles tonight, broke away from him to walk ahead into the drawing room.
Inside, a motley crew sat around a low table—six gentlemen crouched over hands of cards, bottles of open liquor at their elbows, bowler hats discarded by their feet. Draped on and around these men were four very young women, three of whom reposed in various states that even at a music hall could be termed as “undress.”
The last lady, a raven-haired beauty who looked to be in her late thirties, was lounging on a nearby sofa, her heeled boots propped atop the arm, her red-and-white striped skirts frothing at her knees. Her posture left no doubt that she was fully dressed—right down to the scarlet garters holding up her stockings.
Despite her casual posture, she radiated an air of watchful repose, even authority; and this aura was bolstered by the glances sent her way by the younger women as Gwen paused on the carpet. She sat up, giving Gwen a leisurely inspection that slid up her lavender silk skirt, paused momentarily at her wide belt, and lingered again at the amethyst pendant holding in place the drape of Gwen’s shawl.
By the time their eyes met, the woman’s mouth had slipped sideways into a smile that seemed distinctly unfriendly.
“One of yours?” said a man at the table. “Darling, come here.” He patted his knee.
“No, not one of mine,” said the lady. “I’ve told you, Alessandro, if Veronique doesn’t arrive on time, I’ll play your flute for you.”
Alex’s arrival was announced by the broad hand fitting into the small of Gwen’s back—not to guide her onward, for he applied no pressure, but perhaps simply because he wished to ensure that she stayed upright. “What’s this?” he asked lightly.
His touch recalled her to her purpose. She was not shocked by the sight of garters. Indeed, she wore them herself. “I don’t know,” she said with a bright smile. “But this gentleman has brought a flute, and a flautist is coming to play it for him, so it seems that the company will be musical all around.”
The comment won a weird silence. The dark-haired woman fixed an amazed gaze upon her. Alex made a curious noise, deep in his throat.
She had the sudden feeling that she should be blushing. And then, all at once, she was blushing. She tried to paste a saucy smile over it, but the effect apparently looked miserably awkward, for one of the men sat forward, elbows on knees, to inquire with a frown: “I think you’re Miss Goodrick and Mr. de Grey, no?”
“Indeed we are,” Alex said flatly.
The man tweaked his ginger mustache, smoothing it to a fine, sharp tip. “Pardon me, sir. Dinner crowd gathering in the east wing.” His glance shifted to Gwen, and he gave a lopsided grin. “Do come back afterward, if you like—always room for more at the game.”
Gwen grew cognizant, abruptly, that the ratio of ladies to men left something to be desired.
“Will do,” Alex said, and ushered Gwen back into the hallway, where he said in an undertone, “A flautist?”
“I know,” she said miserably. “I don’t know what I was thinking. A code word of some sort, I’m sure of it. I doubt that man even had a flute with him.”
He drew a strange, strangled breath through his nose. “Darling, perhaps you’d best keep your mouth shut tonight.”
His tone was teasing, rueful, and she almost asked him to explain what she’d missed. And then she saw Barrington step out of the hallway five feet ahead of them. The opportunity was too perfect to resist. “Keep my mouth shut?” she repeated, injecting wounded anger into her voice. “How dare you, Alex. Perhaps I can find someone else here who might admire it better.”
Predictable as clockwork, Barrington spoke. “Ah, mademoiselle, monsieur!” Giving an oily smile to Alex, he added, “Miss Goodrick, I wonder if I might have the honor of escorting you into dinner?”