The sight arrested him. It seemed historic. He could probably sell tickets to it. Proper Gwen Maudsley, carrying a letter in her mouth for convenience’s sake.
In fact, now that she’d embraced creativity, he could think of several other uses he might suggest for her lips.
It was a hot, predictable thought, irritating and useless, and, above all, bewildering. With so many willing, complex women in the world, he had little respect for men who fixated on girlishness. Innocence was, by definition, an absence of experience—character—knowledge. To desire that absence seemed rather deviant. Certainly it reflected a terrible laziness, or else the same failure of imagination that drove Gerry to patronize artists who challenged none of his preconceptions about the world.
Come to think of it, pity that Gerry was already married. He needed so badly to be admired, and Gwen, of all women, was determined to be nothing but agreeable. A more boring goal, Alex could not imagine.
It said nothing good of him that he found himself watching her all the same. She paused mid-step, lifting her shoulder to catch the edge of the letter, readjusting her toothy grip.
He glanced up again and discovered that she had paused to torque her shoulder toward her mouth and was using this shoulder as leverage to readjust her toothy grip on the letter.
How long since he’d seen her so close? Last autumn, he thought—in the garden at Heaton Dale. The breeze had carried away her shawl, and the late afternoon light, falling through the oak leaves, had strewn a delicate filigree of gold across her smooth, pale shoulders—
Well, yes, she’d always been pale, hadn’t she? Many girls were, nothing special there. Her current pallor probably owed to shock.
Since she’d had a difficult morning, he stepped backward into the hall, out of sight, to wait until she’d exited. No doubt the realization that someone had witnessed her indecorum would serve her the death blow.
A panicked squeak reached his ears. He leaned back into the lobby in time to spot her bobbling. She caught her balance, barely, but that valise was almost too large for her to see over. Another round of toothy acrobatics, and she was going to fall on her head before she made it to the landing.
Muttering a curse beneath his breath, he approached the staircase. “May I help?”
“Oh!” The valise plummeted to her feet. The envelope pursued a more leisurely descent, floating down to the first step, glancing off its edge, then sliding down several more. It was addressed, but he could not make out the name.
“Alex!” Her eyes rose from the envelope, which was nearer now to him than her; as she gave him a very wide smile, he had the curious impression that she meant to distract him from this knowledge. “How do you do this afternoon? So glad to see you back in town!”
This good cheer seemed a bit unlikely, even from her. “I’m tolerably well,” he answered slowly. Her eyes looked a bit bloodshot. Someone needed to rub the color back into her cheeks, but not him. Some titled xenophobe would do it. He cleared his throat. “And how are you?”
She set a slipper atop the valise and lifted her chin. The posture put him in mind of explorers staking their sovereign’s flag in new ground. “I’m splendid,” she declared.
A smile pulled at his mouth. Really, somebody needed to cast a trophy for her. In Recognition of Her Tireless Dedication to Utterly Groundless Good Cheer. “I’m impressed,” he said. “I expected you’d have a headache at least.”
Her auburn brows knitted. “Oh.” Only now did she appear to recall a cause for distress. “Well, not splendid, I suppose. Of course not. How silly would that be! But I am better, thank you. I slept a good deal. Sleep is restorative!” Her words came more and more quickly. “And how good of you to call. I do appreciate your concern. I’m much better. And your sisters, of course.” Her lashes fluttered. “Ah—their concern, I mean. I appreciate it. I hope they’re well?”
Beyond the price of a ticket. For Gwen Maudsley to bungle such a basic social courtesy seemed no less likely to him than the failure of a prima ballerina to lift her leg above her waist. But she’d bungled it, all right. She’d butchered it. “They’re quite well,” he replied, straight-faced by an effort. Because it suddenly seemed wise to ask, he added, “What’s in the luggage?”
“Oh, the—the valise? Just some . . .” She brushed a hand over her brow. Her chignon was slumping toward imminent collapse. Another first. He had never seen her hair in any state other than viciously domesticated. “Sweaters,” she said brightly. She gave a light, atrociously fake laugh. “Sweaters for Lady Milton’s orphanage. She asked me to deliver them today.”
He held his tongue, hoping that a brief silence might highlight for her the patent absurdity of that claim. But her expression did not waver; she regarded him quite earnestly. Or was it defiantly? No, he could not square that sentiment with what he knew of her. “Deliver them,” he repeated. “Today.”
“Yes, today.”
He gave her a disbelieving smile. “Before or after your wedding? Did she specify?”
“I know, I should have dispatched a footman with them, but . . .” She gave a helpless shrug. “The orphans, you know.”
“No,” he said. “Don’t know any, unless you and I count.”
“Orphaned children.” Then, apparently reading into his expression a sympathy he did not feel—for he doubted that these particular orphans existed—she added, “I know, it’s quite horrible, isn’t it? I’ve been knitting sweaters for all those poor tots. Every single one.”
“How virtuous,” he said dryly.
She did not appear to have heard him. “And now they’re finished, finally, so I thought to drop them by and have the joy of watching the sweaters be . . . donned.” From behind her ear, a red tress sprang to freedom, tickling her chin.
Portentous, that lock of hair. He found himself riveted by it. Its message seemed clear: he was witnessing the total collapse, mental and physical, of London’s golden girl. If it sent all her hair tumbling, he would not even oppose it.
He released the image on a long breath. Now she was making his brain misfire. If she collapsed, he’d have a much harder time finding a man willing to marry her. Lunatics lacked cachet.
Her hand rose to tuck the curl away. “Terribly tragic,” she said absently. “Little boys and girls, with no . . .” She glanced toward her valise and frowned.
“Sweaters,” he said helpfully. Generally she was a much better liar than this, persuasively complimenting any number of people for virtues they did not possess. Were it otherwise, she would never have been so popular with her set.
“Sweaters, yes!” With another bright smile for him, and a covert glance for the letter, she bent to retrieve the valise. Judging by how easily she lifted it, it might even contain children’s sweaters. In which case, he was going to conclude that she’d lost her mind.
As she straightened, the smile flickered briefly, then strengthened again. “But how kind of you to drop by,” she said. “After that dreadful scene, no less. I hope you weren’t too discomfited. I expect we will see each other before you go abroad again?”
That was a very clumsy attempt at dismissal. Yielding to alarm, he took two steps up the stairs. Her pupils looked to be normal, so she hadn’t been administered a sedative. “Did you take a knock to the head today?”
She blinked. “No, of course not. Why do you ask?”
He tipped his head. “Would you call this behavior typical of you, then?”
She shifted her weight, clearly uncomfortable with the question. “Everyone is in the drawing room, you know.” Her eyes stole again to the letter, which now sat by his foot.
“Yes, I just came from there. Won’t you join us?” Certainly he couldn’t let her run off in this . . . state. Whatever it was. He supposed it did not speak well of him that he found it rather fascinating. Gwen Maudsley, come undone. He’d always had a fascination with how things came apart—clocks, telephones, the whatnot. But until now, he’d drawn the line at the dismantling of people. “Surely the orphans can wait an hour?”
She opened her mouth. He lifted a brow. She sighed and took a quick peek beyond him, then said in a lowered voice, “I will speak frankly, then. I don’t wish to attend the campaign session.”
“Campaign session.” He was beginning to feel like a parrot.
“Yes, you know, the Campaign to Save Gwen from Eternal Humiliation, again.” She produced a wry smile. This one proved less stable than her cheerful mien; it slipped quickly away. “But you mustn’t let me keep you from it. I expect you will be quite useful to them. They already used up their best ideas the last time.”
She descended a step. He laid a hand on either banister, blocking her path. “And what of your attendance? Should you not be rather interested in the outcome?”
She eyed his hands. “Not really. I have decided my path.”
“Oh? How intriguing. Where does it lead?”
She gave him a blank look. “To the orphanage.”
Right. He bent down to pick up the letter. A gasp came from above him. “That’s mine!” she cried.
“I’ll just hand it up—”
A large, soft weight smacked into his head, throwing him off his balance. He staggered sideways, letter in hand; missed a step, cursed, and took a great leap clear of the stairs.
Safely on his feet, he straightened and looked up. She stood wide-eyed, her hands cupped over her mouth, her brown eyes huge. The valise now lay several steps below her, having split open to disgorge a great mess of . . . yarn.
His brain balked. “You didn’t—did you throw that at me?” No. It was inconceivable.
About as inconceivable as a valise that fell horizontally.
Her hands dropped to fist at her waist. “I want my letter!”
He laughed in astonishment. “You did throw it. Why, Miss Maudsley. You naughty girl.”
“It slipped!”
“The law of gravity disagrees with you.”
She sniffed. “Do not bring science into this.”
“Right, very bad of me,” he said. “I always forget to leave it at the door with my hat. All right, then, tell me this: did you forget to actually knit the sweaters?” He nodded toward the valise. “Or were you planning to have the orphans do it for you?”
“Never,” she said heatedly. Another red lock collapsed, this one unfurling all the way to her waist. “I will buy sweaters for those orphans.”
“Of course,” he murmured. Her hair was such an unusual color. The shade of a fine pinot noir, he thought, when struck by the sun.
“I will buy a hundred sweaters,” she said. “A thousand! But I shan’t knit them, and I shan’t pretend I did!”
In fact, she’d pretended it only a minute ago, but now did not seem the opportune time to remind her. “Right,” he said. “Well done. And why should you?”
The question was rhetorical, but she took it seriously. “Lady Milton and Lady Anne want me to do it. They’re both hypocrites, you know. They care nothing for those orphans. Lady Milton isn’t even joining the excursion—why go to Ramsgate when one can holiday in Nice!” She crossed her arms and rolled her shoulders, as though to physically shed such thoughts of duplicity. “Hypocrites,” she repeated. “I care for the orphans.”
Oh ho, a quarrel. No doubt it involved a great lot of silk-clad women with diamonds in their ears, arguing about who cared more for poor little Oliver—pausing only to allow the footman to refresh their champagne. “Naturally, you care.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe me? Perhaps I’ll open my own orphanage. And I will feed them something more than gruel, you may count on it!”
The shrill note in her voice dimmed his amusement. All right, the lack of tears and screams had thrown him off, but clearly she was hysterical. On consideration, it seemed typical that Gwen would permit herself to exhibit only the mildest, most pleasant symptoms of the malady. “Beef every night,” he agreed. “Why not? You’ve certainly got the funds for it.”
A line appeared between her brows. “Don’t humor me.”
“Did I ever?” The idea surprised him. “If so, it was only by accident. No need to pile on to that effort.”
She hesitated, then gave him a smile. “That’s true. You’ve never gone out of your way to be nice.”
He smiled back at her; for all that she was babbling nonsense, hysteria looked charming on her. “Open the orphanage,” he said. “You can do anything you like. Your options were not limited by today’s events.”
“Oh?” She came marching down the steps, hand extended. “Then I will ask you to return my property.”
He glanced at the envelope. The Right Honble. The Viscount Pennington. “Oh, good God. What—”
She lunged for it, and he caught her wrist. Her pulse thrummed like the drum in some wild jungle dance. Hot skin, soft beneath his thumb. “That’s mine,” she said. He hadn’t imagined her brown eyes could be put to a glare, but they looked nothing doe-like to him now. She gave a futile yank against his grip. “Let go of me!”
“Writing to Pennington,” he said. The sound of his own words focused him. He opened his fingers, shedding the feel of her. “What in God’s name is this?” Her optimism went too far if she hoped that bastard would change his mind.
Her jaw squared. “That is not your concern.”
He did not recall the irksome discovery of a backbone being one of hysteria’s symptoms. “I made a promise to your brother,” he reminded her. Alas, alas, for deathbed promises. “I’m afraid it’s very much my concern.”
Mention of Richard seemed to throw her. She hesitated. “All right, then. It’s a list of reasons I hate him.”
“I’ll have the truth,” he said flatly.
“That is the truth!” Her finger caught up a loose strand of hair, twining it around her knuckle. Biting her lip and peering up at him, she looked like a very good approximation of a barroom flirt.
A more annoying development he could not imagine. He relied on her to look prim and untouchable. “Leave your hair alone,” he snapped.
Her hand dropped. She gave him a marveling look. “You’re quite beastly, you know.”
“You’re only now realizing this? I would have assumed the gossips might inform you. Failing them, Belinda.”
“Yes, but . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “Alex,” she said. “Belinda tells me all the time how much you loathe when Lord Weston tries to bully you. Why should you do the same to me? Let me have my letter.”
He laughed, surprised by this devious turn. “Oh, that’s well done, Gwen. Yes, it’s true, of all the roles I might play, the bully is not my favorite. But when you’re determined to play the idiot—”
“I am not playing the idiot!” She grabbed again for the letter.
He stepped backward, holding the envelope above her reach. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said. “Pennington’s run off. He’s not here to receive your notes.”
The news visibly stunned her. Mouth agape, she retreated a pace toward the stairs. “Run off?” she whispered.
“Train to Dover, bound for the Continent. I’m sorry,” he added. “He’s a piece of filth.”
“But he has my ring!”
He felt a brief flicker of amazement: she had purchased the wedding bands? Had the viscount done nothing for this match?
Why had she been content to sell herself so cheaply?
And then, looking at her face, a new possibility occurred to him. “Richard’s ring.”
“Yes!”
Christ. He remembered all too clearly her face as he had placed that ring in her palm. He sighed. “I’ll get it back, then.”
Her wide eyes looked dazed. She seemed to look through him at some disastrous scene, miles distant. “But if he’s taken it abroad with him—”
“His first stop will be Paris, no doubt, and I’m bound for there tomorrow.” And then, because she was still staring in that broken, addled way that put him disturbingly in mind of a vacant-eyed doll, he added, “Don’t fret, sweetheart. You’ll have it back soon enough. And for the man himself, consider yourself well rid of him.”
She blinked and focused on him. A curious look crossed her face. The sudden slant of her mouth seemed almost . . . calculating.
“All right,” she said slowly. “You want to read the letter? I’ll read it to you myself, if you like. But only if you promise to do a favor in return.”
His instincts stirred, bidding caution.
How ridiculous. Hell, maybe hysteria was catching. Gwen was as harmless as a rabbit. “Ask away,” he said and started to break the seal.
“Not here!” She threw a quick glance around. Now she looked almost feverish—bright spots of color on her pale cheeks, and an odd glitter in her eyes. “Discretion, Alex! The library will do.”
The strange smile she gave him before turning on her heel made his instincts rise up again, clanging.
Misfiring, misfiring. Rabbit, he told himself and fell in step behind her for the library.