Grasping her shoulders, he set her firmly away from him, then released her as if she'd turned into a pillar fire. Which it seemed she was—and he was kindling.
"Enough," he said in a rough voice he didn't recognize. She swayed a bit on her feet, and he moved several more steps away lest he be tempted to hold her again—like a spider falling into a deadly web. Damn distracting woman. He narrowed his eyes at her. "I don't know what game you're playing, princess, but I assure you it's one you don't want to play with me."
She stared at him for several seconds, and he could see her gathering herself. Wrapping her arms around her midsection, she lifted her chin to a regal angle. If he'd allowed it to, the unmistakable hurt in her eyes might have taken the edge off his annoyance. But it was far wiser for him to concentrate on that annoyance. At her, for coming out here and tempting him with her incomparable beauty and sweet scent and judgment-stealing kisses. And at himself for allowing her to do so.
"I wasn't playing a game," she said quietly, then added in a flat voice, "And I'm not a princess."
Without another word, she turned and walked away. Keeping to the shadows, he silently followed her, his inconvenient conscience insisting he make certain she arrived at the house safely. She walked with short, rapid steps and kept looking around, clearly nervous. He was sorely tempted to make his presence known but forced himself not to. Not while they were still alone in the dark.
When she reached the terrace stairs, he judged it safe for him to speak. "I'll be calling on your father tomorrow to investigate your claims of the ghost," he said softly from the shadows. "I suggest you apprise him of the story you told me before I arrive."
Her back stiffened, and for several seconds she remained still. Then, without a word or a backward glance, she hurried up the flagstone steps and entered the drawing room.
Chapter 5
"'Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive,'" Julianne muttered to herself as she paced in her bedchamber the next morning. Streaks of pale pink filtered through the window, shades of the predawn's dark mauve surrendering to a new day. Yet the hint of illumination did nothing to lighten her troubled mood.
"Clearly Sir Walter Scott was far more astute than I when he penned those wise words."
Indeed. If she'd devoted her time to rereading his Marmion, rather than scandal-laden tomes such as The Ghost of Devonshire Manor, she wouldn't be in such a fix.
Indeed, if she hadn't read The Ghost of Devonshire Manor, her thoughts wouldn't be filled with sensual ghosts who ignited fantasies that drove her from parties into the darkness to seek out a fascinating Bow Street Runner who'd …
Kissed her.
The memory slammed into her, halting her nervous footsteps. Dear God, how he'd kissed her. Kissed her until she'd forgotten the chilled air. The impropriety of her actions. How to tell the truth.
Everything except him.
Even the cold slap of humiliation that followed would never cool the heat of that kiss. Never erase the wondrous discovery of Gideon's taste. His scent and heat surrounding her like a warm, male blanket. The intimate press of his hard body against hers. Indeed, she should be grateful for the humiliation she'd felt afterward, as it was the only thing that kept her from clinging to him like an overzealous vine and begging him to never stop. From imploring him to touch her. Everywhere. From giving in to her own overwhelming desire to touch him. Everywhere.
Although she hadn't embarrassed herself quite that much, she'd still managed to immerse herself in an untenable situation. She'd spent a restless night tossing, turning, pacing, trying to figure out a way to avert the disaster of epic proportions looming on the horizon. But like a spider trapped in a poisonous web of its own making, every idea just tied another knot in her tangle of deception. Every idea save one. The only way to extricate herself was to tell Gideon the truth.
She'd have to intercept him before he spoke to her father and admit she'd lied. For the only other option was to lie to Father, to tell him the story she'd told Gideon. She cringed at the mere thought. She knew her father well, knew precisely what his reaction would be. Without proof, he'd simply coldly dismiss her claims, telling her as he so often did that she was nothing but a silly, ridiculous girl who knew nothing and should concentrate on doing the one thing she was good at: sitting on a settee and looking pretty.
Indeed, if her father spoke to Gideon, he'd make that opinion known. God knows Gideon already held her in little enough esteem. To have her own father confirm her general uselessness to the one man she wished regarded her highly was a humiliation she wasn't certain she could bear.
Of course, the prospect of telling Gideon the truth—that she'd followed him into the garden with the hopes of catching a glimpse of him, of talking to him—about anything—was mortifying enough to cramp her stomach. He'd think her an absolute idiot and would no doubt never wish to speak to her again. And she couldn't blame him. But at least she'd be an honest absolute idiot. And since nothing could ever come of their acquaintance, it was for the best. She'd always have the memory of their unforgettable kiss. The most wondrous adventure she'd ever had.
Her inner voice coughed to life. It was the only adventure you've ever had.
She pursed her lips. Fine. It was her only adventure. But Kadvigh what an adventure it had been. And maybe, perhaps, Gideon wouldn't hate her after she told him the truth. Perhaps he'd be flattered and admire her honesty and they could be—
She cut off the thought with a violent shake of her head. Could be what? Friends? Hardly. Not only would her parents forbid such an association with a man they'd view as nothing more than an ill-bred, common nobody, but why would Gideon want to be friends with a woman he believed to be nothing more than a foolish, spoiled princess?
Nor could they ever be anything else. Certainly not acquaintances who met in dark gardens for stolen kisses. She was fortunate no one had come upon them. Mother had noted her absence from the party and had scolded Julianne, even after she'd offered the excuse that she'd felt unwell and had merely found a quiet alcove to rest for several minutes. No, to find herself alone again with Gideon would prove too much of a temptation. It was one thing to want him in the solitary privacy of her own thoughts, where they were not only friends but lovers. It was quite another to try to control her desires when she was with him. Close enough to touch. Especially now that she knew how he tasted. How he felt. How he kissed.
Drawing a resolute breath, she exited her bedchamber. She'd force down some breakfast then position herself in the morning room window seat where she'd see Gideon arrive at the house. She'd tell him the truth and be done with her deceit. And carry the memory of their heated kiss in her heart.
When Julianne approached the dining room, her steps slowed, and she frowned at the muffled sound of her parents' voices coming from within. Botheration. Mother rarely awoke this early, and Father usually took a tray in his private study on those occasions when Mother did come to breakfast early. It was unusual for them to eat together in the morning—a fact that piqued her curiosity, especially after she heard her father say her name.
Angling herself to remain out of sight, she approached the oak door, which stood slightly ajar.
"—have appointments today with Beechmore, Penniwick, Haverly, and Walston," came her father's gruff voice.
"What about Eastling?" Mother asked.
"I spoke to him last night. He's scheduled to arrive directly between the others."
"Excellent. Good for them all to be aware of the competition. But of course you're favoring Eastling."
Julianne held her breath, waiting for her father's reply. When it came, her stomach clenched.
"Naturally," Father said. "The duke's holdings and influence are far more vast than the others'. If we can reach an agreement, the marriage could take place very quickly."
"Not for at least several months. There's a wedding to plan, the banns to post—"
"Eastling made mention of a special license. Said he'd have n
either the time nor desire for a fancy affair before returning to Cornwall—with a bride—in two weeks' time. I'll know more after our meeting today, but you'd best prepare yourself to do whatever it is women do in such circumstances—arranging for a wedding dress, et cetera. And do it quickly."
The clink of silverware against china, followed by the scraping of a chair against the floor jerked Julianne from the stunned state into which she'd fallen and spurred her to action. She sprinted across the corridor and had just secreted herself in the small alcove there, when her father emerged from the dining room. Shrinking into the shadows, she willed herself to be invisible. He strode past. Seconds later she heard a door close firmly, indicating he'd entered his private study, as was his habit after breakfast.
For the space of several erratic heartbeats, Julianne remained frozen in place, her ears ringing like a death knell with the echo of her father's words. She pressed her palms against her cramping midsection, but the pressure did nothing to calm her inner tumult.
Dear God, this was worse than she'd thought. If Father's plans fell into place, she'd find herself married to the duke and shipped off to the wilds of Cornwall, all within a fortnight.
A silent scream reverberated through her, shaking her insides until they roiled in protest. Surely she shouldn't be so distraught, suffer such a violent reaction, to news that was hardly shocking; she'd always known she would marry, and in accordance with her father's wishes. Known full well the time was approaching for a husband to soon be chosen.
Yes, but she hadn't known soon would be quite so soon. Or that she'd find her prospective groom so unappealing. Or that she'd be forced to live in Cornwall, so far away from her beloved friends and everything she'd ever known.
A calm, inner voice of reasoning tried to insert itself into the panic threatening to overtake her. What difference did it make if her wedding took place in two weeks or two months? As for His Grace, given his wealth and position, he was one of the most eligible bachelors in the kingdom. And although he was past the first bloom of youth, he was far less decrepit than most men of his exalted rank. As for his dour, frosty demeanor, perhaps a young wife could coax him into better humor. She'd be a duchess. The toast of the ton. Mistress of a magnificent estate. She should be ecstatic.
Yet the thought of pledging her life to the duke, of being a wife to him … in word and deed … she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands tighter against her protesting stomach. The thought of him touching her, kissing her, of sharing intimacies with him…a shudder ran through her. When he'd held her during their waltz last night, she hadn't experienced the slightest spark of desire—a fact that was made even more painfully obvious after her passionate interlude with Gideon.
Still, the thought of marrying any of the other prospective suitors scheduled to call today left her equally bereft and empty. None of them were the sort of man she longed for, not only because she didn't find any of them attractive, but mostly because none of them cared a jot about her. Only her money. That and the fact that she looked decorative sitting on a settee.
She could see her life as the Duchess of Eastling stretched before her … years and years of a lonely, passionless existence with a cold, indifferent husband. No adventures, no jolts, no excitement…just day after lonely day.
An image of Gideon rose in her mind, and she had to press her lips together to quell the cry of longing that rose in her throat. A litany of if onlys raced through her mind. If only Gideon were a nobleman. If only she weren't an earl's daughter. If only she were free to follow her heart. If only she were brave enough to take what she wanted, to have the sort of adventure she craved. She wasn't foolish enough to believe Gideon cared for her, but neither was he immune to her, at least physically. And certainly she was attracted to him. Painfully so. In a way she'd never been to any other man. And she'd never describe him as boring. He wasn't tainted with the jaded ennui of the gentleman of the ton. And while he wasn't a nobleman, she knew, in her heart, that he was a noble man.
She forced her eyes open and pulled in several slow, calming breaths. Her future would be decided by the end of the day or very soon thereafter, and the Duke of Eastling loomed on her horizon like a gloomy, frosty, dark cloud. Time was short, urging her, compelling her, to do … something. Take some action. Grab what little happiness she could before she was shackled by unbreakable vows and an existence far away.
But how? What could she do? A humorless laugh escaped her. If only she had a ghostly lover like Maxwell from The Ghost of Devonshire Manor to assist her. He'd helped Lady Elaine in numerous ways, both in and out of the bedchamber—
She stilled, struck immobile by the idea that sprang to life in her mind. She shook her head, trying to jar the thought loose, but it refused to budge. Rather, it took root and grew at an alarming rate. She mulled it over for several minutes, frowning even as a sense of purpose and excitement snaked through her. The plan was so outrageous she doubted even Emily would dare it. It would require more courage than Julianne had ever exhibited in her entire life, for she risked a great deal. Indeed, she risked everything.
But if I don't, I'll have… nothing. No memories to hold dear in the long, lonely years ahead. None save those she'd made last night with Gideon. And those wouldn't be enough. She needed more. She wanted … nay, she craved more.
For years she'd envied Emily's daring. Sarah's cleverness. Carolyn's calm determination. Now was her chance. Her last chance. Her only chance. With only a fortnight of freedom left, she couldn't waste a single day.
Her better judgment and conscience shouted warnings, but she shoved them aside with a ruthless force she hadn't previously known she possessed. After all, what were a few more lies at this point?
After running her plan through her mind once again to make certain all the pieces were in place, she drew a resolute breath and stepped from the alcove. And headed toward her father's study.
Chapter 6
Gideon sat in an obscure corner of Lord Gatesbourne's foyer and seriously contemplated kicking the elegant arse of the next man who walked through the oak double doors. Yes, kicking him—perhaps tossing in a punch or two for good measure—then flinging him on his bruised posterior into the privet hedges. Headfirst. He'd been waiting on this damned uncomfortable mahogany bench that was probably worth more than all his own furniture combined for over an hour. If he had any sense, he'd get up and leave rather than suffering the humiliation of—
Of what? his inner voice jeered. Waiting on a titled gentleman's schedule?
Hardly. He'd been doing that for years. Any man foolish enough to work among the rich knew the world revolved around their agenda.
Yet what had his every muscle tensed and his entire body on edge wasn't the lowly bench he'd been relegated to, leaving him with nothing to occupy his time save watching haughty gentlemen come and go, being escorted down the long corridor by the earl's perfectly proper butler, Winslow. No, it was the parade of nose-in-the-air aristocrats themselves that had him ready to commit mayhem. Because he knew exactly why they were here. Every one of the bastards was vying for Julianne's hand.
Lords Haverly and Beechmore had come and gone, as had Lords Penniwick and Walston, although none of them were granted the amount of time bestowed on the Duke of Eastling.
None of them had spared Gideon so much as a glance.
While watching His Grace accept his walking stick and top hat from Winslow, Gideon had noted the shadows beneath the duke's frigid pale blue eyes. The slightly gray cast to his complexion. The man didn't look well rested. Of course, one didn't get much sleep when one was busy lifting the skirts of the fine ladies of the ton.
Just then another man entered the foyer, and Gideon inwardly frowned as but yet another flash of jealousy burned through him—this one more intense than the others. What the bloody hell was Logan Jennsen doing here? Other than gobs of money, what made the American more suitable for Julianne than Gideon himself? Jennsen held no title, nor did blue blood run through his veins.
Gideon had first met Jennsen when he'd interviewed the American, along with dozens of others, in relation to the same murder investigation two months ago during which he'd first met Julianne. He'd instantly known that Jennsen had secrets. The sort of secrets a man didn't share. With anyone. Easy for Gideon to recognize that look in Jennsen's eyes—the same way he recognized it in his own, every time he looked in the mirror. Yet it seemed gobs of money—something Gideon certainly didn't have—could buy an audience with Julianne's father. Bloody hell.
"His lordship will see you now," the dour-faced butler said to the wealthy American.
"Thank you, Winslow," Jennsen replied.
Tucked away on his bench, Gideon watched Winslow lead Jennsen down the corridor. The butler returned to his post a moment later, not offering Gideon anything more than a frown—but one only tossed in his general direction. Normally Gideon would have been mildly amused by this obvious display of someone who worked for the haughty upper echelons behaving equally as haughty as his employer when faced with someone not of the peerage or great wealth. But not today. Not when he had to force himself to remain seated rather than stalk down the corridor, grab Jennsen by his fancy cravat, and demand to know his intentions toward Julianne.
Bloody hell, he felt as if steam were about to erupt from his pores. Had he thought that merely tossing these bastards on their arses was enough? Ha! What he needed was a sword. With a very sharp point. To hasten their retreat. Toward the Thames. Perhaps a dip in the cold water would cool their ardor. In that case, you'd best jump in with them, his inner voice murmured.
Damn bloody pesky inner voice.
But at least it had kept him, for several seconds, from thinking about her.
Julianne.
Her name wound through his mind, coiling around his brain. Indeed, he'd thought of nothing else but her all night. All morning. Every minute until he'd left his Bow Street
office, during the long walk to Grosvenor Square
SEDUCED AT MIDNIGHT Page 6