by Shana Galen
“Then what is?” He was towering over her now, and he couldn’t keep all of the fury inside. He wanted to frighten her, but she only smiled up at him. Blinked.
She tilted her head this way and that, pretending to consider. Pursing her lips delicately, she said, “Let me think on it awhile, chéri. I will call for you when I have an answer.”
Ramsey thought long and hard about toppling the chaise longue, spilling her onto the floor, and strangling the life out of her. He didn’t want to wait on her. He wouldn’t answer to her whim, play the lapdog at her beck and call.
If killing her would have solved his problem, he would have done it long ago. But he knew her too well. She would have alternate plans, plans to expose him, even if she were dead. Especially if she were dead.
She smiled at him. “Well?”
He didn’t know if she was asking if he would kill her—for certainly she could see murder in his eyes—or agree to her conditions.
He stepped back. “Fine. But don’t be too long. This necklace is highly sought after. I can easily find another buyer.”
She smiled her cat smile. “Yes, I’m certain you can.” She turned her attention back to her book, turned the page. “Good night, Lord Sedgwick.”
He paused, knowing he was being dismissed and hating that he had no other option but to retreat. The necklace burned against his chest. He knew she wanted it. But she was as good at the game as he. Now he would have to see who would yield first.
—
An hour later, Ramsey stepped into his town house on Brook Street. The property had been in the Sedgwick family for several generations and was now in his possession. It was a gargantuan, cavernous showy thing, filled with velvet and silk and crystal and marble.
He hated it. He hated every dour, stuffy, priggish thing about it. He would have liked to burn it down, but then the servants would be homeless. And he did value the servants.
“Good evening, my lord,” his butler said. Pierce was eighty if a day and had lived in the house from the hour the servant was big enough to toddle about, fetching and carrying. Pierce held out a hand for Ramsey’s walking stick and hat. Ramsey relinquished them and started for the stairs. “Would you like assistance with your toilette, my lord?”
“Where’s Silsbury?” Ramsey employed a reasonably good valet, but unlike Pierce, Silsbury hadn’t been in residence since the valet was in short pants.
“You gave him the evening off, my lord. A sick mother.”
“Hmm.” He had a vague recollection of this now and thought the gaming tables rather than an ailing mama were what called Silsbury.
“I can see to myself. Good night, Pierce.”
“Good night, my lord.”
Ramsey’s bedroom was little better than the rest of the house, though he’d managed to put his own mark on it in small ways. He’d had the heavy draperies and tapestries put in storage along with the frowning portraits of a long line of Earls of Sedgwick. He’d replaced the portraits with art he enjoyed from a scattering of Renaissance painters. He’d acquired all of them legitimately, which meant there wasn’t a Titian to be found.
Too bad. He’d appreciate it much more than Madame Fouchet. She’d most likely sold it to the highest bidder, some wealthy fop who didn’t understand its true worth.
Not that Ramsey was any art aficionado. But he knew what he liked, and he’d educated himself in the arts.
Ramsey poured himself a glass of brandy and stripped off the silk evening clothes he wore. They were the height of fashion, but damned uncomfortable. He’d lived for many years without servants and didn’t mind tending his wardrobe. He could remember years when he had no wardrobe, save a rough shirt and trousers. Now he had a dressing room to accommodate all of his clothing. He wanted to laugh. And at one point—a long time ago—he had laughed.
But he wasn’t laughing now.
And he doubted he’d be laughing when Madame Fouchet sank her claws into him once again. What would she want this time? Another painting? More jewelry? A statue?
He lifted Cleopatra’s necklace from the bedside table, where he’d placed it when folding his suit. Now, standing in ruffled shirtsleeves, he lifted it and studied it by candlelight. It was exquisite. Truly. And to think Queen Cleopatra had once worn it, had once rubbed her hands over the lapis lazuli as he was doing now.
But it wasn’t the image of Cleopatra that came to his mind when he thought of fingers stroking the piece. It was Gabrielle. The lovely Gabrielle, his best friend’s widow. He hadn’t thought of her in months, and then only when he caught a glimpse of her at some rout or other. She was always with her friend Diana, the clever daughter of the Duke of Exeter.
But not tonight. Tonight she’d been alone—and trying to steal Cleopatra’s necklace.
Ramsey crossed to a safe he’d hidden behind a painting by Domenico Rinaldo. He secured the necklace, locked the safe, and finishing the brandy, reclined on his bed, hands behind his head.
Gabrielle, Lady McCullough…
George hadn’t known what to do with her. Ramsey had watched his friend court the lovely Gabrielle and knew the fellow would never understand a woman like her. But Ramsey understood her. He knew what she wanted—and it wasn’t some idiot who wasted his time and blunt at the gaming tables.
A woman like that wanted passion and adventure. It ran in her blood. Apparently, tonight she’d found an outlet for it. And once again, his mind circled back to the question of why Gabrielle was stealing Cleopatra’s necklace. Hell, how did she become such an accomplished thief? She’d picked the door and the clothespress locks with a finesse he’d rarely seen. Even he wasn’t that smooth. But then she had those long, slim, aristocratic fingers, and his hands were better suited for farm labor.
Still, she hadn’t seemed to mind having his hands on her in the past. Before her engagement to McCullough. He didn’t want to remember that summer night now because it would plague him all evening and he’d toss and turn. Better to read a book and go to bed than to think too much about the lovely Gabrielle.
But it was too late. His mind was already drifting back.
He’d been in the greenhouse at the Duke of Exeter’s country estate. The duke had hosted a house party, and they’d all been invited—Gabrielle Newton and Mrs. Newton, McCullough, himself, other ladies and gentleman of the ton. Gabrielle and George had spent the afternoon taking a turn about the park. They’d danced together after dinner. Ramsey had stood back and watched the courtship develop. If she wanted George, let her have him. But he wouldn’t make her happy.
Ramsey didn’t know if he could make her happy either, but he knew when he looked at her, his thoughts turned to marriage. No other female had that effect on him. He might have pursued her, but marriage was a dangerous proposition. Even in those halcyon days, he wasn’t carefree enough to forget that. And so he kept his distance.
He had walked down to the greenhouse alone and stood among the orange and lemon trees, allowing their pungent citrus scent to float over him. He’d plucked a waxy orange, and held the firm fruit in his hand before peeling the skin back and tasting the fruit.
When the first ripe section was in his mouth, she’d opened the door and walked in.
He knew right away she hadn’t sought him out. Her expression was the perfect picture of surprise…and pleasure.
“Oh, I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“No interruption at all, Miss Newton,” he said, bowing formally. At that point, one of them should have left. He was the gentleman and should probably have ceded the greenhouse to her. But she had intruded, and by all rights, she might be the one to take her leave.
Neither moved. Neither looked away, and after a moment Ramsey was aware of orange juice dripping down his wrist and gathering in the ruffles at his sleeve. He held out the fruit. “Orange, Miss Newton?”
She didn’t even glance at his hand. “Yes, thank you.”
And she’d walked toward him, plucking the orange from his hand as he’d plucked it from t
he tree. She didn’t peel a piece away from the skin, as he had done. As would have been the ladylike thing to do. Instead, she bit into the tender flesh, sinking small white teeth into the wet, ripe fruit. A thin line of juice trickled over her chin, but she didn’t wipe it away as she chewed. Ramsey had found himself entranced by that thin line of juice. He couldn’t look away.
“Is there something amiss?” she’d asked, all innocence. But he could see in those bright blue eyes she knew exactly what she was doing. If he’d been George, he would have offered her his handkerchief and made some mention of the weather. It was a hot evening, and his coat clung to him. The tendrils of her dark hair were damp and curling at her temples, and he wondered if her gown felt as oppressive as his coat and knee breeches.
He wondered if she would feel damp and hot as the sultry night.
And because he wasn’t George, he reached out, with one ungloved finger, and swiped the line of orange juice from her chin. Then he put the finger into his mouth to taste it.
She watched him, her light eyes growing dark. He knew that look, knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. But she was George’s. The engagement wasn’t formalized, but George had all but staked his claim.
And didn’t that make her even more irresistible?
He reached for her again, cupping the back of her neck. He waited for resistance, felt the heaviness of her hair under his palm. Thick and long, he could picture it splayed under her on sheets of satin.
The satin would be cool against their hot, sweaty bodies.
He felt no stiffness and drew her to him, paused when their mouths were inches apart. Her breath, smelling of the orange she’d tasted, fluttered over him. He watched her lips part. She had flawlessly formed lips. They were perfectly pink and almost childlike in their sweet shape. He bent and delicately tasted her. He knew at any moment she would push him away or slap him, but until then he would enjoy this brief lapse in her sanity.
To his surprise, her lips moved under his. Despite the heat, her mouth was cool, and he found himself claiming more of it and still feeling unsatisfied. She opened her mouth and he delved inside, taking what he wanted and being taken in return.
She kissed like a wanton. Her tongue clashed with his, stroked his, and as she did so, her body pressed against his. She was hot and breathing hard. He could feel her breasts heave against him. His hands stroked down her back to wrap about her small waist. He knew it was cinched with a corset, but it still seemed impossibly small. He pulled her against him, against the hardness of his erection, and waited for her to protest. Instead, she dug her hands into his hair, freeing it from the queue.
Ramsey wasn’t certain who possessed whom at that moment, and he wondered how far this would go. He knew where his body wanted it to go, but he couldn’t do that to George.
Or could he?
“Stop,” she breathed, just as his resolve wavered. “I can’t.”
He lifted his mouth but kept their bodies locked together. Her hand was still in his hair, he noted.
“You’re managing quite well, Miss Newton.”
She released his hair. When she stepped back, he saw the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. They were red and swollen now, the innocent blush of pink long gone. “Managing what, my lord? To act like a doxy?”
“No, of course—“
“I should have turned back as soon as I saw you in here. But I didn’t.” Her gaze was direct and honest, and his hands itched to circle her waist again.
“No, you didn’t. Why is that, Miss Newton?”
She shrugged, looked away. Absently, she reached out and stroked the leaves of a potted lemon tree beside her. “Because I wanted this to happen.” Her gaze flicked to his again. “I wanted to see what this would be like.”
“I can show you again…”
She held up a hand to stay him. “No. I will marry George. He’ll ask me any day now. I plan to be a faithful wife.”
Ramsey snorted softly.
“I know. That’s an oxymoron, but I do like a challenge.” She turned, and he realized she was leaving. He needed to speak, to say something to stop her, to keep her there. Logically, he knew her leaving was best, but now that he’d had a taste of her, he didn’t want her to go.
“You don’t have to marry McCullough,” Ramsey said.
She looked back at him, her expression filled with surprise.
“I could…” But he couldn’t say the words. He wanted to say them. He’d thought enough about making an offer for her, but now that the opportunity was before him, he couldn’t force his mouth to cooperate.
She raised her brows and made a point of waiting.
Silence.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “That’s what I thought. Thank you for the kiss. Good night.”
Thank you for the kiss. Good night.
Ramsey lay in his bed on Brook Street and wondered who in the hell said things like that? Who in the hell barged in on a man’s solitude, took his orange, kissed him in a way he would never forget, and then walked away again?
Two weeks later he read about her engagement to McCullough in the Times. He’d been so angry he’d balled it up and stuffed it in the fire. The men seated near him at his club had paused for a moment in their discussions and returned to them again without comment.
He’d seen her again, of course. He’d been at the bloody wedding, but they’d barely exchanged pleasantries. At one point Ramsey wondered if he’d dreamed the whole incident in Exeter’s greenhouse.
But not after tonight. Her lips were the same. She didn’t smell like oranges anymore. Tonight she smelled like lilies.
And he couldn’t get her or the damn fragrance out of his head.
With a curse, he rose, stalked into his dressing room and stuffed himself into a coat and trousers. If he couldn’t sleep, he could walk. If he didn’t feel like walking anymore, he could drink.
God knew Gabrielle McCullough was the least of his troubles. He had more than a bottle could drown.
Chapter 3
Sunlight streamed through the dining room on Audley Street where Gabrielle sat sipping tea alone. She’d always loved this room—its yellow papered walls, its cheery white curtains. Somehow it managed to remain cool in summer and warm and cozy in winter.
She stared down the length of the table and tried to picture George seated at the other end, reading the Times and drinking tea. No, coffee. He’d preferred coffee. He’d been dead only a year, and already she was forgetting him. Of course, she wasn’t trying very hard to remember.
The door banged opened and Lady Diana swept in with her usual grace and flair for the dramatic. The youngest daughter of the powerful Duke of Exeter wore a striped redingote with a large caped collar, a white muslin gown, and a hat extravagantly plumed and beribboned in apple green to match the coat. Her raven black hair gleamed in a simple twist disappearing under the wide brim of the hat. Her brown eyes, the exact color of the mahogany dining table, sparkled with laughter. “I hope you don’t mind me showing myself in.”
“You practically own the place. Why not?”
Diana waved a hand. “What’s a few hundred pounds between friends?”
“Quite a lot, actually.”
“Oh well.” She shrugged and took the seat offered by the footman to Gabrielle’s right. “Now you have servants again, so the blunt was worth it.” She sat forward eagerly. “I have already been to my milliner’s. She’s almost finished with the blue-and-white-striped gown. I think I shall wear it tomorrow night at Lord Winterbourne’s ball. What do you think?”
Gabrielle sipped her tea. “I think you will look stunning, as always.”
Diana scanned Gabrielle’s simple chemise, but before speaking she waited until the footman departed. “Is Cressy joining us this morning, or did you wish to set off for Montagu House directly?”
Gabrielle sipped her tea again. This was the moment she’d been dreading since she’d arrived home last night. She was thankful for Diana. No one could be a bette
r friend. She’d helped in every way imaginable after George passed away, including making it possible for Gabrielle to remain in the London town house. And Gabrielle appreciated all her friend had done. She had no desire to move back to Swansea with her mother and father—even if she could have done so without bringing her own problems crashing down on them. But this morning, when Gabrielle felt an abject failure, she might not have minded a little solitude.
“We’re not going to the British Museum.”
Diana’s eyes widened. “No? Did you already turn it over? Oh, Gabby! I wanted to see it.”
“I didn’t turn it over. I don’t have it.”
Diana stared at her, narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”
Irritation at having to repeat herself flashed through her. “I mean, I don’t have it!”
“Don’t have what?” Mrs. Cress said from the doorway, large red hands on ample hips. “Good morning, Lady Diana.”
“Good morning, Cressy. Is that a new dress?”
The housekeeper smiled down at the dark blue dress peeking out under the starched apron she wore when polishing silver, and Gabrielle realized it was indeed new. It suited Cressy’s pretty blue eyes.
“It might be.” Her gaze snapped to the footman, who had just reentered the room. “Why doesn’t Lady Diana have chocolate?”
The footman mumbled and scrambled to pour the beverage immediately. Gabrielle shook her head. Leave it to Mrs. Cress and Diana to take a perfectly quiet, lazy morning and shake it up like a dusty rug.
“Now”—Cressy nodded at the footman in approval when Diana’s cup was filled—“What were you screeching about when I came in?”
Gabrielle caught the footman’s startled look. He was new here and unused to Cressy. One simply didn’t speak to a duke’s daughter thus, but Cressy had never known when to hold her tongue and had been let go from more positions than Gabrielle could count. Perhaps that was why she was the only servant who’d stayed last year when Gabrielle had announced she couldn’t pay them. And for that, as far as Gabrielle was concerned, Cressy could say or do whatever she liked.