by Candace Camp
His friend nodded, frowning.
Gabriel glanced at him. “What is it? You don’t seem very enthusiastic.”
“I should love for you to find Jocelyn, of course. It’s just … I can scarce believe it. I think it must be some sort of hoax. Someone is toying with you.”
“I can’t believe you think your cousin is part of a hoax.”
“Cousin Althea?” Ian let out a crack of laughter, his face lighting for a moment. “There’s a picture. No. She’s a female version of her father, who was a pious old stickler. I doubt she has ever had an indecent thought in her life, and if she has, I am certain she hasn’t acted upon it.”
“Mm,” Gabriel said noncommittally.
“No, I believe that Cousin Althea found the baby just as you said. Nor am I surprised that she immediately assumed the worst about you.”
Morecombe’s lips lifted at one corner. “Am I so obviously a sinner, then?”
“No, but she is a bluestocking and a spinster—not the sort who thinks well of men in general, I’d say.”
“She certainly thought ill of me.”
“I have to wonder if Rawdon is behind this child suddenly showing up here.”
“What?” Gabriel stopped and turned to stare at Ian. “Are you serious? Why would Rawdon want me to believe that he had his way with my sister?”
“I don’t know. But the only person the child resembles is him. Maybe it is some by-blow of his by another woman.”
“What purpose does it serve to make me think the baby is Jocelyn’s?”
“Maybe to convince you that she is alive.”
Gabriel looked at him sharply, then shook his head. “I know what you think. But I cannot believe it.”
“Are you like Myles? You cannot believe Rawdon is a villain?”
“No, of course not. And you mustn’t blame Myles. He does not know the things about Rawdon that you and I do.”
Ian shrugged, and Gabriel continued, “It is not that I cannot believe it about Rawdon—that was hard, but I have accepted it. But I do not believe, I refuse to believe, that my sister is dead.” Gabriel turned his intense, dark gaze on his friend. “And I am going to prove that she is not. This baby is going to lead me to her. I am going to find Jocelyn.”
Thea hummed to herself as she buttoned the top button of her brown wool dress. She glanced down at the baby in his basket beside her before she turned to her mirror. She had just finished pulling a comb through her hair, and it was, at least, no longer tangled, though it did flare out from her head in a wild mass of curls. Raking it back tightly, she began the familiar braiding of it into a long, fat plait, which she then wound around the crown of her head, securing it with pins. It was soon tightly fixed, unlike the slapdash braid she had coiled up last night, though the fine, short hairs around her face slipped out and curled as they usually did. It was her custom to dampen them and slick them straight back, fixing them with pins.
But today, she found herself idly twisting them around her forefinger until she had several delicate curls clustering around her face. Gabriel had said he liked her curls. Had he meant it or was he joking? She tilted her head to the side, considering. Perhaps it did soften the outlines of her face, which was bonier and starker than the feminine ideal. But perhaps that was simply because she had not yet put on her spectacles. She picked the lenses up from the dresser and placed them on her nose, securing them behind her ears.
Thea looked at her reflection and sighed. It was foolish vanity, she thought. She reached for the water bowl, but at that moment Matthew left off his patient blowing and cooing and began his little hiccuping cry.
“Are you tired of waiting?” she asked. “You have been a terribly good boy this morning.”
And he had, really. Aside from the adventure of diapering him last night and this morning—she still could not understand how a baby could twist and turn and roll so much, and the diaper was, admittedly, rather bulky and odd-looking—he had been happy and quiet, sleeping through the night and awakening her this morning with a series of coos and soft noises rather than the piercing cries he had emitted last night when he was hungry.
She was, she thought as she picked up his basket and started downstairs, going to have to find out from Mrs. Brewster how the housekeeper had kept him from splattering food everywhere yesterday when she fed him. As Thea stepped off the last stair into the hall, she met her brother. Daniel glanced at the basket she carried, then peered into it more closely. His eyebrows rose.
“Is he still here? I had forgotten about him.”
“That’s because he is so good.” Thea set down the basket and reached in to pick up the baby. “I’ve named him Matthew. Would you like to hold him?”
A faint look of horror crossed Daniel’s face and he took half a step back. “No, that’s fine. I—why have you named him? You cannot mean to keep this child?”
“Of course not. Only until we find out where he belongs.”
“Thea … he belongs in a foundling home.” Daniel began to frown.
“No, truly, I think he does not.” Thea began to explain the possibilities of the baby’s parentage to Daniel, and with every word, his frown deepened.
“Oh, my,” he said finally. “I—well, are you sure that this is what you should do? I mean, it does seem there’s rather a lot of scandal attached to the boy.” He cast a doubtful look at Matthew, who responded by blowing bubbles.
“That’s hardly his fault,” Thea said reasonably. “In any case, once Lord Morecombe gets everything in order, I shall be turning Matthew over to him.” The words left her with a hollow feeling, but she ignored that. “Bring his basket, would you? I’m going to take him into the kitchen for Mrs. Brewster to look after while we have breakfast.”
“Excellent.” Daniel looked relieved. “I thought you were going to be holding him all through the meal. I read something very interesting last night about the excavation of the ruins of the Minerva temple at Bath, and I wanted to discuss it with you.”
“Of course.”
Mrs. Brewster grinned broadly at the sight of the baby and promised to feed him as soon as she dished up breakfast for Daniel and Thea. They left the baby in his basket with the day maid, Sally, cooing over him, and went to the dining room. Daniel was soon happily expounding on his readings, but Thea found it harder than usual to keep her mind on his words. The layout of the Roman baths had much less appeal than wondering what Lord Morecombe was going to do today about finding a nursemaid for Matthew, and how he intended to go about discovering who had left the baby at the church. It was most annoying to have to sit about and wait for someone else to take care of things, and Thea wished she had thought to offer help—not, she had to admit with an inward sigh, that he would have been likely to accept her offer. Men seemed to be stubbornly reluctant to allow a woman to help them.
Fortunately, Daniel did not notice that Thea’s attention wandered, and she got through the meal with only a few vague responses when he paused for her opinion. Once breakfast was over, Thea took Matthew and sat down in the sitting room in front of the fire to tie evergreen boughs into the garlands she would tie on the staircase railing. Matthew seemed content enough to sit or roll about on the hooked rug at her feet. He picked at the rug and sometimes rose onto his hands and knees to rock back and forth as he had the night before. She had to smile, watching him; it was as if he wanted to crawl but had not figured out quite how to make his limbs move. It occurred to her that he needed some toys to play with. She would have to look in the attic.
After a while, when Matthew grew fussy, she sat down with him in the rocking chair. Soon his eyes began to blink, and he dropped his head onto her shoulder. His eyes closed and his little body grew heavier and limper. Thea closed her eyes as emotion welled in her, so sweet it was almost painful.
Thea was reluctant to lay the sleeping child down in the basket, but she thought that it was both foolish and idle to simply sit there holding him when there was work to be done, so after a few minutes
she set him down in the basket and took the garlands she had made, as well as the mistletoe ball, into the entry. She tied the garland to the newel and went up the stairs, tying the garland in strategic spots so that it hung in shallow loops along the banister. Next, she picked up the mistletoe ball she had made of two hoops wrapped in red ribbon. In the center of the open ball, she had attached a cluster of mistletoe, the white, waxy berries and green leaves a dramatic contrast to the red frame.
She usually coaxed her brother into hanging the eye-catching decoration in the hallway, but she had heard him leave the house a while ago. She was tugging the hall bench out to the middle of the floor so that she could hang the ball herself when the front door knocker sounded. Thea opened the door to see Gabriel Morecombe standing on the other side.
“Lord Morecombe!” Her heart sped up, and she smiled, realizing a moment too late that her smile had probably been too bright. What if he assumed she thought he was courting her, which was, of course, absurd? She could hardly explain that she was not interested in seeing him, which would not only be rude but would doubtless make him think exactly the opposite.
“Good day, Miss Bainbridge.” He paused, then added teasingly, “Have I displeased you already?”
“What? No. Why do you say that?”
“You smiled when you answered the door, and now you are frowning. Nor have you invited me in. Were you expecting someone else, perhaps?”
“Oh. No. My mind was elsewhere. Please come in.” Flustered, Thea stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter.
He glanced down at the mistletoe ball in her hand and back up at her face, his eyes beginning to twinkle. “Why, Miss Bainbridge, do you usually greet your visitors this way come Christmastime? I scarce know whether you offer an invitation or a dare.”
He was only teasing, Thea knew, yet she felt herself begin to blush. It was completely infuriating. What if the blush made him think she was wanting to kiss him? It only made it even more appalling to realize that she would not at all mind a repetition of the kiss he had given her last night.
“Don’t be nonsensical.” Thea closed the door a bit more forcefully than was necessary. “I was simply about to hang it.”
He glanced at the ceiling, then back at her. “By yourself?”
“I was going to stand upon the bench.”
“Please. Allow me.” Plucking the decoration from her hand, he lithely stepped onto the bench and tied the mistletoe to the large nail.
“Thank you. You are most kind.” Thea strove for the proper formality of tone. It would be extremely embarrassing if he realized that her lips kept wanting to smile.
“So prim and proper, Miss Bainbridge.” He reached out a forefinger and touched one of the soft curls at her temple. “I like the way you did your hair.”
Thea’s stomach fluttered, and she looked away quickly. She was filled with such a tumbling rush of unusual feelings—an undeniable pleasure that he liked her hairstyle combined with the horrifying prospect that he might think she had arranged it that way in an attempt to please him, and sprinkled over it all a sizzling physical response to his touch—that she could not seem to find her mental footing. “I am sure you are an expert on such matters,” she replied tartly, then was washed with embarrassment that she had responded with such a lack of social grace.
He chuckled. “Whether I am an expert is questionable, but I am definitely an interested observer.”
She could not hold back a little smile at his words, though, again, she had no idea how to respond.
Gabriel leaned down toward her. “It seems foolish not to take advantage of the fruits of our labors.”
He glanced up significantly, and Thea followed his gaze to the ball of mistletoe above them. Before she could move or speak, he kissed her. She threw her hands up against his chest as if to ward him off, but her arms had no strength to push him away. She felt limp and wobbly all over, her head light, as if she had been spinning, and Thea found herself curling her fingers into Morecombe’s jacket and holding on to steady herself.
She had told herself that their kiss last night had not been as pleasurable, as shattering, as she remembered. Clearly, however, she had been lying to herself. His mouth was delicious, intoxicating. She was avidly alive to every sensation. Even the air against her cheek or the scent of the evergreen garlands or the sounds of pots rattling in the kitchen was suddenly sharper and clearer. Thea knew she was trembling a little, and it embarrassed her that he must feel it, but she could not seem to control her own body. She wanted to drink Gabriel in, to wrap her arms around him and press her body into his. Her body thrummed, something hot and dark and liquid growing deep within her.
The strange sensations shook her, and when Gabriel raised his head and looked down at her, she could not move, could only gaze back at him in stunned pleasure. His lips were dark and full, his eyes black under the shadow of his thick lashes. Thea wanted to touch him, to trace the lines of his face with her fingertips, feeling the warmth and texture of his skin, the hard lines of the bony outcroppings of cheeks and jaw and brow. The very forwardness of her longings shocked her.
Gabriel smiled a little, but his expression carried no hint of mockery or teasing, only a faint, almost sweet, hint of surprise. “Miss Bainbridge,” he whispered. “You have a way of leaving me all a-sea.” He brushed his lips against her mouth, soft and brief as the touch of a butterfly’s wings. “I think I know you, and then I find …” He kissed her on the lips again, punctuating his words, the kiss growing in heat and length with every repetition. “You’re … never … what … I expect.” His mouth settled on hers with a hungry finality, and he kissed her as deeply as he had the night before.
Of their own volition, Thea’s arms twined around his neck, and she moved onto her toes, pressing her lips into his. He let out a low groan deep in his throat, and his hands slid down her sides, his palms brushing the soft edges of her breasts before traveling farther down and around to curve over her hips. He dug his fingertips into the soft, rounded flesh, squeezing and pushing her into him.
Thea knew it was mad to be doing what they were. They were in the middle of the house in the middle of the day. She should pull away; she should be indignant, insulted. She should probably slap his impertinent face. But she could not bring herself to do what she should. She wanted only to taste more, feel more. She relished the surge of heat within her, the unaccustomed throbbing that started between her legs, the tightening of her nipples into small, hard points. Last night, when he’d kissed her, she had thought the feelings that had blossomed inside her must be the peak of desire, the height of sensation. But now, with every movement of his hands, each deepening of his kiss, the pleasure grew, her own hunger pulling her in further so that she wanted even more. Thea sensed that there must be still more awaiting her along this path. Gabriel, she was suddenly sure, could lead her beyond anything she had ever known, and she wanted, with a deep, physical ache, to let him take her there.
At that moment, the baby’s wail arose from the sitting room.
With a gasp, Thea broke away from Gabriel. She stared at him, the full realization of what had just happened dawning in her eyes. Her fingertips came up to press against her full, damp lips, her eyes huge above her hand. He gazed back at her without a word, his chest rising and falling in quick pants. Gabriel took a step forward, one hand going out to her, and Thea whirled and ran for the sitting room.
She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, trying to regain her senses as well as her breath. What had she done? What had she been thinking? Her face flooded with color as she recalled how wantonly she had responded to him—not just now but last night as well. He would be justified in believing her a hussy. Thea had never considered that she might have such loose, immoral behavior in her. She had never been silly over men or indulged in daydreaming about courtship and marriage. She had always considered herself practical and unromantic, the last sort of woman to feel the pull of desire.
But she could sca
rcely deny that her blood was running like a fever in her right now. Nor could she ignore the hot, empty ache deep within her that made her squeeze her legs together tightly in the vain hope that it would disappear. Clearly she was just as vulnerable to temptation as anyone else. And just as clearly, she would have to guard against it. Just as she would have to guard herself against Gabriel Morecombe.
Matthew’s cries had not ended, and Thea pushed away from the door and went to pick him up. She held him to her, murmuring softly and patting him on the back, and his squalls diminished, then, after a final little hiccuping sob, stopped altogether. She looked down into his face and smiled. His wet lashes were stuck together into points like stars around his bright blue eyes. How, she wondered, could he look so utterly beautiful after crying like that?
She leaned her head against his, forehead to forehead, and he giggled, which meant that she had to do it several more times, and with each repetition, his giggles erupted into greater and greater laughter. If only she could stay in here playing with Matthew, she thought, and never have to go out to face Lord Morecombe. But obviously that would be impossible. She wasn’t sure how she could face the man after the way she had just acted. Of course, last night she had felt the same way—was it always going to be this way around Gabriel Morecombe?—but eventually she had recovered enough to act normally. The happy thought occurred to her that he might just leave if she stayed in here long enough, but right after that the door opened and Gabriel stepped into the room.
“Do you always just walk into closed rooms wherever you find yourself?” she asked him crossly, grateful at least that her annoyance overcame her embarrassment.
“Only if I wish to see what’s behind them,” he answered imperturbably. His eyes went to the baby in her arms, and he smiled. “Well, Master Matthew, you seem to have changed your tune.”
Matthew began to thrash his arms and gurgle in the way that meant he was happy, and he held out his hands to Morecombe in clear invitation.