somehow she couldn’t imagine any man but Marlowe could kiss with such devastating effect.
She stared across the darkened interior of the carriage at her brother’s set face, and wondered idly why she wasn’t in more of a panic. It usually required only a mild frown from Derwent’s heavy face to set her in a taking. But not tonight. She had reached her majority, been kissed by one of the most attractive men she had ever met, and she wasn’t about to let her overbearing brother’s megrims spoil it for her. And she would tell him so, once he broached the subject. As a matter of fact, she was, for the first time in her life, quite looking forward to a good dust-up. Stripping off the thin kid gloves, she surreptitiously brushed her fingers along her tremulous lips. Lips that Marlowe had found worthy of kissing, she reminded herself, and her eyes were shining.
She realized with a start of surprise that the carriage had come to a halt outside Redfern House. “You will have no trouble seeing yourself off to bed, Bertram,” Derwent was saying in his lugubrious voice. “My sister and I wish to be private.”
“Of course, Uncle,” Bertie said cravenly as he jumped down from the carriage. Derwent made no move to follow him. “Aren’t you coming in?” he stammered nervously.
“In my own good time,” his uncle replied. “What I have to say to your aunt doesn’t want overhearing by a bunch of servants with nothing more constructive to fill their time than listening to their betters.”
Always agile, Gillian scrambled from the carriage just ahead of Derwent’s admonishing grip. “Well, I don’t care to be cloistered in a carriage with you, Derwent,” she said boldly, and Derwent’s heavy eyebrows went up. “It’s cold and I’m tired. If you have anything to say to me you may come into the drawing room and do so. Otherwise you may sit in this carriage till judgment day. Bertie, your arm.” She swept up the front steps, her hand firmly on Bertie’s weak and trembling arm.
“Gilly, how could you dare?” he breathed, tripping over the top step. “Uncle Derwent was already in a rare taking. He’ll be livid after this.”
“I doubt he could be any angrier,” she replied as she stepped into the warm front hall and handed her pelisse to the impassive butler. “Derwent always was a bully, even as a child. It amazes me that I had forgotten,” she mused. “He’s bound to give me a dressing down and sulk for a few days. Or even threaten to pack me off to your parents or Pamela. But in the end Letty’s comfort will come first, and you know she cannot manage her children without me around.”
Bertie looked astounded at his aunt’s plain speaking. “I never knew you to be so cynical, Gilly.”
“I’m not cynical. Merely realistic. At the advanced age of thirty I am surely past romantic idealism.”
“I don’t know that Lord Marlowe would agree with that,” Bertie offered, and then clammed up as Derwent stomped into the hallway, his face thunderous.
“Go to bed, Bertram,” he snapped. “Unless you prefer to return to your parents tomorrow morning.”
Bertie, bless his heart, looked torn, Gillian observed with amusement—torn between abject terror of her bullying brother and a desire to defend his hapless aunt. Terror won, and with mumbled apologies he disappeared up the stairs, leaving her to face the bearlike presence in front of her.
“Would you deign to attend me in my study?” he inquired with awful sarcasm, “or would that be too much to request?”
A shiver of nervousness washed over her, and she set her mind firmly on a certain rakish gentleman, squaring her shoulders and meeting her brother’s glare with an amiable smile. “Certainly, brother,” she replied calmly. “Though I don’t see why you can’t say what you want to me now and have done with it. The servants are just as likely to overhear us there as right here in the hallway.”
Derwent hesitated, frustration turning
She stared across the darkened interior of the carriage at her brother’s set face, and wondered idly why she wasn’t in more of a panic. It usually required only a mild frown from Derwent’s heavy face to set her in a taking. But not tonight. She had reached her majority, been kissed by one of the most attractive men she had ever met, and she wasn’t about to let her overbearing brother’s megrims spoil it for her. And she would tell him so, once he broached the subject. As a matter of fact, she was, for the first time in her life, quite looking forward to a good dust-up. Stripping off the thin kid gloves, she surreptitiously brushed her fingers along her tremulous lips. Lips that Marlowe had found worthy of kissing, she reminded herself, and her eyes were shining.
She realized with a start of surprise that the carriage had come to a halt outside Redfern House. “You will have no trouble seeing yourself off to bed, Bertram,” Derwent was saying in his lugubrious voice. “My sister and I wish to be private.”
“Of course, Uncle,” Bertie said cravenly as he jumped down from the carriage. Derwent made no move to follow him. “Aren’t you coming in?” he stammered nervously.
“In my own good time,” his uncle replied. “What I have to say to your aunt doesn’t want overhearing by a bunch of servants with nothing more constructive to fill their time than listening to their betters.”
Always agile, Gillian scrambled from the carriage just ahead of Derwent’s admonishing grip. “Well, I don’t care to be cloistered in a carriage with you, Derwent,” she said boldly, and Derwent’s heavy eyebrows went up. “It’s cold and I’m tired. If you have anything to say to me you may come into the drawing room and do so. Otherwise you may sit in this carriage till judgment day. Bertie, your arm.” She swept up the front steps, her hand firmly on Bertie’s weak and trembling arm.
“Gilly, how could you dare?” he breathed, tripping over the top step. “Uncle Derwent was already in a rare taking. He’ll be livid after this.”
“I doubt he could be any angrier,” she replied as she stepped into the warm front hall and handed her pelisse to the impassive butler. “Derwent always was a bully, even as a child. It amazes me that I had forgotten,” she mused. “He’s bound to give me a dressing down and sulk for a few days. Or even threaten to pack me off to your parents or Pamela. But in the end Letty’s comfort will come first, and you know she cannot manage her children without me around.”
Bertie looked astounded at his aunt’s plain speaking. “I never knew you to be so cynical, Gilly.”
“I’m not cynical. Merely realistic. At the advanced age of thirty I am surely past romantic idealism.”
“I don’t know that Lord Marlowe would agree with that,” Bertie offered, and then clammed up as Derwent stomped into the hallway, his face thunderous.
“Go to bed, Bertram,” he snapped. “Unless you prefer to return to your parents tomorrow morning.”
Bertie, bless his heart, looked torn, Gillian observed with amusement—torn between abject terror of her bullying brother and a desire to defend his hapless aunt. Terror won, and with mumbled apologies he disappeared up the stairs, leaving her to face the bearlike presence in front of her.
“Would you deign to attend me in my study?” he inquired with awful sarcasm, “or would that be too much to request?”
A shiver of nervousness washed over her, and she set her mind firmly on a certain rakish gentleman, squaring her shoulders and meeting her brother’s glare with an amiable smile. “Certainly, brother,” she replied calmly. “Though I don’t see why you can’t say what you want to me now and have done with it. The servants are just as likely to overhear us there as right here in the hallway.”
Derwent hesitated, frustration turning
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