so at odds with the flowing mane of red hair that put the lie to the
prudish ensemble.
Without speaking to him, she turned her back and employed both
hands to lift her hair, giving him access to the long row of buttons...and her
bare back. What woman shunned at least a chemise, wearing only a pair of those
flimsy French drawers tied at her waist? What torment for a man to look at that
high-necked gown, those modestly covered arms, knowing what lay beneath! Modesty
and vice. No and yes. Prude and wanton. Oh, yes, the mistress of the game she
played.
Gideon drew his finger down the length of her spine, and she
shifted her shoulders slightly, either in delight or to warn him to stop. He
couldn’t know, and he doubted she would tell him unless he could goad her into
an answer.
“Perhaps an hour was an insult to myself,” he whispered beside
her ear as, instead of putting his hands to the task of closing her buttons, he
slid them inside the gaping fabric, to gently cup and squeeze her unbound,
uplifted breasts, his thumbs circling her taut nipples. Item three on the list of things he wanted to do to Jessica Linden he’d
composed in his head during his near-sleepless night.
For a moment, she seemed ready to melt against him. For a
moment.
“Richard was correct in his assessment. You are your father’s
son, aren’t you, Gideon? Does nothing save rutting occupy your mind for more
than a minute?”
“You—” He withdrew his hands, closing his mouth on the word bitch, and buttoned her gown as impersonally as
he’d pull on his own boots. He’d figure her out, there would come a day when he
called the shots, when she would be rebuffed, left feeling like a pleading,
bleating fool. But clearly, he told himself, not yet.
“Thank you,” she said as she lowered her hands, and her
luxurious curls tumbled free past her shoulders. She then immediately sat down
and looked up at him, clear-eyed and composed, as if they’d just come upstairs,
and nothing had happened between them. “How do you know my father and Clarissa
were murdered?”
That she’d traded her body for information was clear now. She’d
let him have her so that they could get down to business. A cold woman.
Gideon took up his wineglass once more. He could play the game
as coolly as she did, better. He’d had considerable practice. “I don’t know if
your stepmother was deliberately killed. She may simply have had the misfortune
to be in the coach. But Turner was definitely murdered. Their hired coach
supposedly overturned at night, with the full, lit coach lanterns breaking, the
oil spilling out and igniting. Trapped inside the coach, your father and his
wife were burned to death.”
By now, Jessica had her hand to her mouth, finally shaken out
of her reserve. “My God. I always believed he was destined for hellfire. But not
while he was still aboveground. Yet, clearly an accident. Why did you question
it?”
Gideon set down his wineglass. “I was already aware of other
deaths, other members of the Society perishing in accidents. All, like your father, wearing the rose. Orford, last
spring, shot by mistake by another hunter in his party—just whom, nobody could
say, as they were all drunk, all shooting as fast as their bearers could load
for them. Sir George Dunmore drowned six months ago after somehow toppling into
the Channel from a friend’s yacht in the middle of the night, the conclusion
being that he must have slipped on the rain-wet deck and tumbled overboard.”
“Both plausible conclusions,” Jessica said. “But there was
another one?”
“Yes, the one that finally aroused my suspicions. A few months
later it was Baron Harden’s turn to be careless. He took a tumble down a dark
flight of stairs after leaving his mistress. When I heard of your father’s
accident just outside London, most especially the part about the coach lamps, I
was already past believing all these accidents were a matter of coincidence. I
immediately traveled
prudish ensemble.
Without speaking to him, she turned her back and employed both
hands to lift her hair, giving him access to the long row of buttons...and her
bare back. What woman shunned at least a chemise, wearing only a pair of those
flimsy French drawers tied at her waist? What torment for a man to look at that
high-necked gown, those modestly covered arms, knowing what lay beneath! Modesty
and vice. No and yes. Prude and wanton. Oh, yes, the mistress of the game she
played.
Gideon drew his finger down the length of her spine, and she
shifted her shoulders slightly, either in delight or to warn him to stop. He
couldn’t know, and he doubted she would tell him unless he could goad her into
an answer.
“Perhaps an hour was an insult to myself,” he whispered beside
her ear as, instead of putting his hands to the task of closing her buttons, he
slid them inside the gaping fabric, to gently cup and squeeze her unbound,
uplifted breasts, his thumbs circling her taut nipples. Item three on the list of things he wanted to do to Jessica Linden he’d
composed in his head during his near-sleepless night.
For a moment, she seemed ready to melt against him. For a
moment.
“Richard was correct in his assessment. You are your father’s
son, aren’t you, Gideon? Does nothing save rutting occupy your mind for more
than a minute?”
“You—” He withdrew his hands, closing his mouth on the word bitch, and buttoned her gown as impersonally as
he’d pull on his own boots. He’d figure her out, there would come a day when he
called the shots, when she would be rebuffed, left feeling like a pleading,
bleating fool. But clearly, he told himself, not yet.
“Thank you,” she said as she lowered her hands, and her
luxurious curls tumbled free past her shoulders. She then immediately sat down
and looked up at him, clear-eyed and composed, as if they’d just come upstairs,
and nothing had happened between them. “How do you know my father and Clarissa
were murdered?”
That she’d traded her body for information was clear now. She’d
let him have her so that they could get down to business. A cold woman.
Gideon took up his wineglass once more. He could play the game
as coolly as she did, better. He’d had considerable practice. “I don’t know if
your stepmother was deliberately killed. She may simply have had the misfortune
to be in the coach. But Turner was definitely murdered. Their hired coach
supposedly overturned at night, with the full, lit coach lanterns breaking, the
oil spilling out and igniting. Trapped inside the coach, your father and his
wife were burned to death.”
By now, Jessica had her hand to her mouth, finally shaken out
of her reserve. “My God. I always believed he was destined for hellfire. But not
while he was still aboveground. Yet, clearly an accident. Why did you question
it?”
Gideon set down his wineglass. “I was already aware of other
deaths, other members of the Society perishing in accidents. All, like your father, wearing the rose. Orford, last
spring, shot by mistake by another hunter in his party—just whom, nobody could
say, as they were all drunk, all shooting as fast as their bearers could load
for them. Sir George Dunmore drowned six months ago after somehow toppling into
the Channel from a friend’s yacht in the middle of the night, the conclusion
being that he must have slipped on the rain-wet deck and tumbled overboard.”
“Both plausible conclusions,” Jessica said. “But there was
another one?”
“Yes, the one that finally aroused my suspicions. A few months
later it was Baron Harden’s turn to be careless. He took a tumble down a dark
flight of stairs after leaving his mistress. When I heard of your father’s
accident just outside London, most especially the part about the coach lamps, I
was already past believing all these accidents were a matter of coincidence. I
immediately traveled
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