“But he has my ring!”
He felt a brief flicker of amazement: she had purchased the wedding bands? Had the viscount done nothing for this match?
Why had she been content to sell herself so cheaply?
And then, looking at her face, a new possibility occurred to him. “Richard’s ring.”
“Yes!”
Christ. He remembered all too clearly her face as he had placed that ring in her palm. He sighed. “I’ll get it back, then.”
Her wide eyes looked dazed. She seemed to look through him at some disastrous scene, miles distant. “But if he’s taken it abroad with him—”
“His first stop will be Paris, no doubt, and I’m bound for there tomorrow.” And then, because she was still staring in that broken, addled way that put him disturbingly in mind of a vacant-eyed doll, he added, “Don’t fret, sweetheart. You’ll have it back soon enough. And for the man himself, consider yourself well rid of him.”
She blinked and focused on him. A curious look crossed her face. The sudden slant of her mouth seemed almost . . . calculating.
“All right,” she said slowly. “You want to read the letter? I’ll read it to you myself, if you like. But only if you promise to do a favor in return.”
His instincts stirred, bidding caution.
How ridiculous. Hell, maybe hysteria was catching. Gwen was as harmless as a rabbit. “Ask away,” he said and started to break the seal.
“Not here!” She threw a quick glance around. Now she looked almost feverish—bright spots of color on her pale cheeks, and an odd glitter in her eyes. “Discretion, Alex! The library will do.”
The strange smile she gave him before turning on her heel made his instincts rise up again, clanging.
Misfiring, misfiring. Rabbit, he told himself and fell in step behind her for the library.
Chapter Four
Striding down from the corridor toward a new and better chapter in her life, Gwen felt transformed. For one thing, she was striding. Before, she had only drifted. Secondly, she was leading—and leading Alex Ramsey, no less! Alex never followed anybody’s lead. It seemed a considerable accomplishment, akin to hooking a bull by the nose.
In fact, by the time she threw open the door to the library, she felt well underway to becoming a smashing success at this routine. On the table in the center of the room lay a volume on womanly virtues that Elma had been reading to her as she’d knitted in the evenings. She would throw it into the street! That map of the world against the left wall, full of so many empty spaces—she would travel to those spaces and document them!
Why not? Her giddiness showed no signs of abating. Perhaps this attitude was not a temporary impulse but a true expression of her nature, long trammeled by tight lacing and endless worrying and abstention from all the many delicious foods that Elma had warned her would make her fat.
Alex walked into the room, sparing her one of those cool head-to-toe looks that, only a day ago, would have made her feel summarized and dismissed as tediously conventional. She slammed the door shut. “I think we should ring for scones,” she said. “And a great boatload of cream! A decadent high tea in the library! What do you say?”
He put his hands into his pockets and tilted his head. Mildly he said, “Perhaps you need something stronger. A dose of laudanum, say.”
“Or brandy!” she exclaimed. “Yes, what a brilliant idea! Why not?”
He hesitated briefly. “Order whatever you like,” he said. “I won’t be distracted from the letter, but I am willing to wait.”
Ah, this was more the tone she was accustomed to hearing from him: amused and a touch condescending. In such tones did Lady Milton explain to orphans that it was more important for food to be nourishing than appetizing.
“Oh, I would never wish to inconvenience you,” she said sweetly. “So many countries to visit, so much profit to be made! Very important business; I’ll gladly forgo my brandy for it. Now open the letter, quick as you please.”
His blue eyes widened as he placed his hand to his heart. “Sarcasm, Miss Maudsley?”
She held her smile by sheer dint of will. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”
He shook his head and turned away. She followed him across the carpet, taking a seat near the window as he shook out the letter and propped his shoulder against the sash.
His lounging attitude made her cognizant of her own, sadly proper posture. She tried a slump of her shoulders, but her corset would not allow it.
As he began to read, the light of the setting sun illuminated his face in detail. She kept her eyes on him; she did not want to miss a single nuance of his reaction. He was, after all, the expert at rude behavior—a fact that, all of a sudden, made him very interesting. Educational, even. Did he, too, experience this lovely sense of freedom from flouting convention?