His own lifting mood gave him pause. He had no right to feel cheerful. Had Richard been alive, the man would have been demanding Alex’s blood for last night’s betrayal. A pretty thing to do—indulging one’s own appetites with the sister of the man one had directed to his death. He had fallen asleep furious with himself.
That anger now seemed very distant.
His hand paused, shoved halfway through his hair. In fact, the very reflex to castigate himself—to revile his own weakness with regard to Gwen—felt limp and tired, like an overused muscle that no longer held any power.
He did not feel guilty at all.
A banging came at the door. Bit aggressive for a porter hoping for a tip. He rose on a curiously light sensation, opened the door and discovered his Achilles’ heel. Gwen stood with her arms crossed under her breasts, freshly dressed in a tweed walking outfit. On her head perched the most ridiculous hat he’d ever seen—some long-brimmed affair that featured an assortment of garden creatures, miniature birds and bees and butterflies, held aloft by rose stems made of gutta-percha.
He reached out to give the bird a chuck to the chin. Gwen stepped backward, and the bumblebee bobbed a cheerful nod.
He smiled as another buoying sensation washed through him. It felt as though the sleep was knitting into his muscles now. He began to feel quite . . . alert. “Come in,” he said.
Her manner was stiff as she ran a pointed eye down his bare chest. “The porter said he could not rouse you. But I’d assumed that you would be dressed by now. No matter. I’ll be outside.”
“Wait,” he said as she turned away.
She paused. “What?”
He opened his mouth. But what was there to say? Strange thing: until last night, he’d had no idea that Richard’s death still weighed so heavily on his conscience.
It was not within her power to absolve him, of course.
Yet he felt absolved. Jesus Christ. He felt weightless.
He stepped back. “Nothing,” he said. “Only—modesty seems a bit disingenuous, now that I’ve had my hand on your—”
“I have no desire to watch you dress,” she said sharply.
“Does the word offend you?”
She glared at him silently. Her color was rising.
“Or do you not know the words?” That was far more likely. “There are several to choose from,” he said helpfully. “For all that you’re determined to be wicked, I expect you’d favor the ladylike ‘quim.’ For the male apparatus, ‘cock’ is the term generally favored, although you may use ‘manhood,’ if you’re feeling vaporish.”
“Do we require soap?” she asked icily. “Apparently you haven’t washed your mouth yet this morning.”
He laughed. “What a prudish mood you’re in. Is this my punishment for failing to shag you?” Properly, he deserved a bloody award for restraint. A hotter sight than her writhing on his bed beneath his touch, he’d never see in his life.
Unless he reconsidered his policy on shagging her. Then he might see other things, too.
Her face was now a very interesting shade of pink. Bordered on purple, really. “I don’t know that word either,” she said. “So I can’t answer you.”
“Oh, if your blush is anything to go by, I expect you’ve drawn the right conclusion. Come now, step inside. Unless you’ve changed your mind in the night, and fear for your virtue?”
She made an irritated noise, then shoved past him into the room, stalking—or attempting to, for the size of the room would not allow for drama—to the window. There she turned, giving him her very best glare. “You’re entirely obnoxious,” she said.
He offered a smile in reply. Had he any artistic talent, he would have sketched her like this, silhouetted against the window behind her, framed by the green velvet curtains caught up at either side by gold tasseled sashes. Angry Young Miss En Determined Route to Ruin would be the public title, and the private, A Damned Nuisance I Could Have Avoided by Turning Back at Gibraltar.
Except that the first title seemed flavorless, and the second . . . dishonest. He certainly could have avoided her by turning back for South America. But to what profit? She was amusing. She evinced surprising bravery, tossing over her little world and throwing off every restriction she’d ever known. And she was right: this Richard business was a poor excuse to trammel her. The Maudsleys had done their best by Gwen; had designed a path for her that many women would have been happy to walk. But Gwen herself had not proved content with it. The intentions of the dead should not have a hold on the living.
A new title, then: The Unexpectedly Interesting Former Debutante.