She stared very hard at a hook set into the wall. Focus. “But what would be the point of staying so far away? Your aim is to gather information. It’s most easily done here.”
He traced a circle on her hip. This time, to her pride, she successfully denied any outward response to the touch, although inside, oh—low in her belly, in her fluttering chest, in the places he had taken and soothed last night—she was dissolving.
He spoke. “I don’t appreciate being spied on. That’s the point.”
She choked on a surprised laugh—and then, when he lifted a brow, she said simply, “The irony, Alex.”
After a moment, he smiled as well. “Touché. I suppose hypocrisy is the name of this game as well.”
“Then I should be good at it.” She paused. His hand still covered her hip, but when she focused all her attention on the task, instead of simply allowing her baser senses free reign, she could find it amusing, in an ironic sort of way. “You should be good at it yourself,” she said. “No need to touch me now; I’m done with flinching and gasping.”
His hand tightened on her hip. “Gwen—”
“Lily,” she corrected. “We’ll stay. We didn’t come all this way for nothing. And if at night they don’t see . . . well, what they expect to see, then we’ll simply have to pretend that we’ve quarreled. Yes? So we will act very coldly toward one another today.” In that regard, the spy holes were a blessing: she now had an excuse to curl as far away from him as possible. Perhaps even to lie on top of her traitorous hands, which would be sure, otherwise, to stray toward him.
His touch fell away. “I don’t think that’s wise,” he said. “Barrington might see it as an opportunity to make his address to you.”
“I can handle flirtation,” she said. “I’m no green girl. Not all men are well behaved in a ballroom.”
“All right,” he said at length. “But only provided this is the last unpleasant surprise we discover. If he proves dangerous—”
“I know,” she said in bored tones. “In your brotherly way, you will insist we leave at once.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing his face go dark before she swept back into the enemy territory of the bedroom.
By the time they had bathed (Gwen requested the tub to be placed in the dressing room) and finished changing out of their traveling clothes, the sun had begun to set and the temperature to drop. Gwen plucked out a pashmina shawl in a beautiful ruby red to wear over her low-necked evening gown to dinner. Alex, in turn, donned full coat tails, and the sight gave her a moment’s mute astonishment. She had not seen him so formally dressed in years. He never attended the parties that called for it—not in her circles, at least.
The look suited him. His jacket was cut to a more form-fitting silhouette than was fashionable in England at present, and it emphasized the sweep of his broad shoulders into his narrow waist, the long, muscled length of his legs.
“We are going to quarrel,” she reminded him. And herself.
He smiled at her, those gorgeous eyes of his dancing. “I’ll warn you,” he said. “I never lose a quarrel.”
“Ah, but you’ve never quarreled with me,” she parried. “Recall that with a mere smile, I have driven men to turn tail and run. Imagine what I can do if I put my mind to a scowl.”
He flashed her a brief look of evident surprise, then laughed and offered his arm. It occurred to her, a moment later, why he was startled: it was the first time she had ever made a lighthearted joke about her jiltings. She searched herself and found not a lick of wounded hurt to power the remark.
Heart light, she processed downstairs on his arm, and then, per their respective roles tonight, broke away from him to walk ahead into the drawing room.
Inside, a motley crew sat around a low table—six gentlemen crouched over hands of cards, bottles of open liquor at their elbows, bowler hats discarded by their feet. Draped on and around these men were four very young women, three of whom reposed in various states that even at a music hall could be termed as “undress.”
The last lady, a raven-haired beauty who looked to be in her late thirties, was lounging on a nearby sofa, her heeled boots propped atop the arm, her red-and-white striped skirts frothing at her knees. Her posture left no doubt that she was fully dressed—right down to the scarlet garters holding up her stockings.
Despite her casual posture, she radiated an air of watchful repose, even authority; and this aura was bolstered by the glances sent her way by the younger women as Gwen paused on the carpet. She sat up, giving Gwen a leisurely inspection that slid up her lavender silk skirt, paused momentarily at her wide belt, and lingered again at the amethyst pendant holding in place the drape of Gwen’s shawl.