Wicked Becomes You(73)
By the time their eyes met, the woman’s mouth had slipped sideways into a smile that seemed distinctly unfriendly.
“One of yours?” said a man at the table. “Darling, come here.” He patted his knee.
“No, not one of mine,” said the lady. “I’ve told you, Alessandro, if Veronique doesn’t arrive on time, I’ll play your flute for you.”
Alex’s arrival was announced by the broad hand fitting into the small of Gwen’s back—not to guide her onward, for he applied no pressure, but perhaps simply because he wished to ensure that she stayed upright. “What’s this?” he asked lightly.
His touch recalled her to her purpose. She was not shocked by the sight of garters. Indeed, she wore them herself. “I don’t know,” she said with a bright smile. “But this gentleman has brought a flute, and a flautist is coming to play it for him, so it seems that the company will be musical all around.”
The comment won a weird silence. The dark-haired woman fixed an amazed gaze upon her. Alex made a curious noise, deep in his throat.
She had the sudden feeling that she should be blushing. And then, all at once, she was blushing. She tried to paste a saucy smile over it, but the effect apparently looked miserably awkward, for one of the men sat forward, elbows on knees, to inquire with a frown: “I think you’re Miss Goodrick and Mr. de Grey, no?”
“Indeed we are,” Alex said flatly.
The man tweaked his ginger mustache, smoothing it to a fine, sharp tip. “Pardon me, sir. Dinner crowd gathering in the east wing.” His glance shifted to Gwen, and he gave a lopsided grin. “Do come back afterward, if you like—always room for more at the game.”
Gwen grew cognizant, abruptly, that the ratio of ladies to men left something to be desired.
“Will do,” Alex said, and ushered Gwen back into the hallway, where he said in an undertone, “A flautist?”
“I know,” she said miserably. “I don’t know what I was thinking. A code word of some sort, I’m sure of it. I doubt that man even had a flute with him.”
He drew a strange, strangled breath through his nose. “Darling, perhaps you’d best keep your mouth shut tonight.”
His tone was teasing, rueful, and she almost asked him to explain what she’d missed. And then she saw Barrington step out of the hallway five feet ahead of them. The opportunity was too perfect to resist. “Keep my mouth shut?” she repeated, injecting wounded anger into her voice. “How dare you, Alex. Perhaps I can find someone else here who might admire it better.”
Predictable as clockwork, Barrington spoke. “Ah, mademoiselle, monsieur!” Giving an oily smile to Alex, he added, “Miss Goodrick, I wonder if I might have the honor of escorting you into dinner?”
Chapter Twelve
The party grew drunk, and then drunker. Gwen sat four seats away from Alex, at Barrington’s elbow near the head of the table. At first, Alex monitored her only to make certain that she was not letting Barrington refill her glass. He was meant to be playing the irritated lover, so he supposed occasional dark looks were permitted. He manufactured a glare to lend his glances authenticity.
But by the time the fifth course was served, his dark looks no longer required effort. Indeed, he had dismissed the pretty Italian countess to his right and was probably doing a very good imitation of an obsessed, glowering fanatic. Was Gwen so good an actress, or was her displeasure with him genuine? She looked to be leaning into Barrington’s touches now, and Alex would have been hard-pressed to distinguish her current smiles from those she had given him on the banks of the Seine, the morning after the adventure at Le Chat Noir.
When dinner was concluded and the party transferred outside for a moonlit boating expedition, he pulled Gwen off Barrington’s arm and into the corner with a very showy sulk.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” he breathed into her ear.
“Of course,” she whispered back, fixing her brow into a thunderous scowl. “I have asked him about all his acquaintances in London. He claims to know almost nobody; says he prefers the society on the Continent.”
“Dear God,” he muttered, “you are not meant to be doing the interrogating. Just—go keep him busy on the lake. I’m going to have a look around the house.”
She drew back very suddenly. “Of course,” she said, coldly and loudly. “I am only a toy to you, no? A very pretty wind-up doll.”
He stared at her, undecided on how to reply. She really was a bit too convincing. Richard had certainly had a flair for drama, which he and Alex had employed to good measure when seeking entertainment during their university days, but he’d never suspected it of Gwen. “Of course not,” he said slowly.