least I did, but then you was away a long time and never told me where you was. But you never was much for letters, and I never was much good at answering ’em anyhow, and I figured you didn’t hear yet I was back from Paris.”
They had reached the landing. He gave Dorian a worried look. “But it’s all right now, ain’t it? Mean to say, if you was looking at her over the breakfast table, you wouldn’t cast up your accounts, would you?”
If he were looking at her over the breakfast table, he would probably leap on her and devour her, Dorian thought. Even now, he wondered how he’d managed to keep his hands restricted to her waist after seeing the soft, dazed expression in her eyes when he’d helped her dismount. No woman had ever gazed at him in that way. Under that look, reason, conscience, and will had simply melted away, leaving him defenseless and nigh trembling with longing. Even now, merely recalling, he could not summon up a fragment of common sense.
“I like her . . . eyes,” he told Bertie. “And her voice is not disagreeable. She does not seem silly or missish. She seems a capable, sensible girl,” he added, recollecting the terrifying efficiency with which she’d extricated him from the mire.
Bertie’s worried expression vanished, and he broke into the amiably stupid grin that had softened Dorian’s heart toward him years ago.
“There, I knew you’d see it, Cat,” he said. “Sensible’s the word. Tells you what’s to be done and says it plain so you always know how to go about it. And when she says she’ll do it, Gwen goes and does it. Said she was going after you, and we was to stay put and keep our mouths shut tight and stay out of her way. And she did it and you come back and said you’d have her, and now we’re all in order, ain’t we?”
He’d had his life in order before, Dorian thought: everything in hand, his short future so carefully planned. Kneebones had promised, and he could be trusted to keep his part of the bargain: laudanum, as much as Dorian needed to keep him quiet, to let him die in peace.
Now there was no telling what would happen. He could tell his bride what he wanted, but he could not make her do it. He could exact promises, but he couldn’t make her keep them. Before long, he would have no power over her.
But he could not keep his mind on the future because he could not drive out the recollection of the melting look in her green eyes. All he could think of was the night to come and the little witch in his arms . . .
Oh, Lord, and if his mind failed and he hurt her—what then?
For Bertie’s sake, he manufactured a smile.
“As you say, Bertie,” he answered lightly. “All in order and everyone happy.”
S OME HOURS LATER, Gwendolyn was sitting on a stone bench in the Earl of Rawnsley’s garden, watching the blood-red sun’s slow descent over a distant hill. The storm had long since swept off to ravage another part of Dartmoor, leaving the air cool and clean.
She was clean and neatly dressed in the green silk gown Genevieve had brought her from Paris, and her unruly hair had been temporarily tamed into a relatively tidy heap of curls atop her head. She hoped it would still be tidy by the time Rawnsley emerged from his meeting with the lawyers.
Gwendolyn’s hair was the bane of her existence. The Powers that Be, with their usual perverse idea of a joke, had given her Papa’s hair instead of Mama’s.
She did not mind the color so much—at least it was interesting—but there was so much of it, a hodgepodge of twists and bends and corkscrews, each of which had a mind of its own, and all of them demented.
Her hair, which was the complete antithesis of her level, steady, and orderly personality, made it very difficult for people to take her seriously—as though being a female didn’t make that hard enough already. Thanks to the crazed mass of red curls and corkscrews, every new person she met represented yet another uphill battle to prove
They had reached the landing. He gave Dorian a worried look. “But it’s all right now, ain’t it? Mean to say, if you was looking at her over the breakfast table, you wouldn’t cast up your accounts, would you?”
If he were looking at her over the breakfast table, he would probably leap on her and devour her, Dorian thought. Even now, he wondered how he’d managed to keep his hands restricted to her waist after seeing the soft, dazed expression in her eyes when he’d helped her dismount. No woman had ever gazed at him in that way. Under that look, reason, conscience, and will had simply melted away, leaving him defenseless and nigh trembling with longing. Even now, merely recalling, he could not summon up a fragment of common sense.
“I like her . . . eyes,” he told Bertie. “And her voice is not disagreeable. She does not seem silly or missish. She seems a capable, sensible girl,” he added, recollecting the terrifying efficiency with which she’d extricated him from the mire.
Bertie’s worried expression vanished, and he broke into the amiably stupid grin that had softened Dorian’s heart toward him years ago.
“There, I knew you’d see it, Cat,” he said. “Sensible’s the word. Tells you what’s to be done and says it plain so you always know how to go about it. And when she says she’ll do it, Gwen goes and does it. Said she was going after you, and we was to stay put and keep our mouths shut tight and stay out of her way. And she did it and you come back and said you’d have her, and now we’re all in order, ain’t we?”
He’d had his life in order before, Dorian thought: everything in hand, his short future so carefully planned. Kneebones had promised, and he could be trusted to keep his part of the bargain: laudanum, as much as Dorian needed to keep him quiet, to let him die in peace.
Now there was no telling what would happen. He could tell his bride what he wanted, but he could not make her do it. He could exact promises, but he couldn’t make her keep them. Before long, he would have no power over her.
But he could not keep his mind on the future because he could not drive out the recollection of the melting look in her green eyes. All he could think of was the night to come and the little witch in his arms . . .
Oh, Lord, and if his mind failed and he hurt her—what then?
For Bertie’s sake, he manufactured a smile.
“As you say, Bertie,” he answered lightly. “All in order and everyone happy.”
S OME HOURS LATER, Gwendolyn was sitting on a stone bench in the Earl of Rawnsley’s garden, watching the blood-red sun’s slow descent over a distant hill. The storm had long since swept off to ravage another part of Dartmoor, leaving the air cool and clean.
She was clean and neatly dressed in the green silk gown Genevieve had brought her from Paris, and her unruly hair had been temporarily tamed into a relatively tidy heap of curls atop her head. She hoped it would still be tidy by the time Rawnsley emerged from his meeting with the lawyers.
Gwendolyn’s hair was the bane of her existence. The Powers that Be, with their usual perverse idea of a joke, had given her Papa’s hair instead of Mama’s.
She did not mind the color so much—at least it was interesting—but there was so much of it, a hodgepodge of twists and bends and corkscrews, each of which had a mind of its own, and all of them demented.
Her hair, which was the complete antithesis of her level, steady, and orderly personality, made it very difficult for people to take her seriously—as though being a female didn’t make that hard enough already. Thanks to the crazed mass of red curls and corkscrews, every new person she met represented yet another uphill battle to prove
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