“Yes, but not,” he said, “when I am in the presence of a beautiful lady like your wife.”
“Point taken,” Charles murmured and turned his attention back to the lady next to him.
Smiling at Gillian, Winthrop murmured, “Ah, and now where were we? Was I admiring your eyes? Or perhaps, it was that delicious mouth of yours?”
“Actually,” she said with a bite, “
you
were the one who introduced the topic of King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette.”
He shuddered. “How gauche of me.” His gaze moved over her, lingering once again on the swell of her breasts. “I would much rather dwell on your beautiful self.”
Wishing this interminable evening would end and that Lord Winthrop would turn his attention elsewhere, she dredged up a smile and replied, “Surely, talking about oneself is as boring as politics.”
“Not when someone is as lovely as you are, my sweet.”
Gillian never took credit for the beauty that fate had bestowed upon her. Without being vain, she knew she was beautiful, her mirror as well as many admirers had told her so, and at twenty-seven she was at the height of her stunning loveliness, but Winthrop's comments increased her discomfort. She wasn't
un
accustomed to complimentsâduring her sole Season in London she had been much sought after, not only her tidy fortune drawing the gentlemen to her, but her smiling golden-brown eyes, sable locks and ethereal form adding to the appeal. There had been much chagrin amongst the gentlemen of the
ton
when her fancy had settled on Charles Dashwood.
She'd taken pains with her appearance tonightânot wishing to appear a frump in front of Charles's friendsâas much to avoid another heated argument as any other reason. She knew the gown complemented her slender body, and the handiwork of Nan Burton, her longtime maid, was not to be discounted. Earlier this evening, lips pursed, Nan had arranged the lustrous dark brown locks into ringlets that framed her face and brushed a bit of rice powder across her face and rubbed a tiny amount of rouge into her cheeks.
Stepping back to admire her work, Nan said, “It's a pity that the wearing of patches has gone out of style because I think a tiny patch near the corner of your lips would be perfect.” Tucking in one wayward ringlet near Gillian's ear, she added, “But I'm happy that powdering the hair has gone out of fashion except for a few diehards.” Smiling fondly at her mistress, Nan said, “I must say, Madame, that I have not seen you in such looks in a long time.”
Rising to her feet from behind the dressing table, Gillian had shaken out the folds of the amber silk and lace gown and smiling asked, “Does that mean I go around looking dowdy?”
Nan laughed and shook her head. “As if you could! Garbed in rags you'd turn the head of any man without ice water in his veins. Now go on with you and join the guests and have a jolly good time.”
Nan's remark, while meant to cheer her up, only reminded Gillian that she was married to a man who did indeed have ice water in his veins, but she quickly pushed that thought away. Winthrop's determined flirting and compliments should have made her feel attractive, but they had the opposite effect and she sighed, wishing that she was at home reading quietly in the front parlor with Mrs. Easley.
Hearing her sigh, Winthrop said, “I see that my much vaunted charm is having no effect on you. Tell me, lovely lady, is it just me or men in general?”
Gillian flushed. Forcing a smile, she looked at her companion and murmured, “I apologize, my lord. I'm afraid that I am not used to hearing such extravagant compliments.”
“Oh no,” he said, “don't go all starchy and formal on me now. I much preferred the shy rose.” His gaze caressed her. “I wonder if you'll be so charmingly shy in the morning?”
She looked sharply at him, but he only smiled and, apparently having grown bored, began to work his wiles on the young woman seated on the other side of him. Grateful Winthrop's attention was fixed elsewhere, she finished the meal in relative comfort.
As the hour grew later, some of the gentlemen, Charles, Welbourne, Padgett, Canfield and Winthrop amongst them, disappeared into the nether regions of the house to drink and gamble, leaving the other guests to fend for themselves. Deserted among strangers in the gilt and cream salon where the other guests had assembled after dinner, Gillian tried her best to mingle, but the ladies were far more interested in the gentlemen than in talking to her, and the gentlemen . . . After repulsing a drunken viscount's attempts to kiss her for the third time, Gillian fled.
Entering her bedroom, she leaned back against the door and took her first easy breath since she had descended the stairs that evening. She might be somewhat naive and out of the social whirl, but only a fool wouldn't have realized that this party was one that no respectable woman would have attended. What in the world had Charles been thinking bringing her to such an affair? Did he value her so little? Or was it his way of punishing her for refusing to play hostess to just the sort of party that was taking place downstairs at this very minute?
Angry and puzzled, she walked across the room and sat down at her dressing table. Staring at herself in the mirror, Gillian considered ringing for Nan, but decided against it. Nan would be agog to hear about the party and at the moment, she wasn't up to relating an expurgated version of the evening. Morning would be soon enough and perhaps by then, she thought wearily, she would have made sense of the evening.
After removing the scant makeup she had worn, she undid Nan's carefully arranged ringlets and brushed her hair until it fell in gleaming dark waves around her shoulders. Standing up, she kicked off her satin slippers and began struggling with the fastenings at the back of her gown. Her fingers fumbling with the ties and hooks, she crossed to the huge bed with its gold and rose velvet bed curtains; her nightgown and robe lay spread out across the mattress where Nan had left them for her. After several frustrating minutes, the last hook came undone and the gown finally slid to her feet. With corsets and stays no longer in fashion, Gillian was left wearing only a delicate lawn chemise and a linen petticoat trimmed in lace, and it took her only a second to be rid of them.
Her fingers had just closed around the finely embroidered nightgown when she heard a sound. Whirling around, she clutched the flimsy garment to her breast and stared in horror as Winthrop, just as if he had every right, entered her room.
His eyes assessing the charms barely concealed by the nightgown she held tightly against her body, he strolled toward her. “Charles said that you were beautiful,” he drawled, “but he failed to mention precisely
how
beautiful.”
“C-C-Charles? My h-h-husband?” she stammered stupidly. “What are you talking about? Are you mad? Charles will kill you if he finds you here! You must leave! Immediately!”
Winthrop laughed. “What an innocent you are! Who do you think sent me here?” Approaching her, he ran a caressing finger across her shoulder and down her arm. “So shy. Charles said that you might be recalcitrant at first, but that it was worth the effort to make you biddable.”
Embarrassingly conscious of her near-naked state, the nightgown fisted in her hand providing little cover, Gillian stared at him openmouthed, unable to believe what she was hearing. Charles knew he was here? Had, if she understood him correctly, sent him here.
Equally frightened and furious by the implication, her eyes narrowed and she said, “Let me understand you: my husband, Charles, sent you to me? To make me biddable?”
Liking the silken feel of her skin beneath his fingers, hunger rushed through Winthrop. He was hard and ready for her, but the glitter in her eyes gave him pause. With one sweet pink-tipped breast peeking out from behind her nightgown and an enticing glimpse of the thick patch of curls nestled between her legs, she was everything Charles had claimed, but the expression in those long-lashed jeweled eyes . . . He had understood from Charles that she had agreed to their bargain and that she was willing, if reluctant. The woman before him did not look the least willing, and she confirmed his impression by violently shoving away his wandering hand.
“How dare you!” she exclaimed, her voice shaking with rage. “I don't know what my husband has told you, but there has obviously been a mistake.”
Winthrop frowned. “Charles didn't mention the vowels? Or our bargain?”
“What bargain?” she demanded, clutching the nightgown even tighter to her body.
He studied her, his frown growing, passion dying. “Your husband,” he began, “owes me a great deal of money.” For a moment his gaze skimmed over her near-nakedness. “And he knows that I have long, ah, admired you. He suggested a trade. He gets his vowels returned and I get a night with you.”
Gillian blanched. “He g-g-gave me to you?” she whispered, revulsion in every syllable. “For the night . . . in return for his vowels?”
He nodded, looking unhappy. “It was my understanding that you knew and were willing.”
Whatever vestige of affection she might have held for her husband died in that moment, but beneath the hurt, the grievous wound to her heart and pride, she was aware of a glorious sense of freedom seeping through her. By his own doing Charles had freed her from their travesty of a marriage. But first, she thought, her jaw clenching, she had to deal with Winthrop. . . .