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 compliments—during 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 tonight—not wishing to appear a frump in front of Charles’s friends—as 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 naïve 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... .
Winthrop was a strong man, and Gillian knew that in any contest of strength he could overpower her. Finding her unwilling, and unused to being thwarted, rape was not out of the question... . Hiding her fears, she held her nightgown like a steel shield against her body and regarded him. He did not, she decided, look like a man with rape on his mind.
Winthrop had few scruples, but he was sober enough to balk at outright rape. And it was clear from her reaction, and the set of her jaw, that rape was the only way he would have the lady in his bed tonight.
“There seems to have been a misunderstanding,” he muttered.
“Indeed,” she said, icily polite, “that does appear to be the case.” Not giving an inch, she glared at him, her eyes glittering. “And since there does seem to have been a ‘misunderstanding, ’ I suggest that you leave my room immediately.”
His gaze slipped down her body and he sighed. “You would have been worth every penny.”
“No doubt,” she snapped. “But I believe I asked you to leave.
Now
.”
Winthrop held up his hands. “Very well.” He bowed, turned on his heel and disappeared through the connecting door.
Fearful he might change his mind, Gillian flew across the room to lock the door only to discover that there was no key in the lock. Heart banging in her breast, fighting back sobs of fright and fury, she raced back across the room to the bell rope that would summon Nan and yanked frantically on it.
Remaining here for the night was out of the question, and with shaking fingers, she scrambled back into her chemise and petticoat. Her gaze fell upon the amber silk and lace gown and she shuddered. Charles had bought the gown for her ... for her to whore for him. Another shudder racked her. She’d rather die than wear that hateful garment again, and she hurried to the big mahogany wardrobe where Nan had hung the clothes she had brought with her.
Her hand found the fawn and gold traveling gown she’d planned to wear for the journey home. She had just managed to drag it on and was fighting with the fastenings when a sleepy-eyed Nan stumbled into the room.
Astonished to find her mistress dressing to travel, she gasped, “Madame! What are you doing?”
An unnatural brightness in her topaz eyes, Gillian said, “
We
are leaving immediately! Send a message to the stables for our coach and driver and tell them to be at the front door within fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes! Madame, it’s the middle of the night! Everyone is asleep and will have to be awakened—and fifteen minutes is hardly enough time for the horses to be harnessed. Besides, I cannot pack your things in that time, let alone my own,” protested Nan.
“I don’t care what time of night it is,” Gillian said, thoughts of Winthrop returning adding a hysterical edge to her voice. “I will not remain in this house one minute longer than necessary.” More calmly, she added, “Worry about your own things then and as for mine ...” She glanced at the amber silk and lace gown with revulsion. “Leave everything here, it matters little to me—I intend to be gone from this house just as soon as possible.”
Perplexed by her mistress’s actions, but seeing that there was no dissuading her, Nan made a face and said, “Very well, but first let me help you finish dressing.”
A moment later, with Nan gone to get her own things and to send a servant to the stables for the coach, Gillian struggled with her hair. Her fingers shook and the gleaming strands kept slipping from her grasp, but she finally managed to push the thick mass into a haphazard bun at the back of her neck.
Feeling more in control of the situation, Gillian took a deep breath. Nan was packing. The coach had been sent for. That left Charles ... A steely gleam in her eyes, her jaw rigid, she marched from the room, intent upon finding her husband.
Unaware of the events that had taken place upstairs, as Gillian left her room in search of him, Charles was feeling rather smug and satisfied as he lolled back in the mulberry velvet chair and regarded the angry gentleman across from him. The gaming room was deserted except for the two men—the other male guests having abandoned the appeal of the cards and dice and sought out the charms of their various mistresses. Most of the candles had burned out and only a few gutted in their holders, leaving the room filled with shadows.
“Give it to me,” demanded the gentleman across the green baize-covered table from Charles.
Charles took a sip of his brandy and, carefully setting down the snifter, smiled at the younger man. Shaking his head, he said, “No. I’m sorry—you were the one who risked it on a throw of the dice. It’s mine now.”