What an Earl Wants (3 page)

“I can’t imagine why not. Another man wouldn’t have answered
your summons. I’ll admit to curiosity being my motive for obliging you, but
please don’t hold that against me.”

“And it only took you a month, and then you arrived on my
doorstep at this ungodly hour of the night, clearly as an afterthought. Or
perhaps your planned evening turned out to be a bore, leaving you at loose ends?
I’m sorry, I suppose I should be flattered.”

She turned her back to him once more, bending her neck forward.
“You may as well be of some use. If you could help with these buttons? Doreen is
still busy at the front door, and I’m near to choking.”

Gideon raised one well-defined eyebrow as he weighed the
invitation, considering its benefits, its pitfalls...her motives. “Very well,”
he said, placing his wineglass next to hers. “I’ve played at lady’s maid a time
or two.”

“I’m certain you have played at many things. Tonight, however,
you’ll have to content yourself with a very limited role.”

“You’re a very trusting woman, Jessica,” he said as he
deftly—he did everything deftly—slipped the first half-dozen buttons from their
moorings. With the release of every button, he made sure his knuckles came in
contact with each new inch of ivory skin revealed to him. Even in the
candlelight he could see where the gown had chafed that soft skin; no wonder she
longed to be shed of it.

Still, he took his time with the buttons until, the gown now
falling open almost entirely to her waist, she stepped away from him just as he
considered the merits of running his fingertips down the graceful line of her
spine.

“Thank you. If you’ll excuse me for a moment while I rid myself
of this scratchy monstrosity?”

“I’ll excuse you for any number of things, my dear, as long as
you’re not gone above a minute. You wear no chemise?”

“As you’re already aware,” she answered, throwing the words at
him over her shoulder, bare now as her gown began to slip slightly. “I loathe
encumbrances.”

She disappeared into another room, leaving Gideon to wonder why
a woman who so disliked encumbrances had buttoned herself up into a black
taffeta prison. Did she think the gown made her look dowdy? Untouchable? Perhaps
even matronly? If so, she had missed the mark on every point.

A widow. He hadn’t expected less from her than that obvious
clunker; there wasn’t a madam in all of London who wasn’t the impecunious widow
of some soldier hero, making her way in the world as best she could.

And, if he was lucky yet tonight—he would be inevitably, in any
case—she was about to
make her way
with him, in
hopes of her charms rendering him imbecilic to the point of granting her request
to take over the guardianship of her half brother.

Or, more to the point, guardianship of her half brother’s
considerable fortune.

A month ago he had roundly cursed Turner Collier for having
lacked the good common sense to have altered his decades-old will, leaving
guardianship of his progeny to his old chum, the Earl of Saltwood. Perhaps
Collier had thought himself immortal, which should hardly have been the case,
considering what had happened to his old chum.

But there’d been nothing else for it, not according to Gideon’s
solicitor, who had notified him that he had gratefully ended his guardianship of
Alana Wallingford upon her recent marriage, just to be saddled with yet another
ward a few months later.

At least this time there would be no worries over fortune
hunters or midnight elopements or any such nonsense. No, this time his worries
would be for reckless starts, idiotic wagers, juvenile hijinks and hauling the
boy out of bear-baitings, cockfights and gaming hells such as the one owned by
the youth’s own half sister.

All while the whispers went on behind his back. There’d been
anonymous wagers penned in the betting book at White’s on the odds of Gideon
forcing Alana into marriage with him in order to gain her fortune. Whispered
hints Alana’s father, Gideon’s very good friend, had been murdered within months
of naming Gideon as his only child’s guardian. There definitely had been
suggestions as to whom that murderer might be.

Now there had been a second “unfortunate coaching accident”
directly impacting the Earl of Saltwood. And another wealthy orphan placed into
his care immediately after that “accident.” Coincidence? Many didn’t think
so.

After all, Gideon was a Redgrave. And everybody knew about
those Redgraves. Wild, arrogant, dangerous, if always somewhat delicious. Why,
look at the father, the mother; there was a scandal no amount of time could fade
from the consciousness of God-fearing people. Even the dowager countess remained
both a force to be reckoned with and a constant source of whispered mischief and
shocking behavior. Nothing was beneath them, even as they believed nothing and
no one above them....

“Shall we return to the wars, Gideon?”

He blinked away his thoughts and turned to look at Jessica
Linden, who had somehow reappeared without his notice. She was clad now in a
dark maroon silk banyan with a black shawl collar and quilted cuffs that fell
below her fingertips. The hem of the thing puddled around her bare feet. Once
again her curls tumbled past her shoulders, a perfect frame for her fine,
enchanting features. For a tall woman, she suddenly seemed small, delicate, even
fragile.

Clearly an illusion.

“My late husband’s. I keep it as a reminder,” she said, raising
her arms enough that the cuffs fell back to expose her slim wrists. “Shall we
sit? My feet persist in feeling the pinch of those dreadful shoes.”

He gestured to the overstuffed couch to his left, and she all
but collapsed into it, immediately drawing her legs up beside her to begin
rubbing at one narrow bare foot. The collar of the banyan gaped for an enticing
moment, gifting him with a tantalizing glimpse of small, perfect breasts.
Clearly she was naked beneath the silk.

The woman was as innocent as a viper.

“How is Adam?” she asked before he could think of a damn thing
to say that didn’t include an invitation to return to her bedchamber, this time
in his company. “I haven’t seen him in more than five years. He was just about
to be sent off to school, as I recall the moment. What was he? Twelve? Yes, that
was it, as I was all of eighteen. He cried so, to leave me.”

Gideon began doing quick mental arithmetic. “Making you a woman
of three and twenty? A young widow.”

“Ah, but positively ancient in experience, and closer to four
and twenty in reality. And you? Edging in on a hundred, I would think, if we’re
to speak of experience. You’ve quite the reputation, Gideon.”

“Only partially earned, I assure you,” he told her as he retook
his chair and crossed one leg over the other, looking very much at his ease
while his mind raced. “But to answer your question, your half brother is well
and safe and here in London. I’ve hired a keeper for him rather than return him
to school before next term.”

Jessica nodded. “That’s only fitting. He’s in mourning.”

“He is? Perhaps someone ought to explain that to him. All I
hear, secondhand through said keeper, is how fatigued he is with twiddling his
thumbs while the entire world goes merrily along just outside the door, without
him.”

She smiled at that, and Gideon knew himself to be grateful he
was already sitting down, for she had a wide, unaffected smile that could knock
a man straight off his feet.

“A handful, is he? Good. As our father’s son, it could have
gone either way. I’m gratified to learn his spirit wasn’t crushed.”

Now this was interesting. “I barely knew the man, as he was a
contemporary of my father’s. He was a demanding parent?”

“We’ll speak with the gloves off, as I see no sense in
dissembling. After all, I’ve heard the rumors about your own father, and the two
men were friends. James Linden, fairly ancient, more than a little mean when in
his cups, and a lazy waste of talent, was the lesser of two evils, and here I
am. Disowned, widowed, but self-sufficient. Perfectly capable of taking on the
guardianship of my brother until he reaches his majority. The last place I want
him is anywhere our father wanted him, under the control of anyone he thought
fitting.
” She directed a disconcerting glare
toward his cravat. “Do you understand now,
Gideon?
”

He touched his hand to the golden rose in his cravat before he
realized what he’d done and quickly got to his feet. “You had my pity, Jessica,
until the end. I’m many things, but I am not my father.”

“No, I suppose you aren’t. You haven’t yet tried to seduce me,
and after all my clumsy efforts to the contrary. Geld you, did he? No, I don’t
think so. You want me, that’s obvious enough.”

At last, Gideon understood the whole of it. He waved his hand
in front of him, indicating her pose, the banyan, even her nakedness beneath the
silk, the glass of wine that had been raised to her lips by a trembling hand; a
drink for courage. “You’ve got a weapon somewhere about you, don’t you?”

“Not the complete fool, are you? Very well. Only a very small
pistol, holding but a single shot, but deadly, if it became necessary. I can use
it to much more advantage than James ever could, even though he taught me. And
before you ask, yes, I was willing to trade my body for your agreement to
relinquish your guardianship of Adam, within limits, of course.” She stood up,
chin high, sherry-brown eyes locked with his, her hands going to the silk tie at
her waist. “I still am.”

He decided it would be safer to be insulted. “And I repeat,
madam, I am not my father.”

She tilted her head to one side. “You aren’t? Your stickpin
says differently. That particular rose, by any other name, Gideon, sends out the
same stink.”

Gideon’s jaw set tightly. What in bloody hell was going on
here? “You know about that?”

“I know about the Society, yes,” she repeated, the light of
battle leaving her eyes, to be replaced by a sadness that was nearly palpable.
“Among my late husband’s many failings was a tendency to run his mouth when he
was in his cups. The mark of membership in a most exclusive group of rascals. A
flower, in point of fact a golden rose, to commemorate a deflowering, plucking
the bud as it were, bringing it into full bloom. But you wear it, you know what
it is, what you did to
earn
it.”

“The pin was my father’s. The rest was rumor or, more probably,
bravado,” Gideon heard himself saying, even as he hoped he was speaking truth.
“It was nothing like that. Only drunken fools and their games, thinking
themselves some damned hellfire club. It was all cloaks and oaths of secrecy and
more drunkenness and willing prostitutes than anything else. Simply grandiose
talk, and all a long time ago.”

Her smile was sad, almost as if she pitied him. “So you say.
Thanks to James, I never learned for certain. Your father had been long dead by
then, your family estate no longer their gathering place. But whatever the
Society was, it didn’t end with him. You truly profess to not know that? It went
on five years ago, it may still go on. If I recall correctly, my father was not
too many years above sixty when he died. James was not much younger when we
married, and still...capable.”

One more mention of James Linden, and Gideon believed he might
go dig up the man, just so he could bash in his skull with the shovel.

“No. You’re wrong. Everything ended with my father’s death.
This is something else.”

“
This,
Gideon? Are we speaking at
cross purposes? What is
this?
”

Gideon was seldom the loser in any verbal exchange, but the
more he said, the more control of their conversation he seemed to be ceding to
her. He didn’t much care for the feeling.

“I’ll have my town carriage sent for you tomorrow at eleven, to
bring you to Portman Square to see your brother. Kindly outfit yourself
accordingly.”

At last he seemed to shock her, put her off her stride. But not
for long. “Would that include wearing a dark veil to conceal my face, or will
the carriage be driven directly around to the mews, and the servants’
entrance?”

Not before time, he realized, Gideon decided he’d had
enough.

He closed the distance between them in two short steps, taking
hold of her right wrist before she could successfully reach into the slightly
drooping pocket that had given away the location of her pistol.

With his free hand he delved into the pocket and withdrew a
small silver pistol, indeed a favorite of cardsharps. He forcefully turned her
hand over and pressed the thing in her palm.

“Go on, you idiot woman. I’m about to
ravish
you. Shoot me.”

She made no move to close her fingers around the weapon. “You
don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I? Are you sure? I can have anything I want from you,
Jessica Linden, any time I want it. Most men could. Get rid of that toy before
somebody turns it on you. I don’t know what all this James Linden of yours
taught you over and above honing that sharp tongue of yours, but he should have
pointed out that you can’t bluff worth a damn.”

He saw the tears standing in her magnificent eyes but chose to
ignore them. God save him from fools, most especially well-intentioned martyrs
who always seemed to think right was on their side and justice would prevail. He
turned and walked away from her, exposing his back to her, not stopping until
his hand was on the latch of the door leading to the stairs.

“At eleven, Jessica. And if you dare insult me by wearing that
black monstrosity or anything like it, I’ll tear it off you myself.
Understood?”

He’d barely closed the door behind him when the sound of what
he presumed to be the derringer hitting the wood brought a smile to his face. He
rather doubted James Linden taught her how to do that. No, that was a purely
female reaction, and if there was one thing Jessica Linden was, it was
female.