Surely not. A horrid notion straight from Ann Radcliffe’s morbid imagination.
But still, she would not risk it.
Run, Lady Lytemore whispered from deep in Gwendolyn’s mind.Run.
Three
Jackson had just reached Uncle Henry’s study when he heard the townhouse front door open. He peeked down the hall, caught a glimpse of Gwendolyn, and when she spoke to Cranston, he strained to eavesdrop. Headed here, was she?
He set to work. He may be days away from a strategy of retreat, but he did so love teasing her, watching her eyes light with annoyance and pique. He’d need this moment to fuel his dreams after nights working alone.
Today, he wanted her near. Craved the warmth and scent of her. He’d choose a logistically appropriate seat to put her in a snare, guide her nearer to him. But where? Unfortunately, the room seemed to have bred chairs. They lounged in every corner, inviting distance and isolation instead of intimacy.
He rubbed his hands together and got to work. He could do nothing about Uncle’s chair behind his desk, but Gwendolyn wouldn’t sit there anyway. The chair by the window, though… Jackson pulled it toward the circle of chairs and sofas surrounding the fireplace. He dragged the one in the corner by the bookshelves over, too. Oh! The ottoman beside the door and the chair on the other side of Uncle’s chair would have to come as well.
Once he had congregated all available sitting surfaces in the same place, he plopped onto a sofa with a grin, the only human in a puddle of furniture. The sofa he sat on offered a large enough invitation with its space for two, and even if she did not wish to sit right next to him—and she would not if the last nine weeks and three days were any indication—she would not be able to sit across the room from him. Excellent. He leaned back, one arm resting on the arm of the sofa, and crossed a booted foot over his knee.
The door opened, and he slammed his boot to the floor once more, sat up straight as a poker, tried to control his face’s slide into a look of puppy-doggish longing.
Miss Gwendolyn Smith, focused and marching, saw none of it.
She strode across the empty space of Uncle’s office, bypassing every blasted chair he’d huddled near him, and sat.
On Uncle’s desk. Popped herself up and sat still as a statue on its edge, her gaze trained forward so he saw only her profile.
Zeus. That dedicated to avoiding him, was she? Might as well let his cousin Nora shoot a bullet through his heart. She’d hit her mark first time around, end his pain quickly. He massaged the muscle over that organ.
“You do know how to bring a man low, Gweny.”
Devil take it, she’d probably not miss him at all when he left for Brighton.
Gwendolyn smoothed her skirts and trained her gaze on the door. “Good afternoon, Mr. Cavendish.”
“Mr. Cavendish” today when she’d moaned “Jackson” against his lips only nine weeks and three days ago.
“Good afternoon, Gweny.” Best to at leastappearchipper. “What brings you here?”
“I need to speak with Lord Eaden. We’ve been too long in London, and I’ve received a letter—” She inhaled sharply, held it, then licked her lips on an exhale. “From the duchesse in Paris. She began renovating a new wing in her home and found something she thinks we’d be interested in.”
Jackson scratched his jaw. “Hm. Back to studying the old families of Europe.”
“That’s what we do, Jackson. We provide the facts, the evidence, then Lord Eaden writes the books.”
“Shouldn’t French scholars be doing this work? And Italian ones?”
“Thesmartestscholars should be doing the work.” She sniffed, as if that said enough. Idolized Uncle Henry, she did. Jackson found it endearing.
“I just think that perhaps the research might prove more meaningful when the researcher has a direct connection to the past they’re studying.”
“In that case, the research would lack the required objectivity.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“What should we do, then, Jackson? Stay here? Study British history?”
He clasped his hands together behind his head. “And why not?” A good enough segue into his announcement of being Brighton bound for a fortnight of work on his father’s research.
She sliced him a look that would cut bread. Brick-hard bread, at that.
