Lady Eaden stood and sliced through the space between them. She wrapped her arms tight around Gwendolyn and hugged her, whispered in her ear, “I understand. Ido. But what if you hurt those you love most with your sacrifice?”
There had long been a dagger in Gwendolyn’s heart, and Lady Eaden’s words twisted it.
She squeezed her eyes tight, fought against the impulse to melt into the hug. “I’ve been so sharp with you. How can you be so kind?”
“Because you’ve needed it.”
The woman would kill her with kindness because Gwendolyn certainly did not deserve it.
She broke from the lady’s embrace and smiled as if the exchange had never happened. “I must find Mr. Cavendish now.”
Lady Eaden nodded, returned to her chair. “Good luck.”
She knew Lady Eaden spoke of their hunt for the book, but Gwendolyn took the words for herself as well as she left the room.
Work. She’d told him she wished only to focus on their work, and she’d do that now. Just as soon as she found the study.
“Mew.”
Gwendolyn stopped, one foot hovering over the floor in the hallway. “Oh. You again. Don’t you have mice to catch?”
The cat sat prim and tall in the middle of the hall and appraised her with nary a blink.
“Do you have a name?” She strode around the cat. “When you can speak it to me, then you may visit my chamber. Not before.” As if such limits could banish the imperturbable feline. She found the study and swept inside to find Jackson perched on a chair near the window, using a stream of morning light through the glass to read a rather old book.
“Good morning,” she said, sounding unflappable if not cheerful.
He lowered the book slowly, closed it, his caramel-brown eyes glued to her as he pulled his full bottom lip through his teeth and released it. Then he grinned, from roguish seduction to boyish charm in a blink.
“Good morning, Gwendolyn.” His gaze swept the entire length of her, from slippers to simple coiffure, and she felt it like a physical touch. “Sleep well?”
“Quite.” Only word she could choke out through the bewilderment and rising lust. “What is our plan for the day?” She sat in a straight-backed chair across the room near the fireplace and tried not to want to stride to him instead, straddle his lap, and press her lips to his.
A single look that seemed to never end, short as it had been, and he’d completely undone her. She may as well be naked before him. He saw all of her anyway. What purpose did clothes serve?
“I have already asked Mrs. Whitlock to section off time for all the staff so we may interview them without overly inconveniencing them.” Practical words but in a tone that made her bones sing. For him.
“Excellent idea. They may have information to shine light on this little mystery.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Would he never look away from her? The way he leaned back in his chair, one ankle crossed over the other knee, his chin resting on his knuckles, his other arm draped carelessly around the back and arm of the chair—a superb position to showcase the lovely length of his body: the sinewy, ropey muscles, the (she swallowed hard) bulging length of him at the apex of his legs, highlighted to perfection by his tight buckskins.
“Do you know,” he said, his voice a deep drawl. “I did not sleep well last night.” His gaze dipped to his lap, and when it rose back to meet her own, it held a bonfire of heat to match the fire burning her up.
“I am sorry to hear that,” she managed to say. Unflappable.
“Yes. Dreams. Coming home seems to have ignited them in interesting directions.”
“Hardly a useful conversation for productivity, Mr. Cavendish,” she said. Tell me more, she wished to moan.
“Do not sniff so. Not all of them were naughty. But all of them featured you.”
She inhaled, exhaled, tried to scowl.
“I know I said I’d focus on work, but you, striding through my dreams all night, have not let me be enough to do so. You accused me of ruining your focus yesterday, now I return the accusation.”
“Any distraction is not my fault. I stayed nicely put in my bed all night, I assure you.”
