“The press would dispute your assessment. I have seen the headlines. As I recall, the word used to describe you was ‘swashbuckler.’”
His eyes gleamed with what might have been amusement. “As we have discussed, I would not trust everything I read in the papers.” Taking out his pocket watch, he glanced at the time before replacing the piece in his jacket. A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “As for my so-called swashbuckling, there’s been nothing so bold as that in my work. For the most part, my expeditions find me poking about musty old tombs. If there is excitement to be had, it lies in the journey, the competition to reach a find before some blasted blowhard like Boyle stakes his greedy claim. Where that aspect is concerned, the other blokes on my team deserve far more of the credit than I do.”
Sophie took in his words, pondering his sudden show of modesty. Were his humble words another smokescreen? Perhaps she should challenge his uncharacteristic humility, if only to see what it would take to bring his arrogance back to the forefront.
“You were the leader of those explorations. I saw the reports in the papers. Your daring was the toast of London. I must confess, I envy you your adventures.”
Indeed, she had seen the banner headlines when Gavin Stanwyck’s latest expedition uncovered priceless antiquities that had been buried with some long dead advisor to a pharaoh, a fortune in artifacts he’d claimed for benefit of the Empire. Of course, she had no intention of confessing she’d hung on every word that detailed Stanwyck’s triumph over Boyle, a treasure hunter many regarded as little better than a grave robber. And it went without saying she would not reveal she’d viewed the relics at the British Museum on the opening day of their exhibit, nor that she’d prepared a glowing article detailing the display for theLadies’ Pages.
How thrilling it must have been to enter that ancient tomb. What she wouldn’t give to feel the Egyptian sun beating down on her bonnet while she explored the intrigues of the pyramids.
He removed his spectacles and stowed them in his pocket. “Daring? What rubbish, the lot of it.”
“I must respectfully disagree. You’ve faced a multitude of daunting risks.”
His eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head, studying her. The heat in his gaze washed over her. For the briefest of moments, scarcely longer than a heartbeat, she stared at her hands, suddenly self-conscious.
A slight scowl tipped down the corners of his mouth. “The press portrayed me as a bloody privateer in the desert. I am as far removed from a hero as you might hope to find.”
“I find that difficult to believe. You’ve made quite a mark. Why, some might even say you’re a hero.”
Of course, I would be among them. But I’d face a night in the Tower before I admitted that truth.
“There was nothing heroic about any of it. As you said, I am an academic.” He gave a quiet laugh, low and harsh. “Damnable shame my father didn’t last long enough to see those headlines. If he wasn’t already in his grave, they would’ve brought on a blasted apoplexy. As the old man put it, I spent too much damn time with my nose in books. I didn’t devote nearly enough time learning to be a cutthroat, as he was.”
Was that a fresh note of pain in his husky voice? Sophie pulled in a breath. She simply could not afford to distract herself pondering the emotion coloring his words. Her role was clear. She needed to understand why he was playing the part of a man seeking to speak with the dead, and none too convincingly at that. There was no time to consider the nuances of his speech, the traces of raw feeling in his words. She took a sip of wine, savoring the robust flavor, and refocused her thoughts.
“The Queen herself held a reception in your honor,” she said. “Modesty does not suit you. You’re known throughout England for your bold exploits.”
His eyes darkened, and for a moment, Sophie experienced the utterly disconcerting sense that he could read her every thought, could feel the quickening of her pulse. He caught her hand in his. His slightly roughened fingers once again clasped hers, infusing her with his warmth. His sensuous mouth curved, and a sudden yearning filled her. She craved his caress, his kiss…and more.
“Believe what you wish, Sophie,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “Kissing you tonight was the boldest thing I’ve done in a very long time.”
…
Bloody hell, I am a fool.That was the only explanation Gavin could deduce for his actions. He’d intended to set Sophie off-kilter tonight, to leave her in a stir that might induce her to confide some dark secret about Trask’s dealings. But she hadn’t taken the bait. Rather, she’d maintained her cool, polished demeanor. Stubborn woman, she’d refused to allow her feathers to become ruffled. No, stubborn was not quite the word for her. Steely, perhaps. Strong. And clever.
Hell and damnation, he’d underestimated her.
He lifted a cut-crystal glass and drank in the bouquet of fine port. Damned shame he couldn’t drown out his awareness of the faint, unpretentious citrus scent perfuming Sophie’s lush, honey-gold curls. The clean essence of lemons and woman stirred his senses. Bugger it, what was it about Sophie Devereaux that made him, a man who prided himself on his rational intelligence, question his reactions at every turn?
Bringing her to this place had been a mistake, an utter miscalculation on his part. He’d anticipated breaking her composure, planned to fluster her until she flubbed her lines like an actress with stage fright. He’d been certain he could lead her to abandon the pretense of communing with spirits. But Sophie had gotten the better of him. She’d carried on her performance with an unpolished flair, so cheeky in her approach, she seemed to know he was in on the act and didn’t give a bloody fig about it.
Even in her too-damned-proper wool skirt and jacket, complete with a cameo brooch at her throat and scratchy lace at her cuffs, Sophie was lovely. As they’d made their way to their table, a theater diva had breezed past, her buxom figure sheathed in a gown that left so little to the imagination, it seemed a miracle she could breathe, let alone walk and talk. Renowned for her stage presence and rumored to possess equal talents behind closed doors, Vera Fairchild flaunted the diamond-encrusted gifts she’d received from wealthy admirers. She’d made a point to flash a painted smile his way. After all, he was one of the few in London who hadn’t contributed to her overflowing jewelry chest. But compared to Sophie’s fresh-faced complexion and rosy mouth, the actress seemed a poor imitation of beauty.
Kissing Sophie had been an error of colossal proportions. What in blazes had he been thinking? He had intended to teach her a lesson about trusting rakes like himself. Blast it, he had not succeeded on that count. She’d seemed to enjoy being in his arms, seemed to savor his touch. He had not intimidated her in the least. If anything, she’d regarded him with a hint of amusement, a fact that had not amusedhimin the least.
And now he sat here, eyeing her as if he were some besotted young buck. He rued the moment he’d uttered an ill-advised confession about that blasted kiss. Damn it all, he’d spoken the truth. For all his bawdy reputation, he’d never felt as if he’d put any part of himself at risk in his rendezvous. Until tonight.
Until he’d taken Sophie in his arms and tasted her sweet, tempting mouth.
The impulsive caress had had nothing to do with desire, with wanting her.Or so he tried to convince himself. Damned shame he wasn’t succeeding. His motives had been nothing if not practical. He’d meant to shock her, if only to convince her how imprudent heading off into the night with a man like him was for a woman—any woman, much less one who possessed Sophie’s unpainted beauty. But somehow, she’d turned the tables on him, leaving him questioning his motives and his instincts and wanting more.
She watched him with wide, thoughtful eyes, seeming to consider his words for the confession they were.
“I should go,” she said, her tone quiet, unusually reserved.
He met her gaze, unwilling to reveal she’d taken him by surprise. Quite perceptive, those golden-flecked brown eyes of hers. So, she’d sensed the undercurrent of need in his words. And that awareness—more than the kiss itself or his brazen talk of hidden passion—had set her off base.
