Page 69

“Well.” As they reached the top of the stairs West looked around. “It is almost impossible to believe that this is the same house that it was when I arrived in London ten months ago. In fact, I am inclined to agree with Lady Theodosia.”

Pomona folded her arms and cocked her head to one side. “Meaning?”

“That despite being a spy, the famous Monsieur Mazarine was indeed a gifted interior decorator.”

She couldn’t suppress a smile. “Well, he was far from the only person who brought the place back to life. There were all the joiners, plasterers, glaziers”—she waved at the early winter dusk through the skylight above their heads—“paper hangers, upholsterers, painters… so many tradespeople, indeed, who continued to work from the drawings and schemes that he left behind when he left.”

"Sir Anthony thinks that he has gone either to Argentina or to the Sandwich Islands." He glanced around. "And somehow—between writing the year’s most talked-about novel and overseeing the refurbishment of London’s most dilapidated mansion—you have become a heroine yourself.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You need not tease me, Gabriel West.”

“I am not. And when I tell you what I have heard, even you will not be able to argue with it.” As he said this, he stretched, a little awkwardly, and then winced and rubbed his arm.

Instantly she was on high alert. “Is it troubling you?”

“What? Oh. No. I am perfectly fit. I scarcely thought of it today at all. Everyone is being absurdly overcautious.”

She folded her arms. “By ‘everyone,’ I hope that you do not mean me. And only a fortnight ago Dr. Farnham was still quite anxious about your healing.”

He gave her an arch smirk. “Of course I do not mean you. But if it were up to Dr. Farnham, I would still be in bed at Castle March, being bandaged and poulticed twice daily like a prize racehorse with a limp.”

“Really.” She narrowed her eyes. “Well. As this was your first day back for Parliament, and as we have had two long days of travel as well—which were tiring even for me, and I was not recently shot—will you at least let me look at it, to be certain?”

“Very well. But it is nothing. It merely aches or itches from time to time. I am almost accustomed to now.”

She followed him into his dressing room. His bedroom had been freshly papered and had a new carpet and curtains, but even so it was understated compared to the absurd luxury of Castle March. Still, the rows of polished mahogany shelves in the dressing room spoke of the previous duke’s high regard for his own wardrobe.

West sat down on the dressing room chair and stripped off his jacket, waistcoat, neckcloth and shirt. “There.” He turned his head at an awkward angle to see the scar himself. “You see? It is fine.”

The window provided only dim grey light. She held a candelabra close. The deep, shiny, purplish scar puckered the flesh of his of his upper arm in a jagged line. But it showed no signs of redness around its edges. Her heart rate slowed. She hadn’t realized how anxious she was until she felt her own relief. “Yes. Of course. You are right. It is merely that…”

“Now. Come here. And do not drop the candelabra and set fire to the place—like someone we will not mention.” He took the candelabra from her hand, placed it back on the dressing table, put his arm about her waist and pulled her into his lap. His dark hair—unbarbered during his convalescence—tumbled shaggily over his forehead, and his eyes were gleaming with mischief. “I must say, the only tolerable part of any of this has been your solicitude for my health. I almost begin to think that you do care for me after all.” He pulled her closer and planted a kiss on the bridge of her nose, tickling her eyebrows. “But you still have a tiny little frown right here. I must do something to fix that.” He kissed her again.

“Of course I care for you, ridiculous man.” She kissed him back, just missing the corner of his mouth, and began to get up again.

But he held her close. “Stay a moment, Pomona West. Did you just call me ridiculous?”

“Yes, I did. And I will do it again.”

“Ah, well.” He sighed with mock heaviness. “I suppose that I have no choice now but to tolerate it. Soon I shall be but a shell of the man I once was.” He reached above her ear and deftly pulled a pin out of her hair. A heavy lock tumbled onto her shoulder. He pulled out another.

She clapped a hand to her head. “I shall look utterly disheveled!”

“I think you look adorable. But I wish to call your attention to the fact that I have made a very modest addition to the decor in this dressing room. I am no Monsieur Mazarine, of course—but I flatter myself that the effect is quite charming.”

She looked around, confused, and saw what was indicating. “Oh no! You did not!”

"Oh, but I did."

West had had the dreadful watercolor that she’d done on Lido framed and hung on the wall. Even in this light she could see the blob-like, murky waves and the muddy looking sand.

“You were right—as usual, of course. You said that your painting would bring back happy memories of our honeymoon. And it does."

Heat flooded her face. “I—I behaved very badly. I was still angry that I had not been given a choice about my life, and I did not believe that you had married me willingly either. I cannot think why you would say that your memories of that day are happy.”

“Really? Can you not? Absolutely no idea? What if I give you a hint?" He drew her close against his chest. His mouth met hers.

The slight scratch of stubble around his lips sent an unexpected jolt of arousal through her. As though he could sense it, he deepened the kiss. She’d been suppressing her feelings, wishing only for West to recover. But suddenly her pulse was pounding, and with every beat of her heart all the secret places of her body came tinglingly alive. She drew back, anxious. “But we… that is, Dr. Farnham said that you were not to exert yourself.”