Seduced at Midnight

Chapter 16

Gideon stood in the foyer, watching the earl accept his hat and walking stick from Winslow, and the countess adjust her gloves. He tried to recall the last time he'd found himself in the company of such a disagreeable couple and came up blank. After eating dinner in the kitchen, he'd walked the perimeter of the house and grounds, making certain all was secure, then checked every last window and door in the house. Everything was locked.

"We'll be home early," the countess said, frowning at Julianne, who stood still as a statue. "Although I can't abide Lady Foy's annual musicale, we must of course put in an appearance." Her gaze raked over Julianne, and she made a tsking sound. "You're to retire early. There are shadows beneath your eyes, and that will never do. You must look perfectly fresh and stunning for the duke's party tomorrow."

"Yes, Mother."

A muscle ticked in Gideon's jaw. Everything about the countess grated on his nerves. Her voice. Her demeanor. And the bloody nasty tone she used toward Julianne. He would have liked nothing more than to stomp across the fancy marble tiles and stick his nose in her fancy face and tell her to shut her bloody stupid mouth. She showed not the slightest bit of sympathy toward her daughter with regard to the fright she'd suffered, and if her concern stemmed from anything more than a worry about what the duke's reaction might be, she kept it well hidden.

And surely the woman must be blind, because he couldn't imagine how anyone could look more stunning or perfect than Julianne. Dressed in a pale green gown with her golden hair pulled into a simple yet lovely style that left soft tendrils surrounding her face and accentuating the slender column of her neck, she literally stole his breath.

"Your gown will be arriving from Madame Renee's in the morning," the countess continued, "and you must try it on immediately to make certain it's perfect."

"All of Madame's creations are perfect," Julianne said quietly. "I'm certain this one will be no different."

The countess's mouth puckered like a purse string, and she narrowed her eyes. "I'll tolerate no arguments from you, Julianne. You will be prepared to try on your gown the instant it is delivered. Nothing can go wrong for tomorrow night."

Julianne looked at the floor. "Yes, Mother."

"And stop mumbling," the countess snapped. "Botheration, you not only look haggard, you sound haggard as well." She heaved out a beleaguered sigh and turned toward her husband. "Whatever am I going to do with her?"

"Nothing," said the earl, his voice a cold snap in the air. "In a very short period of time she will no longer be our concern. Just make sure she looks her best tomorrow night." He turned to Julianne and fixed his icy glare on her. "You'll retire early, Daughter, and rid yourself of those unbecoming circles beneath your eyes so that tomorrow night the duke will have no reason to believe you've any cause to lose sleep."

The earl then shifted his attention Gideon. "You'll see to it that there are no disturbances tonight-but if there are, this time I expect you to catch the person responsible."

"That is why I'm here," Gideon said, returning the earl's frigid stare with one of his own. He didn't doubt his ability to protect Julianne from an intruder, but he seethed at his inability to safeguard her from the unkind barbs thrown at her by her parents. In spite of his profession, in spite of the violence in his past and that which he lived with every day on London's mean streets, he didn't consider himself a violent man. He used force only when necessary to protect himself or someone else from being made a victim.

But the earl's cold, dismissive unkindness toward Julianne settled like a red haze over Gideon's vision. In his mind's eye he saw himself picking up the nobleman by his perfectly tied cravat and shaking him like a terrier with a rat. Then telling him in no uncertain terms that if he ever heard him speak to her in such a cutting manner again, he'd shove his bloody teeth down his bloody throat. And while Gideon had never committed violence against a woman, the very elegant countess tested his patience to the limit. He would have taken great pleasure in telling the supercilious woman precisely what he thought of her-right after he tossed her into her very elegant privet hedges. A grim smile compressed his lips at the mental image. I'd wager that would cause a few unsightly shadows beneath your eyes, Countess.

A light pressure on his sleeve pulled Gideon from his brown study. He looked down and saw Julianne's pale hand resting against his dark jacket. Based on her quizzical expression, she'd just asked him something. He had no idea what.

"Does that meet with your approval?"

He glanced around the foyer and realized that her parents had departed. "Er, yes." Bloody hell, he hoped so, yet he couldn't think of anything she'd ask him to do that he'd deny her.

One corner of her mouth quirked upward. "Where did you go? You seemed a thousand miles away."

I was planting your arrogant father a facer and tossing your condescending mother into the hedges. "I was here. Just… preoccupied." He cleared his throat. "Do you plan to retire?"

She gave him an odd look, one that made him wonder exactly what he'd missed while he was mentally planting that facer. "Yes. As soon as we're finished." She turned to Winslow, who was rearranging a group of walking sticks into a tall porcelain urn next to the door. "Has the ballroom been readied?"

"Yes, Lady Julianne. It is just as you requested."

"Excellent." She turned back to Gideon and offered him a shy smile. "Follow me."

Bloody hell. He didn't know what awaited him in the ballroom, but when she looked at him like that, he'd follow her anywhere-a fact that simultaneously confounded and alarmed him. He gave a soft whistle, and Caesar followed, shadowed by Princess Buttercup, who wore what appeared to be a… tiny fur coat? Good God.

He walked beside Julianne down a series of long corridors, painfully aware of her. Her shoulder brushed his sleeve, and his nostrils flared, pulling in a sharp breath, which only served to fill his head with a tantalizing whiff of her vanilla scent.

She brushed against his shoulder again, and he barely refrained from groaning. He needed to take a quick look at whatever she wanted to show him, then send her off to bed. That way he'd know she was safe, and there would be a wall between them.

Feeling the need to say something to break the tension gripping him, he said, "You're very… patient with your parents."

Bloody hell. Certainly not the most diplomatic thing he could have uttered, but instead of appearing offended, she merely shrugged. "If you were to ask them, they are the ones who are patient with me. I'm a great trial to them, you see."

"In what way?"

She shot him a surprised sideways glance then leaned a bit closer, as if imparting a great secret. "I'm not a boy."

His gaze involuntarily coasted down her luscious form. "Obviously. Why does that make you a trial?"

Her brows shot up. "Because it renders me useless. I cannot inherit the title. Were I not so uncooperative, recalcitrant, and a trial, I would have been born what I was supposed to be: a male. Because I choose to be born a useless girl, Father's younger brother Harold will inherit, a fact that galls my father no end, especially as he detests Harold."

The news that the earl didn't like his younger brother didn't surprise Gideon in the least. In fact, it led him to ask, "Does your father like anyone?"

She pursed her lips and considered. "No, I don't think so. Certainly he doesn't like me. He barely tolerates Mother." She snapped her fingers. "His horse. He's very fond of Zeus."

Even though she sounded very matter-of-fact, he sensed her underlying sadness, and sympathy tugged at him. He knew all too well what it felt like to be a grave disappointment to one's father. Of course, in Gideon's case, the feeling was mutual. And he suddenly realized that that was something he and Julianne had in common, for there was no doubt she was disheartened by her father's attitude. She'd accepted it, just as he had with Jack, but accepting something and being happy about it were two very different things.

"Of course, there were times I was a trial." She shot him a sideways glanced filled with mischief. "Once, when I was ten, I had the audacity to go about in Brighton without my bonnet, resulting in a sunburn. Mother flew into the boughs, declaring my complexion ruined for eternity."

He sent her a look of feigned shock. "You are indeed awful."

"Yes. Although my retribution didn't do me much good."

"What did you do?"

"The next day I went to the beach and, while I kept my bonnet on, I removed my shoes and stockings and purposely allowed my feet to cook in the sun. I thought I was very clever-getting sunburned where Mother wouldn't see it." She chuckled softly. "I was quite done in my by own cunning when my skin ended up so tender I couldn't bear to wear shoes for the next three days." She gave him a rueful smile. "I'm afraid my private rebellion wasn't very successful."

"Have you had others?"

"Other what? Sunburns?"

"Private rebellions."

She shrugged. "A few here and there. Looking back, not as many as I wish I'd had. But over the past few months I've remedied that somewhat."

"Indeed? How?"

After a brief hesitation she said, "I joined a book club with Emily, Sarah, and Carolyn."

"I hate to be the one to inform you, but that doesn't sound very rebellious."

"Perhaps not."

Something in her tone made it clear there was more to know, but before he could question her further, they turned a corner, and she paused before the first door. He stopped behind her. And clenched his teeth. Her ivory nape was so close…if he leaned forward, he could brush his lips over that tantalizing bit of skin that seemed to beckon, Kiss me, kiss me.

He wasn't certain he wouldn't have obeyed the overwhelming urge, but she saved him from doing so by opening the door. Then she looked at him over her shoulder and smiled-a beautiful, shy smile that coaxed the shallow dimples in her cheeks out of hiding. "I hope this meets with your approval."

She entered the room, and he followed. Then halted. And stared.

Flames danced in a huge marble fireplace, casting the room in a soft glow that reflected off the glossy parquet floor. A dozen candelabras, their silver stems glowing with tapers that scented the air with beeswax, dotted the tables in the ballroom, adding to the soft light.

"Are you hosting a ball?" he asked, looking around, noting how the gilt mirrors lining the pale yellow silk-covered walls made the already huge chamber seem enormous.

She stopped in the center of the floor then turned toward him. The soft candle and firelight gilded her as if she'd been touched by an artist's brush. "Indeed I am. Are you ready?"

"For what?"

"Your dance lesson."

He could only stare. "I beg your pardon?"

She laughed. "Your dance lesson. To satisfy my part of our bargain. As I told you in the foyer, I thought it would be more enjoyable than a piano lesson, and, ahem, save everyone's ears."

Ah. So that's what he'd missed while mentally planting her father a facer and consigning her mother to the privet hedges. And what he'd inadvertently agreed to. A refusal rose to his lips; it was ridiculous that he learn to dance. Of what possible use would such knowledge be to a Runner? Besides, he'd most likely tread upon her toes and make a complete fool of himself.

But then an image flashed in his mind… of Julianne dancing with the duke at Daltry's party. He vividly recalled how beautiful she'd looked. And how he'd envied the bastard for holding her in his arms. How badly he'd wished for those few impossible minutes that he was the man whirling her around the dance floor. Holding her hand in his. Touching the small of her back. Looking into those incredible eyes while the room swirled around them. A useless, foolish dream he'd savagely pushed aside. But now… a useless, foolish dream that could become reality.

"What if Winslow tells your parents?"

She shrugged. "I promised to retire early-not immediately. And teaching a dance is really no different than teaching a song or a card game. 'Tis a lesson, nothing more. And the door will remain open so all is proper."

Right. Except in a dance lesson he'd be able to touch her.

As if caught in a trance, he walked slowly toward her, his boots tapping against the polished wood floor. "What about music?" he asked.

"I'll hum and sing." Her lips twitched. "We won't need to call upon your, um, formidable vocal, er, talents."

He stopped when only two feet separated them, a distance that at once felt far too great and much too small.

In order to appear more imposing-and to make certain he didn't give in to the urge to yank her against him-he crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. "The way you say formidable leads me to believe that you mean something else entirely."

Rather than looking intimidated, amusement gleamed in her eyes. "Perhaps I do. Indescribable might be a more accurate assessment of your abilities."

"You said earlier I can't sing worth a jot. In other words, I possess no musical talent at all."

A dazzling smile lit her face. "Actually no other words are necessary, as those words are perfect."

He narrowed his eyes. "How is it that you issue such insults yet don't look frightened?"

She made a dismissive gesture. "Pshaw. You don't scare me."

He deepened his scowl and leaned forward to loom over her, more amused than he cared to admit. "No?"

"No. Oh, you can be very intimidating, especially with that frown, which is quite fierce, by the way. But underneath that crusty exterior is…" She tapped her finger on her chin and gave him a thorough look-over. "Porridge."

He leaned back and blinked, nonplussed. "Crusty? Porridge?"

"Yes. Indeed, you remind me of a loaf of perfectly baked bread: hard on the outside, soft on the inside."

"I've never heard such rot," he muttered, shaking his head, torn between mirth and masculine indignation. "Loaf of bread. Unbelievable."

She hiked up a brow. "You disagree with my assessment?"

"Heartily."

"Hmmm. You sound… peeved. I assure you I meant it as a compliment."

"To compare me to a loaf of bread?"

"That's not nearly as bad as you comparing me to a drunken porcupine." Before he could say another word, she snapped her fingers. "That's an even better description of you. You're like a porcupine-all sharp quills on the outside."

"Thank you. So much. And on the inside?"

"Oh, still porridge."

"What sort of porcupine has porridge on the inside?"

"The sort I'm comparing you to."

"There is no such thing as a porcupine with porridge on the inside."

She planted her hands on her hips. A tapping noise sounded, and he realized it was her foot rapping against the wood floor. "Fine. On the inside you're porcupine innards-that are the consistency of porridge."

"Oh, thank you," he said in his driest tone. "That's much better."

"You're welcome. Has anyone ever told you that you don't accept compliments very graciously?"

He couldn't help but laugh. "No, Princess, they haven't. I assure you I can accept them just fine-when one is actually given."

A knowing look came over her features. "Ah. Now I understand. You prefer pretty, flowery words."

"Certainly not. Bow Street Runners don't like anything to do with flowery words."

"Then you'll have to make do with either a loaf of bread or a porcupine with porridge for innards."

"I don't see why, as I don't agree with either description."

"Fine. Has anyone ever told you that just because you disagree you don't need to be disagreeable?"

"Has anyone ever told you you're incredibly fickle? A moment ago I was a perfectly baked loaf of bread. Now I'm disagreeable."

A slow smile curved her lips. "Only because you disagreed with me."

His gaze lowered to her full lips, curved in that captivating smile, and he felt as if he were being sucked into a vortex. Bloody hell, she was enchanting. Literally so, as it appeared he'd fallen under some sort of spell. A spell cast by a beautiful princess, but one who kept proving herself so much more than merely beautiful on the outside. This princess was beautiful on the inside as well.

"Are you ready for your lesson?" she asked. "I thought we'd try the waltz-unless you already know it?"

He shook his head-both as an answer and to shake off the stupor he'd fallen into. "No, I don't know it. But I must warn you: your toes stand in grave jeopardy of suffering as much as your ears did this afternoon."

Her eyes went soft, and his insides seemed to turn to-bloody hell-porridge. "I suspect you'll be a marvelous waltzer. And I'm not the least bit worried about my toes."

"Well, you should be. I'll be like an ox stomping about."

"Then we have our work cut out for us and had best begin. After all, I must retire early. Can't have those unsightly dark circles under my eyes, you know." The grin she shot him was downright naughty, and he found himself smiling in return-and biting his tongue to refrain from telling her that she couldn't look unsightly if she tried.

She reached out and clasped his left hand, lifting it to chin height, elbow bent, then settled her other hand on his shoulder. "Set your right hand on my back," she instructed.

Heat sizzled up one arm and down the other, and for several seconds he felt as if he couldn't breathe. Damn. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. He looked into her eyes. She appeared expectant-and quite annoyingly nothing else. Certainly she didn't seem as if she were about to go up in flames as he did. Well, hell. If she could tolerate this, so could he.

He settled his right hand on her back and forced himself not to drag her closer.

"A bit lower," she said. "Right at the base of my spine."

He slowly slid his hand down, his palm brushing over the smooth material of her gown, his mind's eye envisioning the gentle curve of her back.

"Here?" he asked softly, pressing his palm to the small of her back.

Her breath caught slightly, and grim satisfaction filled him. Good. She wasn't as unaffected as she'd like him to think. Why should he be the only one suffering? Of course, she chose just then to moisten her lips, a flick of pink tongue that increased his suffering far more than he would have liked.

"Yes, right there." She cleared her throat then continued, "The waltz is a very simple dance, and done to a three beat. As the man, you are the leader, and as your partner, I shall mirror your steps."

"Which means you'll be treading on my toes as well?"

"You must cease this worrying about my toes. I'm not as delicate as I look. We'll go very slowly. Now, on the first beat, you step gracefully forward with your left foot. At the same time, I'll step back with my right. Ready? Begin."

He stepped forward, but apparently not gracefully, because his boot landed squarely on her foot.

"Bloody hell," he said, immediately releasing her and stepping back. "Are you hurt?"

"My toe is fine. Not to worry, I have nine others."

"Which I'll no doubt crush on beat two."

"There are only three beats, Gideon. So how much damage can you possibly do?"

The sound of his name coming from her lips gave him the incentive to at least attempt to redeem himself. "Hopefully not much."

Once again she took his hand, and he settled his at the base of her spine. "This time take a smaller step," she said. "We're not trying to get across the room in a single bound."

"Would have helped if you'd said that the first time," he grumbled.

He managed to execute the first step without mishap. "Now what?"

"For the second beat, you're going to step forward and to the right with your right foot-rather like tracing an upside down letter L."

He tried but obviously traced too large of an L, because his knee banged into hers thigh, a mistake that arrowed heat up his leg. His gaze flicked to hers, and to his annoyance she once again appeared completely unruffled while he felt hot and uncomfortable and as if his clothes had suddenly shrunk.

"Try again," she said, nodding in an encouraging fashion. "Just take a smaller step."

He obeyed, and continued obeying her instructions, which she repeated with unfailing patience, in spite of his many missteps and toe crunches. At first he felt ridiculous and clumsy and utterly ungainly, and the only thing keeping him from quitting was that he couldn't walk away from this opportunity to hold her in his arms. Indeed, he might have done better if he'd had a different teacher-someone whose every touch didn't set his skin on fire. Made it bloody damn difficult to concentrate when a matter of mere inches separated their bodies. Could she feel the heat and desire pumping off him? Didn't seem possible she couldn't, as it felt to him as if it exuded from his pores like vapor rising from a hot spring.

"Very good," she said, as they made their way around the floor at an excruciatingly slow pace. "One, two, three. One, two, three. Now let's add a slight turn to the left so we go in a circle."

The slight turn to the left threw him off, and again he stepped on her toes. "Damn," he muttered. "I'm sorry. I'm not usually so inept."

"There is nothing inept about you, Gideon," she said softly.

He jerked his head up from where he'd been glowering at his feet and found her serious blue gaze resting on him with an expression that did nothing to cool his want of her.

"All you need is a bit of practice," she said, giving his hand a gentle, encouraging squeeze. "A quarter hour from now, you'll be waltzing as if you were born doing so."

"Doubtful," he muttered. A quarter hour from now he needed for this lesson to be over. Before he gave in to his ever-increasing desire to forget the bloody waltz and lower her to the hearth rug and end this hunger gnawing at him.

Gritting his teeth, he tried again, counting one, two, three, one, two, three furiously in his head.

"Excellent," she praised a moment later. "Now you need to do that very same thing, but looking at me-with a smile-instead of glaring at your feet. It is a dance, you know. Not a funeral march."

He raised his gaze, looked into her eyes, and instantly stumbled over his own feet. And stepped on hers.

He uttered what felt like his hundredth apology, but she didn't miss a step, just slowly kept going, around and around, counting softly. After they'd made a complete-albeit extremely slow-circle of the ballroom without mishap, she offered him a beaming smile.

"Excellent. Now we're ready for some music." She began to softly hum a slow melody. After a moment he asked, "What song is that?"

"Just one of the dozens of songs I know about flowers and sunshine and grass-filled meadows." Her lips curved in a mischievous grin. "Shall I sing 'Apple Dumplin' Shop'?"

He grinned in return. "Shall I?"

She laughed. "Good heavens, no. I'll hum another." She began again, and this time he recognized the song as the one she'd played earlier today. "That is the tune you composed," he said. "'Dreams of You.'"

She stopped humming and nodded. "Yes." Her serious gaze rested on his, and she whispered, "'Dreams of You.'"

Again she hummed the haunting melody, and with his gaze locked on hers, unable to look away, they slowly circled the floor. He found himself imagining they stood in a crowded ballroom, and he was dressed in the finest evening attire, and he had every right in the world to approach her, an earl's daughter, and ask her to dance. To take her in his arms where she fit as if made for him alone and circle the ballroom while every other man wished he were Gideon. Who was the luckiest man in the world to be waltzing with her. The most beautiful, desirable woman in the world.

She reached the end of the song, and her sweet hum faded into silence. Their steps slowed then halted. Her eyes glowed up at him, and she smiled. And everything inside him seemed to simultaneously melt and go still.

"I hate to say 'I told you so,'" she murmured, "but…"

He had to swallow twice to locate his voice. "Actually, I don't think you hate to say it at all."

"Perhaps not. You are a lovely dancer."

"You are a lovely teacher." Unable to stop himself, he brought their joined hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the backs of her fingers. Her breath caught at the gesture, and he felt a tremor run through her, one he longed to feel again.

"Thank you," he murmured against her fingers. "For the most enjoyable waltz I've ever experienced."

A breathless-sounding laugh escaped her. "That was the only waltz you've ever experienced."

True. But he knew damn well that even if he'd experienced a thousand of them, that one still would have been his favorite. He wanted to tell her that, wanted to let her know how heartbreakingly beautiful she looked. How incredible she felt in his arms. How easy it would be to simply stand here all night long, just looking at her. Breathing in her subtle vanilla scent. How much he wanted to kiss her. Make love to her. Make her his.

Bloody hell, he needed to get away from her. Now. Before a simple dance turned into something very complicated. Something they'd both regret.

The memory of them together flashed in his mind… of Julianne lying on the drawing room hearth rug, her skirts bunched about her waist, his head buried between her silky thighs, and desire slammed into him like a fist to his gut.

He released her and quickly stepped back. "Our bargain is now satisfied," he said, his voice rough with the want he was trying desperately to hide. "And it's time for you to retire."

There was no missing the disappointment that filled her gaze, but he refused to acknowledge it. "Very well," she murmured, "but first I need to snuff the candles."

He suspected that was merely a stalling tactic-no doubt there was a servant whose sole responsibility it was to snuff out candles-but he didn't argue. Instead he walked to the opposite side of the room and grabbed a long-handled engraved brass candle snuffer from a side table and helped the process along.

When they finished, he moved to the door and said, "I'll escort you to your chamber. Make certain the room is secure."

She looked up at him, lit now only by the back glow of the fire, and he felt himself drowning in her eyes. "And then what?"

"And then I'll do my job." He forced his gaze away and gave a soft whistle for Caesar, who'd been patiently standing guard in the corridor with his fur-draped cohort.

"Gideon, I-"

"Let's get you settled for the night," he broke in, his voice coming out harsh. Based on the yearning so obvious in her eyes, she planned to say something he didn't want to hear. Something that would surely tempt his already shaky resolve. "Now. Before your parents return home and find you haven't yet retired."

He didn't wait for a reply, just began walking down the corridor. She caught up to him several seconds later.

"Gideon, I-"

"I meant to ask you something earlier," he broke in again, this time in desperation. He couldn't risk her saying what he saw in her eyes. Couldn't let her voice the admiration and longing he saw there.

She hesitated then asked, "What do you wish to know?"

"I'm curious about the book that was mentioned at tea. The Ghost of Devonshire Manor. The mere mention of it caused a very interesting reaction in you and your friends."

"Interesting?"

"Yes. Lady Emily seemed quite devilish, and the rest of you blushed and were very eager to change the subject. Given my inquisitive nature, I can't help but wonder what it is about the book that would cause such a reaction."

"I…I suppose we were merely surprised when Emily broached the subject. The book was the latest reading selection of our book club, and we normally don't discuss our choices outside our small circle."

"And why is that?"

"Because they are not books that would necessarily be considered… classics. In the classic sense. Precisely."

Understanding and interest dawned, and he nodded. "I see. So they are scandalous."

A scarlet flush washed over her cheeks. "I suppose a certain type of person might think so."

"And what type is that?"

"A person who can read."

He couldn't help but chuckle. "Well, well. Proper Lady Julianne reading improper books. It would seem the lioness has not only claws but teeth as well. Interesting."

They entered the foyer where Winslow assured them all was well. After bidding the butler good night, Gideon and Julianne climbed the stairs. When they reached the top, she said, "Since you are so curious, you may borrow the book, if you'd like."

He knew he should refuse, but the thought of having, even temporarily, something that belonged to her, especially something that had brought such a becoming flush to her cheeks, was too irresistible to refuse. "All right," he agreed. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'll get it for you now." She stopped in front of her bedchamber door-the room where he would be staying tonight, in hopes of the intruder coming back so Gideon could capture the bastard.

"Wait," he said softly. He entered the room ahead of her. A fire had been laid, bathing the room with a warm, golden glow. He made certain the windows were locked, noting as he made his way around the room that his portmanteau had been unpacked and his personal items were neatly lined up next to a washstand and pitcher filled with water.

He motioned for her to enter. She did so. Then, with her gaze steady on his, she slowly closed the door behind her.

He stilled at the quiet click, a soft sound that reverberated through his head with the finality of prison bars clanging shut. He stood rooted to the carpet, watching as she crossed the room then opened the wardrobe. She crouched down, arose, then walked toward the bed, carrying what appeared to be a wooden box.

"Is that where you keep all your scandalous books?" he asked, forcing a lightness into his voice he was far from feeling.

She shook her head. "This is my Box of Wishes and Dreams. It's where I keep all my treasures and most prized possessions."

His better judgment warned him to keep his distance, but his curiosity to see the contents of the box won out. He approached the bed and looked down.

"I discovered this box several years ago in a shop on Bond Street and instantly fell in love with it," she said, tracing her fingers over the delicately painted design on the lid. It was of a woman, standing in profile, her arms outstretched. In the woman's one hand dangled her bonnet ribbons and in the other her shoes. Her long blond curls and pale blue gown billowed behind her in the unseen breeze as she ran, hatless and barefoot, through a field of colorful wildflowers. The woman's face was raised to capture the sun's golden glow, and a smile filled with pure joy curved her lips.

"She immediately captured my imagination with her carefree exuberance," Julianne said quietly, brushing a single fingertip over the lid. "I could almost hear her jubilant laughter. She was a brave and daring woman, one free of restrictions and rules, and I recognized her instantly."

Gideon's brows rose. "Recognized her?"

"Yes." She looked up and met his gaze. "She is the woman I've always longed to be. The woman who lives in my imagination."

Taking a small brass key, she unlocked the box and slowly lifted the lid. "As soon as I arrived home with the box, I dubbed it my Box of Wishes and Dreams, and in it I keep things I've collected that represent my fondest desires."

She opened the box, and he looked down. And frowned. In spite of her claim not to be enamored of jewelry, he'd expected the box to be filled with glittery gems and other expensive trinkets. He wasn't certain what all those things in the box were, but not one of them sparkled. He leaned closer and recognized the shape of an object on the top.

"A seashell?" he asked, wondering what that could possibly have to do with wishes and dreams.

She lifted the perfectly formed conch shell from the box and held it in her palm. "I found this on the beach at Brighton-a place I dearly love. The shell reminds me of the exhilaration and freedom I experience walking along the sea-washed sand, the tangy salt breezes whipping through my hair."

She set the shell on the bed then lifted what appeared to be a foot-long strip of ragged material from the box. "This is the tail of a kite I flew on that same beach. I recall laughing as it snapped in the briny wind and soared toward the clouds. And this…" she lifted out another object and handed it to him. "A gull's feather that floated through the air while the bird that had shed it had squawked without restraint then spread its gray-tipped wings and floated toward the cobalt water, skimming the white-capped surface."

Gideon brushed a fingertip over the feather and tried to make sense of the odd feeling gripping him. Before he could figure it out, she picked up several more objects. First she handed him a small pencil drawing of Princess Buttercup, asleep on her satin pillow.

"Sarah drew this. She's very talented." Next she placed a small gray rock in his hand. "I found this in Hyde Park while on a walk with Emily. And this leaf-" She placed that on top of the rock, "is from the elm outside Carolyn's town house. They're reminders of my very dear friends."

Her gaze searched his and as always, he felt himself sinking. Like a drowning man, alone in the middle of the sea. "Do you want to see more?" she asked quietly.

Every self-preservation instinct in his body demanded he say no. That he send her off to the chamber where she was to sleep. But then his gaze fell to the box. And he knew he had to see what else was inside. "Yes," he said softly. "I want to see everything."

Again she reached into the box, this time withdrawing two dried flowers. "One from Sarah's wedding bouquet and one from Carolyn's. Because I've always dreamed of a love-filled marriage such as the ones they have." Next she withdrew two pairs of baby booties, one pink, one blue. "I made these," she said, tracing her fingers over the delicately embroidered material. "For the dreams of the children I hope to someday have."

Once again she reached into the box, this time pulling out a folded piece of vellum. "I added this treasure several months ago, soon after the Ladies Literary Society was formed. During our first meeting we discussed the traits we felt constituted the Perfect Man." She raised her brows. "Would you like me to read it to you?"

"By all means."

She unfolded the vellum and recited, "'The Perfect Man is a kind, patient, generous, honest, honorable, witty, intelligent, handsome, romantic, stunningly passionate, make-your-insides-flutter, full-lipped good kisser who can dance, shop, listen, and solicit a woman's opinion, all tirelessly and without complaint." She looked up and met his gaze. "What do you think?"

Not one mention of wealth. Or a title. Or estates. He fought the overpowering need to loosen his suddenly too tight cravat. "I think that's a lot to ask for in one man."

She nodded solemnly. "Yes. But finding the perfect person for you… I believe it is possible."

Bloody hell, the way she was looking at him… as if he were that perfect person for her…made the area around his heart go hollow. With longing. And desire. God knows he was far from perfect. And the absolute opposite of perfect for her.

Needing to break the suffocating silence, he nodded toward the box. "Anything else in there?"

She picked up two slim books. Setting the first one on the bed, she said, "That is Memoirs of a Mistress, one of our previous £f oh="book club selections. The book is scandalously explicit, but I greatly admired the courage of the author. She was a fearless woman who lived as she pleased and enjoyed all of life's passions." She handed him the other book. "This is The Ghost of Devonshire Manor."

"And why was it given a place of honor in your Box of Wishes and Dreams?"

"It represents the sort of loving relationship I've always longed for, albeit with a real man rather than a specter. It was a beautiful story of profound love. Of deep passion. Of two people who, in spite of their feelings, given their circumstances, could never be together."

His heart began to pound in slow, hard beats, and his fingers tightened on the leather-bound volume. "So what did they do?"

"They took what happiness they could. Enjoyed each other for the short time it was possible to do so. Then Maxwell, the ghost, had to return to his world, while Lady Elaine remained in hers. And so they parted."

"And that was it? No happy ending?" He tried to insert a bit of levity and smile, but his face felt like stone. "I thought ladies liked stories with happy endings."

"Not all love stories have a happy ending, I'm afraid."

The air in the room seemed thick and hot. In desperation, he looked down at the book. Opened it to a random page. And scanned the lines.

She lay on the bed, naked, legs splayed to reveal glistening folds he ached to touch. Lifting one hand toward him, she whispered a single word: "Please." And Maxwell knew in that instant that nothing from her world or the after-world would stop him from making love to her. Claiming her as his own. At least for tonight, for they couldn't have forever.

He snapped the book shut and drew in a shaky breath. Bloody hell. It was definitely time to get the hell out of this room, which suddenly felt as if it were the size of a birdcage. And on fire.

"You need to…" His words trailed off, and he stared into the box. One item remained. As if in a trance, he reached in to pull out the folded white square with the dark blue G embroidered in the corner.

"This is my handkerchief."

She hesitated then nodded. And suddenly it looked as if her heart were in her eyes, and everything inside him seemed to still and race at the same time. These things, these simple things she called her most prized possessions, her treasures, held no monetary value. Yet they were rich in sentiment. Certainly not the treasures of a spoiled princess. No, they were the treasures of a sensitive, thoughtful, romantic, beautiful young woman. One who'd added his handkerchief to her Box of Wishes and Dreams.

God help him.

"You offered it to me last night," she whispered. "I hope you'll let me keep it. Someday it will be all I'll have of you."

Bloody hell. His heart felt heavy. As if each beat were a blow against his ribs. "Julianne-"

She cut off his words by placing her fingers against his lips. "I want you to know," she said, her gaze steady on his, "that since the moment I met you two months ago, you haven't been out of my thoughts. You're the first thing I think about when I awaken, the last thing I think of before I fall asleep, and you invade every thought in between. What we shared last night was… magical. Incredible. And I want more of it. More of everything. With you. Now. While I still can."