He slipped one arm about her waist, holding her tight against him. Her lips parted with a silent gasp at the pressure she could feel against her.
The moment passed with the sound of a door opening and footsteps accompanied by the chink of fresh crockery.
McKay declared aloud, “I heard the sound of breaking crocks and... ah-ha!”
Gideon turned, feeling Catherine step away from him and feeling the loss as keenly as a sharp intake of breath after plunging into a cold lake.
“Yes, it took you long enough!” Gideon chided awkwardly, pouring his disappointment at the interruption into his voice.
“It was not Mr. McKay’s fault,” Catherine murmured.
“I shall clear the crocks and have taken the liberty of bringing fresh ones,” McKay assured, unconcerned with his master’s tone.
Gideon scowled and walked to the breakfast table. Catherine followed, stooping to pick up the letters that had been scattered by her wayward croquet ball—and, ostensibly, one that hadslipped from his coat pocket when he had been forced to duck earlier.
He spotted that particular unaddressed letter on top, folded but not sealed. He put out an impatient hand for the letter.
“If you wouldn’t mind?” he emphasized.
“Of course!” Catherine squeaked meekly, handing over the letters, “I have no wish to pry into your private affairs.”
“That is well, because you do not have the right,” Gideon replied shortly.
He couldn’t help but open the letter again, eyes rapidly scanning the lines.
Who are you? Am I sitting opposite your accomplice?
His eyes lifted from the page to meet Catherine, who was frowning, pouring herself a fresh cup of tea.
“And what has put you so far out of countenance?” he asked abruptly, “you were happy and laughing a moment ago.”
“Your flashes of anger and changes of mood. You are as predictable as lightning and prickly as a rose bush. I do not know when I am going to be pricked or simply ignored for days.”
“I have not ignored you for days. You have not been here a fortnight!” Gideon exclaimed, folding the letter once more and slipping it into his pocket.
“It has been more than one day. That isdays,” Catherine countered astutely.
Gideon picked up the next letter. He recognized the handwriting of Jeremy Bexley, Viscount of Everdon. His frown deepened as he wondered what caused Jeremy to write to him.
He can visit any time he likes. Or find me at Spencer’s. He was here only yesterday, but said nothing to me of any consequence...
“Actually, I had hoped that spending time with each other would lead to a thawing of our relations,” Catherine said suddenly.
“Leading to what?” Gideon replied, distracted.
“…Friendship? Perhaps some of those memories being shaken loose from the ice within which they seem to be bound.”
He looked up sharply at the reference to memory, eyes narrowing.
“I am not aware of any,” he said slowly.
“Yet, you do not remember half the things that I do.”
“Perhapsyouare the one with the faulty memory.”
“Meaning?”
“Did half the things you say I said or did truly happen? Poppy juice can do strange things to the mind—”
