“Of course...” She wished he had closed the door. She thought about doing it herself, but his mood was strange, and she didn’t risk countermanding him—yet. “But Lady Middlebury knows that Lady Orpington doesn’t have many living relations. I also fear that Lady Orpington is going to annoy the marchioness with her clanging on about playing whist.”
“She is definitely going to do that. However, that won’t be a worry.”
“Because?”
“Because I believe this was a bad idea. I should not have come here. I regret I dragged you into it.”
“I don’t regret it, and I believe you are being hasty. I’ve been thinking about this investigation—”
“It isn’t yours to think about.”His voice was quiet, but he might as well have roared the words, considering the intensity with which he spoke.
He glanced toward the hallway as if to see if there was a danger of his being overheard and then moved the few steps toward her. “I don’t want you involved any deeper than playing cards. Did I not make myself clear?”
“Yes, you did. However, I have some thoughts, some ideas about how we can approach this—”
“There is nowe. And now you’ve given me another reason to end this right now. We will return to London.” He made as if to turn in the direction of the door.
Gwendolyn shifted her books and the binder to one arm and reached for his sleeve. “Why? What is the matter?”
His gaze dropped to her hand. She did not move it. She had a right to understand his thinking. Slowly, sharp, troubled blue eyes met hers. There was a beat of silence. “I don’t like this place. I don’t wish you to be involved.”
“If Lady Middlebury has sent her son after me to ferret out information, then I am involved. Iwantto be involved.”
“Gwendolyn, I can’t—”
She stopped him by putting her fingers across his lips. His breath was warm. He smelled much better than Lord Ellisfield. The spice of his soap against the warmth of his skin drew her to him. Best of all, he had used her first name again. It sounded like music on his lips, even though he was about to tell her what he wasn’t going to let her do.
But it was too late. She was already doing it.
And then he stepped back, turned away... and she wanted to grab him and make him face her. How could he continually pretend there was nothing between them?
She straightened her shoulders. “Iamhelping,” she informed him. “You need me, as a sounding board, if nothing else. Somethinghas been stewing inside of you since you first walked into this house. Share it with me. I can be trusted.”
He responded to her words with a nod as if conceding that she was right. He shifted toward her, a bleakness to his expression. “I’m not certain why I’m uneasy,” he answered, and then, “I don’t like Lady Middlebury.” He paused. “That sounds petty.”
“She is not fond of you either.” She told him about catching the marchioness watching him. “Women may tolerate their husbands’ affairs, but not many will like it. She must know or sense your connection to Lord Middlebury.”
He shook his head. “It is more than that. I feel surrounded by something I don’t understand. There is a heaviness here. A weight. Like in my dreams.” He shook his head. “This whole plan is a fool’s errand. My instincts were wrong. I don’t belong here.”
“Mr. Steele—”
He pounced on her words. “Curran,” he bit out in a whisper, his jaw tight. “I can’t afford that sort of mistake.”
Heat flushed her face at her error. But she didn’t want to return to London. She didn’t want to part company with him. Not yet. “You mustn’t give up so easily,” she whispered back furiously. “We only just arrived...” Her voice trailed off as she realized he was no longer listening to her.
Instead, he stared at a point over her shoulder, his expression thunderstruck.
She turned. He stared at the wall behind the desk, at the landscapes and portraits. “What is it?”
“That picture.” He nodded to the one of the young bride. “Sheis the singing woman from my dreams.”
Gwendolyn looked over to him. “She is Lord Ellisfield’s aunt. The late marchioness.”
Chapter Ten
Beck walked to the picture. He placed a hand on the canvas. Beneath the light touch of his fingers, the wigged beauty in the portrait laughed up at him. She sat at a pianoforte beneath a blue sky and surrounded by the dark green of the forest. A chill went through him. Why would the woman in the portrait be in his dreams? He had never been to Colemore. He’d definitely never met this woman with her stubborn chin that spoke of strong character.
“Ellisfield said this was the last marchioness?” he asked, his gaze not leaving the picture.
