Page 18 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
The night air was cold and refreshing.
She shut and locked the door, tucked the keys into her reticule, and extracted her gloves. Pulling them on, she glanced at Gray, who was still hovering. “My house isn’t far.”
He frowned. “You walk?”
“As I said, it’s not far, and usually, I’m not this late.”
He didn’t look reassured. He glanced down the street. “I’ll see you home. Which way?”
She resisted an impulse to protest. He’d always exhibited a certain chivalrousness—except for the time he’d vanished from her life without word or excuse; despite that incident, apparently, his compulsion to protect women hadn’t changed with the years.
From beneath her lashes, she scanned his features. They had changed, becoming starker, more austere. This was definitely not the younger version of Grayson Child, the man she’d thought had loved her as much as she’d loved him, until he’d deserted her. This older version was a lot harder, more decisive and sharper edged.
She didn’t bother mounting even a token resistance. Despite the risk of having him step further into her life, given she still felt distinctly unsettled, she was and would be grateful for his company.
How very easily they’d slid back into their previous ways of dealing with each other. They weren’t the same people, and their interaction wasn’t quite the same, yet still…
She waved toward Bernard Street. “The house is in Woburn Square.”
She started walking, and he fell in beside her.
They maintained a steady pace down the mews and into Bernard Street, slowed to negotiate the traffic and cross Woburn Place, then walked along the northern edge of Russell Square. All the while, Gray scanned their surroundings. He was neither overt nor covert about it; indeed, it was as if it had become second nature for him to remain aware of all around him.
Once, she’d loved the man he had been, and she had to own to a burgeoning fascination to learn about the man he now was.
At the northwestern corner of Russell Square, she turned right, up the short street that opened into the elongated Woburn Square. The so-called square was so narrow, there were no houses at the far end, where it met Byng Street. But the terrace houses lining the east and west sides were well-kept respectable residences, precisely the sort of house a widowed newspaper proprietor might be expected to inhabit.
She led Gray along the western side and, eventually, halted on the pavement before the steps leading up to the blue-painted door of Number 20. The twin lamps burning on either side of the door lit the steps and the area in which she and Gray stood.
As she turned to face him, she’d never been more thankful for the solid façade of her Mrs. Molyneaux persona.
She offered her hand. “Thank you, not only for walking me home but for all that came before that. Perkins would have gladly clapped me in irons had you not been there.”
He grasped her fingers, and his amber eyes caught hers, and for an instant, time fell away. A frisson of sensation streaked through her, all the way to her toes, just as it had the first time they’d met, all those years ago.
His muscles tensed as if to raise her hand to his lips—as he had in that long-ago ballroom—and she froze, and so did he.
To cover her reaction—both their reactions—she said, “Your family—especially your brother and sister-in-law—are going to hate your name being associated with a murder, even if only in passing.”
His gaze remained on her face. She studied his, but couldn’t read the expression in his eyes, and his features were significantly more difficult to read than they once had been.
Then his lips curved wryly. “When have I ever cared what people—especially Roddy and Pamela—think?”
She tipped her head, acknowledging that. He’d always been one to go his own road.
He released her hand and shoved both of his into his greatcoat pockets. “I’ll drop by tomorrow, and we can talk more about dropping the exposé.”
She frowned. “We hardly need to discuss that further. This murder is going to dominate our news for the next weeks, and by that time, our readers will have forgotten that I ever mentioned a secretive Golden Ball.”
His lips twisted cynically. “Glad to know that even in your readers’ eyes, murder trumps matchmaking.” His gaze hardened. “Nevertheless, I’ll call tomorrow and see how the land lies.”
She inwardly sighed and nodded. “Very well. I’ll see you then. Again, thank you for your escort home.”
She forced herself to turn and climb the steps to the front door. She gave a light rap, and the door was opened by the housekeeper, Doyle.
Aware of Gray still standing on the pavement, his gaze on her, Izzy stepped inside, nodded at Doyle to close the door, and waited in the dimly lit hall for several seconds. Then she went to the narrow window beside the door, shifted the lace curtain a fraction, and peered out.
Gray was walking away, head down, thinking.
