Page 3 of The Hero

The sooner he removed himself from his uncharacteristic attraction to this unsuitable young lady, the better it would be.

For both of them.

Gideon had not indulged in many intimate liaisons in his life, but that had been through choice rather than a lack of willing ladies. Because he knew his own nature well. Knew that beneath his outward demeanor of icy coolness, he possessed a passionate nature many women would find too intense and demanding.

He doubted a woman aged eighteen or nineteen could meet the passion of those intense physical demands.

“Of course I excuse you, Your Grace.” Her gaze was lowered as she gave a slow and perfect curtsey. “I trust you will not suffer any ill effects from your unexpected swim,” she added evenly before turning nimbly on her heel to pick up the bucket containing the trout and collect her makeshift fishing rod and discarded shoes and stockings. She then went merrily on her way without further ado.

Gideon watched her leave through narrowed lids. He could not be certain, of course, but he believed—yes, he truly believed—that young hellion’s eyes had been laughing at him beneath those lowered lids.

Later that evening he was sure of it.

CHAPTER TWO

“Your Grace, may I present my niece, Lady Henrietta Church,” Gideon’s hostess, Lady Amelia Whiting, said, having already taken Gideon about the room to reacquaint him with the half dozen couples he knew already gathered in the salon before dinner. She had also introduced him to the four single young ladies who were now engaged in a whispered conversation behind their fans in a corner of the room. “She is the daughter of my dear departed sister, Grace, and my brother-in-law, Henry, the Earl of Dunhill,” she added proudly.

“Indeed,” he murmured noncommittally as he gave a formal bow toward that young lady.

Gideon’s research into Henry Church, the man he was here to investigate in connection with the death of one of Gideon’s closest friends, had revealed that Lady Henrietta Church was the earl’s only daughter. She had an older brother, Edward, Viscount Henlow, Dunhill’s heir, whom Gideon had been informed would also be present this weekend.

Henrietta Church, despite bearing little resemblance to the hoyden of a female Gideon had met this afternoon was, nevertheless, the very same young lady who had been sitting bare-legged beside the Whitings’ stream fishing for trout, with her hair loose and windblown and her clothes in disarray.

She looked every inch the young lady of Society this evening, however. Her hair was curled and swept up and secured at her crown, with several loose curls beside her ears and at her temples. Her fashionable gown was the color of a fuchsia in bloom, perfectly complementing the golden flesh of her face, arms, and the swell of her breasts visible above the curved neckline. Gideon could not see her feet beneath the long gown, but he very much doubted they were scandalously bare this evening as they had been earlier today.

She also smelled delicious. A combination of the musk of roses and the more subtle perfume of the lady herself. A heady scent which now invaded all of Gideon’s senses.

Telling Gideon that her appearance might be different, but his visceral reaction to her was still the same: he wished to thread his fingers into her hair as he devoured her sensuous lips and caressed her slender body to match the intensity of his passions.

“Darling, may I present Gideon Harrington, the Duke of Oxford,” Lady Whiting informed her niece.

That young lady looked at him with a challenge in her blue eyes, an emotion that had been nowhere in sight when they met this afternoon. As if she were now daring him to reveal the circumstances of that earlier meeting.

Gideon remained silent on the subject.

Lady Church’s expression turned to one of relief “My aunt is quite correct in that I was christened for my father, Henry, but I prefer to be called—”

“Harry,” he finished huskily.

Lady Whiting’s eyes widened. “How on earth did you know that?”

Gideon gave her a reassuring smile before returning his gaze to meet the blue eyes of Henrietta Church’s. Eyes that were a little less confident than they had been a few seconds ago, and they no longer sparkled. “A lucky guess.” He raised a challenging brow at Harry as he answered the older lady. “I met your brother when I arrived earlier today, but I have not seen your father so far this evening.” The older and usually disheveled-looking man was obviously not amongst the guests already gathered in the Whitings’ salon.

Causing Gideon to wonder if Dunhill was here at all. He would not be best pleased if Henry Church had decided not to attend the house party at his sister-in-law’s home this weekend after all. But the man was eccentric enough to have changed his mind at the last minute and sent his daughter to stay at her aunt and uncle’s house without him. Especially when her brother was here to act as chaperone. Although the disreputable things he had heard about Henlow did not represent him as being suitable for the role.

“I am afraid you will not meet him this evening either,” Harry answered him cheerfully. “I last saw him as he was going up to the roof with his telescope,” she confided to her aunt.

“I shall have Watkins remove his place at the dinner table,” Amelia Whiting said without concern. As if she were used to, and indulged, her brother-in-law’s strange behavior.

Which she probably was, Gideon inwardly derided. Henry Church was a man whom Gideon now recalled had often wandered off into the mountains of Spain or France in the evenings with his telescope before they were called into battle the following day. He would also disappear bird-watching for hours during the day when they were not engaged in or due to go to battle.

Harry nodded. “Before my father ascended the stairs to the roof, I heard him muttering something under his breath about having ‘no wish to spend the evening making polite and pleasant conversation with that pompous ass.’ That he’d ‘put up with enough of him and his friends’ damned arrogance during their months of serving together in the same regiment.’”

This last comment, with the addition of the challenging smirk currently curving Henrietta Church’s pink and full lips, left Gideon in no doubt that he was the pompous ass Dunhill had been referring to.

It was true, he and Dunhill had been in the same regiment for several months after Napoleon’s escape from Elba. But they had never progressed beyond nodding acquaintances. Gideon had preferred to be in the company of his closest friends, those other five gentlemen known in Society as the Ruthless Dukes. Until Plymouth had been struck down and they were no longer numbered six but five.

Gideon had believed at the time that Dunhill should never have become a soldier when his nature was obviously one of absentminded gentleness.

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