The Bride Hunt (20 page)

“Are you sure you can do this?” she asked Gideon again.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he scolded. “I’m not some callow undergrad, I’ll have you know.”

“No,” she agreed. “That you’re not.” She regarded him with slightly narrowed eyes. “I wonder if you ever were.”

He didn’t answer, merely pushed the pole into the riverbed, let it slide back up in his hands with an instant and to-the-manor-born rhythm. Prudence lay back on the cushions, replete with lunch and wine, her eyelids drooping as the afternoon sun warmed them, creating a soft amber glow behind. Idly she trailed a hand in the cold river water and listened to the sounds of the world around her, laughter and voices, birdsong, the steady rhythmic plash and suck of the pole. London seemed many miles away, and the brisk chill of that morning’s drive a mere memory.

Gradually she became aware that the sounds of other punters had vanished and now there were only the river sounds, the quack of a mallard, the trill of a thrush. She opened her eyes slowly. Gideon was watching her, his gaze intense and intent. Automatically she took off her glasses to wipe them on her handkerchief.

“Is something the matter? Do I have a smudge on my nose? Spinach in my teeth?”

He shook his head. “Nothing’s the matter. Quite the opposite.”

Prudence sat up straighter on the cushions. There was something lurking in the depths of those piercing gray eyes that sent a shiver of suspense up her spine and made her scalp prickle. She had a sense of imminent danger. But paradoxically, no sense of threat. Her own eyes seemed locked on his and she couldn’t avert her gaze.

Dear God, what was she getting herself into?

With a supreme effort of will she broke the locked gaze and forced herself to cast an apparently casual glance at the scenery as she replaced her glasses. They had reached a point where the river branched around a small islet.

Gideon took the left-hand fork and the punt slid past a lush grassy bank with sides that sloped with gentle invitation down to the river. A small hut was set back a little on the bank. “I think it’s safe enough to take this side at this time of year,” he said as lightly as if that intense but silent exchange had never taken place.

“Why wouldn’t it be safe?” She looked around with sharpened curiosity.

“Over there lies Parsons’ Pleasure,” he said with an airy gesture of his free hand towards the grassy bank and the little hut. “Had the water not been too cold for swimming, we would have been obliged to take the other side, which is not nearly so pretty.”

Prudence regarded him warily. There was a distinct note of mischief in his voice, a hint of laughter in its quiet depths. “What’s swimming got to do with it?” she asked, knowing she was supposed to. She felt like a sidekick in a comic routine at the Music Hall.

“Parsons’ Pleasure is the private bathing spot for male members of the university. Since it’s exclusively for men, bathing suits are considered unnecessary,” he informed her with some solemnity. “So women are forbidden to punt on this stretch of the Cherwell.”

“Yet another example of male privilege,” Prudence observed. “But I fail to see how women can be
forbidden
on this piece of the river. It’s a free country, no one owns the water.”

“I rather guessed that would be your reaction,” he said. “And you’re by no means the first. I’ll tell you a story, if you like.”

“I like,” she said, once again lying back on the cushions. The danger seemed to have passed for the moment, although she was not blind or fool enough to imagine it would not again rear its head.

“Well, on one glorious, hot summer day, while the parsons were taking their uninhibited pleasure on that bank, an enterprising group of women decided to protest this bastion of male privilege, as you put it.”

Prudence grinned. “You mean they punted past?”

“Precisely. Although I believe they were rowing. Anyway, as the story goes, all the gentlemen leaped to their feet, covering their private parts with towels, all except for one notable scholar, who shall remain nameless, who reacted by wrapping his head in a towel.”

Prudence struggled to keep a straight face. This was not a tale a respectable gentleman should tell any respectable gentlewoman. The image, however, was deliciously absurd.

Gideon’s expression remained solemn, his voice grave as he continued, “When questioned by his colleagues as to this peculiar reaction, the scholar is said to have replied:
‘In Oxford, I am known by my face.’
”

Prudence tried; she tried as hard as she could to stare at him with unmoving disapproval. “That is a most improper story,” she declared, a quaver in her voice. “It’s certainly not for a lady’s ears.”

“Maybe not,” he agreed amiably. “But I doubt the Mayfair Lady would consider it anything other than delightfully amusing.” His eyes were laughing at her. “In truth, I believe there is nothing ladylike about the Mayfair Lady. You can’t fool me, Miss Prudence Duncan. You don’t have a prim and prudish bone in your body. And neither do your sisters.”

Prudence gave up the struggle and began to laugh. Gideon began to laugh too. In his distraction, the punt pole slipped through his hands, and instead of making contact with the river bottom slid away from him. His laughter died on the instant. Swearing vigorously, he grabbed for it, swaying precariously on the stern of the punt as he tried to get control of the unwieldy pole. Water splashed over the stern, soaking his feet. Prudence was now laughing so hard, she couldn’t speak. What price the elegant, self-assured barrister now?

Finally Gideon wrestled the pole into submission and resumed his firm but now rather damp stance on the stern. “That was no laughing matter,” he said rather stiffly. He was clearly put out at having been made to look like a clumsy amateur.

Prudence took off her glasses again to wipe her eyes as tears of laughter streamed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to laugh at you. But you looked as if you were wrestling a sea serpent. A truly modern Laocoön.”

Gideon didn’t deign to reply. She took her trailing hand from the water, aware that her fingers were growing numb with the cold, and said solicitously, “Your feet are so wet. Do you have any dry socks?”

“Why would I?” he asked somewhat sourly.

“Perhaps we could buy some on our way back to the hotel. You can’t squelch your way back to London. You’ll catch your death. Perhaps we could get you a mustard bath at the Randolph before we start driving home. They say it can ward off a chill. You wouldn’t want— Oh!” Her sweet-voiced speech was abruptly cut off by a shower of water as Gideon pulled the pole from the river with sufficient vigor to send a significant quantity of the Cherwell spraying across the punt.

“You did that deliberately,” Prudence accused, brushing at the drops scattered across her dress, shaking out her booted feet.

“Not a bit of it,” he said innocently. “It was purely accidental.”

“Liar. I was only thinking of your well-being.”

“Liar,” he fired back. “You were making mock.”

“Well, it was rather funny,” she said. “On top of the story.” Her laughter, her pure enjoyment of the last few minutes, had brought a soft glow to her cheeks, and once again, with her glasses now in her lap, the lustrous sparkle of her eyes was revealed. Gideon began to think that his momentary discomfort had probably been worth it just to produce that effect.

“Well, since we’re both somewhat damp, I think it’s time to turn around,” he said, glancing up at the sky through the yellowing tendrils of the weeping willows that lined the bank. “It’s going to get really chilly once the sun goes down.”

“It’s going to be a very cold drive home,” Prudence observed. She replaced her glasses, well aware of his thoughtful scrutiny of a minute earlier. Thoughtful and definitely appreciative. The air between them was taut and singing with tension.

“You have your furs,” he reminded her. “And we’ll break the journey in Henley for dinner.”

They handed in the punt and began to walk back briskly towards St. Giles. “Gideon, I can hear you squelching,” Prudence said as they passed a men’s outfitters. “Go in there and buy yourself some socks.”

“I’m not going to admit to some shopkeeper that I got wet in a punt,” Gideon stated.

“Then I’ll buy them.” Before he could argue, Prudence had disappeared into the shop, setting the bell ringing. She emerged within five minutes with a paper bag. “There.” She presented it to him. “One pair of black socks. Large. I guessed the size, but I don’t think you have particularly small feet.”

He took the bag, peered inside. “They have a pattern on them.”

“It’s just the ribbing on the silk,” she said. “It’s not really a pattern at all. You should be grateful I didn’t buy you plaid.”

Chapter 13

T
hey stopped at the same hostelry in Henley where they’d stopped for coffee that morning. It was dark by then and Prudence hurried into the warm, softly lit lounge, already glad of her furs. She wondered for a fleeting instant if Gideon had reserved a table for dinner, but it was only a fleeting instant. He was not a man to leave anything to chance. They were greeted as expected guests, ushered into a cozy private room, where a fireplace gave out comforting warmth. Sherry and whisky decanters stood on the sideboard, and as Prudence shed her outer garments, Gideon poured drinks.

“They seem to know you here,” she observed, taking her glass and sitting down in a deep chintz-covered armchair beside the fire.

“It’s been a favorite spot of mine since my undergraduate days.” He took the opposite armchair. “I took the liberty of ordering dinner beforehand.”

“On the telephone?”

“How else?” He sipped his whisky. “The Dog and Partridge is renowned for its local Aylesbury duckling. Plain roasted with a touch of orange sauce, it’s hard to fault, so I hope you like duck.”

Prudence thought he sounded a little anxious and found it both refreshing and surprisingly endearing that over some things he was not surging with confidence in his own supremacy. “I love duck,” she said.

He smiled and rose from his chair, uncoiling his long, lean body with a slow deliberation that reminded Prudence of an indolent lion preparing itself for a night’s hunting. The atmosphere in the room changed abruptly, no longer relaxed, but singing with that same dangerous tension of before. He leaned against the mantel, glass in hand, one foot resting on the fender, and looked at her.

“Prudence.” He spoke her name softly, thoughtfully, rolling the syllables around his tongue. His gray gaze was once again intent and intense. She resisted the urge to take off her glasses, knowing from experience that that gaze was too hot to hold without the defense of her lenses. She began to feel rather strange, light-headed almost. Her stomach felt as if it was floating. Whatever this was, it was not supposed to be happening.

She was impaled in her chair, her body pressed back against the overstuffed cushions by some invisible weight. Gideon moved away from the mantel. He took the few steps necessary to reach her. And yet still she sat unmoving, waiting. He leaned over, his hands braced on the arms of her chair. His face was very close to hers. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, and could almost imagine that she felt the sparks that lit the gray eyes now fused with hers. She let her head fall back against the cushions behind her, exposing the column of her throat in a movement that expressed both abandonment and submission. A tiny sigh escaped her.

He kissed her. A very different kiss from the one he had first given her. The one he had first
taken
from her. The pressure of his mouth on hers was light, almost exploratory, and if she had wanted to turn her head aside, to push him away, she could have. But she didn’t. His tongue stroked across her lips, and then gently but with absolute deliberation pushed into the warm velvet of her mouth. His breath mingled with hers as his tongue slid delicately over her teeth, touched the inside of her cheeks, danced with her own. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, and she tasted hungrily of his tongue, drawing him farther within. Her body was in control now, her mind for once subservient to this unfamiliar but imperative need. She moved her hands up to clasp his head, and her tongue darted with swift serpentine movements between his lips, exploring his mouth as he’d explored hers.

It was only breathlessness that forced them apart, and Prudence finally let her hands fall into her lap, reluctant to lose the heady scent of his skin, the warm taste of his mouth. He smiled down at her, still keeping his hands braced on the arms of her chair.

“This is ridiculous,” she said. “I dislike you intensely.”

“All the time or some of the time?” His face was still so close to hers, his breath rustled warm across her cheek.

“Some of the time . . . it would seem,” she added, sounding both puzzled and slightly indignant.

“Does it help if I tell you that the feeling is entirely mutual?” he asked, still smiling. “There are times when I dislike you every bit as intensely.”

“Then this isn’t supposed to happen.”

“The world is full of surprises. It would be a very boring place if it weren’t.” He moved closer and suddenly kissed the tip of her nose. “Don’t you agree?”

“I suppose I must,” she murmured. “But there are surprises and surprises, and this kind has no right to happen.”

“That bad, huh?” He kissed the corner of her mouth, a light butterfly touch of his lips. Both eyes and voice were now amused.

Prudence made a movement to straighten in the chair and instantly he stepped back, but without taking his eyes off her. She took off her glasses and blinked. “I don’t want things to become confused,” she said. “And it seems to me that this can only lead to a morass of confusion.”

He continued to look down at her, then he leaned forward and took the glasses from her hand. He said, “It doesn’t have to. I don’t see why lovers can’t also work together.”

Prudence blinked myopically at his now blurred expression. Without her glasses, matters looked rather different. The brisk, businesslike, highly focused, prudent Prudence Duncan existed behind those gold-rimmed lenses. Without them the world moved into softer focus and the hard realities of every day receded into a rather convenient mist.

When he reached down a hand to pull her to her feet, she offered no resistance. He put his hands on her shoulders and lightly kissed her eyelids. “Should we have dinner first?”

There was no mistaking his meaning and Prudence was not one to play coy games. She touched her tingling mouth with her fingertips. It happened sometimes, when the sensible, logical side of her nature was somehow driven out by rash instinct, and it was definitely happening now.

Slowly she took her glasses from him and returned them to her nose, testing. If when she could see straight her prudent nature once more gained the ascendancy, she would know this was all some kind of bad joke. But all that happened was that she could now see Gideon’s face clearly and it made not the slightest difference to what she wanted.

“Will the duck keep?” she asked.

Gideon nodded, his smile deepening. “Wait here,” he said, and left her in solitude.

Prudence took up her sherry glass and drank down the contents as she stood by the fire, gazing into the flames. Whatever this madness was, she had neither the will nor the inclination to stop it, and to hell with the consequences. But she jumped nevertheless at the sound of the door opening, even though she was expecting it. Her heart banged against her ribs as she turned away from the fire.

Gideon stood in the doorway, a small valise in one hand. His other he extended in invitation. She stepped across the room and took his hand. His fingers closed tight and warm over hers. “We’ll be more comfortable upstairs,” he said.

Prudence inclined her head in brief acknowledgment. She was no longer in control of anything, and for once in her life had no desire to be so. They walked up a shallow flight of stairs to a narrow, carpeted corridor. Gideon, still holding her hand, opened the first door they came to. It led into a bedroom, complete with four-poster bed, low beamed ceiling, and uneven oak floors. There was a fire in the grate and chintz curtains drawn across two small windows.

“How cozy,” Prudence murmured.

He looked sharply at her as if he suspected a sardonic edge to the description, but there was nothing in her expression to confirm the suspicion. He was beginning to feel uncharacteristically nervous. He’d made love to a goodly number of women, and never—apart from the first few times in his youth—felt any qualms as to his ability to please.

He realized he didn’t even know if Prudence was a virgin. Ordinarily he would assume that an unmarried woman of her birth and social position would have to be. But he was learning not to expect the ordinary when it came to the Honorable Prudence Duncan. He wondered whether to ask, and then decided he couldn’t manage the question with any aplomb at the moment, which in itself was an unusual problem. Asking difficult questions was his stock-in-trade, after all.

“No,” she said with a sudden smile. “I’m not. I’m not particularly experienced either, but I do have a pretty good idea of what’s what.”

He looked a little chagrined. “How did you guess?”

“It seemed an obvious thought you would have, and you were looking rather indecisive and uncomfortable.” She found that instant of vulnerability she had glimpsed on his face reassuring, drawing her closer to him. He was perhaps as uncertain, as unsure of himself and his instincts at this moment as she was. And she could only like him the better for it.

She walked to the fire and bent to warm her hands, although they weren’t in the least cold. The strange light-headed sensation grew ever more powerful and she began to wonder if perhaps she was dreaming and none of this was really happening. And then she felt his arms around her, his body hard against her back, and she knew it was no dream.

He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck, his hands tracing the swell of her breasts beneath her jacket. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, so that her breasts filled his palms.

“You have too many clothes on,” he murmured, moving his mouth to her ear as his fingers deftly unbuttoned her jacket, and as neatly drew it backwards off her shoulders. His fingers slid between the buttons of her cream silk blouse and explored the warm swell of her breasts through the thin chemise. He could feel her nipples hardening against the material. His tongue darted into the tight shell of her ear, and she squirmed with a tiny squeal. He laughed softly, his breath tickling her ear anew.

He unbuttoned her blouse, the tiny pearl fastenings flying apart, and he was no longer nervous, unsure of himself, and he could sense her own rising urgency for the touch of skin upon skin. The blouse fell to the floor with the jacket and he slipped his hands into the low neck of the chemise and held her breasts in his palms, surprised at how full they were. Her frame, elegant though she always looked, was thin and angular rather than shapely, but her breasts in his palms were round and smooth.

Prudence touched her tongue to her lips as her nipples grew harder and more erect under his circling thumbs. She was aware now of a clutch in her belly, a fullness in her loins, and with sudden urgency she placed her hands over his, pressing them against her breasts.

He turned her to face him with the same urgency and she began to fumble with the buttons at the waist of her long, pleated skirt. Impatiently he pushed aside her hands and did the job himself. She stepped out of the skirt and stood in her one undergarment, a combination of chemise and drawers of lacy, beribboned silk taffeta, gartered silk stockings, and buttoned kid shoes.

He put his hands at her waist, bunching the chemise, feeling her skin warm beneath the silk. It delighted him that she was wearing no corset of any kind. It made her body accessible in the most alluring fashion. There would be no ridges of whalebone etched onto her skin, and the body he felt was the same as the one he would feel when she was naked. He drew a deep, shuddering breath and removed her glasses, laying them carefully on the mantel. “You don’t mind?”

She shook her head; the mist softening her vision at the moment had nothing to do with myopia. Her own hands went to the buttons of his coat. “Hurry,” she whispered, her voice quivering with a surge of passionate need. “I have to see you . . . touch you.”

He helped her, shrugging out of the coat, pulling off his tie, the starched wing collar of his shirt, discarding his waistcoat and the shirt. She touched his nipples and caught her bottom lip between her teeth when they hardened instantly. “I didn’t know men’s did that.”

“We aim to please, madam,” he said, a husky note now in his quiet voice. He reached for the buttons of the chemise, opening it before drawing her against him so that their bare skin touched. It was Prudence’s turn to inhale with a little shudder of excitement as her sensitized breasts pressed against his chest. Her hands caressed his back, running down the clear line of his spine to the waist of his trousers.

He took the cue and stepped back an instant to unfasten his waistband and fly and push the striped trousers off his legs. “Oh, damn,” he muttered as they met the obstacle of his shoes. He fell back on the bed and Prudence, with a gurgle of laughter, unfastened his shiny black shoes and pulled off his socks with his trousers. The prosaic moment interrupted the intensity, and the brief instant when passion yielded to the mundane only intensified her anticipation.

He stayed stretched on the bed, wearing only a pair of long woolen drawers, and she gazed down at him, at the hard swell of his penis. She reached down and touched it. It jumped against her hand and she closed her fingers over the jutting bulge, feeling the throb of the veins through the wool.

“Take it out,” he whispered, his eyes now closed, his breath ragged.