him which chair to take, pale fingers emerging from the tight ecru lace sleeves, and the tips just brushed his knuckles.
So, she had remembered one lesson from the night before. Gareth said nothing, but caught and held her gaze for a long moment as they both sat. The colour rose, charmingly, under her skin, then she laughed. ‘Oh dear, I am afraid I simply cannot control my blushes.’
‘They are charming,’ he said, meaning it. Her hair was astonishing, the soft curls opening up her face and taking at least two years from her appearance. The severity and the attempt to look older had been deliberate, he was sure; now Jessica was the most intriguing mixture of sophistication and innocence.
‘What is it?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing at him. All of a sudden she was the governess again and he reminded himself that she was neither the innocent nor the sophisticate. Jessica was a respectable, intelligent woman who was making her own place in the world and had been managing that very well until the rotten underbelly of polite society had ensnared her.
‘I was admiring your hair,’ he said, with partial honesty. ‘It is delightful—exactly the look I think we should aim at, yet it is still you.’
‘I am not certain about the colour.’ Gareth found himself watching the play of expression on her face: the frown as she worried about the colour, the look of rueful acceptance that it was suitable for their masquerade and then the amusement at her own doubts banishing the seriousness from her eyes. ‘I know it is exactly right for our purposes. I will get used to it and it will wash out in time.’
‘I like the style. You will keep that, will you not? Afterwards?’ He wondered if there was any length left in it—the back was elegantly pinned up provoking an inconvenient fantasy of unpinning it.
‘Perhaps.’ She was silent while he wondered whether a comment on the gown she was wearing might push her from frankness into reticence. She was wearing a fine lace fichu around her shoulders. Was the subtle glimpse of flesh through the lace deliberate or modesty? He decided to keep silent on the subject, although he was admiring the effect of softly draped silk on a form he was only too aware was sweetly rounded and warm.
The memory of the sensual shock as she had hurtled into his arms in the brothel came to him with almost painful intensity and he crossed his legs, trying not to think about the lovely elegance of the line from shoulder to the swell of her hip. He was quite certain that Jessica had not the slightest idea of how beautiful her body was.
And why should she? She is inexperienced and respectable, he reminded himself sternly. He was here for one reason only, and that was to equip her for the role she was to play. And it was a role, not reality.
‘Did you enjoy your shopping expedition?’
‘Very much. Your cousins are so kind. But it is not real,’ she added, echoing his thought. ‘I cannot believe that it is me, sitting in all those fashionable shops, being waited upon, making decisions, choosing between ribbons for my slippers as though I have a dozen pairs already and can toss them aside the moment they show wear.’
Gareth thought of telling her that she must keep all the clothes and accessories they bought for the deception, then caught himself in time. Jessica had accepted payment for what she was doing because she was a professional woman and knew she was worth her hire. But he guessed she might have a very different reaction to accepting fine clothes and fripperies—they were too close to the presents a true courtesan would expect.
She was restful to be with, sitting there with her clasped hands, her eyes resting on him as though she was studying him, which he supposed she was. Miss Gifford was not a woman who went headlong into something unprepared. That mixture of restraint and sense, combined with the image of the girl who, stark naked and terrified, had picked a lock and set about rescuing herself from a situation where most would have been in a dead faint of horror, piqued more than his amused interest—it stirred something inside him.
‘I assume that this evening’s meal is so that we can explore the sense of taste?’ she asked, cutting across his uncomfortable self-examination. He did not feel Jessica Gifford was so restful after all.
‘Yes. The sense and sensuality of food and how you can use it for flirtation and seduction.’ Her eyebrows rose. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Very,’ Jessica admitted. ‘Have you any idea how tiring spending large amounts of money is?’ Her smile seemed to glow and she gave a little wriggle of pleasure, as though someone had run a finger down her spine.
Gareth took a deep breath. He was enjoying this too much; that had to cease. It was not what he was here for, they had work to do.
‘Well, being hungry before meals in public must stop at once,’ he said severely. ‘Food must become a luxury, a game, a tool in your armoury of seduction. Before any meal taken when men are present, you must consume something solid and sustaining at home first.’
‘Dinner is served, madam.’ Hedges stood holding the door while Jessica closed her lips on what he suspected was about to be a withering comment on the foolishness of fashionable life.
She stood instead and placed the tips of her fingers on his proffered forearm, glancing up at him from under her lashes as she did so.
‘Very nice,’ he murmured, escorting her through the door and into the dining room. Their chairs had been placed as he had requested, with hers at the head of the table and his on her right. On the white cloth there were only the place settings, a flower arrangement, a candelabra and two dishes, one before each place.
‘I wanted to concentrate on one thing at a time,’ he explained, holding her chair for her. Jessica sat, regarding the almost empty table dubiously.
‘Oysters?’
‘Do you dislike them?’ He sat beside her. ‘If you have no objection to dining alone with me, I will pour the wine and we can ring when we require the second course.’
‘Yes. Thank you, Hedges, that will be all for the moment.’ The butler closed the door behind him. ‘That is a relief; I do not feel comfortable having this sort of lesson before an audience.’ She lifted her fork, then put it down again. ‘I’ve never eaten raw oysters, I have only had them in beefsteak-and-oyster pie.’
‘Oysters are regarded as a highly erotic food. Look at them.’ He wondered if she would understand the symbolism and watched as she studied the six open shells set out on an extravagant bed of crushed ice.
‘Erotic?’ Jessica murmured, lifting one shell delicately and advancing it closer so she could stare down into the fleshy folds moving gently in their briny liquid, cradled within the opalescent shell. He knew the exact moment she caught his meaning from the blush that coloured her cheeks. ‘Well, really! Do men think of nothing but sex?’
Gareth had been watching her over the rim of his wine glass as he took a sip of the white burgundy. At her question he choked, half-laughing, and put the glass down. ‘I’m afraid we do think about it quite a lot,’ he admitted apologetically.
Jessica knew she was blushing. She put the oyster back on the plate and lifted her own glass, hoping for a little Dutch courage. ‘You mean that in dining rooms all over the country people are sitting down to oysters and the men are looking at them and thinking they look like… And then eating them?’
Now what have I said to amuse him? she wondered as Gareth gave another gasp of laughter.
‘Yes.’
