of the Duke of Allington. Hurst—Ravenhurst. Perhaps he is a connection.’
‘Hurst is a very common name, especially in the North, I believe,’ Jessica said repressively, rather spoiling the aloof effect by adding, ‘That cock won’t fight, Maude—you are not going to be able to get to know him on account of him being some sort of distant relative of your Ravenhurst friends. And besides, your papa is not going to want you speaking to a theatre owner, however well off.’
‘His clothes were very superior, were they not?’ Maude sighed, walking straight past a shop window containing an array of bonnets labelled Fresh in from Paris without a sideways glance.
‘I did not notice.’ Jessica studied as much of the lovely, determined face as she could while it was screened by a wide-brimmed bonnet. Maude looked uncommonly focused. ‘Maude, I am not going through this masquerade in order to free you from Gareth just for you to commit some indiscretion with a tradesman!’
Her companion stopped dead and glared at her. ‘Mr Hurst is not a tradesman.’
‘Well, he certainly does not have vouchers for Almack’s,’ Jessica retorted. ‘You have glimpsed him for five minutes—you know nothing about him! Maude, what are you planning?’
‘I don’t know.’ Jessica sighed with relief: that sounded genuine. ‘I shall have to think about it. I refuse to give up. Did you see the way he looked at me?’
‘Maude, he looked at both of us as though we were part of the furniture,’ Jessica said repressively. ‘And you were throwing sponges about and then moaning—he probably thought you were slightly about in the head and I was your keeper.’
‘Oh.’ Momentarily cast down, Maude began to walk on and Jessica hid another sigh of relief which rapidly turned to one of exasperation as Maude gave a little skip. ‘I must look through the newspapers and see what is on at the Unicorn. He cannot be made to think of me unless I am very much in his way, now can he?’
Gareth is going to have to sort this out, Jessica decided. It was beyond her. She would write and ask if he would take breakfast with her, then she could be sure of a private word before any of her enthusiastic supporters descended upon her for the day.
Gareth lay naked on his back on the bed, looking up into the shadows as the firelight sent them dancing over the ceiling and cornices. It was past one in the morning, but he felt too indolent to get between the sheets, too awake to snuff out the candles and sleep. He turned his head, restless, and saw the light catch the gemstones in the open boxes he had left on the bedside stand.
He had enjoyed choosing jewellery for Jessica, wished that he could see it at once displayed against her white neck, on her slender wrists. He smiled at the thought of her pleasure when she tried each item on for the first time. The smile broadened as he remembered the chill in her eyes when he had first mentioned buying her jewellery and the mischief as a purely feminine desire both to tease him and to wear such baubles overcame her.
It was amusing having Jessica to talk to, he mused, like having an unconventional friend—if one could be friends with a woman. Maude was like a younger sister, a beloved, charming, worrying responsibility. Miss Gifford was his responsibility, too, but in quite a different way. For a start, his feelings for her were not brotherly. He was not quite sure what they were—those of an employer? A guardian? No, neither of those fitted. He would have to settle for friend.
He dragged himself up against the pillows, reached for the boxes and picked out the pieces, one by one. A pair of emerald drop earrings, edged with diamonds. Good stones, but not over-large. Tasteful and appropriate. He dropped them and lifted a thin necklace of diamonds, supple and snakelike as it flowed over his hands. Matching ear bobs. A pearl set. Aquamarines for day wear, two silver gilt wrist clasps and a gold chain.
Yes, a suitable collection of respectable jewellery for a widow with good taste, hinting that she would appreciate something better. And he did have something better.
It had been ridiculous to buy it, Gareth told himself as he reached out for the red morocco case and thumbed the catch. The lid fell back and he blinked at the fire reflected from the diamonds, the almost fierce green glow of the emeralds. It was a full parure: necklace and armlets, rings and earrings, a tiara—the sort of jewellery a nobleman bought for his wife, not what a lady such as the fictitious Mrs Carleton could ever hope to wear.
But he had seen it, seen Jessica’s eyes in the shimmer of the stones, and the compulsion had gripped him and he had bought the set. Madness. He could always resell them. They were of the best quality, an investment.
Gareth set the case down and lifted the finest piece from its setting. A great diamond-cut emerald designed to be a brooch or to sit in the front of the tiara or to fasten to the necklace. It lay in his palm, the colour of Jessica’s eyes when she was angry.
A glint of gold caught his eye and he looked down the length of his naked body. It was scattered with gems where he had discarded each piece. The earrings lay on his flat belly, twinkling indecently amidst the central arrow of dark hair. The diamond necklace snaked over his thigh, an unsettling contrast with hard, masculine muscle. A gold chain slithered down his chest as he shifted and he started as it caressed his left nipple.
His fist clenched over the great gemstone as he stared down, uncomprehending, at the blatant evidence of his own arousal. Bloody hell. What had brought that on? He was as rampant as a stallion and he had not even been thinking about sex. Surely to God he was not aroused by handling jewellery? That was a perversion he had never heard of before and had no wish to contemplate now.
There was a pain in his palm, as sharp as the insistent nagging in his groin. He opened his hand and glared at the emerald as though it could answer his puzzle.
‘Oh, no.’ The words were a whisper. The stone did not speak, but his imagination did, taking the image of the parure, decking his memory of Jessica’s white, naked body with it. Only it was no memory, this was impurest fantasy, for the Jessica he could see now was not a desperate, cold fugitive. She was warm, smiling, turning to him, holding out her hands…
‘No!’ Gareth swept the sparkling ornaments to one side and rolled off the bed, pacing across the room as though to shake off an incubus that had descended upon him in his sleep. How could he? It was dishonourable, disgraceful—and downright painful.
Up until two minutes ago he would have sworn an oath on everything he held most dear that his intentions towards Jessica Gifford were chivalrous and good. He would protect her through this masquerade and then, from a distance, ensure her well being in modest comfort and security for the rest of her life. Yes, he had kissed her, but in anger—and he had not enjoyed it. Much. And she had understood about that. He hoped.
Gareth made an abrupt turn and paced back again, swearing as his naked left instep made painful contract with an earring. He enjoyed flirting with her a little as he tutored her in the arts of seduction. Of pretended seduction, he corrected himself. But mild flirtation was almost second nature to him—and she gave no sign of being either alarmed or confused by it. No, rather she appeared amused by the entire exercise.
It was simply that he was unused to being so close to a woman, yet not sexually involved with her, that was all. And certainly not a woman he had seen naked. He winced as his right foot made contact with the other earring and he bent to scoop them up and toss them into their case.
He hadn’t had a woman for a while,
