and once again treated her eyes to the message that had been waiting for her at Bardy's:Highness,
The matter of which we spoke is progressing smoothly. I will be leaving for America soon and will contact you before I go regarding final arrangements.
Q.C.C.
Noelle laughed, mercurial quicksilver shimmering in the empty room. Finally she was going to be free, the fetters of the marriage that shackled her, broken. A vast ocean would separate her from the man to whom she was now so dangerously bound. She stripped off her pickpocket's disguise and pushed it to the bottom of her armoire; then, standing in her camisole, she reluctantly tore the note into three even strips and tossed ihem in the fire. The flames licked at the pieces and then devoured them.
Seating herself in front of her mirror, she shook out her hair and giggled at the reflection that laughed back at her. Dirt, kohl, and rouge covered every part of her skin. She dabbed at the mess with a thick lotion smelling of heliotrope and then went to the washstand and scrubbed her face. Only when all traces of Highness had disappeared did she ring for Alice to bring her bath.
As she waited she thought about Simon, and her pleasure was tempered with caution. Despite his claims to the contrary, she was convinced that he had made no effort to help her end her marriage. Common sense told her to keep her news hidden from him until she had the final papers in her hand. Then, when Quinn was well on his way to America, she would tell Simon of her clandestine trips into Soho, her meeting with his son, and the termination of the marriage. Of one thing she was certain: Simon was going to be less than pleased with the news.
She bathed quickly, slipped into her undergarments, and asked Alice to pull out her new gown of shamrock green. It was more formal than the dresses she usually wore when she and Simon dined alone, but she felt like celebrating, and the gown was especially flattering, its vivid color making her eyes even more lustrous.
Alice brushed her hair until it shone and then, impulsively, Noelle caught it in a snood of fine gold mesh in the style of the Middle Ages. The Gothic illusion was completed when Alice settled the gown over Noelle's head. With a deep V plunging at the neckline and an unusual fullness in the fabric at the front, she was hauntingly medieval.
There was a knock at the door, and Alice returned with the disappointing news that Simon would be unable to dine at home tonight. Sighing over her wasted efforts, Noelle slipped out of her bedroom.
Quinn looked up as she rounded the curve of the stairway. She had not yet caught sight of him, and he watched with admiration as she moved gracefully down the steps.
She was a beautiful enigma. For someone who lived off the pleasures of the flesh, she seemed strangely innocent, even chaste. Somehow he could not imagine her lying in Simon's arms, yet it was not at all difficult to imagine her in his own. He remembered the stormy night when he had found her in his bedroom-how she had trembled under his embrace; his sense of the sweetness of her kiss, and its inexperience.
She saw him just as she stepped down onto the marble floor. The guarded look she always assumed when he was near settled over her.
'What are you doing here?' Her eyes flickered over his impeccable evening attire.
'Waiting to escort you to the dinner table.'
'Dinner? You don't take your meals with us.'
'Not a very polite house guest, am I? Let me see if I can make up for it.' His smile was relaxed, free of mockery, as he offered her his arm.
She hesitated; then, not wishing to appear ridiculous, slipped her small hand into the crook of his elbow. Her body stiffened as they entered the dining room, and she saw the two places set, one at the head of the table where Simon customarily sat and the other, her place, at his right.
'Afraid to have dinner alone with me?' He dropped down into Simon's chair.
'Of course I'm not,' she snapped. 'Why should I be afraid?'
'You tell me.'
'Really, I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Then sit down,' he said mildly.
There was no way she could refuse without making herself look foolish. With studied nonchalance, she took her place next to him. Quinn picked up the bottle of light Portuguese rose and filled first her glass and then his own.
'Truce?' he questioned as he lifted his long-stemmed goblet.
There was a disarming boyish charm about him that Noelle had never seen, and she found herself nodding in response and picking up her own glass.
'Here's to the mysterious and beautiful Dorian Pope.' He brushed his glass against hers and then took a slow sip.
Discomfited, Noelle lowered her eyes.
'Is it true that you can't ride a horse?'
She shrugged. 'I never had the opportunity to learn.' Not giving him the chance to question her further, she turned the conversation away from herself. 'Tell me about your mount. I've never seen such a horse.'
'Magnificent, isn't he? He was bred on a farm not far from Cape Crosse. I bought him when he was a colt.'
A maid appeared with a steaming tureen of shrimp chowder that she ladled into small bowls and set before them.
Noelle dipped her spoon into the thick soup. 'I thought sailors were notoriously poor horsemen. That doesn't seem to be true in your case.'
'Is that actually a compliment, cousin?'
At Quinn's teasing tone, Noelle opened her mouth to give him a scathing set-down, but he lifted his hand, palm outstretched. 'Pull back your claws. I apologize.'
His grin was so engaging that, against her will, Noelle smiled back.
'I build ships; I don't sail them. The pleasure for me is in the creation-conceiving the idea, making what I build not only seaworthy but fast and sleek. I give birth to a ship, then, when it's launched, let it go so I can create another one.' Abruptly self-conscious, Quinn stopped and fingered the stem of his wineglass.
His self-consciousness triggered her own, and she lowered her gaze. Her eyes caught on his bronzed hands. They were large and work-roughened, so unlike the pampered white hands of the London dandies. The tips of his square fingers bore scars where tools had come too close or moved too fast. These were the hands of a man who labored, and they were as hard and unyielding as the materials he used to build his ships.
The maid replaced their soup with tender fillets of turbot. As Noelle raised her fork she realized, uncomfortably, what an act of intimacy it was to eat with another person. The feeling was reinforced as one course followed another: a lobster salad, truffled potatoes, quenelles of pheasant. Their lips opened to receive the food and sip the wine; a knife slipped into a soft morsel and then withdrew; fingers rubbed the stout handles of the silver. The room was mellow with candlelight and their healthy young appetites. A curious languor was stealing over her.
Quinn motioned for the plates to be removed. Silently they watched as the table was cleared and an artfully arranged platter of hothouse fruit was placed between them. Tomkins brought in three decanters on a silver tray: one each of claret, port, and sherry. He positioned them to Quinn's left.
'Anything else, sir?'
'Nothing, Tomkins. We won't need you again.'
'Very well, sir.' The butler nodded to the maid, and they both left the room, pulling the door firmly shut behind them.
'Sherry?'
'Please.'
The amber liquid was delicious on her tongue, and she savored it for a moment before she swallowed.
Whether it was the evening itself or her unconscious sensuality as she held the wine in her mouth, Quinn could not say, but he felt himself hardening with desire as he watched her. His eyes slipped down to the deep V of her bodice, tantalizingly revealing the swells of her breasts.
Their eyes locked dangerously, and then Noelle came to her senses.
'It's-it's time I retired.'
'Running away again?' he asked softly.
'No, of course not. I-I'm just tired. Excuse me.'
She willed herself to walk slowly to the door, across the marble foyer, up one step, up the next…
