The gowns the modiste produced were simple but of excellent cloth. Iona rejected two in colors she didn’t wear but accepted two with interchangeable colors, bodices, and skirts. One of the younger girls stitched up the secondhand gown so it fit perfectly, giving her a third choice.
By the time Lord Ives returned that evening, Iona was hungry, tired, and dressed in the simple gown with the pretty gold bouquet print. The dressmakers had added a fashionable apron bodice in a deep green and a frill of lace for the neckline.
The workers were already packing up their bags. The modiste promised to complete the other gowns by tomorrow and ushered her charges away.
“Lord Ives,” Iona said stiffly once they were alone, uncertain how to approach him after his generous gesture.
“I wish you would call me Gerard,” he said. “There are far too many of us to wish to be called Ives by people I’ve come to know.”
He didn’t even notice Iona’s pretty attire. Warily, she nodded, “Very well, Gerard.”
He nodded and began pacing the tiny room. “I’ve filed a report with the police but I won’t count on them arresting Mortimer. I can’t leave you alone all evening. We’ve decided you’ll be safe with Phoebe’s aunts for the night, if we can smuggle you in without anyone noticing. I’m hoping we’ll keep your stepfather busy at cards this evening so he won’t think to hire anyone to look for you.”
“Unless Lady Phoebe has a flock of aunts, I’m assuming you’re taking me to the School of Malcolms? Surely they must be full to bursting and run ragged at the start of a school year.”
Miffed that he didn’t notice how nice her stylish gown fitted, Iona swirled around, letting the skirt fly above her newly trimmed petticoat. Her short gowns were practical, but this bit of confection appealed to her long-denied feminine nature.
“They’re expanding the school into the next building. There’s room,” he said curtly, keeping his gaze above her head. “Tomorrow, we’ll meet with the solicitors to claim the reward. We’re hoping to have Mortimer sign a document relinquishing all claim to you and your property. I won’t promise anything except a second plan if he does not comply.”
“It won’t work, of course. I’m certain Mr. White has promised to pay off Mortimer’s debts in return for my title. But you’ll have your reward. I suppose these gowns can be considered an expense of doing business, Gerard.”
She taunted him a little, stepping close to his proud figure and drawing her finger down his waistcoat buttons. He was very much the proper gentleman in silver-blue today, a shade that went well with his dark coloring. “You can be free of me tomorrow,” she said a trifle wistfully.
He grabbed her invading hand and seemed set to push it away. Instead, he wrapped it in his long fingers and pressed her palm to his chest, where she could feel his heart beating. “I’ll never be free of you. You’ll haunt me like all the other voices in my head. But I won’t be leaving until I know you and your sister are safe.”
Aroused by his scent and proximity, she slid her hand away. “Heroic of you, I’m sure,” she said sadly, not thrilled to know she’d caused him grief. “I’d rather you promise to take me to Italy as long as we’re talking fantasy. I really do not expect you to take care of me. You have enough to do.”
He finally turned his gaze downward, and she sensed his churning conflict. She shouldn’t do this to him, but she wanted so much and could have so little— She drowned a little in his dark, troubled eyes.
Then he yanked her against his hard body, so she could feel his conflict as well as smell it.
“This is the reason I’m taking you to the school,” he muttered, bringing his mouth down on hers.
She wanted this so very much—
Twenty
Gerard knew better than to kiss this woman he craved, especially in a private room. He had experience and understood how easily the flames of lust could soar into a conflagration.
But by tomorrow, Iona might be gone. He would never have another chance to touch and hold her, to explore the richness of her kisses or the lushness of her curves. In that foolish gown, her breasts rose above the neckline, taunting him with their perfection.
He wanted her to remember him as he would always remember her.
He didn’t need the voice in his head to mutter stupid.
But he couldn’t resist her enthusiastic response to the thrust of his tongue. She didn’t back away when he held her close but clung tighter. He ran his questing hands down her back, to the annoying bustle that prevented him feeling her natural curves. He couldn’t undress her. . . but he wanted to.
Undeterred, Iona worked her fingers beneath his waistcoat, scorching him through his linen. How would it feel to lie with her all night, her nakedness against his? Instead of her usual roses, fragrant herbs wafted from her skin, and he wanted to taste her all over. He longed to see how far her boldness would take them.
He carried his kisses along her jaw, to her ear, and she pressed closer, moaning encouragement. The fool woman knew no fear. He was a man with tight control, but not all men would respect her innocence. To prove to himself—and to her—that this had to stop, he caressed her breast above the corset, where he could relish her softness.
She practically climbed up him, covering his jaw with kisses and letting him take his fill. He was so engorged, he feared he’d rip his trousers. She didn’t even know to be afraid.
“Damn, I know I’ll regret this,” he whispered
