Chapter 13

G wendolyn felt a thrill go up her spine as she regarded Tom in the candlelight. He was the man who had been fueling her midnight fantasies for months, and her body responded to him immediately. Her nipples pebbled against the cups of her corset, and her thighs went slack as if they were preparing to fall open.

She closed her mouth, which was gaping open. Stop it, you ninny! She made an effort to study him. He looked relaxed. Happy. He had on a shirt with lace cuffs and a brown velvet frock coat in a cut that had been more fashionable in the previous century than this one. Both garments had been purchased secondhand, no doubt. But it didn’t matter that he wasn’t dressed to the pink of fashion. The outfit somehow suited him. On any other man, the lace and velvet would have looked overly frilly, but Tom’s overwhelming masculinity rendered the garments festive rather than fussy, and the broad smile on his face would have been appealing in any attire.

Gwen shook herself, conscious that she was ogling him like a slab of meat. She stepped forward, taking his huge hand in both of hers. “How have you been?” she asked, her voice rich with feeling. “I’ve thought about you every day since… you know.”

It was true. There was no need to mention that the place she had thought of him the most had been alone in her bed with her thighs spread wide…

He laughed, squeezing her hands. “I’ve been fine. I’ve thought about you, too. Did everything work itself out with your brother?”

She considered. “Yes. Er—mostly.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Mostly?” He tugged her hands, leading her toward a row of chairs along the ballroom’s wall. “I want to hear about this mostly .”

That was how Gwen found herself sitting with Tom in the corner, their heads bent together so they could hear each other over the eight-piece orchestra the Widows had brought in for the occasion. Gwendolyn was surprised at how easily they fell into conversation. She wasn’t what you would call a natural conversationalist, and she’d always been especially awkward around men. But she and Tom spoke as if they’d been friends for years, not two strangers who had shared the most awkward financial transaction imaginable.

They discussed everything that had happened since they parted in July, from the Widows hiring Gwen a barrister to her brother’s repeated attempts to kidnap her. Tom laughed uproariously when she came to the part about how she had defeated her brother by making a sketch of Maurice’s intimate parts.

“How about you?” Gwen asked. “I read about your bout in October in the papers. About how you defeated Bruno Jervis.” She bit her lip, considering how to phrase the question she wanted to ask without insulting him. “It sounds like it was a hard-fought match.”

Tom barked out a laugh. “Jervis damn near finished me. Next time, he probably will. I’m getting too old for this.”

Gwen released the breath she had been holding, relieved that he did not seem to have taken offense. “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

He gave her a rueful look. “The absolutely ancient age of seven and twenty.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Ancient. For a boxer, perhaps. But you’ve got a lot of good years ahead of you.”

Tom’s expression sobered, but he said nothing.

Some strange impulse had Gwen nudging him in the arm with her elbow, a familiarity she could have never imagined herself taking with a man before. “What’s this long face? You do have a lot of good years ahead of you.”

He shrugged. “Boxing’s a rough sport. Makes you old before your time. I won’t be able to do it much longer.”

Gwendolyn leaned forward. “What do you think you’ll do after you retire from boxing?”

“I honestly don’t know. Oftentimes, a fellow like me can find work providing security at one of the gaming hells that cater to rich toffs. Maybe something like that.”

He made the remark lightly, but he didn’t meet her eyes, and although he had infused his voice with a note of optimism, it sounded forced. “You don’t sound entirely enthusiastic about the prospect.”

“Eh. I might do something else entirely. Still figuring it out.”

“What other possibilities do you?—”

“Let’s dance.”

Tom seized her hand, neatly pulling Gwen to her feet and propelling her halfway across the room before she realized what was happening.

“Oh!” Gwen gasped, startled. “You wouldn’t want to dance with me.”

He gave her a sideways look. “Wouldn’t I?”

“I’m a terrible dancer, you see.”

The set was forming for a country dance. Ignoring her protestations, Tom led her to a spot midway down the line. “I get punched in the face by very large men for a living. I think I’ll survive you trodding on my foot.”

“You doubtlessly would, but it’s more that you will find it embarrassing to stand up with such an ungainly partner.”

He tipped his head back to the ballroom’s gilded ceiling and laughed. “The things you rich nobs worry about. Dancing is supposed to be fun.”

Gwen peered up at him uncertainly. “Fun?”

This made him laugh even harder. “Fun. You know, as in enjoyable. Merry. Why do you dance, if not for fun?”

“A lady is supposed to dance in order to show off her elegant bearing. It is also an opportunity to demonstrate how accomplished she is at…”

Gwen trailed off. Tom now had his hands on his thighs and was bent forward, shaking with mirth.

“What?” she protested.

He swiped a thumb beneath his eyes. “That’s the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard.” Gwen was reminded that this was not a normal ball, but a wicked one, because nobody batted an eye at his coarse language.

“Gwen, bun,” Tom continued, “do you think I’m going to show off my elegant bearing?”

“Er…” Gwen glanced up and down his burly frame. “Perhaps elegant is not the first word that comes to mind.”

She started as the lead couple began performing the figures with the pair next to her and Tom. The dance had almost reached them.

Tom winked at her. “You’re damn right, it’s not.” Then, he grabbed her hand and swung her into the dance.

Indeed, Tom was not what you would call an elegant dancer. But he was light on his feet, astonishingly so for such a large man. He was also a considerate partner. When Gwen’s feet couldn’t keep up and she started to fall behind, he swept her forward with a firm hand to her waist. When she lost her balance during a turn, he steadied her. He made her ten times better at dancing than she usually was.

But more than that, he danced with real enthusiasm. His face didn’t take on a pained look when Gwen stepped the wrong way as if he were horrified to be dancing with someone so inept. Instead, he laughed, and then she laughed, and the next thing she knew, she was having fun . Which was unheard of! She didn’t enjoy dancing. She enjoyed curling up in a quiet corner with a book or tending to her bees.

The thought flashed across her mind that maybe the thing she enjoyed was being with Tom.

Each time he found an excuse to touch her, she shuddered, her body clearly hoping these little caresses were a prelude to something more. By the time the dance ended and he ushered her to the refreshment table, Gwen felt slick between her thighs, and the flush on her cheeks was not merely from the exertion of the dance.

Whoever had prepared the spiced negus had had a heavy hand with the sherry—unsurprising for the Wicked Widows’ ball. Gwen drank down her cup thirstily, not that she needed the warm beverage to heat her.

She wondered if Tom would excuse himself to find his next partner.

She glanced up and found him smiling, his gaze fixed on her, giving no sign that he was looking for an opening to make his escape. “So, tell me more about these bees of yours.”

Maybe it was the sherry starting to swirl through her veins, giving her a touch of liquid courage. Maybe it was knowing that Tom Talbot, the most attractive man in attendance tonight, wanted to spend the evening in her company, that buoyed her confidence.

Or maybe the last six months, in which she had defeated her brother at his own game and claimed the life she wanted, had changed how she saw herself. She could be reserved without being timid. She could be kind without being weak.

And if there was something she wanted, she could reach for it.

Straightening her spine, Gwen looped her arm through Tom’s. “Actually, I feel a touch overheated after such a lively dance. Could we continue our conversation in the garden?”

Perhaps it was her imagination, but she fancied his smile turned a touch wicked. “By all means,” he replied in a deep voice.

Heart tripping over itself, Gwen led him out the French doors and into the night.