Being self-determining was a part of who she was; he couldn’t in any way take that from her. Not if he wanted her, and he did.
Through their time in the ton, his admiration for her had only grown. He’d seen more of her strengths, and while those dominated everyone’s view of her, he’d glimpsed vulnerabilities, too. And noted them. Not to exploit, but to support, to protect.
In his heart, he was convinced she needed him every bit as much as he needed her. But how to bring that to her attention?
The only answer he’d been able to conjure was to unstintingly give her the support she needed, which wasn’t always what one might suppose. She didn’t need or want to be protected in the same way other women did, but assisted. Treated as an equal, not set in a gilded cage.
But he’d been doing precisely that for weeks, and while she definitely appreciated his help, he suspected she viewed it more or less as her due, which, indeed, it was. How, then, was he to shake her, to open her eyes so she saw him as him, and not just as a male who had the sense to deal with her correctly?
Deverell’s advice returned to him. Surprise. He’d thought the idea worthy of consideration at the time; now, it held promise.
If he wanted to woo her, then it had to be suitably, which meant unconventionally. Others had tried conventional approaches in the past; it was no real wonder they hadn’t succeeded.
Not jewels; too easy, too predictable, and she already had a horde. Something more meaningful.
“Right then.”
He turned to see the object of his thoughts gliding toward him encased in a seductive confection of shimmering cerise gossamers and matching silks.
She caught his eye, and twirled. “Do you approve?”
He met her gaze, and smiled, with perfectly sincere intent. “You look…superb.” Taking her cloak from the maid who’d followed her from the bedroom, he draped it over her shoulders. As he did, he murmured, voice low, just for her, “Quite delectable, in fact.”
From close quarters, her eyes, a trifle wide, touched his, briefly scanned, then her lips lifted, and she looked ahead. “We’d better go.”
Before he shocked the maid. He smiled, inclined his head, and followed her from the room.
Jack came down to a late breakfast at the Bastion Club, still smiling at the fond memories he now possessed of a warrior-queen writhing in naked ecstasy upon a bed of shimmering cerise silk.
The color of the silk against her skin, ruby against the ivory white, just like rose petals, had given him an idea of one gift he could give her that she wouldn’t expect, but, he suspected, would appreciate.
He mentioned his requirements to Gasthorpe, who undertook to send a footman to scour the city and surrounds for what he needed.
He’d just finished a plate of ham and saugages and was savoring Gasthorpe’s excellent coffee, when a sharp knock on the club’s front door was followed by an inquiry in a clear voice he knew well, in a tone that brought his protective instincts surging to life. Rising, he walked out without waiting for Gasthorpe to summon him.
Clarice met his eyes, signaled toward the dean, standing beside her. “There you are. I fear we bring bad news.”
Jack took one look at the dean’s ashen face, and ushered them both into the parlor. “Perhaps a little brandy, Gasthorpe.”
“Indeed, my lord. At once.”
Jack saw the dean into one armchair. Clarice watched, then sank into the other. Although shocked, she was by no means overcome.
“What’s happened?” Jack looked at the dean; the man suddenly seemed his age, much frailer than before.
“Humphries.” The dean met Jack’s eyes. “He hasn’t returned.”
Gasthorpe arrived with a tray loaded with brandy, tea and coffee. Jack gave the dean a stiff tot of brandy, then helped himself to coffee while Clarice poured herself a cup of tea.
The dean sipped, coughed, sipped again, then cleared his throat. “I wanted to send word last night, when Humphries didn’t appear at dinner, but the bishop…I think he was hoping against hope. He’s in a terrible state. We’ve asked all the porters, but they haven’t seen Humphries since he left the palace yesterday afternoon, soon after he spoke with the bishop.”
Jack glanced at Clarice, met her dark eyes. “We can hope, but I fear we should expect the worst.”
He looked at the dean, who nodded, defeated. “I’ll send word to my colleagues, and get a search under way.” He hesitated, then asked, “Has the bishop notified Whitehall?”
The dean frowned. “I don’t know…I don’t think so.”
“I’ll send word there, too.”