one plan, but apparently, she’d had another, and that was cause for wonder.
Nolan leaned on the railing, his gaze going out across the dark waters as he sipped at the brandy, letting his thoughts come fast and logical: Was Gianna Minotti a fraud? Was she for real? Was she a little of both, part fact, part fiction? Perhaps of more immediate concern, what did she want badly enough to turn down her freedom and accompany an unknown man to a hotel room, an act that had obviously inspired at least a little fear in her?
There was a delicate cough behind him. He turned, preparing himself for the sight of Gianna Minotti in whatever passed for Brennan’s taste in nightwear. There would be no reason to overreact. This wasn’t his first woman in a nightgown or his first woman anything—he was way beyond firsts when it came to what happened in a bedroom.
His preparation was not enough. Thankfully, years of rote response came to his aid. ‘Will it suffice?’ The words came out of his mouth with little effort from him because the rest of him seemed tongue-tied. The pale-blue dress with its heavy adornments had not done her justice. It had, in fact, distracted the viewer with its opulence from the full onslaught of her beauty. But there was no distraction now.
Nolan’s eyes were riveted on her face, helped there by the simple classic lines of the gown, the thin unobtrusive straps at her shoulders that demanded no attention and the dark cloud of her hair hanging loose and damp at her shoulders, framing her face and those striking hazel eyes. Her face itself was ultimately feminine, at once managing to be compassionate without being soft or delicate, intelligent without being hard. A smart man, a man who wanted to understand her, would study that face for hours and recognise its layers, the complexities of her expressions. Only when that was mastered would he move on to study the rest of her body, shown to perfection in the simplicity of the white gown. Tonight he could not be that man.
Nolan felt his body, typically well trained to reserve its judgement until his mind was made up, stir with arousal. The gown flowed over her curves at the behest of her body, not of fashions. Where the blue gown had forced her to conform, this silk conformed to the wearer, flowing over the swell of her breast, the nip and flare of waist and hip. No wonder Brennan had been reluctant to part with it. The gown had been made by a magician.
‘It suffices, I’d say.’ She took a few steps forward to the cluster of furniture around the fireplace, the silk emphasising the sway of her hips, her mouth quirked in a wry smile that said she’d noted his interest. Damn. He hated being the transparent one. Usually, those roles were reversed. Usually... How many times had he thought of such contrasts tonight? The ‘usual’ held no power here. Nothing that had happened tonight had gone according to plan or prediction.
‘I see the tea has come.’ She sat on the curved sofa and prepared to pour, presiding over the porcelain like a naughty angel in her white gown, her hazel eyes looking preternaturally green against the paleness of her surroundings. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer something stronger?’ She gestured to the decanter on the sideboard, noting the half-empty glass in his hand. ‘I think I’d prefer a little of both after all the excitement tonight.’
Nolan brought the decanter over and sat down, one leg crossed over the other, and let her serve him. If women served tea in nightgowns like this more often, men might actually enjoy the event. He admired the way in which she had manoeuvred things. It was neatly done indeed, masterful even. Of course, he recognised her strategy. It was a trick he used often. To take charge of a situation, one merely had to find a task to perform and then incorporate others into the scheme by asking them questions. Suddenly, you were giving orders and people were looking to you for direction.
She refilled his glass and passed it to him before splashing a healthy amount into her teacup, slightly self-conscious for the first time now that there was no task to perform; no wager to watch, no canal to be hauled out of, no bath to take, no tea to serve. Their action-packed evening had come to a screeching halt and now it was just them and the original reason they were together to start with.
‘So, here we are.’’ Nolan drawled with lazy nonchalance, settling back deep in his chair. Despite his misgivings over her authenticity, he was starting to enjoy this. The next move was hers. What would his bold lady do next?
Here they were. In their nightclothes. Together. Gianna took a slow sip of the hot tea. There was a reason polite society didn’t encourage conversation in dishabille and this was it. Without the trappings of one’s wardrobe, one was entirely exposed in more than the obvious ways, although just the obvious exposure alone was enough to leave her feeling flustered and hot at a time when she need to be completely in control.
‘Here we are.’ She smiled, trying to give away none of her nerves. ‘I must thank you again for all you’ve done for me tonight.’ No, that was all wrong, it was too bland. She had to say something more than that if she meant to hold his attention. ‘The gown is lovely. I’m amazed you were able to find anything on such short notice.’ No, that was wrong, too. A man like him must have access to all types of female venues and females. She wondered where the gown had come from, which woman had sacrificed it for her, in return for what? What had the intriguing Nolan Gray promised in exchange?
‘I’m only sorry it didn’t come with a robe.’ Nolan Gray said easily, casually, from his chair, as if he talked with barely clad women over tea all the time. And he might. He’d made it clear in the bathing room undressing women was not a rare occurrence in his life.
‘Liar.’ Gianna caressed the word, a knowing half-smile on her lips. Women were easy for him. This was a man who would want to be flirted with, a man who would want a sensual challenge, something that differed from the norm of his usual experience. She let her eyes hold his over the rim of her tea cup. They were mesmerising eyes, not hard at all to look at with their quicksilver flecks, but hard to look away from. A woman could get lost in them and the decadent promises they held. ‘You’re not sorry at all.’ They were bold words from a bold woman, the sort of woman this man would find appealing.
Nolan Gray wasn’t the sort of man who had to win a woman in a card game. An expanse of well-muscled chest showed in the open vee of his robe, reminding her of the powerful body that had propelled her out of the water, reminding her, too, that she played with a certain intimate fire here. She’d initiated an assertive flirtation and he was very willing to respond in kind.
His eyes drifted over her in a deliberate slide of quicksilver on silk, his gaze making his unspoken thoughts evident: he wanted her. It was to be expected given the circumstances. She was his to want, won fair and square according to the rules of men. But there was more in that gaze than sheer male covetousness and that was what made her pulse race. Those thoughts conveyed possibilities, promises, of pleasure. ‘No, you’ve caught me out. I’m not sorry. You’re a beautiful woman. The blue dress hid you.’
‘The blue dress was worth a fortune,’ she countered, encouraging the flirtation. Flirting was a means to an end, part of her arsenal. If he wanted her, he would let her stay. She had to view that as progress. On the docks he’d been ready to let her go and that did not suit her purposes. But to get what she wanted from him, she’d have to tempt him beyond coy flirtation and who knew where that would end? Well, she knew where that would end—in his bed, with her taking one step closer to becoming her mother, one step closer to being dependent on men, the very thing she’d fought so hard against the count to avoid.
‘It’s too bad the count didn’t wager the dress instead, then.’ Nolan took a swallow of brandy. She followed that swallow down the strong length of his throat. Did she really have a choice in the short term if her long-term goals were to be met?
Gianna stopped her line of thought. How often had her mother said the same? She’d married the count based on that exact logic. She’d wanted respectability for her children, the kind that came cloaked in a title. And yet, despite that cautionary tale, Gianna couldn’t help but think that if she did have to sacrifice herself to the Englishman, then so be it. Was it wrong that part of her didn’t think it would be