For several heartbeats he said nothing, just studied her with those dark, unreadable eyes. "I won't allow anyone to hurt you," he said quietly, his expression and voice utterly serious.
Her imagination instantly took flight, picturing him dueling ghosts, tossing hooded knife wielders into the Thames, then sweeping her up into his strong arms and carrying her off to his kingdom where they would-
He took the towel from her and stepped back.
Julianne's fanciful thoughts disintegrated, and she blinked, pulling herself back into the present. She picked up another towel from the stack and approached him.
"Let me help." She reached up and pressed the towel against his cheek. And felt his entire body tense.
A muscle in his jaw ticked beneath the towel. Her gaze dropped, and she noted the white-knuckled grip with which he strangled the towel he held.
A thrill of feminine satisfaction raced through her. Clearly he was tempted. And fighting that temptation.
She could feel the tension emanating from him. Sensed him combating what he clearly wanted-or at least what she desperately hoped he wanted: to finish what they'd started in the music room. To touch her. Kiss her.
Determined to see him fail in his struggle, she leaned toward him. He inhaled sharply, and his full, firm lips parted. Just when she thought he was about to capitulate, he practically snatched the towel from her hand then backed up a step. "I can do it," he said, his voice sounding as if he'd swallowed gravel. "Why don't you see to the tea?"
Good heavens, the man actually looked… nervous? Certainly she'd unsettled him. Surely the notion that he was shouldn't delight her so, but it did nonetheless. Why, he looked as if he wanted to bolt from the room.
Her delight instantly wilted. She didn't want him to bolt from the room. Best she not unsettle him too much. Therefore, even though she wanted nothing more than to help him dry off, she forced her feet to cross the Turkish rug. "I'll see to the tea."
After settling herself on the settee, she reached for the teapot, wrapping her fingers around the curved silver handle. Unfortunately, she then made the tactical error of glancing toward Gideon. And completely forgot about tea. Forgot about everything save him.
He stood with his back to her, bathed in the golden glow of the fire, his jacket half-on, half-off. She watched in stupefied fascination as he shrugged the garment the rest of the way off his broad shoulders. His cravat and red waistcoat followed, leaving him clad in his white shirt, which adhered to his body as if painted on. Julianne's avid gaze took in the breadth of his shoulders. The play of his muscles as he rubbed the towel over his chest and back, then down his arms, blotting the wetness away.
When he crouched down to spread the clothing he'd removed on the hearth to dry, his damp breeches clung to his backside in a manner that made her mouth go dry. Before she could recover, he stood and turned.
Their gazes collided, and she felt the impact of his intense regard down to her toes. He no longer looked nervous. In fact, he appeared so in command of himself, she wondered if she'd misinterpreted his reaction earlier. If she'd been capable of speech, she would have told him he looked delicious, er, drier, but sadly, anything as complicated as stringing two words together was currently beyond her.
Her knees seemed to have turned to liquid, and she sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she was already seated. How was it possible that he could reduce her to such a boneless state with a mere look? Surely the fact that he could should have frightened her. Appalled her. Something other than breathlessly exciting her.
He approached her slowly, the towel dangling from his long fingers. He looked big and dark, deliciously damp and dangerous, and she couldn't have torn her fervent gaze from him if her very life had depended upon it. He stopped an arm's length away from her, and her gaze focused on the fascinating front of his snug breeches with the zeal a starving dog would bestow on a mutton chop. Oh, my. Those breeches left no doubt that Gideon was very perfectly and very generously made.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
Her gaze snapped up to find him watching her with an inscrutable expression. Heat flooded her cheeks. No. I am not all right. You're throwing all my fine plans into utter disarray. How could she possibly entice him to kiss her when it apparently required all her wits to remember to breathe? "I'm fine."
He studied her for several more seconds, then nodded slowly. "Yes, I can see that you are. Indeed, you appear well recovered from your fright. Remarkably so."
Was that a twinge of suspicion in his voice? Before she could decide, he continued softly, "There's something you're not telling me."
Clearly that was suspicion in his voice. She had no doubt that given enough time he would unearth the truth-and be very angry with her when he did. Rightfully so. He'd no doubt never forgive her. Rightfully so. No doubt never want to speak to her again, let alone kiss her. Which meant she needed to do everything she could to insure that time didn't come too swiftly.
Lifting her chin, she said, "Contrary to what you obviously believe, I am not prone to the vapors or artfully arranging myself on fainting couches. I am made of sterner stuff and don't require days to recover from unsettling experiences." She offered him a small smile. "Besides, I feel very safe with you here."
He didn't comment, merely set aside the towel then sat on the opposite end of the settee. She glanced down and noticed that mere inches separated his knee and her yellow muslin gown. Far too little distance to be proper. Far too much distance for her liking.
She cast about in her blank mind for something to say. Something to divert his attention from her remarkable recovery. Something witty and interesting that would engage him. Perhaps draw a smile from those lovely, firm lips-before he laid them upon hers. But his nearness once again rendered her mute with longing and wants so overwhelmingly strong she feared when she did finally speak they would simply just pour out of her like a dam burst free. Touch me. Kiss me. Put out this raging fire you've started in me…
He leaned toward her, and what little breath she had remaining expelled from her lungs. She felt herself leaning toward him, as if blown by a strong wind, and her lips parted in expectation.
"It would be much easier if it were in the cup," he said softly.
She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
He nodded toward the table. "The tea. It would be considerably easier to drink if it were actually poured into the cups."
Julianne jerked her head around and stared at her hand, which still gripped the teapot's handle-the teapot that remained resting on its silver tray. A hot flush of embarrassment and self-directed annoyance rushed into her face, and she quickly lifted the pot. It was one thing for the man's presence to make her forget what she was about; it was quite another to allow his profound effect on her to be so patently obvious.
"Of course," she murmured, filling both cups then passing him one, managing only thanks to years of experience not to slosh the hot liquid over the cup's edge.
She took extra care in selecting a trio of biscuits for his plate, using the time to compose herself. She'd longed for and had gone to great lengths for an opportunity such as this: time alone with him. She had no intention of wasting this chance to get to know him better. Both Gideon the man and Gideon the extraordinarily excellent kisser.
She passed him the plate of biscuits. "Are you feeling warmer? Do you need more towels?"
"I'm fine, thank you."
Yes, he certainly was. Much more than fine, actually. Supremely, extraordinarily fine. Good heavens, he was beautiful even when he chewed a biscuit. Although she couldn't deny he also appeared… displeased? Her heart sank at the thought. Certainly he didn't appear particularly happy about sitting here, sipping tea with her. A depressing state of affairs, as she was nearly giddy with excitement.