She closed the window again, watching the woman and child walk briskly across the grass to the driveway. They wouldn't see much of interest if they kept up that pace, Gabrielle reflected.
She turned back to the room, the cheerful smile still on her lips, no sign of the violent turmoil in her head.
Nathaniel closed the safe with a snap. For a second his eyes rested on her, brown and unreadable.
"How very fierce you look," she said lightly, her pulses racing. "Is something troubling you? Did you object to my talking to Jake?"
"No," he said, and sat down again behind his desk, pointedly sorting through the papers
"Don't let me disturb you," Gabrielle said. "I realize you have work to do." Hadshe given herself away? It was impossible to tell from his demeanor.
Nathaniel merely grunted and capped his pen in the inkstand.
"I was wondering…" Gabrielle began. "Oh, but I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you." She moved around the room, straightening cushions, tidying the periodicals on the side table, humming to herself, trying to decide how best to resolve her uncertainty. Maybe if she broached the subject of espionage directly, he'd give her some clue.
"I was wondering if you have agents in every city on the Continent?"
"Most." He didn't raise his eyes and answered with brusque impatience.
Gabrielle ignored the tone. "I suppose you must have people placed strategically in all the royal courts too. I wonder if you have anyone close to Talleyrand? Or in Madame de Stael's salon in Paris, perhaps?"
Nathaniel's lips thinned. "Have you had breakfast?"
"Not yet. Have you?"
"Yes."
"Mmm. It doesn't seem to have improved your conversational skills. I thought you were averse to conversation only at the table."
"I am never averse to conversation, only to prattle."
Gabrielle whistled appreciatively. "Now, that's a home hit, sir."
"I doubt that, ma'am," he said aridly.
Gabrielle persevered in the same musing fashion. "Do you ever go to work in the field yourself, I wonder? Or does a spymaster just sit in the middle of the web, masterminding machinations? I wonder what it must feel like to send people into danger without exposing oneself occasionally."
"It seems to me you do all too much wondering, madame. Go and have your breakfast." Nathaniel kept his eyes resolutely on his papers.
"It really is very difficult to find an acceptable topic of conversation," Gabrielle observed, shaking her head. "Children and childhoods are taboo. Your work is absolutely forbidden. Any speculation as to why you're such an irritable bastard is equally prohibited. It really makes a body wonder how to fulfill the social duties of a polite guest."
For a moment there was no response, then Nathaniel raised his head. He seemed to be considering something, and then one of his rare smiles spread slowly from his eyes to his mouth. "There's one perfectly acceptable topic, Gabrielle. I'm surprised you haven't come up with it."
"Oh?" She had the sudden absolute conviction that all was well. She had escaped his trap. She could feel her own smile responding involuntarily to his, even as she wondered if he knew the power of a smile that he hoarded with such care.
"Sex," he said succinctly. His eyes narrowed but the smile remained. "Did you know that you have a delicious little cluster of freckles under your right breast, shaped rather like a daisy… and what's really delicious is that you have almost the identical configuration on the curve of your backside? Definitely worth closer inspection, I think…"
"Nathaniel!" she said, the soft protest belied by her chuckle and the gleam in her eye.
"I wish it were strawberry season," he continued.
"I'm sure I shouldn't ask-at least not before breakfast-but why?" Her knees were unaccountably quivery and she hastily perched on the sofa arm.
"Oh, I have a fantasy," he said in the same matter-of-fact tones. "I want to fill your navel with champagne and dip strawberries into it."
Gabrielle's limbs turned to melted butter and her loins throbbed.
"Will you be working all day?"
"Not if you leave me alone now."
"Is that a promise?"
"It could be… now, go!"
"Yes, sir." She wrestled with her tumultuous body for a minute and then managed to offer him a mock salute as she went to the door.
"Gabrielle?"
"Sir?"
"See if you can think of a January substitute for strawberries before this afternoon."
"And the champagne?"
"I've several cases of a very fine vintage in the cellar.”
Gabrielle smiled at the crisp dark head still bent over his papers as if they were discussing the menu for dinner. A difficult, irascible, reclusive man was Nathaniel Praed, but it didn't seem to diminish his sensuality one iota.
"Until later, then, my lord."
"Until later, countess."
She closed the door behind her and, still smiling, went toward the small breakfast parlor behind the stairs. At the foot of the stairs she paused, and then, without forethought, went up until she was on a level with the portrait of Helen, Lady Praed.
The sweetly smiling eyes looked across at her, the gentle mouth curving softly. What had Helen known of her husband's vibrant sensuality? Of his unerring touch and instinct? Of his arousing hand?
Gabrielle inhaled sharply as desire again jolted her belly with the force of a lightning bolt. There had been no words of earthy passion in the letters she'd seen last night. Nathaniel had written tender, loving words describing Helen's smile, the sweetness of her eyes, of how he could barely endure the waiting until they should be together. They were the thoughtful words of a man deeply in love, careful not to say or do anything that would frighten or injure his beloved.
And Helen's responses… but Gabrielle hadn't read those. It was bad enough that she'd been unable to tear her eyes from Nathaniel's writing, let alone that she would dig into the private feelings of a woman long dead whom she'd never met.
She turned abruptly from the portrait and went back downstairs to the breakfast parlor. Nathaniel's relationship with Helen was dangerous territory best left well alone. And the same applied to his relationship with his son.
It became hard to keep to that resolution later that day when Miss Primmer came out of the library just before nuncheon, her face screwed tight, lower lip trembling, a handkerchief held to her mouth.
Gabrielle, coming in from awalk around the shrubbery spent contemplating asubstitute for strawberries, stopped in concern. "Why, Miss Primmer, what is it? Something's upset you." Her eyes flicked to the closed library door. Presumably the governess had just had an interview with her employer.
"Oh, dear, countess… too kind of you… it's just… I knew it had to happen, of course… and his lordship is being most generous… excellent character and a month's wages… but, oh, dear, I can't help worrying…"
She pulled herself up short, dabbed at her eyes, and straightened her bowed shoulders. "Goodness me, how I do run on," she said with pathetic dignity. "Take no notice of me, my dear countess. It's just such a shock, coming so soon… I had thought maybe another two years… but his lordship knows best, of course."
"I wonder," Gabrielle murmured. Not when it came to his son. "Come up to my sitting room, Miss Primmer, and take a glass of sherry with me. Then you can tell me all about it." She linked her arm with the governess's and urged her upstairs, ignoring the feeble protests.
Miss Primmer allowed herself to be put in an armchair, a glass of sherry pressed into her hand even while she demurred faintly.