Gabriella made a little noise—likely involuntary. No doubt her thoughts also tumbled about in her head. Her parents were dead as well. He wracked his brain, trying to remember how old the twins were when they came to live with their grandparents. He’d been at Eton by then.
Recalling her puckered expression at the Christmastide dinner before she swiftly assumed the bland mien she presented to him when she’d found herself seated beside him, a silent chuckle shook his chest. Their hostess, the Duchess of Sutcliffe, might have served vermin in white sauce for all the attention Gabriella had paid to the food that evening. Her ability to answer his questions with clipped one-word responses and to resolutely direct her attention to her other dinner partner surely had to be a feat worthy of recognition.
Why, he supposed he ought to be flattered she’d actually strung more than two words together in conversation with him in the village and since he’d come upon her this afternoon.
Given Max was hell-bent on having her home returned to his family, he had no business—none whatsoever—entertaining this perverse interest in her. And yet the more she resisted him, the more she disdained his presence, ignored the tipping of his hat or the extending of his elbow, the more captivated he became. That either made him dicked in the nob, or…
By God, he wasn’t sure what that made him.
Stupid? Imbecilic? Pathetic? A predator?
That disagreeable thought stuck fast in his craw, mostly due to the degree of truth in the ugly acknowledgement. It gave him a sour taste in his mouth. Nonetheless, he must remain rational at all costs. He couldn’t afford to let his emotions become entangled even if she was to become his duchess and the mother of his heir and spare. He’d permit his lust for her free rein, but never anything more.
As much to catch another whiff of her unique perfume as to spare her the sore muscles she would endure tomorrow if she continued holding her unnatural posture, he leaned into her slender back, and pressing one palm into her middle urged her against him. “I said relax,” he breathed into her ear.
“Are you always such an arrogant bully?” Even as she muttered the words, a ragged almost wistful sigh juddered her shoulders, and she sank into his chest.
Most women of his acquaintance would’ve dissolved into histrionics or tears had they been forced to huddle in the forest and witness their possessions destroyed and horses stolen. Not to mention deigning to relieve themselves in those same woods. Not Miss Gabriella Breckensole. She refused to show weakness to anyone.
That was one of the things he most admired about her. Her stubbornness. Her independence. Her I-don’t-need-your-help-I-can-do-it-myself bravado. The almost intractable child-like attitude that lit a spark in her eyes and bent her lips into an endearing, mulish slant. It was also what would make his task more difficult.
In the beginning, she might resent their marriage, but with her keen wit and intellect, she’d make an extraordinary duchess. He was confident of the fact. Their desire was mutual, and that was nothing to scoff at. Even if they never claimed the love his grandparents had.
After stumbling upon his grandfather’s journal in the study a few months ago, Max had sworn an oath to avenge him. He’d replaced the ancient, scarred monstrosity of a desk with a smaller one. Whilst the four hirelings labored to lift the old piece, a hidden drawer had popped open, revealing the leather-bound book.
The first entry that had leapt out at him—had burned in his mind since.
August 1744
I told Margaret that Hartfordshire Court was sold. How she sobbed when I confessed I’d been forced to sell her childhood home to Harold Breckensole.
The rotter blackmailed me into selling it. He’d vowed he’d have his revenge on me, because he fancied a little tart who climbed into my bed, and now he has. The lying bastard claims he caught me cheating at cards. The bloody sot even went so far as to enlist those insolent pups up from university, Wakefield and Garrison, to act as witnesses. Those two bounders will do anything for a drink, a whore, and a few pounds.
The cards were marked, but not by me. Breckensole must have marked them and then framed me. I cannot prove it, and when he threatened to make the disgrace public, I feared what the scandal and shunning would do to Margaret. Feared she’d quicken early again. And so, in desperation, I agreed to his damnable terms. I couldn’t risk her miscarrying yet another heir.
My heir must come before all else. He must. The ducal lineage must continue.
Breckensole’s bloody terms included a legal bill of sale and a contract between us that no one could ever know about the marked cards. He thinks he’s been so clever. He’s the victor for now, but someday, his scheme will come back to bite him in the arse. I’ve made sure of it.
I only agreed to his extortion for my heir’s sake. Margaret’s losing three babes in as many years has made me a mad man. Her health is frail and grows more so. She weeps incessantly. That is enough to drive me madder still. I should have married a woman with a stronger constitution, but how does any man know his wife’s womb will fail?
While Margaret was with child, she couldn’t know I’d sold Hartfordshire Court, so I waited six months until I was sure our son would live.
At long last I have my heir.
Only a few short, terse entries followed, two of which stuck in Max’s mind:
Reverend Michael Shaw was killed in a duel.
Egads, what could a reverend have done to find himself challenged to an affair of honor? Preached on adultery? Bigamy? Helped himself to the tithes?
The last entry sent a queer chill up his spine.
Margaret is dead. She was with child.
And Breckensole was to blame, damn his covetous soul to hell. Well, not the particular entry about the reverend, but the rest could be laid at his feet.
The hushed whisper he’d heard once as a child that his grandmother had flung herself down the stairs had been nothing more than gossip from the lower orders, his father had insisted. His own mother had died within two years of giving birth to him, and he had no memory of her except for woeful, nondescript brown eyes in a plump, plain face.
From beneath half-closed eyelids, Max considered Gabriella. Her slim nape and sloping shoulders, the dip of her slender waist and her hips that flared out into luscious curves. Curves he itched to run his hands over.
Yes, she was far better than the simpering misses he was accustomed to having hanging on his arm, batting their eyelashes, and incapable of stringing an intelligent sentence together let alone retrieving their own handkerchief or fan from the floor.
He’d rip his hair out by the roots and run screaming from the room if forced to endure another inane conversation about the weather, who was seen riding with whom in Hyde Park, or the latest on dit in the gossip rags.
Only their breathing and the rhythmic clip-clopping of Balor’s hooves punctuating the peaceful evening stillness, Max and Gabriella rode for several minutes. Unfortunately, no moon illuminated their way, although an occasional brave star peeked from amongst the cloud-ridden sky.
He wasn’t concerned, however. Many were the times he’d traveled this road with the heavens darker than this. His estate lay little more than a half mile beyond Hartfordshire Court. Even decades after that bounder Breckensole had cheated Max’s grandfather of the manor and grounds, he refused to refer to the estate as Breckensole’s.
“Gabriella?” he put forth, even as his instinct warned him to stop.
“Hmm?” she murmured sleepily as she half-turned her head to look into his eyes. Sloe-eyed, her face softened by fatigue and her guard down, her earlier hostility had disappeared and something indefinable held him in thrall.
Another peculiar tightening contracted his ribs.
Why did she of all women have to affect him thusly? The granddaughter of his grandfather’s nemesis and by extension, his as well?
He couldn’t see her expression clearly in the inky blackness, and his usual confidence wobbled for a moment. Grazing his knuckles along her sil
ky jaw, he asked softly, “What have I done to offend you?”
Darkness hid the blush blooming across Gabriella’s face at the duke’s intimate touch upon her skin. For God help her, the harsh retort hovering on the tip of her tongue evaporated, and—how could it possibly be? —she yearned to press her cheek into his gloved hand.
She blamed fear, hunger, and worry about her grandfather’s reaction. Yes, of course, that’s it. Her anxiety and fretting caused her to harbor such uncharacteristic, fanciful notions. Certainly not a desire to have the duke caress her.
But how should she answer his question?
It would be pure foolishness to make him aware she knew about his dastardly scheme to reclaim Hartfordshire Court. Fine, mayhap she didn’t precisely know what that plot was or how the duke planned to enact it, but she did know he intended to do that very thing.
“Help. Help.”
The weak cry saved her from having to answer the duke’s prying query. Straightening, straining her eyes, she made out the shadowy rocky contours of the arched stone bridge.
“Help me, please. I’m down here, on the embankment.”
As the plea echoed through the darkness once more, the duke slowed his powerful horse. His muscular body taut, Pennington brushed against Gabriella’s back as he pulled upright.
“Jackson,” she breathed, clutching the duke’s forearm and twisting to catch his gaze. Or at least she tried to. In the dim light, she could only make out the edges of his hewn features. “That’s my coachman. I know his voice. He must be hurt.”
That was why he hadn’t returned.
With a short nod—at least she thought the duke nodded. The darkness made it so very difficult to tell—he said, “Stay here. I’ll check on his condition.”
As soon as he slipped from the saddle and ventured down the embankment, she rolled onto her stomach and slid from the horse as well. She hurried over to the bridge, and one hand holding the rough, rocky edge, leaned over. Only obscure shadowy shapes met her scrutiny. Curses. Why couldn’t there have been a moon tonight? They hadn’t even the convenience of the coach lamp to light the area.
“Jackson, it’s Miss Gabriella. Are you hurt?”
A sharp oath met her ears. “Miss Breckensole, I told you to remain on my horse.” Flint-like annoyance accented each short syllable the duke rasped.
Yes, he had, and she’d chosen to disregard his directive. He might be accustomed to having his every wish promptly granted, but he wasted his breath ordering her about.
“Your Grace, as I am not your servant, hireling or wife, I don’t feel obliged to obey your commands. Most particularly when Jackson is a member of my household.” Her words rang every bit as pompous and harsh in the quiet of the night, and immediate chagrin for her churlishness sluiced her. She refused to become a harpy, even if he did vex her to next December and beyond.
The duke had been nothing but kind, helpful, and gentlemanly.
She could almost like this considerate man. If only… If only. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, as Grandpapa was wont to quote.
“Jackson, are you badly hurt?” she called, regret softening her voice.
A loud, pain-filled groan met her question. “I fear my leg’s broken, miss.”
She sucked in an abrupt breath. If the duke hadn’t come along when he had… Hanging farther over the bridge’s side, she squinted at the two indistinguishable men below. “However did you end up down there?”
“I only meant to have myself a drink of water, but the ground gave way, and I tumbled,” Jackson answered. “I’m sorry, Miss Breckensole.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Gabriella assured him.
However, Grandpapa would chew nails at another unexpected expense, for the servants’ care fell to him. A new, most unpleasant, thought struck her. Her grandparents and Ophelia would be frantic that she hadn’t returned from Colechester yet. Even as the truth crossed her mind, the rumble of an approaching conveyance rent the night air, overwhelming the crickets’ chirps and frogs’ croaking.
There, across the old arced bridge, a conveyance came from Hartfordshire’s direction. Either Grandpapa or the young groom. No one else knew how to tool a vehicle. She’d asked but been denied the privilege.
“Someone’s coming.” She turned, waving her arms up and down in the unlikely event the driver didn’t see her.
One arm around Jackson’s waist and the other holding the servant’s arm across Max’s broad shoulders, the men labored up the incline. The carriage lamps sent an eerie glow over the road as the landau drew to an uneven stop.
“Gabriella girl, is that you?” Grandpapa squinted into the night. “Where are the coach and team?”
“Yes, Grandpapa, it’s me. I’m afraid the coach lost a wheel, and Jackson’s hurt.” Best not to tell him the condition of the coach or that his team had been stolen just yet. As an afterthought she added, “The Duke of Pennington is here as well. He came to our aid.”
She sensed as much as saw her grandfather go rigid and defensive.
“We don’t need or accept help from a Woolbright or any Duke of Pennington,” Grandpapa all but growled in a gravely tone she’d never heard from him before.
The air fairly crackled with enmity, and her jaw hung slack. Never before had she witnessed such hostility from her gentle, eccentric grandfather. Was it possible he was already aware of the duke’s plans to try to force them from their home? That certainly would warrant well-earned antagonism. God knew it had caused hers.
To Pennington’s credit, he didn’t respond in kind but continued to assist the injured coachman to the waiting carriage. That raised him a notch in her estimation—to worm rather than maggot.
“Can you step into the conveyance?” Pennington asked Jackson, covered with muck and grass streaks. “I’ll bear your weight and balance you.”
She’d never known a peer to expend effort for a commoner, let alone soil his fancy—expensive—clothing or muddy his fine—very expensive—boots.
“Aye, Your Grace.” Muttering a muffled oath, Jackson braced his arms on the open door then giving a tremendous heave, levered himself onto the cushion. With a low groan, he collapsed into the corner, and even in the half-light, Gabriella recognized the strain creasing his pale face.
“Gabriella, take a seat at once,” Grandpapa all but snapped, including her in his curmudgeon’s glare. “Your grandmother and sister are beside themselves with worry, and I must retrieve the team as soon as I’ve seen you home.”
Oh no. How can I tell Grandpapa?
She raised what surely must be stricken eyes to the duke’s. Why she’d look to him for help or reassurance she couldn’t begin to speculate. Simply put, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do.
Something akin to compassion transformed the granite-like angled planes of Pennington’s face. His strong mouth softened and tipped up at the corners. “Breckensole, I regret your team’s been stolen and your coach has a broken axel.” Sympathy rather than gloating tempered Pennington’s somber tone. “I came upon the wreckage and found your granddaughter huddled in the woods, terrified for her life.”
Eyelids sliding closed, Gabriella gave a whimpering groan. Bother and blast. She believed she’d been so stoic and brave—had hidden her fear so well.
“What…? What say you?” Grandpapa brought his aghast gaze up to swing between her and Pennington. He whispered brokenly, “My…my team stolen? My coach destroyed?” His stooped shoulders slumped, and he hung his head.
Gabriella tried to reach up to pat his arm. “I’m so sorry, Grandpapa. Maybe if I’d stayed in the coach…”
She’d have been despoiled, for certain.
“No, Miss Breckensole. You were wise to hide.” In an instant, flint-like censure turned Pennington’s speech ruthless and unforgiving. “I should think you’d be more concerned with your granddaughter’s wellbeing, Breckensole. A coach and team are replaceable. Something as precious as her cannot ever be.”
A
n odd inflection roughened his last words.
She caught his eye and gave a small shake of her head. He’d only make things worse, pointing out the obvious truth to her grandfather. She was still trying to come to terms with the loss herself. It was easier for a man as wealthy as the duke to consider acquiring a new matched pair and commissioning another coach a minor inconvenience. Not as true for her family.
Her grandfather’s head snapped up, and she almost gasped at the loathing contorting his lined face. “How dare you imply I don’t care for my granddaughter?”
What had happened to cause such visceral enmity between him and the Dukes of Pennington? He’d been remarkably closed-mouthed about it all these years, whatever it was. He’d known the twins encountered the duke at social events and never hinted they were to avoid him.
Had something occurred of late to change that?
But what?
A growing suspicion niggled, and though she couldn’t put her finger on just what made her uneasy, Gabriella was convinced Grandpapa kept something significant from her, Grandmama, and Ophelia.
“Just like an arrogant Pennington, passing judgment on others.” Grandpapa’s mouth twisted into a contemptuous sneer. “Always thinking you’re superior to everyone else, whilst forgetting the plank in your own eyes.”
“At least we’re honest and forthright in our business and other dealings.” Gone was the tender duke who’d cradled her in his preposterously strong arms as they sat atop his horse. This man glaring daggers at her feeble grandfather she could very well believe would put them from their home without a qualm.
“Just exactly what are you implying, Pennington?” Grandpapa asked slowly, his rancor palpable in the set of his shoulders and the muscle flexing in his jaw. He raised his crop threateningly, and for a blink, Gabriella feared he meant to strike Pennington.
She rushed to intervene. Striking a peer, let alone a duke, would have harsh consequences. “Grandpapa, after the axel broke, ruffians came along. They stole the team and the mazurine velvet cloak I commissioned for Ophelia’s birthday present.” His tobacco too, but she’d spare him that triviality. “They also stomped upon Grandmama’s medicines and destroyed our new chemises.”
What Would a Duke Do? Page 5
