He rose, all lean, sinewy muscle and animal-like grace. “You tell me, chérie.” His voice as smooth as silk held a dangerous note, and a tremor rattled through her.
“Oh, you are insufferable! Simply impossible. A puffed-up, arrogant toad.” She stamped a foot, wishing she had the nerve to kick him in the shin.
He folded his arms and smirked. “Indeed.”
“Leave me alone, Your Grace. I mean it.”
His smile grew wider and impossibly smugger, and he dared to shake his midnight head.
Itching to lay a palm across his angular face, she presented her back. “I shall give you the Cut Direct. I swear I shall.” Though it likely meant goading a bear. Tears made dual tracks down her face as she all but ran from him.
“Je suis désolé, chérie, but it will make no difference.”
Four days later, at precisely three of the clock, Gabriella climbed the impressive steps to Ridgewood Court, the Sutcliffes’ ducal country house. The afternoon proved one of the lovelier this spring: the temperature pleasant, the sky crystal clear, and the gentlest breeze teasing the new foliage, budding flowers, and the wisps of hair framing her face.
Today, as they did every third Thursday of the month, she and her sister as well as several other of the local gentry not yet in London for the onset of the Season, met for tea and an afternoon of cards. If the weather permitted, guests might take to the lawns for strolls, shuttlecock, or lawn bowling.
Gabriella had deliberately stayed close to home these past days. No trips to Colechester, no evening engagements, and no much-coveted excursions about the countryside either. She’d take no chances of running into the Duke of Pennington. No chances of foolishly indulging in more exquisite kisses that left her senses reeling, and her common sense and indignation fizzled to pathetic embers. She must keep her umbrage fully ablaze to battle her ever-growing attraction to the man.
There was still the musical gathering at the Twisteltons’ to sort out. She and Ophelia had already said they were attending, and Nicolette would be disappointed if they cried off now. Gabriella had no idea what excuse she could give Ophelia or their grandparents either. Nevertheless, she had severe second—make that third—thoughts about the wisdom of going since he would be there.
Especially given the delivery of two stunning cloaks yesterday: one mazurine blue velvet and labeled “Ophelia” and an emerald green one, with Gabriella’s name pinned to the collar. No card accompanied the garments, which caused both grandparents’ graying eyebrows to skip about on their wrinkled foreheads.
The conversation replayed in her head, word for word.
“It would seem you girls have an admirer.” Grandmama had brushed her fingertips over the fine cloth before slicing them a considering glance. “Do you have any notion who it might be?”
“I haven’t a clue, but the cloaks are magnificent. I suppose we must return them,” Ophelia had murmured, clearly not liking the idea at all. She brushed her cheek against the fabric, sighing. “Is this similar to the one you ordered for me, Gabby?”
Grandpapa had let that tidbit slip during his rant about the stolen horses, damaged coach, and Pennington’s unmitigated gall. Gabriella hadn’t intended to mention it and distress her sister.
“Very much so,” she had admitted. “But how can we return them, when we don’t know who sent them? I suppose we could ask the local seamstresses, but that might prove awkward. Besides, there’s no guarantee they were fashioned in Colechester.”
Gabriella had a very good idea who was behind the gifts—a very good idea indeed— but she’d bite her tongue in half before voicing her suspicions. She didn’t relish another scene with her grandfather and truly feared he’d do something awful, such as torch the gorgeous mantles, if he thought the duke was the benefactor. “I suppose we’ll have to donate them.”
She hated acknowledging how much that saddened her. Both were utterly exquisite, and she was womanly enough to appreciate the fine workmanship. How the duke had managed to commission them in such a short time bespoke his power and influence. Likely, the seamstress had a much heavier purse for her efforts as well.
Grandpapa poked his head above the week-old newssheet. He’d never pay for a current copy but gladly accepted the papers sent their way from the Sutcliffes and Sheffields. “Could they be a surprise birthday gift from your cousin Everleigh, and the note somehow became lost? It is your first and twentieth birthdays in two days, and certainly the occasion warrants something remarkable.”
Ophelia perked up and grabbed Gabriella’s hand. “I vow, that must be it! We can ask her at tea tomorrow.” At once a frown marred her pretty face. “Though I don’t suppose we ought to wear them to tea until we know for certain.”
“I must agree, my dear,” Grandmama gently said. “I expect your grandfather has the right of it, however.”
And so here they were for their monthly tea, Ophelia convinced Everleigh was behind the luxurious gift and Gabriella equally certain the duke was. She’d mentioned the mazurine cloak the day of the coach accident, and she didn’t believe in coincidences. If she weren’t so blasted annoyed with him, she’d have been touched by the thoughtful gesture. He knew it too, drat the charming rake.
Two reasons had compelled her to accompany Ophelia today. First, the duke had never put in an appearance in all the months Everleigh had hosted the monthly tea, and secondly, the only way to know for certain who sent the mantles was to ask her cousin.
As they reached the top riser, a shiny black coach bearing a ducal crest rocked to a stop.
Gabriella turned in expectation. Everleigh poked her head out and waved gaily. “Hello, darlings!”
Such a change had come over her since marrying the Duke of Sutcliffe. She positively radiated happiness these days. Gabriella eyed her cousin’s belly. Was she enceinte? Hmm, that might explain the glow.
Everleigh’s step-niece, Rayne Wellbrook followed her descent, and then another young woman Gabriella wasn’t acquainted with stepped onto the courtyard.
Once inside and having been divested of their outerwear, Everleigh smiled and drew the petite, strawberry-blonde forward. “Gabriella and Ophelia, may I introduce Miss Sophronie Slater from the Americas? Her father is one of Sheffield’s business partners. “Ronie, these are my cousins, Ophelia and Gabriella Breckensole.”
Miss Slater offered a shallow curtsy and a bright smile, revealing not quite perfectly straight teeth. Her eyes glinted with excitement. “Everleigh speaks of you often. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My, you are indistinguishable from each other. Did you ever play pranks and switch places?”
Everleigh laughed, whilst shaking a finger at them. “Yes, they did.”
Chatting, the five women made their way to the drawing room. At once, Gabriella sensed this was no typical Thursday tea. Far more guests milled about than usually did, and there were several she didn’t recognize. She sent Ophelia, a what-is-going-on? look, and her sister lifted her shoulder an inch.
Theadosia spied them and broke into a wide smile. She hurried their way, hands outstretched, the small mound of her belly preceding her.
Gabriella surveyed the room again, and her stomach pitched. Ballocks and bunions.
He was here.
There, by the window, too deucedly attractive for her peace of mind. His heated, predatory gaze met hers, and he inclined his sable head. She nearly turned on her heels and headed straight for the carriage. She’d promised to cut him, but Ophelia had already ventured farther into the room with Rayne and Miss Slater.
Gabriella edged near Thea and whispered in her ear. “Why are there so many in attendance today?
Theadosia pressed a hand to her throat and chuckled low. “Well, several of my regulars brought guests. It’s a good thing I planned for yard games.”
Thirty of the most uncomfortable minutes Gabriella had ever endured passed before she could bear it no longer and begged to be excused to use the necessary. Anything to put distance between herself and Maxwell. Besides, Thead
osia and Sutcliffe where about to usher their guests outdoors.
Maxwell hadn’t approached her, so perhaps he’d taken her warning to heart. Yet, she knew full well, as did he, she would not cut him here. Not with her sister present. Ophelia would never live down the disgrace. And then she’d have to explain her actions, for neither Theadosia or Everleigh would let such ill-behavior go any more than Nicolette would.
As she made her way to the room set aside for the ladies’ personal needs, she frowned. Where was Nicolette?
After splashing a bit of water on her cheeks, then pinching them to bring a spot of color to her pale face, she stared at her reflection. Though it was two seasons old, her light blue gown complemented her coloring. It did nothing for the haunted look in her eyes, however. She feared the truth of Maxwell’s plans must come out sooner than she’d wanted, and then where would she and the rest of her family be?
She closed her eyes and drew in a slow, deliberate breath. Stop hiding from him. You’re made of sterner stuff. Nonetheless, she chose a meandering route to the lawns where the others had retreated and instead of joining them, took a seat in a sheltered arbor off the terrace.
From there, laughter and calls of encouragement and the occasional muffled curse carried to her on the breeze. What a fine bumblebroth this was. She, the keeper of a dastardly secret and much too interested in the man who could very well ruin her family.
“I wondered where you’d sneaked off to.” Without an invitation, Maxwell settled his large frame beside her. What had been a comfortable nook at once became too confined and cramped. His scent filled the small area, and despite her determination not to respond to him, her nostrils quivered and anticipation made her stomach flip-flop.
Gabriella forced herself to inhale and count to ten to compose a civil retort.
“I didn’t sneak, and you should not be here.” She refused to look at him, for if she did, she would be lost. “And neither should you have sent the cloaks. Grandpapa is convinced Everleigh commissioned them for my sister’s and my birthday presents, but I know it was you.”
Maxwell neither admitted or denied the accusation. Leaning back, he stretched his impossibly long, black-clad legs before him. He sighed and eyes closed, rested his head against the back of the arbor. “Thank you for not cutting me.”
Sincere or mocking?
Examining him surreptitiously from beneath her half-lowered eyelids, Gabriella tightened her mouth. His thick lashes fanning his chiseled cheekbones couldn’t hide the lines of fatigue at the corners of his eyes or the shadows beneath them. She’d like to think the past few days had robbed him of as much sleep as they had her. That he also struggled with his conscience as well as his attraction to her.
“You look tired, Your Grace,” she murmured before she could stop herself then silently berated the impulse. He might mistake it for caring or concern.
But she did care and that frustrated her to no end. She shouldn’t. Not about him.
He cracked his blue eye open, and gave her a long, undiscernible look. Was that regret and tenderness there or was the filtered light playing tricks? Or…was she manufacturing what she hoped to see?
“I’ve had much on my mind,” he finally said, opening both eyes.
She made a noncommittal noise then tipped her mouth up at Jessica Brentwood’s cry of delight. “I’ve bested you, Bainbridge,” Jessica laughed. “Now you owe me an ice at Gunter’s.”
“Gabriella?”
The peaceful afternoon had lulled her into a drowsy state. Nights of little sleep might be blamed as well. She hid a yawn behind her hand, knowing she ought to join the others, but unable to muster the energy or the desire to do so. “Hmm?”
“You’ve never explained why you disdain my company.” His usual arrogance was absent. “I can only assume I’ve offended you in some way, and for that I apologize.”
She sighed, wishing she dared tell him all, but afraid to reveal what she knew. Hence, she decided on a different tact. “I see no point in encouraging your interest when we both know nothing can come of it. You’re a duke, and I am a dowerless country miss. There can never be more between us. You are expected to make a brilliant match, and in truth, I am not certain I’ll ever marry.”
“I cannot countenance such a thing,” he said quite forcibly. “You are young and beautiful. Surely you want a home and children.”
The truth of her circumstances couldn’t be denied though her heart ached to think of it. To never know a man’s touch or to carry a child. A flicker of resentment fired in her veins too. She wasn’t nobility, but a gentle-born woman had fewer prospects than the poorest peasant’s daughter who might marry for love.
Maxwell covered her folded hands with his, his palm heavy and somehow reassuring. “I don’t particularly care about station or dowries.” He is a rarity, then. “Nor about political connections or expanding my sphere of influence.”
Gabriella quirked a skeptical brow and laughed. “I cannot believe that.” Not when he was determined to regain Hartfordshire Court at all costs. She twisted to face him. “What do you want from me?” A shocking epiphany danced through her mind, and she narrowed her eyes. “Since a respectable union is beyond our scope, I can only assume you’ve another, less chivalrous proposition.”
It was his turn to look startled, and by Jove, not just a little guilty too. It was in the way he veered his gaze aside for an instant and the distinct rosy hue tinting his sharp cheeks.
By God. She’d made the estimable Duke of Pennington blush.
The air left her lungs in a rush as profound disappointment flooded her. Why she should be surprised he wanted her for his mistress, given what she knew him capable of, she couldn’t fathom. But if he’d skewered her with a dagger, her pain would’ve been less. She tilted her chin up refusing to give her disappointment any power. “I admit, I’d foolishly thought you above such machinations.”
She tried to pull her hands away, but he firmed his grip. “You have it wrong.” He lifted a hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it, then turned it over to kiss the pulse beating a frantic tattoo at her wrist. “I swear, I would never dishonor you in such a way.” Maxwell drew her into his embrace, his gaze locked upon hers. His voice, low and raspy as if intense emotion constricted his throat, he murmured, “You intrigue me as no other ever has.”
In less than a blink, his mouth was upon hers, devouring her lips, demanding a response.
Gabriella couldn’t deny him, and with a husky moan, twined her arms around his neck and gave into her hunger.
This was madness. Sweet, wanton, wonderful madness. Her desire for this man would consume her, but in this exquisite sliver of time, she didn’t care. Maxwell was here, and she was here, and there was no snuffing the inferno. His kisses went on and on, his tongue dueling with hers, their breath mingling as she lost all sense of anything but him.
A shriek of laughter only a few feet away pierced the heady passion, and this time, Maxwell, drew back, a lopsided smile slashing his mouth. “Forgive me. I lose my self-control the moment I touch you.” He traced a finger down her cheek.
She was both delighted and terrified at his admission. Swallowing, her lips throbbing from the sensual onslaught, desire and perhaps something more wrestled with her sense of justice. She couldn’t have it both ways. She didn’t dare give into whatever this unnamed thing was between them. It would destroy her when—if—he claimed Hartfordshire Court.
Male voices echoed on the terrace, and he stood, straightening his waistcoat. “I shouldn’t be found here. You would be compromised. But know this, chérie, I do not easily give up.”
He must be made to do so. But how when every part of her longed to yield to him?
The next evening, one shoulder propped against the doorframe to the Twistletons’ crowded music room, Max raised his champagne flute to his lips, savoring the quality spirit. From across the span, the Duke and Duchess of Dandridge nodded cheerful greetings as they settled onto the blue-tufted chair cushions. Su
tcliffe and Sheffield, along with their magnificent duchesses, had claimed seats for tonight’s soiree in the last row of neatly lined chairs.
Swathed in silks and satins, their jewels glittering in the glow of dozens of candles, the ladies resembled brightly-plumaged birds next to the gentlemen’s more sedately-hued suits. Only in the human species did the female outshine the male.
Well, most males. The image of a dandified fellow Max had encountered a fortnight ago, attired in pink and canary yellow, intruded upon his musings.
Several other members of Bon Chance: The Sinful Lords Secret Society were present as well: Westfall, Bainbridge, and Asherford, dukes one and all, though the organization wasn’t limited to dukes, hence the name sinful lords. The group was much more of a brotherhood than a club, a brothel, or gaming hell for debauched aristocrats. It was a place to escape the pressures and responsibilities of having been born a noble. A place where they could just be men. Equals.
A footman placed a violin atop the pianoforte as another arranged a harp just so. Normally, Max eschewed this particular sort of gathering. For a damned good reason too. One never knew what degree of skill those imposed upon to entertain the assembly might claim.
A person with a strong musical inclination himself, he could scarcely sit through the travesties that far too often took to the stage. Usually prompted by a parent oblivious to their progenies’ complete and absolute ineptitude.
In London one might fare better, but in the country? No, he’d likely have to sit on his hands to keep from slapping them to his ears. But then how could he cover his mouth to stifle his groans?
Damn him for a fool for accepting tonight.
Forcing an expression other than abject boredom whilst trying to ignore what often amounted to noises similar to mating cats wasn’t something he had quite mastered. Nor would he ever. However, he had it on good authority—those very same dukes now murmuring intimately in their wives’ ears and from Miss Twistleton herself—that certain twins would indeed be present. He’d had his doubts, and it pleased him no end that after yesterday, Gabriella hadn’t forsworn the gathering.
What Would a Duke Do? Page 7
