Such had been the case here at Villa Belle Rive—his mother had apparently stayed at this château for a whole month last summer, but the property agent in Villeneuve had no record of a Caroline Holmes-Fitzgerald, or Lady Langdale, renting this house, and the owner, a wealthy merchant, was presently touring Greece and Turkey. The villa’s staff couldn’t readily recall the names, or indeed anything much at all about past guests.
There was one tiny glimmer of hope. Rochat mentioned he’d heard a rumor that an English baroness—a certain Lady Wilfred who was supposedly an old friend of his mother’s—was currently renting a villa not far from the small town of Nyon, just outside of Geneva. When Rochat sought an appointment with her, the woman had refused to meet with him.
Other than trying to secure an audience with the uncooperative Lady Wilfred himself, Gabriel really had no idea what to do next.
His mother could be anywhere, and it wouldn’t be long before Timothy made moves to challenge for the title. And to have any hope at all of refuting his claim, Gabriel needed to be in London.
He really couldn’t afford to stay away any longer. Tomorrow, he’d begin the long journey home, stopping at Nyon along the way. If he set out early, he’d be at the lakeside town by early afternoon.
Gabriel abandoned his seat behind the oak desk, threw off his superfine coat, and loosened his damnably tight collar and cravat.
He needed to do something to relieve the tension vibrating through him, and—as swiving his wife was definitely out of the question—imbibing brandy seemed like the next best option.
Taking up a position by the French doors, he sipped his drink and studied the lake. The sailing boat he’d hired floated at the end of a small wooden pier; yesterday, he’d harbored visions of ferrying Arabella about, sharing a bottle of wine, and then making slow, sweet love to her on a secluded, shady bank.
But it wouldn’t be making love, would it? Gabriel sighed. Arabella had a point. He was loath to call what he wanted to do with her fucking. Swiving seemed too crude a term as well. He wanted her with a passion that defied explanation, a passion that only seemed to have intensified since he’d bedded her. Last night he’d tossed and turned into the wee hours, torn between the urge to slide into bed with Arabella and kiss her into submission, or to just admit defeat and scratch his own itch. Which would hardly be satisfying compared to the former option. In the end, he’d done neither, and as a result he was exhausted and out of sorts with a bad case of aching cods.
He briefly contemplated the idea of securing a mistress when they returned to London, but he knew deep down that such an arrangement wouldn’t satisfy him. Not only that, he suspected he’d be plagued by a most inconvenient sense of guilt if he did stray. He seemed to be feeling that particular emotion a lot where Arabella was concerned.
He really didn’t want to think why that should be so.
When Arabella admitted that she feared she might fall in love with him, Gabriel was certain she only felt that way because he’d been the one to take her maidenhead and show her physical pleasure for the very first time. She was simply casting him in a romantic light because, in her mind, it would be unseemly to enjoy sexual congress unless she and her bedmate shared an emotional attachment.
His mouth curved into a cynical smile. In time, she’d come to realize that he really wasn’t worth falling in love with. Smart, compassionate, strong—and yes, beautiful—Arabella was far too good for a debauched libertine like him. Yet here they were, stuck with each other . . .
Gabriel tossed back his brandy, then sighed. A single nip wasn’t enough to soften the edges of his discontent. He’d just replenished his glass when the door clicked open.
Arabella. How was it possible that such a range of conflicting emotions—hope, longing, and much to his shame, a modicum of childish petulance that she’d rejected him—could swirl about inside him all at once?
“My lord,” she began as she advanced into the room before stopping in the middle of the rug. “I hope I haven’t missed the courier. I’ve several letters—four actually—for my friends.”
Gabriel smiled. “You’re not late at all.”
She gave him a hesitant smile in return. “I’m much relieved.” In one hand, she held a small bundle of parchment while with the other, she clutched her silk shawl about her shoulders. “However, I’m afraid I’ve run out of sealing wax. Each letter is clearly addressed. If it’s not too much trouble, would you be able to seal them for me?”
In light of the laudanum incident, Gabriel was unexpectedly touched that she still trusted him with something as personal as her private correspondence. “Of course,” he said and, glass in hand, gestured toward the desk. “Although, I don’t think we will be here much longer. I need to return . . . Sorry, I mean we need to return to London sooner rather than later.”
“Oh . . .” She frowned. “How soon?”
“I’d like to leave early tomorrow morning if possible. The courier will make faster time than us, and I imagine your letters will arrive home at least a few days before we do. Unless you want to deliver your news in person . . .”
She shrugged. “They’re written now, so I may as well send them on ahead.” Crossing to the desk, she placed her letters on the leather blotter. “I don’t wish to pry, but judging by your mood”—her gaze flitted to his glass of brandy before returning to his face—“I suspect the inquiry agent didn’t impart anything useful about your mother’s whereabouts then?”
His mouth twisted with a cynical smile. “I had hoped for better news,” he admitted, then gave a brief recount of Monsieur Rochat’s report. “If there’s even a slim chance of meeting with a friend of my mother’s, I must take it. However, if I don’t ferret out any useful intelligence in Nyon, I’ll have effectively exhausted every possible avenue of inquiry. I’m beginning to think my mother decided to move to the North Pole or the antipodes.”
Arabella’s frown deepened. “I . . . I hope she is all right.”
Gabriel sighed heavily. “So do I.” It wasn’t a lie.
Arabella nodded and worried at her lower lip for a moment before adding quietly, “I know this might not be an opportune time, but I need to talk to you about something of a rather delicate nature.”
Gabriel’s interest sharpened. Had his wife had a change of heart about allowing him into her bed? “Of course.” He approached the desk. “Would you care to take a seat?”
“Thank you.” Arabella sat carefully in a leather upholstered bergère and then spent an inordinate amount of time smoothing the light green muslin fabric of her skirts.
Gabriel took the seat on the other side of his desk and sipped his brandy while he waited for Arabella to collect her thoughts. Whatever she wanted to talk about must be serious indeed. Foreboding prickled at his nape.
“What, you’re not thinking of asking for an annulment, are you, Arabella?” he quipped. “Because that won’t work. No one will believe I’m impotent and that our marriage wasn’t consummated. According to the London newspapers, I’m the ‘Errant Earl,’ the randiest rakehell in Christendom. A filthy libertine.”
Arabella lifted her gaze and met his directly. Her cheeks were bright with color. “Unfortunately, even though it is an awkward topic, your libidinous nature is exactly what I need to discuss with you, my lord. Despite the fact that we are married, you’ve told me time and again that you are not willing to give up your licentious ways.”
Exasperation flared. “At the moment, you are giving me little choice.”
“I know . . .” She lifted her chin. “At the risk of deepening our estrangement, I’m going to say something you won’t like. But I must because it impinges upon my well-being . . . and if we should be so lucky, the well-being of any child we might have in the future.”
Gabriel put down his glass. Apprehension slithered along his spine. “Go on.”
Arabella swallowed. Her entire face t
urned scarlet. “I know this will be difficult for you to accept, but . . . I’m going to ask you to abstain from sexual congress altogether until it’s time for us to beget a child. I worry . . . I worry if you take up with a cyprian, or indeed any other woman, you might contract a venereal infection. I know you’ve been careful up until now, but there’s always a risk the measures you take won’t be sufficient. Sheaths can develop holes, or split, or . . . or fall off during the act. When I worked alongside my grandfather, I saw what syphilis could do too.”
“But it could be months and months until we try for a child, Arabella,” Gabriel snapped, his tone harsh. “You’re asking too much. I’m not a goddamned saint.”
Arabella flinched at his display of temper, and remorse immediately washed over him. He gentled his voice. “I apologize for my fit of pique. I assure you, I’m not usually so inclined. I’m just . . . I’m frustrated, and I can see it in your eyes that you won’t be swayed.”
“No,” she said flatly. “I won’t.”
Gabriel raked a hand through his hair. “You know I only want you right now, don’t you, Arabella? This will not be easy. Especially on our journey home. To be so close to you for days on end, but not to have you . . .” He shook his head. “It’s going to be torture.”
“I know. If it’s any consolation, it will be difficult for me too. You’re not the only one who is struggling to suppress a most inconvenient desire.” Even though Arabella’s countenance was still bright red, her gaze remained steady. “As I’ve said before, I won’t risk giving my heart away to a man who doesn’t want it, so it’s the way it must be. I know I’ve hurt you by rejecting you, and I’m sorry for that. But if you have any regard for me whatsoever, you will accede to my wishes.”
“And if I don’t agree to your terms?” he demanded. He loathed sounding like a mulish prick, but right at this moment, he couldn’t seem to help himself.
“While I recognize you do indeed have conjugal rights, you promised me you would never take me against my will. And as to whether you seek satisfaction elsewhere . . .” She shrugged. “I suppose you could hide an affair easily enough if you were so inclined . . . even though you also assured me you’d never lie to me. But if I did find out you’d been with another woman, I’d have no other choice than to live apart from you. And because you’d broken faith with me, I would not be inclined to come to your bed willingly for the purposes of begetting a child. No doubt that would lead to all sorts of inconvenient questions. I’m certain Lord and Lady Malverne and Lady Charlotte would be most curious about the true state of our marriage. Of course, I’m happy to pretend we are content if you can keep yourself in check. At least until you have your heir. After that, you can bed whomever you please.”
Damn it all. Arabella was right on every score. She was far too clever, this wife of his. Resentment warred with grudging admiration as Gabriel studied her, sitting on the other side of the desk, her back ramrod straight with a determined glint in her hazel eyes. She might only be one-and-twenty, but she had a will of iron and a mind sharper than a bayonet.
Gathering her shawl about her shoulders, Arabella stood. “I realize I’m asking a lot of you, Gabriel. But surely you cannot blame me for wanting to protect my heart as well as my physical health. And the health of any babe we might have.”
Gabriel rose to his feet as well. He suddenly felt exhausted. Defeated. “Of course, I’ll respect your wishes, Arabella,” he said gruffly. “Though God knows, it won’t be easy.”
“Thank you.” Arabella inclined her head. “It means a lot to me that you would make such a sacrifice. I’ll . . . I’ll begin packing.”
As she crossed the room, some devil inside Gabriel made him say, “If you ever change your mind, my dear, my bedroom door is always open . . .”
“Well, mine will be firmly closed, my lord,” she replied in a clipped tone. “And as I’ve said before, I won’t change my mind.”
As the door clicked shut, Gabriel dropped into his seat. He really hoped Arabella had something in her medical bag that was an effective treatment for soothing calloused palms and blisters. Because in the coming months, his hand was going to get very sore indeed.
As Gabriel picked up his brandy again, his gaze strayed to the small pile of letters, and the name printed neatly on the uppermost one leapt out at him.
Dr. Graham Radcliff.
Gabriel’s brows snapped together. What the hell was his wife doing sending mail to another man?
Of course, he shouldn’t jump to conclusions; it was likely this Dr. Radcliff was simply a former acquaintance of her grandfather. Yes, he was probably some gray-haired gentleman with a stoop and a walking stick and Arabella had written to him about something completely innocuous related to some obscure medical topic or a particular philanthropic endeavor they were both interested in.
But then, why write to the man at all if the matter was of little consequence? She would be in London soon anyway.
Gabriel drummed his fingers on the blotter for a moment before sifting through the other letters. There was one for Lady Charlotte Hastings, another for Lady Malverne, and the last one was for Miss Olivia de Vere. All of her friends from the young ladies’ academy.
Gabriel picked up the letter to the doctor and tapped it on the edge of the desk. A better man wouldn’t be so suspicious. A better man would resist the temptation to look inside, thus betraying his wife’s trust. A better man would simply seal it shut . . .
Fuck it. He wasn’t a saint. He was going to look inside to discover exactly why Arabella had written to this Dr. Graham Radcliff fellow, whoever he was.
Gabriel swiftly unfolded the letter before his conscience got the better of him.
To his relief, the contents were generally unremarkable. The tone was light and friendly. Arabella mentioned that she wasn’t sure if the doctor had received the missive she’d sent from Paris in April, but she was returning to London soon. She also expressed interest in visiting a dispensary he was opening in Seven Dials.
Gabriel arched an eyebrow. Not bloody likely. The area was a cesspit and too dangerous a place for Arabella to set foot in.
Arabella also talked about the Foundling Hospital, hinting that because he, Dr. Radcliff, was on the board, perhaps he could discuss budgetary considerations with her at a mutually convenient time. Gabriel’s interest was piqued by that particular tidbit; he knew Arabella was interested in improving the conditions in orphanages, so perhaps she simply wished to cultivate a working relationship with the man. She’d ended the letter by informing the doctor she’d recently wed the Earl of Langdale.
And that was all.
Gabriel blew out a sigh. Yes, he was a heel, but at least his concern—that his wife harbored a tendre for a man of medicine—had been laid to rest. He folded the letter and then sealed it, using his signet ring emblazoned with the Langdale family crest—a hawk’s head—to mark the red wax.
He smirked. He wondered what the good doctor would make of that.
And then he frowned as an altogether unsettling thought slid into his mind. Good God, could it be that he’d actually felt a pang of jealousy for the first time in his life? It was not like him to be so possessive . . .
Gabriel tossed back the rest of his brandy in one gulp. Steadfastly pushing away the notion that he might actually be starting to feel anything beyond desire for Arabella, he sealed the rest of the letters, then gathered together the correspondence he wanted to send off with the courier.
He made a mental note of what he would need to get done today. It wouldn’t take long for Ryecroft to pack his things. He’d send word to the estate agent that he was vacating Villa Belle Rive. He’d paid in advance for the month’s rental so the account was already settled. He supposed Arabella might like to farewell her family, so perhaps a quick stop at Clarens on their way to Nyon might be in order. He’d ask her this evening if that would suit.
W
hich meant the rest of the day could be spent at leisure.
Gabriel helped himself to another brandy, then picked up his sketchbook, which he’d left on the desk. Damn, what he really wanted to do was draw Arabella naked, in his bed, or on the balcony, or even on a picnic blanket with her hair tumbling about her like sunlit honey.
Yesterday, on their wedding day, he confirmed what he’d suspected from the first moment he’d met her—that Arabella was a passionate creature beneath her demure, bespectacled facade. Indeed, her sexual responsiveness in bed had thrilled him.
And now he knew for a fact that the wanting in this relationship was far from one-sided. Arabella’s choice of words might not have been flattering when she’d stated she was “struggling to suppress a most inconvenient desire,” but it was an admission that she wanted him nonetheless.
To him at least, that was a relief. It was a start. If nothing else, Arabella was proving to be a most intriguing puzzle, and he was always up for a challenge. How ironic that the first woman to ever kick him out of her bed with a flea in his ear was his wife. As he’d suspected from the very start, a different tack was required to win her over.
But what?
Gabriel sighed and replenished his drink yet again. He had no bloody idea. For once in his life, he was dumbfounded. He suddenly wished his friends—Nate Hastings, Hamish MacQueen, and Max, the Duke of Exmoor—were here. Nate, a newly wedded groom himself, would certainly be able to give him some advice. But by all accounts, Nate had fallen in love before he proposed to his Sophie.
Showering Arabella with romantic gifts and compliments and introducing her to pleasure clearly hadn’t been enough. But Gabriel was afraid that what she truly wanted, his undying love and fidelity, he really was incapable of giving.
The time had come for him to find the middle ground.
Of course, he would try to make their relationship amicable. And he’d do his very best to suppress his carnal urges during this enforced period of abstinence. While a not-so-charitable part of him was inclined to make Arabella ache with longing, too, he would be a right royal bastard to do so.
How to Catch an Errant Earl Page 16
