“Quite,” replied Lady Wilfred with a tight-lipped smile. “I wish you and Lady Langdale”—she directed a warmer look at Arabella—“a safe and pleasant journey.”
A short time later, Gabriel escorted his clever wife back to the carriage. “You were simply marvelous,” he said as he handed her in along with her medical bag. “I don’t think that woman would have admitted she knew my mother at all if you hadn’t come to her grandson’s rescue.”
Arabella blushed as he dared to join her on the bench seat, her bag between them. “’Twas nothing really. I was happy to help the boy.” She shrugged a slender shoulder. “It’s what I do.”
“A most admirable quality.” Gabriel settled himself into the corner and removed his beaver hat. “The desire to help others.”
A shy smile tugged at the corners of her pretty mouth as she removed her own bonnet. “Thank you.”
The carriage moved off, and Arabella undid the buckles on her medical bag. “I do hope Lady Wilfred has a change of heart and decides to help you.”
“Ah, so you also got the feeling she knew something about my mother but wouldn’t share it?”
“Aye.” Arabella reached into the bag and fished around for a brief moment before withdrawing a thin needle and a reel of fine white cotton. “I did.”
“Alas, it seems my persuasive skills weren’t quite persuasive enough this time,” Gabriel said with a sigh. He watched with interest as Arabella cut a piece of thread with her silver scissors and then proceeded to thread the needle with a deftness that was impressive. “Is there anything you don’t have in that physician’s bag of yours?” he said, peering inside.
When he reached in and pulled out a wicked-looking scalpel, Arabella aimed a severe look his way. “You might want to put that down, my lord,” she said in such a quelling tone that even a battle-hardened soldier would’ve been reduced to quivering jelly. “It can slice through flesh like a scorching-hot knife through butter. I wouldn’t like to think what damage it could do if we went over an unexpected bump.”
“Neither would I, Doctor.” Gabriel replaced the scalpel in its leather pocket, then returned his attention to his wife. She was carefully repairing a section of the lace on her kerchief. “My question beforehand was a serious one. Is there anything you’re missing? Anything you’d like?” He inwardly grimaced. Aside from the laudanum I cavalierly disposed of.
Arabella’s brow wrinkled in thought for a moment. “Well,” she began, “when I was last in Paris, I visited L’Hôpital Necker and met a young physician—Laennec was his name—who’d invented the most remarkable but simple implement. He called it a stéthoscope.”
“A stéthoscope?” Gabriel had never heard of such a device. “And what does a stéthoscope do?”
“It’s simply a slender wooden tube that allows one to auscultate vital sounds within the chest: the beating of the heart and the movement of air within the lungs. It amplifies these sounds, making it much easier for one to detect if anything is amiss.”
“And you’d like one of these stéthoscopes?”
She smiled at him. “Aye. When we return to London, I was hoping to have one made based on Laennec’s design. It looks a little like a spyglass, but it’s completely hollow.”
“Hmm. Who would’ve thought something so simple could be so useful?”
“Yes indeed. Docteur Laennec is very clever.”
Gabriel studied his wife as she continued to sew tiny stitches. It was such a shame that society prevented someone as gifted as Arabella from practicing medicine, just because she was a woman.
Although, now that she was the Countess of Langdale, at least she could perhaps fulfill some of her other dreams; Gabriel was sincere when he’d promised to support her philanthropic endeavors. She might even be the mother of his children one day if he could successfully fend off Timothy’s challenge and retain the earldom.
As far as Gabriel was concerned, the day when he defeated his cousin couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter 12
The evening was most beautiful . . . the moon rose, and night came on, and with the night a slow, heavy swell, and a fresh breeze.
Mary Shelley, History of a Six Weeks’ Tour
Hôtel Dessins, Rue de la Mer, Calais, France
July 25, 1818
Gabriel had been right. The journey home was absolute torture.
How else could Arabella describe the experience of being sequestered in the close confines of a carriage for hours on end, day after day with a man she wanted but, for very sound reasons, shouldn’t have? And when that man in question happened to be her husband, it only made matters worse because by rights, she should be able to snuggle into his wide chest and fall asleep in his arms, even seek his breath-stealing kisses whenever she wanted. She should be able to share his bed each and every night without shame, instead of insisting on her own room at whichever inn they stayed at. This self-imposed denial was wreaking havoc on her equilibrium. And she hadn’t expected that.
By the time they reached Calais, Arabella was more than a little bit beside herself with longing. Throughout the long journey through Switzerland and France, Gabriel—for the most part—had been nothing but the perfect gentleman. When she’d accidentally fallen asleep on his shoulder on more than one occasion, he hadn’t taken any liberties with her person.
Although, there had been one time when, on the edge of wakefulness, she wondered if he might have pressed his lips against her temple as though he cared about her. But then again, perhaps she’d only dreamed about such a lovely moment.
It was strange and most vexing that even the smallest, ordinary things that Gabriel did began to have a peculiar effect on her. The gentlemanly touch of his hand at her elbow or on her back, or the brush of his muscular thigh against hers in the carriage seemed to penetrate her clothes, branding the flesh beneath. Sometimes when she looked away from the passing scenery or glanced up from the book she was reading, she caught him studying her. He never looked embarrassed when their eyes met; indeed, she was the one who blushed like a silly chit, especially when he smiled at her.
And then there were numerous occasions when she had unseemly thoughts and behaved in a most unladylike way. Just like the smitten maid Colette and so many of the other chambermaids they encountered at inns along the way, she couldn’t stop stealing lascivious glances at her husband. At the end of each day, the black stubble shadowing Gabriel’s lean jaw made her fingertips twitch with the need to explore the rough texture. When he slept, she was transfixed by the sweep of his black eyelashes on his high cheekbones and how his features softened, making him seem angelic rather than devilish. Because of the hot weather, he developed a habit of removing his jacket and loosening his collar and cravat so that the strong column of his throat and a tantalizing tanned patch of his chest were on display. And then all she could think about was inhaling his potent scent and pressing her lips to his neck where his pulse beat beneath his smooth skin.
At other times Gabriel read, or—if the road wasn’t too bumpy—he sketched the scenery. On these occasions, Arabella found she became quite captivated by his hands: the way his long, elegant fingers splayed along the spine of the book, the deftness of his movements when drawing, or how a knuckle or the heel of his hand became charcoal smudged. She dared not think about what her husband could do with those clever, beautiful hands in the intimate moments they’d shared on their wedding day. But sometimes, despite her best efforts, she did.
Of course, throughout the journey there were endless opportunities for discussion, and they talked about anything and everything; although Arabella observed they both steered clear of anything too personal or painful. When Gabriel showed genuine interest in conversing about topics of a medical nature, she was quietly touched. She learned Gabriel had attended Eton and Oxford and had served in the infantry in Wellington’s army for two years. She gathered his relationship with
his father had been far from amicable—in fact Gabriel did not like to talk about him at all. She also suspected that after his mother left his father—when Gabriel was thirteen—that he’d felt quite abandoned. He admitted he didn’t quite recall why he decided to get a tattoo, but it had been during a drunken spree after he’d returned to England after Waterloo.
Gabriel made a concerted effort to secure separate bedrooms at all of the inns and hotels where they spent the night. Although, there was one occasion when they were obliged to share. In the small French town of Provins, the inn had only one room of inferior quality to spare. Even though Gabriel offered to sleep on the dusty floorboards, Arabella insisted he share the tester bed; she built a wall of pillows and blankets down the center of the lumpy mattress, and Gabriel—much to his credit—had stayed on his side. However, in the morning, Arabella was both shocked and mortifyingly aroused when she woke and noticed that her husband, who was bare-chested and lying flat on his back fast asleep, sported an enormous erection, which tented the bedclothes in a most curious manner. For a moment, Arabella pretended Gabriel was dreaming about her, and indeed, it had taken a considerable amount of effort on her part not to kiss him awake to see what would happen next.
Telling herself it would be foolish of her to succumb to temptation, she forced herself to rise and dress, and then went in search of breakfast in the public room downstairs. By the time she returned to their room, Gabriel had awoken also and thankfully, his erection had subsided. He was miffed with her for visiting the public room without an escort—she didn’t have a maid, and he was concerned she might have been accosted by some of the disreputable characters about. However, Arabella had been reluctant to defend her decision to scout for breakfast on her own because she didn’t want to mention the real reason she’d left—her husband’s rampant arousal seemed like a veritable hornet’s nest of a subject, given the circumstances. In the end, she took the path of least resistance and simply apologized, assuring Gabriel she wouldn’t go off on her own again. She really couldn’t blame him for being concerned about her safety.
And now, on their last night in France, they were staying at the Hôtel Dessins in Calais. It was a well-appointed hotel in quite a grand house, and their ground-floor suite looked out onto a courtyard garden that contained well-tended parterres of flowers.
The sun was setting as the concierge of the hotel showed them to their elegant apartment, informing them quite proudly that Napoleon Bonaparte had stayed within this very suite as he threw open a set of French doors to let in the sea breeze.
Gabriel simply arched an eyebrow, then nodded at Ryecroft to give the man a tip to shoo him away; the vanquished French emperor might have stayed here once, but that knowledge clearly wasn’t enough to put her husband off occupying the same rooms. Judging by the way he threw himself onto a settee upholstered with red silk damask and propped his dusty Hessians up on a low mahogany table, Arabella thought he might even be taking perverse pleasure in the whole experience.
Dinner was taken alone in the main sitting room—plaice with sorrel sauce followed by a platter of cheese and summer peaches, all washed down with a reasonable claret—and when they at last finished, Arabella felt as though she might fall asleep at the dining table. A chambermaid had delivered hot water to each of their respective bedrooms while they were dining, and Arabella couldn’t wait to wash off the grime of travel and then slip between the crisp cotton sheets in her enormous tester bed.
When she stood and bid Gabriel a cordial good night, he rose, too, and inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“We shall endeavor to take the packet that sails for Dover at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said, loosening his cuffs. Because the night was balmy, he’d discarded his jacket and waistcoat and had eaten dinner in his shirtsleeves. “However, I’d like you to be ready by eight o’clock as there are certain formalities that will need to be completed at the customs house before we embark.”
“Of course. I’ll be ready,” she replied. “Well . . . good night again, my lord.”
“Good night, my lady. I hope you sleep well.” The heaviness of Gabriel’s gaze made Arabella blush, and she made a fuss of fluffing out her crushed, travel-stained skirts as she crossed the sitting room. Indeed, she swore she could feel the seductive weight of his regard until she entered her bedchamber and closed the polished mahogany door.
Curse my too-handsome husband with his fallen-angel looks and smoldering eyes. Arabella pressed her hot forehead to the cool wood panels of the door and waited for her racing pulse to slow. It wasn’t as though she could take Gabriel to task for behaving indecorously. It was hardly his fault that his very presence made her tingle with awareness. That he constantly drew her eye.
Why couldn’t she be immune to his charms and purge herself of this useless craving? It was like a fever in her blood, and she was certain the only cure was to give in to the overwhelming urge to fall into Gabriel’s arms and let him kiss her and strip her bare and take her over and over again.
It would be easier in London. She imagined they would have their own suites so she wouldn’t have to come across him in nothing but his banyan and breeches, as she’d accidentally done on several occasions during their journey. They would also lead their own, very separate lives; while Gabriel was off attending to estate and business matters, she would join various charity boards and, at long last, throw herself into the work that needed to be done to establish her own, well-funded orphanage in Edinburgh. She could even talk to Dr. Radcliff about opening more dispensary clinics for the poor. He’d probably received her letter by now and knew she was married. She wondered what he thought of that. Would he be disappointed she’d wed another, or would he be happy for her?
Sighing wearily, she turned around to face the spacious, well-furnished room. There wasn’t much point in speculating about Dr. Radcliff’s reaction to her news. She supposed she’d find out soon enough anyway.
Kicking off her slippers, Arabella set about getting ready for bed as well as preparing fresh traveling attire for tomorrow. She didn’t have a maid yet—Gabriel had wanted her to hire Colette, but there was no way on earth that Arabella was going to employ a lady’s maid who lusted after her husband. So she’d simply informed him that she was used to taking care of herself and would rather secure the services of a maid once they got to London.
After opening her traveling trunk—it had been installed in the adjacent dressing room—Arabella selected a relatively plain gown of striped cotton and a matching spencer, and hung them on a hook so the creases would fall out. Then she washed her face and hands and fished out her night rail and hairbrush from her overnight valise.
Her dusty traveling gown landed in a heap on the floor, along with her petticoats, but as she tried to remove her stays, she ran into trouble. The corset fastened at the back, and evidently, she’d tied the laces far too tightly; she couldn’t loosen the knot no matter how hard she tried. After five minutes of twisting and contorting herself into all sorts of positions, she conceded defeat. She needed help.
Cursing under her breath, Arabella slid her gown back on, thrust her feet back into her slippers, and then returned to the sitting room. However, it was deserted. Gabriel had vacated the dining table, and the candles had been extinguished. The French doors were shut, and when she peered out to the enclosed garden, the rising moon cast sufficient light for her to see Gabriel wasn’t there either; sometimes he liked to venture outside to smoke a postprandial cigar. He must have retired for the night too.
Following a quick search for a bellpull, Arabella’s chagrin increased—there didn’t seem to be a way to ring for a chambermaid. Of course, the type of guests who stayed in this suite probably had a surfeit of servants at their beck and call. Arabella supposed she could ask Ryecroft to fetch a maid. But then, he might be helping his master at this very moment.
She was loath to go looking for a hotel servant on her own considering the ke
rfuffle that had occurred in Provins.
Arabella lifted her glasses and wearily rubbed the bridge of her nose. Unless she wanted to spend an uncomfortable night sleeping in her stays, or take a pair of scissors to them, it looked as though she’d have to call on Ryecroft to assist in her quest for a maid.
Drawing a deep breath, she gently knocked on Gabriel’s bedroom door, but there was no answer. Surely he hadn’t fallen asleep already. There was only one way to find out . . .
Cracking open the door a fraction, Arabella peered into the room. Candlelight danced over the crimson flocked wallpaper, the mahogany wood paneling, and the tester bed that was very similar to her own—but the bed was empty. The door to the dressing room was ajar, but Arabella couldn’t hear any voices or sounds of activity.
She frowned in confusion. Had Gabriel gone out? He hadn’t mentioned he had any other plans. Ryecroft was sharing a smaller room with the footman, Soames, but she would have to venture out into the hall and knock on the door to summon him. Though he might know the whereabouts of her husband . . .
Arabella blushed. Lord, how embarrassing that she might have to ask her husband’s valet such a thing.
A breeze stirred the white chintz curtains at the open sash window, and the candles guttered. All was silent save for the soft sigh of the sea in the distance and her own nervous breathing.
She was about to shut the door when another sound snagged her attention. A soft, decidedly male groan.
Heavens, was that Gabriel? The low moan had come from the direction of his dressing room. The door stood slightly ajar, and a pool of golden lamplight spilled onto the Turkish rug and the edge of the burgundy-hued counterpane covering the bed.
Arabella hovered on the threshold as uncertainty gripped her. Was Gabriel hurt or unwell?
How to Catch an Errant Earl Page 18
