To Tame a Savage Heart

by Emma V. Leech

  His father was right - he was pathetic … but he had to see her again.

  Chapter 21

  “Wherein a shark scares the pretty fishes.”

  12th April, 1818

  Crecy sat down, as far into the corner of the room and out of sight as she could manage. Perhaps if she stayed with the wallflowers, she’d be safe. The room was too hot and she was exhausted. Thoughts of her bed were only too appealing, and she sucked in a breath as a wave of dizziness overcame her.

  “There you are,” a rather smug, masculine voice said, startling her enough that she jumped. “Hiding your light under a bushel as usual, eh?”

  “Oh, August,” she said, sounding impatient. “Thank heavens it’s only you.”

  The ridiculously good-looking man in front of her sucked in a breath before tutting at her. “Crecy, love, you are terribly hard on a fellow’s ego, you know.”

  Crecy snorted, glaring at him. “Oh, I think you’ll bounce back,” she said, her tone dry. August Bright, Baron Marchmain, had been one of her most ardent admirers and had pursued her relentlessly for the first month of her time in London. Eventually, however, she had finally gotten it into his stubborn head that she was the owner of a broken heart and would never marry. What was more, she certainly wouldn’t be having a love affair with one of London’s most notorious rogues. Since then, he’d given up his pursuit of her, and actually became a rather unlikely ally, shielding her from the worst of her admirers whenever possible. This had naturally sparked rumours, but there was little to be done about it. August was incredibly charming, and despite her gloom could even manage to draw a real smile from her on occasions, rather than the fake ones she reserved for such occasions as these. He seemed curious rather than startled about the odd or outspoken things she was prone to say, though even they had become less as she withdrew into herself. She was far quieter and more subdued that she had ever been before, her naturally outspoken nature somehow choked by misery. In that, at least, August was a breath of fresh air, keeping her from descending too far into depression, though soon even his friendship would likely wane. But for now, August was a cheerful friend and rather impossible not to like. Unlike a certain, brooding, ill-tempered, emotionally unstable viscount who was never far from her thoughts.

  She sighed as longing made her chest tight. It had been nearly four months since he had left, and she’d had no word. She had given Piper her address in London, hoping against hope, and whilst the dear old fellow had written to her, as yet, he’d given her no news of Gabriel.

  “Penny for them?”

  She looked up and cast August a weary smile. “You shouldn’t waste your money.”

  August frowned and reached over, patting her hand in a comforting manner. “Still pining over this wretched fellow that broke your heart, I suppose?”

  “I suppose so,” she admitted, looking away from him as a new set of dancers arranged themselves on the dance floor.

  “I’ll bloody kill him if I ever lay my hands on the fellow,” August muttered, folding his arms and scowling harder.

  Crecy bit back a smile. She wondered if he would be so glib if he knew who it was she was aching for. Not that she doubted August’s courage, but Viscount DeMorte was too notorious and dark a figure to be faced with equanimity.

  Her amusement faded as a wave of nausea hit her, and Crecy sucked in a breath.

  “I say, Lucretia, are you quite well? You look positively ill.”

  “Dear August, you’re dreadfully hard on a girl’s ego, you know,” she quipped, though it was a rather breathless and half-hearted attempt at humour, as she felt like she might pass out at any moment.

  “Crecy, I’m not joking. Shall I take you out of here?” he demanded, his green eyes filled with anxiety for her.

  “What, and have every scandal sheet in the city talking about our sudden departure? I think not.” She sat back and closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing in and out. Dear God, please let Belle have got her letter and allow her to come home. She didn’t know how much longer she could carry on like this. “Be a dear and go and fetch me a glass of lemonade, please.”

  August didn’t budge, staring at her with concern. “I’m not sure I should leave you.”

  “Oh, do stop fussing, August,” she snapped, immediately repentant as she saw the hurt look in his eyes. “Forgive me,” she said, suddenly feeling on the verge of tears. “I … I’m not feeling well, if you must know, but I’m sure I’ll feel better if you get me a drink. It’s just so very hot and noisy in here.”

  He gave her a rather direct look that was somewhat unsettling, but nodded. “I’ll be right back,” he said, hurrying off to fetch her drink.

  Crecy let out a sigh of relief and closed her eyes. One hand slid protectively over her stomach and she tried hard to hold back the tears that would come if she allowed herself to think of the future. Gabriel would come back. He had to come back. Surely, she hadn’t brought such dreadful shame upon poor Belle for nothing. Yet it hadn’t been for nothing. Short as it had been, it was everything she’d known it would be, and she could not regret it. But she needed to get out of the public eye, and soon. She would have to keep August at a distance, too, she realised, lest people speculate that he was responsible for her delicate condition. To make matters worse, she had begun to fear Lady Russell suspected something. Her chaperone was sharp-eyed and up to every trick, no matter her age, and the old woman had dropped some subtle but enquiring questions of late that had made Crecy’s heart pound. It was pounding now, and Crecy tried harder to calm it. Panicking would not do the least bit of good. Now all she could do was endure.

  ***

  Gabriel stared around the crowded ballroom, every instinct demanding that he turn around and leave, now, this minute. He despised London, could not abide the crowds and the dirt and the bloody gossip. His hostess had looked like she’d been about to pass out when she saw who had crossed her threshold, but there was no one brave enough to deny him entry, despite his lack of invitation.

  He’d arrived two days ago, sending his London house into utter chaos as he’d given them no warning, and his visits were so rare that he kept the bare minimum of staff in residence.

  Finding his room unprepared for him was not something he could grumble about in the circumstances, but it little helped his temper or his state of mind. Frankly, it was a wonder he’d managed to leave the house at all, he thought with disgust. But seeing Crecy again had become as much as an obsession as any of his other compulsions, and that desire had overridden everything else.

  He shut out the whispers and gasps and the looks of outrage as he moved among the cream of the ton. He always felt like a shark at these events, every eye watching him with fear for what he might do or say. Strange, really, as he had never made a public scene at such an event, unless being forced to meet his apparently dead cousin in full view of the world counted. That, however, had been Edward’s doing, not his. He’d rather admired his cousin for that move, in fact.

  Edward was far from his thoughts, now, though, as he scanned the crowds. He lingered in the shadows, behind the huge marble columns that stretched this side of the ballroom. From here, he could see the dancers and …

  His breath caught, pain making his chest grow tight as he found her among the throng. God, but she was lovely. She was dancing with a handsome young officer, who looked dashing and heroic in his regimentals, and Gabriel stamped on a surge of jealousy before he forgot himself enough to cross the room and murder the fool in full view of the room. Crecy looked up as her partner addressed her and smiled at his words.

  See, I told you. You’re long forgotten. She’s moved on, casting her lures for another pathetic fool who can be seduced by her charms.

  Gabriel felt the words hit him like a barb caught in his heart, but he didn’t move, stubbornly holding his ground when his father would have him just turn and leave.

  Something had changed - she was different.

  Now that he really looked, it
was obvious. She danced with as much elegance as he’d imagined she would, and she smiled, clearly charming everyone around her, but she wasn’t the same. All the vivacity, the energy and joy that she had seemed to carry within her had gone. She looked pale, her face drawn, and the smile she gave did not reach her eyes. She looked … sad.

  He stared across the ballroom as she left her partner and hurried away, and he moved along the outskirts of the throng, tracking her movements as she found a quiet place among the wallflowers. Gabriel watched, frowning as she sat down, closing her eyes and pressing gloved fingers against her temples. She was tired, and she didn’t want to be here. The desire to cross the room and sweep her up, to take her home with him, was so overwhelming that he had to force himself to keep still. As he continued to study her, his temper flared as he noticed Baron Marchmain approach her; she looked startled but not displeased to see him. Damn the bastard. August Bright was everything that he was not. Charming, well liked … sane. By God, but wouldn’t they make a dazzling couple? The idea made him want to retch. Either that, or go and break the handsome lord’s damned nose. That might put a dent in those golden looks.

  To his relief, however, Crecy didn’t look as though she was flirting with him, though seeing Marchmain reach out and give her hand a brief squeeze did not make him feel the least bit charitable towards him. Take your bloody hands off her.

  It was clear, however, that Marchmain had noticed that she was out of sorts; he was looking at her with obvious concern, and Gabriel could only smile as it was clear Crecy had given him an impatient set-down. She would hate being fussed over. Marchmain left, and Gabriel hesitated.

  If he approached her in full view of everyone, it would set tongues wagging all over London. He never singled out young women. Ever. Frustration gnawed at him as he wondered how to get her alone, when some idiot’s drunken drawl reached his ears.

  “Bet you fifty pounds I can have her before the season is out.”

  “You’re a bloody fool, Tony. She’s already turned down about three marriage proposals that I know of. One of them was the Earl of Clayton. If you think she’s going to accept a carte blanche from you, you’ve got rocks in your head.”

  “I will have Miss Holbrook, on her back, before the season is out, Charlie,” said the obnoxious voice as a burst of rage hit Gabriel, so intense that he felt like his head might burst. “Do you accept?”

  Gabriel did not think. He did not consider that he was in a crowded ballroom, surrounded by the cream of the ton. He simply reacted.

  Before his brain had even had a chance to catch up, he had turned and smashed his fist into Tony’s face, feeling a rewarding crunch as he broke the fool’s nose. There were screams and shouts, but nothing registered, he was solely focused on his victim, who had staggered back and crashed against two other men, sending all of them to the floor in a tangled heap. Gabriel wasn’t done, though, and he advanced on the man, who actually screamed and tried to scramble away, but Gabriel reached down, lifting him by his preposterous cravat and twisting it in his hand until the man gasped for breath.

  “How dare you speak her name,” Gabriel said, his voice low enough that only the fellow trembling and choking in his grasp could hear. “You will never, never, speak it again. You will tell no one what or who this disturbance was about, only that it was a matter of honour, and you will name your seconds.”

  He released his hold on the young man, who collapsed, falling to his knees and looking utterly terrified.

  “B-but, I meant no insult to y-you, my lord,” the young man, whom Gabriel now vaguely recognised as a Mr Anthony Bellinger, sputtered. His father had been a fool, too. Gabriel had relieved him of a rather large sum of money some five years ago. It looked like his son had inherited his bad manners and stupidity, not to mention cowardice.

  “No,” Gabriel retorted, his voice mild, though he was well aware that his face looked murderous, to say the least. “You did not mean to insult me, because you would not dare. You reserve your slander and disrespect for those who cannot defend themselves, you gutless pup.”

  “Forgive m-me …” Bellinger stammered, clearly out of his wits with terror. “I’ll never mention it … h-her … again.”

  “No. You won’t.” Gabriel replied, staring at him with contempt. “But you will meet me. Hyde Park, the ring, at dawn.”

  Gabriel turned and strode away, and the crowd parted, everyone staring at him like a monster had appeared in their midst. He didn’t look at them, he never did. Who cared what they thought of him? Nothing new, that was for certain. He didn’t regret what he’d done, not even slightly, but he did regret leaving without looking Crecy in the eyes. He had wanted to see her reaction to his arrival, to judge if any of what he’d believed of her before his hopes had been dashed had been true. But she would know he was here now, he thought with a grim smile. The gossip columns would ring with this story for weeks. He would just have to see what she would do about it.

  ***

  Crecy stared into space, visions of a happier past and a rather bleak future jostling for space in her crowded mind. The idea of never seeing Gabriel again, and of having to go home and confess to Belle what she’d done, was too terrible. If she’d felt ill before, that idea was enough to make her quake in her satin slippers.

  Her troubled thoughts were interrupted, however, by screams and shouts, and she got to her feet, her own problems momentarily put aside by curiosity. Moving further into the ballroom, she saw the source of the disturbance as the crowd fell back, away from the scene. A fight! Goodness, how shocking, an honest to God fight in the middle of a ballroom. Crecy almost smiled at the looks of absolute horror on the faces around her, that such ungentlemanly behaviour had been foisted upon them. And then she saw the two men involved.

  One was Anthony Bellinger, who seemed to have been on the receiving end, as blood streamed from his nose and he appeared to be pleading for his life. Good. He was a revolting, insinuating man who had rather frightened Crecy. He’d made some unpleasant and wholly inappropriate remarks to her, and was forever trying to get her alone. Rightly or wrongly, she could not help but feel a surge of pleasure in seeing him finally get his comeuppance. The man who held him in his powerful grasp was clearly in control of the situation, he was a big man and …

  Crecy’s heart stuttered, hope and joy and a terrible anxiety growing in her chest.

  “DeMorte’s called him out,” a scandalised voice said as Crecy’s blood ran cold.

  “Bellinger’s a dead man, then,” came the reply. “He killed Lord Aston outright. Bullet to the brain. Right between the eyes, I heard.”

  “Oh, no, Gabriel,” Crecy whispered. Not that she gave a damn for Bellinger, but she could not let Gabriel make himself into the monster he believed himself to be.

  She moved forward, pushing through the crowd with difficulty as they strained to get a front row view of the scandal that would keep their jaws wagging from now until the end of the season. Crecy saw Gabriel turn, stalking away as people fell back to let him pass, and she hurried after him.

  Thankfully, everyone was too intent on discussing the momentous event with each other to be watching the doors, and Crecy slipped out of the ballroom. He had almost reached the outer doors by the time she managed to catch him.

  “Gabriel!”

  Crecy held her breath as he stopped in his tracks. If he carried on walking, she would know she was on her own, but maybe, maybe if he turned, there was still some hope for them.

  Time seemed to stretch out and Crecy could hear her blood pulsing in her ears.

  “Gabriel,” she said again, softer this time, pleading … and he turned around.

  Chapter 22

  “Wherein … a reunion of sorts.”

  Crecy ran forwards, wanting nothing more than to wrap her arms around him, but halted as she saw his posture stiffen. He stood staring at her, perfectly rigid, his face a mask.

  “Hello,” she said, uncertain as to whether she wanted to cry and rage at hi
m or just fall at his feet. She was smiling, though, her heart alight with hope. Surely, there was hope? There had to be.

  Gabriel said nothing, his eyes wary now.

  “You shouldn’t be out here,” he said, his voice hard and curt. “If you want any chance of catching yourself a husband, you’ll regret getting caught here with me.”

  Crecy felt her smile fall away, but she found she could not be angry with him. He was staring at her as though she was a threat now, as though she posed a danger to him, and she knew how badly he’d been hurt.

  She moved closer, slowly, as if she was approaching some wounded, wild creature, and she smiled a little as she realised that it was exactly that.

  “I will tell you now what I have told you before, Gabriel,” she said, keeping her voice soft. “And I will keep on telling you until you believe it. I will never marry. I will have you or no one, and if you want to walk back into that ballroom right now with me on your arm, then I am ready to do it.”

  His gaze was fierce for a moment and then he looked away, folding his arms. “Come over here before anyone sees you,” he said, his voice gruff and rather begrudging as he nodded towards a more secluded corner. At least he still seemed to have some care for her.

  “Why did you attack Bellinger?” she asked, wondering what had riled him badly enough for such a violent outburst.

  “Why?” he asked, the sneer in voice clear enough. “Was he one of your beaus?”

  Crecy felt a burst of fury with him and struggled to tamp it down. “No,” she said, the word brittle and angry just the same. “He’s a revolting, ill-mannered libertine, and I was never more pleased to see anyone brought to his knees. I wanted to cheer you on, if you must know,” she added, folding her arms to mirror his defensive stance.

  Gabriel looked a little startled, and then his face darkened further.

  “Did he touch you?” he demanded, his arms falling to his sides as he walked closer to her. “Did he hurt you?”