by Danice Allen
He spoke first, a bittersweet smile curving his lips, a tender expression in his aureate eyes. “Hello, Gabby.”
“Hello, my dear friend,” she responded softly. The clock’s chimes reverberated through the room. Should she extend her hand to him? Should she offer him her cheek to kiss? Wracked with indecision, she took the safe course. She did nothing. “I trust your journey was not too uncomfortable?”
“Certainly it was,” he returned teasingly, lifting his hand to touch a forefinger to the bruised eye. “But it was well worth it to see you in all your blushing beauty as a bride-to-be.”
She knew not how to respond to such a compliment. She was glad if she seemed in blushing beauty, but she was dismayed by the easy manner in which he could speak of her coming marriage. She had hoped he would act more … well… jealous! Besides, she was blushing for him, the idiot!
Repressing her disappointment, she said, “How did you hurt yourself? I shall not believe it is my fault, unless you can prove it is.” Then, in a desperate bid to lighten the moment, she suggested archly, “An unwilling damsel took objection to your wish to carry her away, perhaps?”
Zach’s eyes crinkled in surprised amusement. “Just so, my dear Gabby. Just so!”
Gabrielle made herself laugh with him, supposing he was teasing her back, then prayed with every fiber of her being that he wasn’t telling her the truth. “No, really, Zach?” She squeezed the question out through the gritted teeth of a forced smile.
Zach’s expression sobered. He looked searchingly at her. “No, little friend, I’m not such a cad as that. Did you think me such a one? I’ll tell you the truth.” He leaned close to her ear and whispered, the warm breath tickling her cheek and making a chill run up her spine, “’Twas faeries, Gabby. I was attacked by wee folk like the sort we have in Cornwall, only these were meaner, and one of them possessed of a good right hook! See, it was your fault. Wherever you are, my dear, there’s always some sort of enchanted chicanery going on!”
Gabrielle laughed delightedly as the twelfth chime of the clock resounded through the room. Pandemonium broke out. The orchestra began a jaunty tune, playing their instruments with loud and inexact enthusiasm, a fitting background to the shouts of merriment that filled the room.
Suddenly Gabrielle was seized by firm male hands, turned round, then pressed against a broad velvet-clad chest. Before she could emit even a feeble protest, Rory wrapped her in a smothering embrace and claimed her mouth in a hard, hot, thorough kiss that seemed to last for an eternity. She could not pull away, for she dare not show an aversion to her fiancé in front of Zach, but, oh, how she longed to box the scoundrel’s ears good and proper! If this was Rory’s idea of how to make her appear grown up he would soon be disabused of the notion!
Indignation clenched in Zach’s chest like a balled-up fist. He needed all his strength of will to keep from physically wrenching Gabby out of her fiancé’s embrace. Gawd, it looked as though he meant to swallow her whole, like some luscious fruit in ripe season to be smacked and slobbered over! Didn’t he realize that he was making an embarrassing scene? Didn’t he know that such conduct between a betrothed couple in public would only serve to encourage speculation about their conduct in private? Did he kiss her thus in private? Where was Aunt Clarissa? He had always known that woman had as much aptitude for chaperoning as a turkey did for flying!
The kiss lasted an eternity, a spleen-twisting, throat-burning, eye-bulging eternity. Zach could not vouch for his restraint if the man didn’t pry his sucking lips off Gabby’s face by the count of three. One … two …
Gabby was released. She weaved to and fro. Her eyes were glassy. She avoided looking at Zach. Her cheeks burned with anger… or was it passion? Either possibility did not sit well with Zach. She flicked open her fan and plied it through the tense air. “Goodness, Rory. Goodness!” she murmured faintly.
“Well, my little pigeon, what did you expect?” said the marquess in a tenderly remonstrative voice. “’Tis the new year, after all. Everybody was kissing someone, and who better to kiss than my betrothed? It was cruel of you to desert me at such a poignant moment!” The marquess twisted the end of his mustache and grinned down at Gabby.
“I’m … I’m sorry I left you, Rory,” Gabby stammered, her thick lashes shielding her eyes from Zach’s concerned inspection. “I saw my friend, Zachary, you see. He was standing quite alone and I thought it most proper and kind to… to say hello. I’ve wanted very much for the two of you to meet—”
“So you’re Zachary Wickham?”
Zachary found himself being addressed by the amorous marquess. He dragged his gaze from Gabby’s flustered countenance and coolly—nay, coldly—fixed his eyes on her betrothed. Deigning to acknowledge the introduction by the merest inclination of his head, he answered, “Yes, I am. And I must conclude by the proceedings of the past few moments that you are Lord Lome?”
The marquess seemed completely unconscious of Zach’s disapproval and frosty demeanor. “Yes, but you mustn’t address me as such. Lord Lome is such a tongue-twisting redundant name, don’t you think? I had always thought it ill-done of my ancestors to inherit such an awkward title.”
Zach had no reply to such an absurd statement. He could only suppose that his lordship was a bit of a rattle, addicted to nonsensical chattering. For Gabby’s sake, he would humor him. He smiled. “Then what shall I call you, my lord?” If the marquess had no ready ideas, Zach could certainly think of a few fitting names.
“Rory, by all means. A friend of Gabrielle’s is, by the natural way of things, a friend of mine.”
“I’m honored,” Zach lied smoothly.
Apparently somewhat recovered from her betrothed’s assault upon her lips and her dignity, Gabby slipped her hand into the crook of Rory’s elbow and looked at Zach. Her smile was wavering but determined. Was she displeased by Rory’s conduct, or was she secretly pleased? Either emotion could account for her discomposure, made obvious by glowing eyes and cheeks. Yet if she were displeased, why would she cuddle up to him so? “I want you and Rory to become friends, Zach. I fancy you have a great deal in common. How long will you be staying?”
Zach tried to read Gabby’s heart through her eyes, but for the first time since he could remember, those lovely hazel peepers were shuttered against him. “Not very long. Circumstances will dictate when I leave.”
“Circumstances?” An ember of some sort of emotion sparked in her eyes, but it was quickly tamped down.
Zach made a dismissive gesture. “The climate. My mood.” Whether you have need of me, Gabby, he added silently. Whether it becomes necessary to extricate you from an ill-advised match.
“There’s good hunting in the winter, Zachary—I may call you Zachary?” Rory’s self-assured smile suggested that he did not expect Zach to deny him. Again for Gabby’s sake, Zach did not. He gave his consent for the use of his Christian name with another slight nod of his head.
“Do you like to bow-hunt?” Rory persisted cheerfully. “I do. There’s more of a challenge to the hunt when you use a bow instead of a gun. Primitive weapons put one on a more equal footing with the prey, so to speak. Have you an opinion on the subject, Zachary?”
“I do, but I think I’ll keep it till we can discuss the matter at some other time,” he said with a smile, but in a dampening tone. “Gabby cannot wish to listen to us prattle on about quivers and string and such the like, can you, Gabby?”
“Oh, I quite like to hear Rory talk about anything,” she said sweetly. “He has a vast store of knowledge about a great many subjects.” She turned an adoring gaze on her betrothed.
Zach studied her profile, the upturned, confiding look of devotion, and felt a twinge of guilt and … doubt. Was he being precisely fair toward Rory in coming to so swift a conclusion that he was an unfeeling brute? Could Gabby—his bright, perceptive, feisty, free-thinking Gabby—be so deceived by a person? Could all of her good sense have turned to mush simply by the influence of a pair of hairy legs in a kilt?
He doubted that very much. And since she had never shown such admiration for any man before, perhaps there was something to this Rory Cameron, Marquess of Lome, besides his skirted swagger.
Upon first meeting, however, it seemed his lordship did not flaunt his good qualities on his shirt-sleeve. Zach realized he would probably have to spend time with the marquess in order to come to a fair reckoning of the man’s caliber. He was willing to make the sacrifice for Gabby. He strove to dredge up more amiable feelings toward the man.
“I would be pleased to accompany you on a hunting excursion … er… Rory. I’ve visited the country before, but never hunted here. Besides, it will be an opportunity for us to get better acquainted. As you said, by our mutual connection to Gabby, we are automatically made friends.”
A servant was passing with a tray of champagne. Zach stopped him, took a long-stemmed glass for Gabby, Rory, and himself, then raised his own in the air. “I propose a toast. To old friends.” He paused and tipped his glass to Gabby, bowing over it. “To new friends.” He paid the same tribute to Rory, then thrust his glass forward to collide with both of theirs, the crystal ringing melodically on impact. “And to the new year!”
Gabby tossed back the bubbly wine with festive abandon. “Yes, Zach,” she said, licking the champagne from the corner of her mouth. “Good-bye to the old, hello to the new. Good-bye to childhood, and a hearty welcome to adulthood and all that comes with it!” Gabby’s eyes glinted with heady determination. “I am ready!”
Zach barely registered the determination reflected in Gabby’s eyes. He was looking at her champagne-moistened lips and remembering how sweet and pink her tongue had looked darting out to retrieve an errant drop. He swallowed hard. He tried to pull his eyes away, but he’d become intoxicated by the exotic scent of orchids. Gabby and orchids … did they really go together after all?
Chapter Three
New Year’s Day amongst the Edinburgh elite was given over to the custom of making social calls. Certain families traditionally opened their houses on this festive holiday to their friends and neighbors, providing buffet tables laden with food, genteel quartets of musicians playing background music, and throngs of people from their own set with whom they might compare and critique the previous evening’s entertainments.
Gabrielle knew there would be no getting out of the necessity of accompanying the Murrays on their round of calls, and she was grateful that Zach had agreed to come along. She knew he was not much inclined to hobnob with strangers and to “do the pretty,” but she hoped he was inspired to accept the Murrays’ invitation not only out of politeness, but from a desire to be near her. She also hoped they’d find time for a little private conversation, something that had been so easy to do at home in Cornwall yet would be much more difficult in Edinburgh.
Everyone had gone to their rooms to fetch their winter accessories—hats, gloves, muffs, etcetera—and Gabrielle waited in the vestibule for Rory, to whom she’d given a firm message to meet her there well before the others were expected to come down. She’d sent Ralph, the burly footman who ordinarily kept sentry by the front door, into the adjoining parlor, telling him, with a sweet smile, that she’d ring when they needed assistance into their coats. She wanted to speak to Rory alone.
She tugged on her warm mittens, dyed to match her Devonshire brown pelisse trimmed with blond fur, and mentally rehearsed her lecture. She would make quite sure Rory understood that there would be no repeat of last night’s unforeseen and most unwelcome kiss! She’d felt violated. She would only grant Zach such privileges, and Rory was going to be set straight on the matter before they embarked on another day of playacting as a betrothed couple.
“You summoned me, miss?”
Gabrielle turned at Rory’s mocking voice. At the foot of the stairs he stood stiff and expressionless, obviously imitating the demeanor of a servant. Gabrielle gave a noisy sigh of exasperation. “You needn’t be so silly. I simply wanted to talk to you before the others came down.”
Rory relaxed from his servile pose and pursed his lips, sauntering across the few feet that separated them. He wore a kilt again, probably to impress Zach, because the chilly weather had compelled most Scots to wear trousers when they went out during the day. Rory certainly did look good in a kilt, but Gabrielle was sure Zach would look even better.
“It did not sound like a request to me, rather like an order,” he said. His eyes glinted with mischief as he toyed with one of Gabrielle’s bonnet ribbons. “You should know from the beginning that I’ll not be a lap-pug sort of husband, heeling and fetching at your command.” He caught her chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting her face and looking with exaggerated soulfulness into her eyes. “Have I kissed you good morning yet, lass?”
Gabrielle arched her chin free of Rory’s grasp and caught his neatly arranged cravat in a tight fist, tugging on it till she and Rory were nose to nose. “That’s exactly what I want to talk to you about, you scoundrel,” she said, nearly hissing at him, her eyes darting round his wide shoulders to watch for people coming down the stairs. “Last night’s kiss was the first, last, and only one you’ll ever take from me!”
Rory frowned down at the small, strong fingers firmly clenching the easily wrinkled starched muslin of his cravat. “Gabrielle, in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re mussing my neckcloth. Billings spent at least a half-hour arranging the thing! Haven’t you any remorse about sullying the purity of such a glorious creation?”
“Hang your neckcloth, Rory Cameron! What about my lips? You had no scruples about sullying them last night! You took liberties you knew very well I didn’t welcome! How dare you? How dare you?”
Rory sniffed, sliding his gaze past Gabrielle and staring instead at the unaccusing aspect of silk wall hangings. “You didn’t pull away, I recall.”
“How could I? Zach was standing right there. If he hadn’t been, I’d have slapped you soundly!”
“Lord, settle down, you little tempest! I kissed you because I knew it would make Zach jealous. Isn’t that what you want?”
“I want to make Zach jealous, but I don’t want you kissing me. I want him kissing me! I was saving my lips for Zach!”
“Oh, fiddle-faddle, Gabrielle. You’re getting mawkish again. Lips can’t be put aside for someone, like Granny’s wooden teeth in a crock, to be taken out when they’re needed! It won’t hurt you to kiss me till Zach steps in to take my place. Blether, let go, won’t you? My neck’s starting to hurt! Besides, what’s in a kiss, you noodle?”
“That shows how littie you know about true love, Rory,” Gabrielle informed him severely. “When you’re kissing someone you truly love, a kiss is much more than a physical thing. It’s full of warmth and meaning and—”
“Humbug! What would you know about it? Do you really think that kissing Zach would be any different than kissing me? As a matter of fact, you might enjoy my kisses the better of the two! I’ll have you know that I’m known hereabouts for being a first-rate kisser!”
Gabrielle let go of Rory’s cravat. “If you like the sensation of being swallowed whole, perhaps.”
Rory rubbed his neck, wincing. “What? Now wait just a minute, Gabrielle Tavistock—”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Rory. Well, maybe I do… But I just want you to understand that I’ll not tolerate you kissing me again, no matter who’s watching!”
“Not even on the cheek?”
“Well, perhaps on the cheek it’s all right, since I’ve always permitted you to do so, but nowhere else!”
“Not even on the forehead?”
Gabrielle crossed her arms. “You’re being idiotish, Rory. You know exactly the point I’m trying to make, so don’t play the dolt!”
Rory laughed and moved to the gilt-edged mirror hanging above the table where the butler neatly piled visitors’ calling cards, but when he caught sight of his woefully disheveled neckcloth, his laugh died away, and he set to work rearranging the crumpled muslin. “You’re a dangerous bit of fluff, Gabrielle. Could h
ave choked me! If Zach’s got a jot of sense, he’ll stay well away from—”
“Hush! Someone’s coming down the stairs!”
“’Tis only Regina. I’d know her step anywhere.”
Rory was right. Regina, wearing a blush-colored redingote that complemented her auburn hair, appeared at the curve of the stairs, quickly skipping down the remaining steps. She frowned a remonstrance. “Anyone coming down could hear you squabbling and bickering like children! What’s the to-do?”
“She’s miffed ’cause I kissed her, Reggie. Silly lass, ain’t she? You’d not kick up such a dust over a nothing-meaning kiss, now would you? For revenge she’s made my neckcloth not fit to be seen. I suppose I’ll have to go back to my room and get a fresh one and put Billings to the task of doing it up again.”
“I can fix your neckcloth, Rory,” Regina told him, her face glowing with a maidenly blush brought on, no doubt, by Rory’s opinions on kissing and Regina’s hypothetical response. Rory turned dutifully round and spread his arms wide, allowing Regina full access to his person. She pressed her lips primly together, properly condemning by her demeanor the roguish way Rory was grinning down at her.
“If you don’t want Zach to know what you’re up to,” she scolded, as she deftly twisted and tied the cravat into a pleasing shape, “you’re both going to have to show a little restraint, in arguing and in kissing! Every day I ask myself why I consented to help you two in this ridiculous charade!”
Rory flicked her cheek with a careless finger, his grin widening. “’Cause you’re a loyal lass, Reggie. As close to being man’s best friend as a female can come!”
