Notorious

by Minerva Spencer

  But then he’d met Miss Clare.

  Gabriel pursed his lips and shook his head. Just look at her tonight: she was a girl of one and twenty who devoted all her time, money, and efforts to charitable works and dressed like an aged spinster.

  Not that he disapproved of her more modest necklines and voluminous petticoats; no, he thought her gowns were appropriate for a girl her age, if not always a flattering color or cut. Nor did he mind her devotion to worthy causes. However, he did find her superior attitude toward him grating. She behaved as though he were a savage libertine with no self-restraint. Restraint was probably her middle name—or perhaps it was Censorious.

  Miss Clare comported herself like a woman of forty. Older, really. Gabriel’s mother, the Marchioness of Exley, behaved with more girlish spontaneity than Drusilla Clare.

  Gabriel would like to have wiped her superior smirk off her face and told her the truth about where he’d spent the past week—not raking at Newmarket but down in Brighton on serious business—but that would have been foolish, considering how sensitive this particular business was. Besides, it wasn’t as if Drusilla Clare’s opinion of him mattered a jot. In fact, he hoped she imagined him off gambling, cocking, and whoring.

  Ha! Drusilla: even her name was enough to dampen a person’s spirits.

  Gabriel snorted at his own stupidity. The first notes of a reel filled the cavernous ballroom and he saw the set had formed while he’d been woolgathering. The luscious Miss Kittridge glared at him from over the head of her short, squat partner.

  Gabriel smiled and gave a slight shrug, earning a decidedly unkittenish glare and angry toss of blonde curls.

  Perhaps he’d ask her for the next set—which was the supper dance, a waltz.

  He waited until the steps brought her around again and she could see him, and then he mouthed the word supper. Her eyelids lowered and her frown melted away. She hesitated a long moment before giving him the slightest of nods.

  Gabriel experienced a slight pang of something at her acceptance—disappointment? He shook the thought away. So what if they had little in the way of conversation? It was true she seemed to have an excessive interest in clothing—or at least in talking about clothing—but why should that matter? Lucy Kittridge was breathtaking and charming—and she did resemble a kitten, albeit a wicked one. Gabriel could—and had more than once—imagined her being something of a tigress when it came to the sensual part of marriage. But no matter how appealing such thoughts might be, Gabriel suspected the magnificent Miss Kittridge would not be pleased to find herself saddled with another woman’s child. No, marrying Miss Kittridge was not in his future.

  Lord. He couldn’t think about that right now.

  He took out his watch and frowned: the girls had been gone far too long for the mere mending of a hem. What had Eva gotten up to now? He sighed and made his way toward the ballroom exit. It was time he take his chaperoning duties seriously and go find his sister and her annoying friend.

  * * *

  “You’re angry with me for suggesting Gabe dance with you, aren’t you, Dru?” Eva asked from behind her, having to trot to keep up with Drusilla’s longer—and angrier—stride.

  “Of course I’m not mad,” she lied, tossing the words over her shoulder. “Oh my, there is a dreadful crush, Eva. We’ll never get in.” They both stared at the women thronging the room that had been set aside for wardrobe catastrophes and critical gossip sessions.

  Drusilla glanced around. “Come,” she said, leading her friend away from the noisy, crowded chamber.

  “Where are we going?” Eva asked as a footman leaped forward to pull open a door.

  “To the conservatory, where we can sit down and rest a few moments.” The door closed behind them, and the sudden hush in the corridor made her voice sound loud. She spoke in a softer tone. “We can fix your hem and take a few moments of peace and quiet.”

  “There is a conservatory?”

  “Yes, I believe it was one of the first of its kind in the city.”

  “How do you always know about such things?”

  “It’s no secret, Eva. I read about Abingdon House long ago, in a guidebook to fine London houses.” Her lips twisted into a self-mocking smile. “Little did I know I would one day be allowed to actually set foot in this holiest of holies.” Dukes did not, as a rule, invite the daughters of tradesmen to their houses. But they occasionally made exceptions for the very wealthy ones, especially if they had five unwed younger sons.

  And of course Eva had been invited; she might have madness in her veins but she also had a dowry that was greater than most other aristocratic misses as well as august connections that went all the way back to before the Conquest. It was ironic that two of the Season’s greatest prizes were also its biggest lepers.

  Drusilla chewed her lower lip and hesitated. “I believe it is this way,” she said, taking a short corridor that led to the back of the house. There were candles in the sconces, but not enough to indicate this was a part of the house intended for ball guests. Drusilla didn’t care. She needed some peace and quiet to recover from her brush with Gabriel Marlington, just as she always did.

  She had hoped protracted exposure to him this Season would eliminate her more severe reactions to him, but her attraction had become stronger, rather than weaker, the more she was exposed to him.

  Drusilla opened the door at the end of the hall, and they both froze and stared: it was a magical place, a huge room constructed from hundreds of panes of faceted glass.

  “My goodness,” she whispered, stepping inside. Outside, it was a rare night in London when even a few stars were visible, the moon surrounded by silvery wisps of clouds.

  “It’s fabulous,” Eva said, her head tipped back as she gazed through the plate glass above their heads. “And it smells divine.”

  It did. It smelled of fresh earth, citrus from the potted trees, and a dozen kinds of flower.

  “This is so much nicer than that stuffy ballroom.” Eva extended her arms and spun in a circle, laughing, her white muslin billowing around her, its tattered hem dragging.

  Drusilla opened her reticule, which held more items than most people’s medicine chests—it was her way to always be prepared for any emergency—and rooted for the small paper with pins.

  “I’m dizzy,” Eva said in a breathy voice, landing with a thud beside Drusilla on the stone bench.

  “Let’s see the damage, Eva.”

  Eva swiveled on her bottom and put her feet across Drusilla’s lap, flopping back onto the bench. Drusilla couldn’t help smiling; Eva behaved like a girl half her age—unaffected and childlike. She’d always been this way. When they’d been at school together, most of the other girls had either teased Eva or avoided her entirely, put off by her wild and unpredictable behavior. It was true that a person could never guess what Eva might do in any given situation; she seemed to lack the filter other people were born with.

  Of course, those same girls had taunted Drusilla, too, albeit for different reasons. She was a merchant’s daughter, a girl with the smell of the shop about her.

  Dru and Eva had been inseparable almost from the moment they’d met each other at Miss Barnstaple’s Academy for Young Ladies.

  Eva had made school not just bearable for Dru, but enjoyable. But then, between their third and fourth years, Eva had become ill and not returned to school. That last year without Eva had been miserable. As had her first two Seasons without her friend.

  Eva should have had her first Season last year, but she’d taken a long time to fully recuperate. Drusilla knew her friend had made the most of her illness, hoping her parents would forget about a Season altogether. But this year she’d been forced to make her debut at the grand old age of nineteen, almost twenty.

  Drusilla placed the last of her pins in the ripped hem and examined her repair work.

  “This will not last long if you are not careful,” Drusilla warned her friend.

  “Careful? Do you mean with all my dancing?�
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  Eva was so lovely it was hard to believe she lacked for dance partners, but Drusilla knew it to be the truth. Her friend’s unpredictable and unconventional behavior appeared to frighten off potential suitors as much as the rumors of madness. She didn’t help her situation by sitting in corners with Drusilla.

  Eva took a deep breath and swung her feet down, stood, and lifted the hem of her skirt to examine it. “As good as new,” she pronounced. “Are you ready to return to the ballroom?”

  Drusilla wasn’t. This room was far too magical to leave, but . . . “I suppose I’d better go check on Aunt Vi and—”

  Eva laid her hands on Drusilla’s shoulders and smiled down at her. “You stay here and take a few moments to rest. I’ll check on her.”

  Drusilla gave her friend a dubious look. “Are you certain?”

  “Quite.”

  “But it will be supper and your brother will wonder what has become of you.”

  “I’ll tell him all is well after checking on your aunt, and then I’ll return and we can enjoy this beautiful, magical garden together until after supper, when we can ask Gabriel to take us home. Is that not an excellent idea?” Eva looked hopeful. She was constantly seeking ways to either get out of ton functions entirely or leave early. Drusilla knew she shouldn’t encourage Eva’s behavior, but . . .

  “Promise you won’t go anywhere, Dru?”

  “I promise, just—”

  “Good—then I’ll be back soon.” Eva spun and headed toward the door at an unladylike trot.

  “Don’t forget to check on Aunt Vi first,” Drusilla reminded her.

  Eva did a clumsy pirouette, stumbled, and then laughed before pulling open the door. “I shan’t,” she called out, and then disappeared.

  Well, that was Eva: unable to behave like a lady no matter how often she’d been disciplined in school. Drusilla envied her friend her carefree nature and her ease when it came to doing exactly what she wanted—no matter the consequences.

  She glanced at the spot Eva had just vacated. Why not? Why was she always so proper? It wasn’t as if anyone was ever watching her. Eva had stretched out on the bench without a care in the world. So could she.

  Feeling as naughty as if she were displaying her garters at Almack’s—not that she could ever hope to secure a voucher for that venerable establishment—Drusilla lay back on the bench and balanced her reticule on her midriff. She closed her eyes and forced her tense body to relax in this unusual position.

  Pictures of Gabriel Marlington immediately formed behind her eyelids. She grimaced. Why must she be afflicted with this stupid infatuation? Could there be anything more pitiful than a homely wallflower yearning for an arresting, attractive Corinthian? Because that was exactly what Gabriel Marlington was. Even with her dismal knowledge of male pursuits, Drusilla knew he rode, shot, fenced, and boxed superbly.

  And then there was the way women behaved toward him.

  A groan of frustration slipped from her, and she bit her lower lip. They say eavesdroppers never hear good about themselves, but in Drusilla’s case, she never heard anything good about Gabriel when she listened to the conversations of others. Oh, it was nothing too horrid—he didn’t torture animals, nor was he cruel to small children—but he was, it was loudly whispered, a slayer of hearts.

  It appeared that tales of his wickedness only made women wilder for him. Even smart women like Drusilla were not immune to such charm and male beauty.

  She’d pondered her obsession with Gabriel Marlington for years, long before she’d heard tales of his mistresses—plural—or seen the amorous widows stalking him, or watched him bewitch one woman after another.

  Drusilla was not, in the main, attracted to bright and shiny objects. She’d always believed that if she ever did marry, it would be to a man who was kind and gentle and devoted to the same causes as she was. Not that Gabriel was not kind and gentle—at least to his family. And apparently the Kitten.

  Thinking about Gabriel and the Kitten was like abrading her soul with a cat-o’-nine-tails. How could a person make themselves stop wanting something they could never have?

  She punished herself by envisioning them together.

  Yes, some sage inner voice praised her flagellating behavior, that is the way—face your fears head-on and you will conquer them.

  Drusilla pictured them dancing—waltzing—together. She didn’t have to imagine it because she’d seen it times beyond counting. Separately they were perfect; together they were almost too perfect to look upon.

  Next, she pictured them kissing. She’d seen people kissing more than once. Oftentimes the more fortunate people—the beautiful people—believed they were unobserved at the balls, routs, and picnics that comprised the Season. They should have realized the walls had eyes. Or, to be more precise, the wallflowers had eyes. And what else did they have to do with those eyes but watch those around them?

  Thankfully, Drusilla had never actually seen Gabriel and the Kitten kissing. She knew the Kitten had probably schemed to orchestrate such a thing, but Gabriel—for all his wild ways with widows and actresses—was the very image of propriety around maidens.

  Still, Drusilla could imagine them embracing, his powerful shoulders sheltering the Kitten’s delicate frame, his hands, elegant and strong, one splayed on the small of her back, the other cradling her head like a priceless and fragile object. His lush, sensual lips—lips that were almost as expressive as his brilliant, flashing eyes—pressed against the Kitten’s perfectly bow-shaped mouth.

  The horrifying image shifted in her mind’s eye, and Drusilla smiled dreamily at the new picture: her in Gabriel’s muscular arms.

  She let her body relax on the unforgiving marble bench and enjoyed the mental image. What a rebel she was, sprawled on a bench in a conservatory during a ball. Alone. She was wicked and her aunt would scold her if she found out.

  She sighed, telling herself to get up—to go back and join the bouquet of wallflowers—but her eyelids were so heavy . . . so heavy. And it was so peaceful . . . so . . .

  “What have we here?”

  The low voice penetrated her dozy state at the same time that something warm touched her cheek.

  “A sleeping beauty,” the same voice murmured. “Not the one I was looking for but you will have to—”

  Drusilla’s brain awoke from its slumber, and her eyes flew open to find a face looming over her. She shrieked and jerked into an upright position—or at least tried to—slamming her forehead into his nose.

  “Oww, dammit, that bloody hurt!” Her assailant staggered back

  Drusilla tried to sit up, but her legs had somehow become tangled in her skirts and she began to slide off the bench, her fingers scrabbling to grip the smooth stone, her other hand stupidly clutching her reticule rather than participating in her rescue.

  Powerful hands clamped on to her shoulders. “Quit your bloody squirming or you’ll land on your head.”

  Moonlight slanted across his face, and Drusilla gasped and jerked away. It was Lord Godric Visel—a handsome, sneering libertine who’d never had a second to spare for her in the past.

  “Unhand me,” Drusilla demanded, jerking away and then sliding off the back side of the bench in the process.

  “Bloody hell.” He caught her up in his arms before she could fall, lifted her, and then dropped her onto her bottom with an undignified thump. “There.” His hands steadied her. “Will you quit already, Miss Clare? I’m only trying to—”

  And then, suddenly, he was gone.

  Chapter 3

  Even when he’d been at war with his brother Assad, Gabriel had not felt such hot, unadulterated rage. He’d often heard the saying “to see red” but hadn’t believed it until now. Not only was he seeing red, he was feeling it. He was swelteringly, brain-cracklingly hot.

  The suppressed emotions of the past months boiled over, the memories of untold slights and jabs he’d silently endured from Visel without capitulating to his desires to either plant the man a face
r or meet him at dawn.

  “What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?” He forced the words through his clenched jaws. “Well?” he demanded, and then realized he was gripping Visel’s neck far too tightly and loosened his hold.

  The earl’s mouth was moving, but Gabriel could not hear the words. He leaned closer.

  “I thought it was your mad sister stretched out on that bench and I was going to—” The words were hardly a croak, but they acted like fuel on an already raging fire.

  Gabriel banged the man’s head against the thickly leaded panes, setting the rectangles of glass chattering like hundreds of teeth.

  “You bloody bounder,” he snarled.

  Visel’s mouth stretched into a leer, his eyes bulging, his nostrils flaring—and he laughed; the bastard laughed.

  Gabriel was vaguely aware of a hand on his shoulder.

  “Mr. Marlington? Please! Gabriel, you must stop.”

  He glanced from the hand to its owner. Miss Clare was not her usual neat-as-a-pin self. Her hair had come down in several places and silky brown spirals framed her usually supercilious face. Her gray eyes were round and her pale cheeks had bloodred slashes of color that made her appear lively and quite pretty.

  Gabriel shook off the bizarre observation.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, only slightly loosening his grip on Visel, who was trying to break free, snorting and snuffling like a pig hunting truffles.

  “Yes! Yes, I’m fine. Please, he didn’t hurt me. You must let him go before you kill him.”

  Gabriel looked from her to his captive, who stared at him with fury-filled eyes. Why did this man hate him so very much? He shook his head at the pointless thought and shoved Visel away while releasing his grasp on his neck.

  The earl staggered to one side and then plopped down on the flagstone floor like a piece of rotting fruit falling from a tree. His attractive face was an ugly, splotchy red, his lips almost purple, and his bulging, bloodshot eyes made him resemble a bloated rockfish pulled up from a great depth. The scent of stale alcohol filled the air.