Yesterday, after speaking to Drusilla, he’d spent some time with Eva, who had told him a bit more about his wife. He’d already known about her obsession with Wollstonecraft and her “improving” societies, but he’d not known the true extent of her donations to charities and worthy causes.
Gabriel had also learned she was alone but for her ailing aunt. This year marked her third Season, and she’d received only one offer in spite of her enormous dowry. Well, he’d experienced firsthand her methods of driving off suitors, hadn’t he? He’d always assumed—it now seemed wrongly—that social awkwardness accounted for her behavior. Now he knew she deliberately repelled men in order to avoid offers of matrimony. And Gabriel had forced her into marriage.
Her charitable work was impressive—she was no dabbler doling out moralizing tracts, but a woman who poured thousands of pounds into housing, medical care, and apprenticeship programs.
One thing that should make her happy was that marriage to him meant the entirety of her fortune was now at her disposal and she could pursue all the causes she chose.
Gabriel could only hope she did not view him as yet another project awaiting her improving efforts—however unworthy he might be. Something poked him hard in the side, pulling his thoughts away from his wife, and he turned.
He smiled at his sister. “I hope you don’t poke all your dining companions in the ribs, Evil.”
She gave him a stony look, refusing to be charmed. “I want to know about this duel.”
Gabriel groaned. What a bloody nuisance it was that Visel hadn’t kept his mouth shut with females present and delivered the challenge later, as a normal, intelligent man would have done.
“Eva, you know I will not speak of this so do not tax me. This is nothing that—” A snatch of conversation—the words spoken in a tone of asperity—drifted across the table toward him, drawing his attention away from his sister.
“. . . what possible difference could it make to you if women were to receive the same educational opportunities as men, Lord Byer? Or are you concerned a woman might best you if she were allowed to sit exams at Oxford?”
Before the viscount could answer her charge, the Marquess of Exley burst out laughing, causing all conversation at the table to come to an immediate halt. Every eye in the room was riveted on a man Gabriel had never actually seen laugh in all the years he’d known him.
The marquess appeared not to notice the effect of his laughter and was wiping the corner of one eye with his napkin, shaking his head.
“Good Lord, Byer, if I were you, I would give my tongue a holiday.” Exley turned his icy stare on Miss Clare. “My new daughter has already pinned your ears back. I should hate to see what damage she does if you continue to offer yourself up for fodder.”
Byer being Byer—which was to say good-natured—he laughed and lifted his glass.
“Thank you for saving me from myself, my lord.” He turned to look at Gabriel. “To your new wife, Gabriel—a woman who is not only lovely, but also formidable.”
The rest of the table, including Gabriel, lifted their glasses and the various conversations resumed. Gabriel cut a glance at his mother, only to find her gazing lovingly down the length of the table at the marquess.
Gabriel shook his head. He was happy for his mother, of course—life could not have been easy for her with the sultan—but it was a trifle mortifying when one’s own mother behaved like a besotted debutante after almost six years of marriage.
Marriage.
The word echoed in his mind like the banging of a judge’s gavel. He’d not even been married six hours and already he was fatigued. Thinking about tonight was causing him more stress than thinking about tomorrow’s duel. Especially after his mother, once again, had poked her nose into his business.
She’d pulled him aside the moment he’d arrived at Exley House and dragged him into the nearest room, which had been the music chamber, a room that went almost entirely unused by his family as not a single one of them could play the piano without making dogs howl.
“Sit,” she’d ordered.
Gabriel had sat. Really, what was the point of arguing with the woman? Not for the first time did he think that if his mother had been fighting against Assad for control of the sultan’s empire, she would have won quite handily.
“Have you given thought to tonight, Jibril?”
He had only stared. Surely she was not—
“You will be bedding a virgin. Have you ever done such a thing?”
Gabriel’s mouth had been open, but that hadn’t meant he could force any words out of it.
She gave him a knowing look. “Ah, I thought not. Virgins are different from the women you usually—”
“Stop.” The word had been a hoarse squawk. He’d stood, holding up one hand, as if that might hold her in check. “Just stop. I am not having this conversation with you, Mother.”
“But, Gabriel, you must—”
“No.”
“You do not wish to make her cry, do you?”
That had caught his attention. “What?”
She nodded, her expression sage. “Yes, virgins must be handled. . . delicately.”
He’d not believed his face could become any hotter nor his head pound any harder. “What kind of beast do you think I am, Mother? One who would roughly debauch an innocent?” He shook his head, cutting her off before she could respond. “I do not need your advice when it comes to the proper care and handling of... of—” He scraped a hand through his hair and glared upward in slack-jawed amazement, as if the entire interaction were the ceiling’s fault. “I cannot believe I am having such a conversation with my own mother.”
She’d grabbed his arm. “Be gentle and patient, my son, as I know you can be. She is—” Gabriel had actually been interested in what “she is,” but, for once, his mother had censored herself. Instead, she’d patted his arm. “I know you will do the right thing.”
Gabriel looked across at his wife now—his virgin wife—and thought that perhaps he should have swallowed his qualms and listened to his mother. After all, it was true he knew nothing about innocents, nor could he clearly recall losing his own virginity. Sexual encounters had been part of his life from the age of fourteen, and he’d enjoyed them and so—he hoped—had most of his lovers. To be honest, women had flocked to him, and he’d never really given much thought to sexual encounters and what, if anything, they meant other than pleasure.
In Oran, Gabriel had been well aware it was not his irresistible person the women pursued, but the power he represented. And after his brother Assad had fallen from favor and Gabriel had been elevated to most favored? Well, more women had pursued him than there were hours in the day. They all would have known a sultan would never marry any of them, that he would take only a pure woman to wife. But they would have been promoting the interests of a younger sister or cousin or maybe even a daughter. Had he taken control of the sultan’s faltering empire, he would have gone about filling the vast seraglio with virginal women. After all, having male sons—and lots of them—was what insured the continuation of his family line.
Of course, when Assad had seized control, that had changed in a heartbeat.
Gabriel frowned at his thoughts: Now was not the time to be thinking of such things. No, he should be thinking of his virgin wife and not the life he’d left behind.
Gabriel’s eyes flitted around the table. This was his life now; these people were his family—all the family that remained to him. Even before he’d fled Oran in disgrace, his war with Assad had scattered and divided their vast number of stepsiblings. There was nothing back there for him. He no longer had to tell himself that a dozen times a day, but the yearning for his old life still hit him—sometimes with a violence that took his breath away. Today made him think about the life he might have had—and the one he now faced.
Gabriel looked at his new wife. Her expression reminded him of the Sahara: one did not always see movement in the desert—not until it crept up and surprised
you.
Chapter 8
Drusilla hadn’t seen inside the town house where she would live with her new husband. There simply hadn’t been time before the wedding. But her clothing and possessions had been packed, and Fletcher had taken care of moving everything.
The house wasn’t far from the huge mansion where she’d lived with her father, and then, after his death, with her Aunt Violet, who would now make her home with Drusilla, so she could see to her care.
Drusilla had been glad to leave the monstrosity, and the first instructions she would give to her man of business, now that the property was hers, was to sell the house and everything in it. The house had never been home. Indeed, her father had constantly built or purchased bigger houses as his wealth increased. A poor lad from St. Giles, he’d seemed to feel it was the only way to keep track of his progress.
Drusilla had hated all those cold, empty, cavernous houses. She immediately liked this cozy town house far better. It looked like many others from the outside, but within it was warm, intimate, and decorated with taste and elegance.
The ride from Exley House had taken only a few minutes, and she and Gabriel had hardly exchanged a word. She wondered if he was thinking about tomorrow morning. The wedding ceremony would have been strange enough in itself, but the overhanging threat of his duel—the complete unreality of eating, drinking, and celebrating when he might very well die tomorrow—had left her feeling as if she’d suffered a hard knock on the head.
A dozen servants waited inside the small foyer and trailed down a hallway that must lead to the kitchens. Drusilla recognized her two favorite footmen among the servants and reminded herself to thank Fletcher later for thinking of such matters.
“This is Parker and Mrs. Parker,” Gabriel said, introducing her to the man dressed in the sober suit of a butler and a woman swathed in black bombazine.
Mrs. Parker dropped a curtsy and Parker bowed low. “Welcome, Mrs. Marlington.”
“Thank you, Parker, Mrs. Parker.”
The butler introduced the members of Drusilla’s staff, but when Mrs. Parker opened her mouth—no doubt to offer to show her to her room—her husband spoke.
“I shall give Mrs. Marlington the tour,” Gabriel said, dismissing the servants. He turned to her. “It’s far smaller than what you are accustomed to, I’m sure.” He continued before she could offer any comment. “There’s a small parlor on this floor, behind the stairs, and the kitchens are down the corridor.”
He gestured toward the staircase that led up one side of the foyer, and Drusilla preceded him up the stairs.
On the second floor were a pretty blue sitting room, a small library already partially stocked with books, a dining room with an adjacent drawing room, a retiring room, and a study. The third floor held bedrooms.
Gabriel opened the door at the end of the hall. “This is the mistress’s quarters.” The rooms beyond were smaller than those at her father’s house, but they were beautifully decorated in shades of fawn, gold, and chocolate brown.
“And through here”—he went into her dressing room, which was already full of her possessions, and opened another door—“are my rooms.”
Drusilla peered into the room, but didn’t enter. It looked like a mirror image of hers, but decorated with dark green and antique gold. His valet was busy filling the drawers of a tallboy, but stopped and bowed.
“This is Drake, my valet. Drake, this is Mrs. Marlington.”
The valet uttered the correct pleasantries, and Gabriel shut the door, leading her back to her sitting room.
“You must be very tired,” he said, his own eyes shadowed.
Drusilla pulled off her gloves and tossed them onto the nearby table. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
He came to stand before her, close enough to put his hands on her shoulders. Drusilla started at his touch, and he immediately removed them.
“I wanted—”
“I didn’t—”
They both spoke at the same time, and then stopped, cutting each other embarrassed smiles.
“Please,” Drusilla said, feeling like a fool for jumping at the mere touch of his hands on the fabric of her dress. “What were you going to say?”
“I wanted to say that I hope we can both find happiness in our marriage. I’ll do everything in my power to make certain you do not regret your decision.” The look that accompanied this declaration was almost shy, and Drusilla recognized nothing of the arrogant young man in his hopeful expression.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“I interrupted what you were going to say.”
“It wasn’t important.”
He hesitated, as if he were going to inquire more deeply, but then seemed to think better of it.
“There’s ample time for you to rest before dinner. Is there anything you need? Shall I send up Mrs. Parker?”
“No, Fletcher will see to my needs. Thank you.”
“Excellent. Then I’ll see you in a few hours.” He bowed and turned to leave.
“Mr.—ah, Gabriel.”
“Yes?” He stopped and turned.
“About tomorrow. I was—”
His pleasant expression hardened. “I’d hoped I’d made it clear that I don’t wish to speak about this again, Drusilla.”
Her name on his tongue sent a shock of surprise through her. His accent seemed more pronounced when he said her name. Foolishly, she wanted to hear him say it again. And again. That desire was overborne by the irritation she felt at being silenced by him.
“And I do not appreciate being quieted like a child, Gabriel.”
His lips—those full, shapely lips she saw in her dreams—curved into a smile that was without amusement. “I’m not treating you like a child; I’m treating you like a wife.”
“You promised me you wouldn’t lord your status of husband over me.”
“You believe this is an example of me lording something over you?” He gave a humorless chuckle. “Oh, you’re sorely mistaken, my dear Mrs. Marlington.” He shook his head while Drusilla tried to ignore the sudden awareness that flooded her body at the sound of her married name.
Drusilla crossed her arms. “Why am I not surprised that you won’t live up to your word of not even two days ago?”
She’d hoped to anger him, but he just smiled. “I promised I wouldn’t beat or confine you. But I did not promise that I would permit you to interrogate me or run roughshod over me, or turn me into some kind of squeaking worm of a man who—”
“Worms don’t squeak.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You said you wouldn’t permit me to turn you into a squeaking worm of a man. Worms don’t squeak. Perhaps mouse is the word you were searching for?”
He stared, arrested. And then he took a step toward her. The hairs on the back of her neck rose up, but she refused to step away.
“I stand by my word that I shall never cause you physical harm.” His voice was soft, but that just made the words sound menacing.
Drusilla wanted to yell at him, to tell him that he’d been causing her emotional agony that was almost physical in nature from the first moment she’d met him.
But he could never, ever know such a thing. She could never disclose how it would tear her apart be married to a man she loved, but who would never love her. And she could never tell him how it would kill her by inches to watch in silence while he took lovers. It would be agony; if it did not actually kill her, it would make her wish she were dead.
No, she could never say those things.
Drusilla realized he was waiting for some response. She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, a silent challenge to his bid for authority.
He frowned, the skin over his high, sharp cheekbones darkening with displeasure. “I will protect you and treat you with respect, but you will not rule me, Drusilla. This business of the duel is no concern of yours, this—”
“You’re fighting because of me. How can it not be my concern?”
There was a soft knock, and Parker opened the door. His gaze slid between Drusilla and Gabriel, and he froze like a hare startled by a bright light.
“What is it, Parker?” Gabriel asked curtly.
“This just arrived for Mrs. Marlington, sir.” He came forward with a salver.
Gabriel took the note and handed it to Drusilla without looking at it. She recognized the handwriting as belonging to Theo and shot what she knew was a guilty look up at her husband. His lips curved in a sardonic smile.
Parker lingered.
“Was there something else?” Gabriel asked.
The butler cleared his throat. “The messenger was instructed to wait for a reply.”
“Is there a reply, my dear?” His expression and tone were light, but his green eyes had taken on the color of a killing frost over the new growth of spring.
“No, thank you, Parker.”
Parker disappeared almost before the words were out of her mouth.
Gabriel eyed her from beneath lowered lids. “Perhaps you might like to discuss your letter with me? Who sent it? What information it contains?” He paused, the silence threatening, his smile growing—but only more cynical. “Or perhaps you wish to tell me what answer the messenger was waiting for?”
Drusilla stood frozen, the letter clutched in her hand, memories of Theo’s accusations against Gabriel and his wild, frantic pleading still echoing in her mind. She hated to think what words the distraught man might have written on these pages, but if Gabriel insisted on reading the letter, she knew she would have to give it to him.
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