Notorious

by Minerva Spencer

  The duke lifted a plain gold quizzing glass and examined Gabriel through it. Gabriel suspected the ancient man was one of the few people in the room who needed his glass. The only sound in the club was that of half a hundred men breathing.

  His Grace finally dropped his glass and pronounced, “You bear a remarkable resemblance to your grandfather.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Tyndale’s thin, bloodless lips flexed into a frown. “I paid a call at your house, expecting you would be there,” he said in ringing tones. “But—as you were not at home on your wedding night, my grandson deduced you would be here.”

  The murmur of voices made Gabriel realize he’d probably need to leave the country before he would ever live this down. The duke, however, seemed impervious to the stir he was causing.

  “I’ve accompanied my heir to put an end to this foolishness. Visel claims he was merely keeping the girl from falling off a bench when you attacked him.”

  Gabriel looked at the earl, who gave a slight shrug and cocked one eyebrow as if to say, Go ahead, argue with an old man if you must.

  Gabriel said nothing and waited for the duke to say what he’d come to say.

  Tyndale studied him with eyes that were a flinty pale blue. “Visel also told me he attempted to kiss the girl.”

  Gabriel just stared.

  The duke’s mouth flexed into a grimace of resignation. “I see. So you are prepared to duel over a kiss that never happened.” It was not a question.

  “A kiss with a woman who is now my wife.” The air in the room hummed with the sound of whispering and tension. Gabriel ignored it and continued. “And then there is the rumor that grew out of that encounter. A rumor your grandson conceived in order to destroy a young woman’s reputation.” Gabriel felt, rather than heard, Byer sigh beside him.

  The tissue-thin skin that stretched over the duke’s sharp cheekbones reddened and the man’s eyes narrowed. For a moment Gabriel wondered if he was going to slap a glove in his face, too.

  But, to his surprise, the duke turned to his heir. “Lord Visel has something he wishes to say.” His voice was as dry and cold as the desert at night.

  Visel met Gabriel’s eyes, and—for once—Gabriel could read no message in them, not even hatred.

  Byer held up one beringed hand. “Gentlemen, would you not like to retire somewhere more, er, private?”

  Visel cut him a humorless, dismissive smile. “It makes no odds to me who hears it.”

  Byer’s eyebrows shot up. “Well then. Please go on.”

  “I would like to apologize for my behavior in the Abingdon conservatory, Marlington.”

  The room buzzed as if from a sudden infestation of crickets.

  Gabriel waited.

  The corners of Visel’s mouth curved ever so slightly. “My actions were not those of a gentleman.”

  The small room—overstuffed with warm, sweating, drinking male bodies—exploded with exclamations, and men started pushing through the crowd toward the exit, no doubt eager to be the first to spread the word.

  But Visel was not yet finished. “And, of course, I would like to apologize for any misunderstandings I might have inadvertently perpetrated.” Visel watched him with the intensity of a man studying a scientific experiment. He knew, as Gabriel and every other man in this room knew, that to refuse such a public—albeit bizarre—apology would be unthinkable.

  “I accept your apology, Lord Visel.”

  The duke nodded. “You are magnanimous, Marlington.” His voice could hardly be heard in the din. “The best thing for all involved will be to put this behind us as soon as possible. Tomorrow night is Lady Renwick’s ball. I propose we publicly acknowledge each other and bury the hatchet. The evening after that we will attend the theater, the last night of the current production. I know Lord Exley keeps a box.”

  Gabriel felt a muscle in his jaw jump. Yes, his stepfather kept a box: at the same theater where one of his ex-mistresses was currently performing.

  “Yes, he does.”

  “We can meet under the eyes of three-quarters of the ton, and that should put paid to the worst of the scandal. The sooner this dies down, the better it will be for all of us, Marlington, especially the ladies involved.”

  Visel had not taken his eyes off Gabriel while the duke spoke. He did not look like a man who had just apologized—or, at least, he did not resemble a man who felt any remorse.

  Quite the contrary. As ever, Gabriel could feel the hatred emanating from him.

  When Gabriel had first moved to Britain, the ill will had mystified him; how could men who’d never met him, or spoken to him, hate him?

  How naïve he’d been back then: how foolish not to realize that men would hate him not simply because of who he was, but because of what he was. These men—English aristocrats—who considered themselves the highest level of society, behaved no better than a pack of stray dogs encountering another stray, or a train of camels when a new member was introduced. In fact, they behaved worse. Because camels and dogs would eventually accept the new member, until, one day, you would not be able to tell them from the others.

  These men would never accept him. That was what men like his stepfather and his grandfather would never understand. Gabriel did not need to look for fights: they would come looking for him.

  “Gabriel?” Byer asked.

  He realized the duke was waiting for his response. “You are correct, Your Grace. The sooner this is forgotten, the better.”

  “Until tomorrow, then.” The duke gave a sharp nod and turned.

  Visel paused before following him, nodding his head slowly, his smile never reaching his eyes. “Until tomorrow, Marlington.” And then he, too, was gone.

  Men flowed from the room like bilge water from a scupper. At any other time, Gabriel would have been amused by his contemporaries’ behavior. But he was not in a mood to be amused tonight.

  “Well,” Byer said.

  Gabriel turned to his friend. “Well, indeed.”

  “What do you think that was all about?” Byer asked, dropping back into his chair and picking up his half-full glass, his lazy gaze drifting over the nearly empty room.

  Gabriel snorted softly, both body and mind worn down and exhausted. “I have no idea.” Visel’s flat, intense stare flickered through his mind. “But whatever it was, I believe it’s far from over.”

  Chapter 10

  After the emotionally draining episode with Eva, Drusilla had expected to fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. Instead, she’d lain awake in bed, staring at the connecting door between her suite and Gabriel’s. It seemed to be moving, breathing, expanding—just like a living thing. But she knew that was her imagination. It was just a piece of wood—a silent, unmoving piece of wood—that separated her room from her husband’s dark, empty chambers.

  Her body was exhausted but her mind ran on like a tedious play—a play that enacted the same few scenes over and over: Gabriel’s face when he’d seen Theo holding her hand at the tea shop, his expression of fury earlier in the evening when Parker had delivered the letter, and Eva’s final, hurtful words.

  She’d woken at five but was determined to wait until six to ring for hot water and Fletcher.

  Meanwhile, she paced.

  Where was he? Facing Visel in a field somewhere? Was one of them already injured or—

  The sound of feet—boots, to be more precise—passed her door. A moment later she heard a door close somewhere nearby. Gabriel?

  She tiptoed across the room and placed her ear against the dressing room door: the murmur of men’s voices—no doubt Gabriel and his valet, Drake. After an eternity she heard his door close again and soft footsteps recede down the corridor. A sliver of light shone beneath the door. Was he preparing for his duel? Or had he just returned? Either way, she could take it no longer. Drusilla swallowed a couple of times, controlled her ragged breathing, and then tapped on the door before she could lose her nerve.

  There was a pause, a
nd then the door swung open.

  His expression was cool, but not hostile. “Drusilla. You are awake early.”

  Drusilla’s eyes were immediately drawn to his body. Oh. Dear. God. He wore a red-and-black Chinese silk robe, the red the same dark, burning coal color as his hair. He’d not bothered to tie the sash, and it hung open, framing his nude, muscular, and magnificent torso. He still wore black pantaloons but his feet were bare. Her mouth flooded with so much moisture it threatened to drown her.

  “How may I be of service?” His vivid green eyes glittered as he took in her worn dressing gown and the old pink flannel beneath. She had not purchased either garment for appearance, but, rather, comfort. And right now she was wishing she had thought to change before knocking.

  He cocked his head, and she realized he was waiting for her to speak.

  Her eyes darted around his room—there did not appear to be anyone else. “Do you have a moment?” Her hot face, she knew, would be as pink as her gown.

  He stepped back. “Please, come in. I have only just arrived.”

  “I know—I heard you. I was w-waiting for you.”

  His eyebrows rose, his expression haughty. “I see. Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the two chairs in front of the dormant fireplace.

  Drusilla sat while he went to the narrow console table that held a single decanter. When he turned to her, she saw that he’d tied his robe shut.

  He lifted the bottle. “Would you like a glass?”

  “Isn’t it a bit early?” She sucked her lower lip into her mouth and bit it, wishing she could take back the judgmental words and tone.

  He smiled. “For me it is late.” He poured a glass.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “It is a wine that comes from the region where I was born. I have an associate who brings several cases for me whenever he comes to England.”

  “Oh. But—”

  “But?” he prodded.

  “I thought alcohol was prohibited by your religion.”

  He looked arrested. “You know about Islam?”

  “A little.”

  “And how is that?”

  Drusilla swallowed, wishing like mad she’d not opened her mouth to begin with. If she told him why she—

  But it was too late and understanding dawned on his handsome features, his stern mouth flexing into a smile. “Ah, I see.”

  “You see what?”

  “You have been researching me, have you?”

  Yes, but she was hardly going to admit that. “Perhaps not all English people are as ignorant of other religions and cultures as you suppose.”

  He laughed. “What an unexpected sense of humor you possess.”

  Drusilla reminded herself that she hadn’t come here to argue. “I would have a glass of your wine,” she said, hoping to move past the uncomfortable moment. “Just a little.”

  He nodded and poured a second. “You are correct about the prohibition against alcohol. But there are some Muslims who . . .” He turned to her. “Well, shall we say who bend the rules.” He handed her a glass and took the seat across from her.

  “And you are one of them?”

  He swirled his glass, an undecipherable expression on his face as he considered the garnet liquid. His words, when they finally came, were not what she expected.

  “Visel has apologized. There will be no duel.”

  “What?” Her hand shook badly enough to slosh wine over the rim. It landed on the rich wool of the carpet and lay beaded on top.

  They both stared at the spill without speaking.

  Drusilla set her glass on the end table with a shaky hand and pulled her handkerchief from the sleeve of her dressing gown, using it to clean the wine from her hand.

  “Visel came into White’s—he and the duke, both. He made a rather, er, public apology. Not only for his behavior, but for the untrue rumor that spread directly after the altercation.” He sounded bemused.

  Drusilla was torn between amazement at Visel’s behavior and joy that Gabriel had been at White’s, not with another woman. But, of course, he would not have been at White’s until now, would he? He could have gone to those women after, or before, or—

  “I can see you are astonished, Drusilla.”

  Drusilla could have told him he did not know the half of what she was thinking. “Weren’t you?”

  His lips twisted. “Yes, very much so.”

  “So you were not expecting it?”

  He gazed into space and shook his head slowly. “No.”

  “But—but you accepted his apology?” Good God, please say yes.

  His eyes flickered back to hers, and he smiled—this time with genuine amusement. “Yes, Drusilla, I accepted his apology.”

  She could listen to him say her name all day—and all night—long. She kept that mortifying observation to herself.

  “Was his apology, er, unusual behavior?”

  “Very—especially in a place as public as White’s. Which was packed to the teeth, by the way. As if the ton was expecting something like this to happen,” he added musingly.

  Her eyes darted to his pantaloons, and quickly back up. “Are you going to tell your mother?”

  “I’ve already paid a call on my mother and stepfather.”

  “Lady Exley must have been frantic.”

  “She’d calmed down by the time I saw her.” He saw Drusilla’s questioning look. “I sent a message to Exley House last night, directly from White’s. I did not wish her to worry herself into a state all night. A woman in her condition needs rest—sleep.”

  But he hadn’t bothered to send a message here—to Drusilla. Did he not think she would worry? Probably not after their argument over Theo. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, but he must have noticed something in her face.

  “I would have sent you a message as well, but I assumed you would already be catching up on much-needed sleep.”

  “Yes, that is true. I fell asleep almost before my head hit my pillow,” she lied, forcing down the hurt. “I’m sure your mother was relieved.”

  “Ha! She had forgotten her relief by this morning and commenced chastising me the moment I entered her chambers.” He shrugged and then took a drink of wine before turning his attention—and his gorgeous green eyes—back to her. “But none of that matters. What matters is that it is over. There is nothing we can do about the incident, but at least people are not laboring under the misapprehension that I, er, defiled you in the Abingdon conservatory.”

  Drusilla dropped her gaze, her face heating at the word and what it meant—not that she had any personal knowledge of defiling. Even now that they were legally married, Drusilla remained perfectly . . . well, filed.

  “We shall attend the requisite functions and face down the curious stares, and, I daresay, your reputation will be as pristine as ever by the end of the Season.”

  She looked up at his words, a dreadful thought hurtling out of the recesses of her mind. He was staring at her, his smile gone, his gaze speculative. He’d stopped speaking, but the words were pouring off him all the same.

  “We needn’t have married, after all, then.” Her voice was thin, reedy. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Visel’s apology would have cleared either of us of any inappropriate behavior. After a brief period of awkwardness, we could have gone on as we were.”

  He shrugged, the gesture smacking of fatalism. “There is no point in dwelling on such things, no matter how much either of us might regret it. We must do our best to move away from all this—to put it out of our minds.”

  His cool, uncaring stare acted like fuel on a fire and her mouth opened and words started to flow.

  “I do hope you are able to bear up under your regret.”

  He frowned, and she could tell he was struggling to keep his temper.

  Good. She was glad—childishly so, she knew—that she wasn’t the only one who was angry.

  “You know that is not what I meant, Drusilla.”

  As it hap
pened, she did believe he’d not meant to be insulting, but the knowledge—the certainty and the guilt—that he must bitterly regret the marriage he’d been shoehorned into—burned into her like the most caustic acid, dissolving her tenuous restraint in the process. She was being unfair, but she could not bring herself to be otherwise.

  He met her hostile stare with a weary smile. “I know things might appear rather dire now, but our lives will not always be so dramatic or hectic. Things will settle, and we will get back to the way we were.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  He put down his half-finished glass, his gaze sharpening. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean exactly what I said. I doubt you will let marriage change your life, will you?”

  “I would have you speak plainly, Drusilla.” His puzzled expression infuriated her all the more.

  “You cannot really be asking me that? I’m sure all of London knows where you went last night.”

  More wrinkles joined the ones already on his forehead. “To White’s?”

  “You weren’t there all night, were you?”

  “No, I wasn’t.” He shrugged. “What of it?”

  An ugly laugh slipped from between her tightly clenched jaws. “What of it? What of it? You threatened me not so subtly last night about what would happen if I were to take a lover, but I suppose the same does not apply to you? Men may have lovers and mistresses aplenty, but a woman must sit at home and endure the ignominy in silence.”

  Comprehension dawned, and he sat back in his chair. “Ah, you wish to know where I went last night—or you believe you already know—while you were home reading missives from your paramour?”

  “That’s—”

  He raised a hand, his lips curled into an unpleasant smile. “No. You have said enough. Let me address your comments, my dear. Yes, you are correct. It is a different situation for a man than a woman when it comes to the taking of lovers. Part of that is because a man cannot bring a surprise home to his wife nine months later.”