Her face heated at the vulgar innuendo, but she refused to be cowed. “I beg to differ, sir. A man can bring home little surprises to his wife at any time.”
His eyebrows leaped up. “And what do you know of such surprises?”
She gave him a look of scorn. “Please, such matters may not be spoken of in polite conversation but they are common knowledge, not to mention a very common fear among married women. A woman always pays for her husband’s indiscretions one way or another.”
“You sound as if you speak from experience.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do know what you mean—and I also happen to agree with you.”
She snorted in disbelief.
Gabriel continued, undaunted by her scorn. “I do know, but I would enjoy hearing you elaborate on the subject.”
“That is not going to happen.”
He shrugged. “Well, perhaps some other time. But for right now, you may rest assured you shan’t pay for my indiscretions, my dear.”
Her heart leaped at his words. Did he mean he’d stop taking lovers? Her lips parted. “What—”
“You see,” he said, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. “I have always worn a sheath when I am uncertain of a lover.” She stiffened at the word lover and the sensual way it rolled off his tongue. But that other word?
He noticed her hesitation and gave her a superior smile. “I’m not shocking you, am I? You gave me cause to believe you are a sophisticate.”
“Of course I am,” she snapped.
“Really? Because I thought you looked confused. Was it the word lover or the word sheath?”
She clenched her teeth hard enough to crack walnuts. “I know what the word lover means, Mr. Marlington.”
“Ah, so it is the word sheath that is in doubt. Let me educate you: a sheath is a supple, impervious tube which a man places over his—” He glanced down at his lap, his eyebrows raised. “Well, I shouldn’t like to be vulgar—which word do you prefer? Breeding organ? Membrum virile?”
Drusilla sucked in a noisy breath, and his smile grew.
“Yes, I see you understand. In any event, Englishmen call them French letters.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “But the French call them English hats. Amusing, don’t you think—that such national animosity would carry even into the area of bed sport?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I use them so that I neither leave any little surprises behind nor take any away with me when engaging in my numerous indiscretions.”
A sound of muffled fury slipped out of her before she could stop it.
He cocked his head. “What was that?”
“You . . . you . . .” Drusilla could find no words. How dare he speak to her about such things?
“Oh dear, it would seem I overestimated your sophistication.”
Anger, mortification, and something else—jealousy?—pounded her like waves hitting the shore. She shot to her feet. “You have certainly overestimated my tolerance for vulgarity.”
He stood. “Leaving so soon, my dear?” he called after her as she stormed toward their connecting door. “By the way,” she heard him say as she went through, “we are expected at Lady Renwick’s ball tonight. Make sure you wear your prettiest gown.”
She slammed the door with all her might, but the sound of his laughter—though muffled—was still audible through the thick wooden door.
* * *
Gabriel shook his head at the still-vibrating door, poured himself more wine, and then returned to his bedchamber and stretched out on his bed, balancing his half-full glass on his chest. Lord, but he was tired. He closed his eyes, his body heavy yet tense, willing himself to rest. For a moment the velvety blackness was all he could see, but then visions of his wife’s furious face thrust aside the curtains of darkness.
He opened his eyes and groaned.
He should not have provoked her. Or let her provoke him, more accurately. And certainly not regarding such unseemly topics as mistresses, diseases of the sexual organs, and sheaths. He should have told her that he had already parted ways with his mistresses—even though he’d seen her holding hands and reading missives from her mooncalf of a lover on their wedding day.
Gabriel could tell her that he’d stopped bedding Giselle and Maria, but she’d never believe it when he continued to visit their house, and he knew word of that would circulate. He could move Samir, but that was hardly fair to the boy. No, he refused to take Samir from the comfort and security of their home only to put him—where? Here? In this house of discontent and dissension? No. Samir would stay with Giselle and Maria until it was time to remove to the country.
His jaws ached and his tired brain reeled from the oddly invigorating encounter. As to the rest of his behavior—his inability to resist taunting her—yes, it was wrong of him to shock her sensibilities. In reality, he’d been rather surprised she’d not heard of a sheath. Didn’t she spend her time with charities for impoverished women? What better use of her funds than to promote sheaths and the concomitant reduction in disease and unwanted children? He took a sip of wine and decided he probably should not raise such a question to a well-bred English lady.
What was it about Drusilla that made him behave like such a brute? Perhaps it was the prudish expression she wore whenever her eyes landed on him? It made him wonder what stories she’d heard of him. Obviously she’d heard of Giselle and Maria. He snorted. Who hadn’t? The subject of his amours seemed to fascinate the ton.
As for the scores of married women and widows who pursued him? Those rumors seemed to take on a life of their own, regardless of the fact he had never bedded a married woman. The notion of cuckolding another man was repulsive to him. He had enjoyed liaisons with a few widows, but hardly the number he’d read about in the various betting books and none since his association with Giselle and Maria.
“You are an exotic creature, Gabriel. You might as well become accustomed to the amount of attention you attract,” his friend Byer had said when Gabriel once complained about the erroneous gossip. “Whether you are doing the things people think or not, they will still speak and wager about them.”
Byer was correct: the ton was determined to find his behavior notorious, no matter what he did. The fact that he’d been in a monogamous relationship—albeit with two women—for three years seemed to count for nothing.
He finished his wine and placed the glass on the nightstand, pressing the tips of his fingers into his temples, willing his eyes to close, his brain to slow, his body to go to sleep.
His body refused to obey.
“Damn it!” Gabriel considered ringing for Drake, but decided it was too much of a bother. He swung his feet off the bed, yanked the sash of his robe, and tossed it aside before going to the now-cool water in the ewer and pouring it into the basin. A quick, cold wash woke him but did not make his brain any less fuzzy. Well, it wasn’t as if he had to do anything mentally strenuous today. While he was up and awake, he might as well visit Samir. He would enjoy seeing what the boy made of the gift he’d left with Giselle—a brightly colored top that depicted alternating illustrations of cages and animals. When it spun, it created the optical illusion of the animal in the cage.
Gabriel had become quite skilled at choosing gifts for young children. His three half siblings were aged five and three. And of course his mother had yet another child on the way.
He pulled a fresh shirt over his head as he considered the subject of children—not that he would ever get one on his wife at the rate they were going.
He flopped onto the bed and pulled on his boots, cursing himself for acting like an ass toward her. He was tired, but that was no excuse. He would go out, see the boy, swing by the jewelers, and fetch something for his wife—a bride’s gift was what such things were called. He should have done so already, but it had seemed wrong to buy his wife and mistresses a gift at the same time.
Gabriel shook his head at the idiocy of that concern as he shrugged into a waistcoat and pushed his hair off
his forehead. Tonight would be difficult, but once they’d been seen in public receiving Visel and Tyndale, the furor would die down.
With the duel out of the way, he could concentrate on making something out of this marriage they’d both been forced into. He didn’t wish to live in constant conflict with her. He would make more of an effort from now on, no matter how much she tempted him to misbehave and taunt.
Chapter 11
Today it was Maria who was home and Giselle who had gone out. Luckily, Samir was in the nursery, finishing his breakfast.
Maria was already in the gold-and-blue sitting room when the maid ushered Gabriel in.
She stood and reached out both hands for him. “Gabriel! How lovely to see you. I was so sorry I missed your visit.”
“I missed you, too,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks and then lowering himself onto the dull gold silk of the bergère settee beside her. Whereas Giselle was blonde, voluptuous, and blue-eyed, Maria was dark, slight, and possessed eyes of such a dark brown they looked black. She was not pretty in the traditional sense, but the colors, cuts, and designs she chose for her clothing, along with her short, almost boyish dark brown curls, made her a delectable combination. Both women had that panache Frenchwomen possessed when it came to knowing how to dress and turn themselves out.
Today she was wearing an exceptionally plain and simple white muslin day dress, which perfectly set off her velvety olive skin and rich brown hair. She smoothed her small hands over her skirt and cut him a curious look, her dark eyes twinkling.
“Gigi told me some rather surprising news when Samir and I came home from our journey—and then I heard even more surprising news last night when I stopped briefly at Mr. Kipling’s house.”
Gabriel cocked his head. “I didn’t know you were in his latest production at the Drury. I thought you were still at the Little?” The Little Drury Lane was a theater that was far less prestigious than its namesake but offered more regular parts for Maria’s range.
“Last night I stepped in for Mary Clemens, who swelled up like a balloon after some bad oysters.”
“Ahh, so you played alongside Giselle?”
She nodded, a big smile stealing across her usually serious features.
“I’m sorry I missed it.” He loved to see both Giselle and Maria onstage together, which happened only rarely.
She eyed him slyly. “I understand you were participating in some rather grand theater yourself last night.”
He groaned, but recounted the bizarre episode for the third time. Just as he was finishing, there was a knock on the door, and Samir came charging into the room, flinging himself onto Gabriel.
“Jibril, Jibril!” His voice was muffled because he’d shoved his head into Gabriel’s armpit.
Gabriel laughed and looked up at the waiting nurse, who was smiling indulgently from the doorway. “Thank you, Mrs. Banks; we’ll ring when we need you.”
She nodded and quietly closed the door.
Gabriel held the squirming little body at arm’s length. His hair, curly and dark brown with glints of gold and red, was ruffled up as if he had rolled down the stairs on his head.
“You are burrowing like a desert owl, Samir.”
That made the little boy giggle, his hazel eyes pushed into crescents by his plump cheeks.
“I think you have missed me,” Gabriel said in English.
“I went to see the namur,” he said, using the Arabic word for tiger. He spoke in a charming blend of Arabic and French, but very little English. Gabriel spent a part of each visit teaching him English words, and Maria and Giselle did the same.
“What sound does a tiger make?” he asked.
Samir bared his teeth and gave a creditable imitation of a roar.
Maria cowered back on the settee. “You are so fierce that you are frightening me, Sami.”
The boy laughed.
“It is naughty to scare ladies and then laugh,” Gabriel chided him—and then commenced to engage in a roaring contest, until Maria put an end to it.
“You are two boisterous tigers,” she said. “I think perhaps you need to take a walk and expend some of your ferocious energy.” This second part was for Gabriel, who grinned and took the hint.
“Come, Samir. We are being banished. Go fetch your coat and hat from Mrs. Banks and meet me in the entry hall.”
The little boy hooted and sprinted for the door.
“No running,” Gabriel called after him.
He and Maria listened to the thunder of small feet, shaking their heads.
Gabriel picked up the cushions they’d scattered during their play and pushed back his hair, which was no doubt as mussed as Samir’s.
“He is such a wonderful boy, Gabriel. How could you bear to let him go?”
He’d been hoping to get out of here today without anyone asking such questions. He shook his head and flopped down onto the settee.
“It is not about what I want, Maria, but what will be best for him. Right now I don’t know what that is.”
She brushed his jaw with the back of her hand. “Poor Gabriel. You’ve had a rather trying year, haven’t you?”
Gabriel thought about the wreckage that was now his father’s palace and shook his head. “I’ve had a much easier time than many others.”
Maria and of course Giselle were two of the very few people who knew about his last trip to Oran and why he’d gone. She kissed his cheek and changed the subject.
“And now you are a married man.”
He sighed; this topic wasn’t much better. But to avoid it was cowardly, not to mention an injustice to his new wife.
“I must tell her about Samir, Maria—but what do I tell her when even I do not know the truth?”
“I cannot answer that—I do not know her. But I do know well-bred English ladies do not usually accept their husband’s offspring by their former lovers.”
Gabriel knew that, too. It would be an insult to Drusilla to expect her to live with his by-blow. But it would be an insult to Samir to make him live anywhere else. Regardless of their actual relationship, they were still family. He groaned. All of this would not have been a problem but for blasted Visel goading him into this marriage. He kept such thoughts to himself.
“Tell me,” he said, “how does one broach such a conversation with one’s new spouse? Over tea and toast? Dinner?”
Maria laid her head on his shoulder, her small body a comfort beside him. “Perhaps after you’ve made love to her and she is sated and sleepy and malleable?”
Gabriel tried to imagine such a sight as a sated Drusilla Clare—well, Drusilla Marlington now—but could bring to mind only her furious face from this morning. Still, if he couldn’t imagine her sated, that was entirely his fault, wasn’t it? He should have gone to her last night instead of storming off like a child. But he would go to her tonight. This could not drag on.
He took Maria’s hand in both of his. “What would you want—if you were my wife? Would living with a child who was not your own be unbearable? Would you find it a crushing stigma?”
She turned her head, until her chin was resting on his arm. “I am not the right person to ask, my love.” Her dark eyes were soft and caressing. “Stigma? Embarrassment?” She gave a throaty chuckle. “You know I care nothing for such things. Life is fleeting and precious; wasting time worrying about pleasing strangers is foolish.As to my feelings on such a matter? Well, I do not seem to feel jealousy like other women or men.” She lifted one shoulder in a gesture that was ineffably French. “I have always believed I have enough love to share. I don’t need to ration it among the people I care for or hold it close.” She gave him an arch look. “If I could share my beloved Giselle with you, I certainly would not begrudge the child of a lover or spouse their own parent—especially when the child was conceived long before we even met.”
He kissed her forehead; she was correct. Both she and Giselle had more self-assurance than almost anyone he’d ever met, male or female. Gabriel knew the numb
er three was a difficult number when it came to lovers: a dangerous triangle. But not once in the years they’d been together had there been any jealousy or hurt feelings or competitiveness among the three of them. Was that unnatural? He smiled to himself at the question—there was no denying the rest of the ton viewed the arrangement as unnatural.
Perhaps the word he was searching for was unusual. Lovers did not usually like to share. He knew his mother and Exley would never share each other. Gabriel had been raised with the expectation that he would eventually have several wives and that they would need to learn to share him, but never the other way around. He knew relations in his father’s harem had never been easy. Some of the women had waged war against one another—a few even resorting to murder to get what they wanted. But he did not think any of his father’s wives had been jealous of his father’s affection, only jealous of his favor and on whom he bestowed it.
To be truthful, Gabriel knew he could not share a woman he loved with another man; Samir’s mother had been an excellent case in point. Perhaps that was wrong of him—especially since he had expected females to accept such behavior from him. It might be wrong, but it was a simple truth.
“We would be overjoyed to keep him, Gabriel.”
Maria’s voice pulled him out of his memories, and he smiled at her. “I know you would, and this is a loving household. But if he can’t be with his mother’s family, then he should be with me: I am his family.”
“So you will tell her?”
Yes, he would tell Drusilla, and the sooner, the better.
The sound of little feet followed by a slower pair roused him from his reverie, and he disentangled himself from his erstwhile lover and stood.
“Jibril!” Samir called when he realized Gabriel was not waiting in the foyer.
Maria chuckled as Gabriel picked up his hat and gloves. “You’d better make haste as the young master sounds short-tempered. Where will you take him?”
Gabriel pulled on his gloves. “It seems like a nice day for an ice, don’t you think?”
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