Claire snapped the book closed and set it aside, choking on a flutter of laughter. “Matthew,” she chided, “Where did you get an idea like that?”
“I saw him kiss you,” he said. “And you gotta be married to kiss.”
“Oh, Lord.” The words escaped on a heavy sigh, and she pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose and breathed deeply. “Matthew, darling—”
“He said, if you get married, I could call him Papa.” He glanced up at her, his eyes wide and guileless. “Couldn’t he be my papa? Couldn’t he, please?”
Stricken by the plea, Claire covered her mouth with her hand and closed her eyes, struggling to maintain her composure. “We’ll talk later,” she said at last, brusquely. “Now, it is time for bed.”
“Aw, Mama.” Matthew screwed his face up in aggravation, but he scrambled obediently beneath the blankets, pulling them up to his chin. “Even for you?”
“Even for me.” She kissed his forehead and doused the lamp. Her duties had her rising with the dawn, well before even Matthew was awake. It had grown late already, and she would need to retire shortly.
But first, she had to murder a marquess.
∞∞∞
Claire burst into the library without knocking, carried straight through the door and across the floor with the weight of her fury. “Did you tell my son that we would marry?” she inquired hotly.
Gabriel, who had been sitting in a chair before the fire, rose to his feet. “Blast,” he muttered. “I told him not to tell you just yet.”
“Children are not known to be great keepers of secrets!” The strident tone of her voice made him wince, and guilt speared her heart. It wasn’t even trulyhimwith whom she was so angry—it was herself. How could she possibly agree to wed him, when they were already wed? Such a thing might constitute fraud, or some other such legal dilemma. But he had placed that thought in Matthew’s head, and now their son pleaded for a father, his own father, and if she declined—
If she declined, she would truly be the villain. If she accepted, she might well be subjecting him to a marriage he would later have cause to regret. No matter which path she chose, they would all lose.
“It wasn’t my intention to upset you,” he said. His voice was light, carefully reserved, and he crossed to the sideboard, where he selected a decanter of amber liquid and poured it into a pair of glasses. “Would you care for a drink?”
“That would be—”
“Inappropriate,” he finished for her, with a crooked grin. “Who’s to know, Claire?”
“Iwill know,” she said severely.
“One drink won’t hurt you. It might even do you some good to loosen some of that starch from your petticoats.” He held a glass out to her, and sipped from his own. “For someone still so young, you’ve managed to affect the perfect disapproving frown.”
“I have not,” she said, resisting the urge to cover her mouth—just in case he was right. “And even if I have, it’s no concern of yours.”
“Well, I can’t say I particularly enjoy it. It’s been a long time since I’ve been made to feel like a child to be scolded.” He gestured to the chair across from the one he’d vacated. “Won’t you sit?”
The bland tone of his voice sent her fury sailing to previously unknown heights, and she clenched her fists, struggling to remind herself that he was her employer and it would be prudent to govern her temper.
“My lord,” she said, through gritted teeth, “I donotappreciate—”
“Really, Claire. We’re in private. You ought to call me Gabriel.”
Her nails dug divots into her palms. The flickering firelight glowed in his hair, caressed his face, and lit his eyes, which glinted with mischief. There was that damned dimple in his cheek, taunting her with his amusement. “I do not find any part of this amusing,” she said, seething.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, making an attempt to quell his levity. “Truth to tell, I think I’m in a better humor than I’ve experienced in years. But it certainly wasn’t my intention to offend you in any way.” He discarded his empty glass, and his hand settled on the back of his chair, affecting a more relaxed posture, and for a moment he looked so much like the Gabriel she had known—carefree, informal, unburdened.
She had the strangest notion that he had had to relearn it, that he had spent so many years being rigid and inflexible that allowing himself to unbend in such a manner must be something of a relief. As if he’d found himself again, recalled to himself a shade of the man he had once been.
It took her a moment to recall her irritation. “I would rather you did not fill my son’s head with ridiculous notions,” she said.
“Is it so ridiculous, then?” He held the remaining glass out to her once again. “Take it, Claire. You look as if you could use it.” His eyes were focused on her face, assessing her.
Oh lord, he wasserious. She found herself grateful for her thick skirts, which camouflaged the sudden weakness of her knees. And suddenly she wanted that drink so very badly. Her fingers trembled as she reached out to take it, and she cast back half the glass the moment it was in her hand.
He chuckled as she coughed in the wake of the liquor burning its way down her throat. “Careful there,” he said. “It’s quite strong. And I almost never make proposals of marriage to women in their cups.”
