But not now. Not yet. Though the depth of that longing surprised him, he resisted the lure it presented and valiantly wrestled against the delicious pulse of her sex and spilled himself instead against the silken skin of her belly.
Soon. He dropped his head beside hers on the pillow and listened to the music of her exhausted panting, felt the rapid flutter of her heart against his own, linked his fingers with hers and drew her hand to his mouth to press kisses of gratitude to her knuckles.
Sooncould not come soon enough.
Chapter Twenty-Five
In his office, Gabriel resisted the urge to flick back the curtains for the umpteenth time to peer out into the garden, where Matthew was frolicking. Or to spy upon Claire, as she sat at the small table and tallied up the account books as she did every week without fail.
He had gotten relatively little done, and though he had resolved to at least sort through his correspondence, still the temptation arose to give it up and go in search of them, perhaps to aid Matthew once more in the fine art of tree-climbing.
The boy was aware that Claire had refused him, of course. His disappointment was palpable, and Gabriel shared his discontent. There was the added frustration that Claire had, for more than a week now, stood firm in her refusal to come to his bed once more.
He was nearly desperate enough to go to hers. If only he could be certain of his welcome.
A commotion arose on the stairs. Distantly he heard Bradshaw pleading, “Your Grace! Your Grace, his lordship is notat home!”
Gabriel scraped his hand over his eyes, shoved his chair back from his desk, and prepared for the inevitable. The thunder of footsteps approached, and he braced himself for his father’s appearance.
The duke cast open the door, and it slammed against the wall.
“Father,” Gabriel said acerbically. “How good of you to visit. Do you require assistance to the front door?”
The Duke of Bridgewater was in a frothing rage, his face burnished a coppery red. Gabriel was quite surprised his spectacles had not fogged over with the force of it.
“You!” the duke snarled, jabbing a finger in Gabriel’s direction. “You told me she was dead!”
Gabriel felt his face close up, frosting over as if a winter chill had swept over him.
“You cannot imagine the guilt with which I have been burdened,” the duke snapped in disgust, as if his station ought to have brought with it an imperviousness to such emotions.
“Rather like mine, I should think,” Gabriel returned acidly.
With a bizarre flutter of his gloved fingers, the duke advanced on him once more. “And you let mesufferwith it. Even though you knew she yet lived! Was it revenge?”
“Father,” Gabriel said, now thoroughly exasperated. “What in the hell are you talking about? Catherineisdead.”
“She is—” The duke paused abruptly in his tirade, the angry color leeching slowly from his face. Incredulously, he threw back his head and gave a short, sharp bark of laughter. “You don’t know,” he said at last. “My God. You don’tknow.”
An eerie sensation crawled up Gabriel’s spine, as if someone had passed over his grave. “Father—”
“No,” the duke said. “No, as I recall, at our last meeting, you made an impossible demand of me.” He adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose and reached out to clap Gabriel on the shoulder, the sort of fatherly gesture that Gabriel had neither experienced—nor cared to experience—since childhood. “Well, come with me, son, and I’ll work you a miracle.”
∞∞∞
“Father,” Gabriel said patiently, some minutes later, as they stood at a window overlooking the terrace, where Claire sat with her head bowed over the account books, “that is myhousekeeper.”
“That’s as may be, son,” the duke said. He gestured toward the window once again, where Claire was seated outside. “Butthatis the woman who came to Newsom Manor seven years ago.Thatis the woman who said she was yourwife.”
“That can’t be,” Gabriel said. “Claire—”Claire. Claire Hotchkiss. C H.
His breath whooshed from his lungs as if he’d taken a punch to the gut, and he leaned heavily upon the counter in the deserted kitchen, struggling to reclaim it. There was no Mr. Hotchkiss. There neverhadbeen a Mr. Hotchkiss.Shehad never beenMrs. Hotchkiss. She had been the Marchioness of Leighton.
She had told him her husband wasdead.
Through a furious red haze he glared at his father. “You said you didn’t remember her. You called her nondescript!”
The duke made a scathing sound in his throat. “Son, sheisnondescript. What should I have told you? Dark eyes? Hair of a middling shade? Should I have painted her portrait? I am no artist.” He passed his hand over his mouth and let loose what, in a less distinguished man, might have passed for a sigh. “When I pushed past Bradshaw, I saw her in the kitchen through the hallway, carrying a tea tray out to the garden. I thought you must have known all this time.”
