Mrs. Cartwright gave an approving nod, and a small, satisfied smile lingered at the corners of her mouth.
“Sukey, Alice—you should begin preparing the gingerbread for his lordship’s tea,” Claire said. “Sarah, if you would be so kind as to assist Monsieur Bissonet in his preparations for dinner. And Betsy, if you would bring out the silverware—I’ve been informed it’s been a month since it’s been given a good cleaning.” She was pleased by the commanding snap in her voice—as well as the near-instantaneous obedience that it had elicited.
And so was Mrs. Cartwright. She patted Claire’s hand as Claire once again reclaimed the seat across from her. “My dear,” she said, “I can see that you are going to do just
∞∞∞
Gabriel returned to his residence in the late afternoon, ravenously hungry. Aside from the tea he’d had early in the morning, the lingering nausea had precluded any sort of meal—and now that it had at last faded, his stomach protested its emptiness with all sorts of unpleasant noises and pangs.
Bradshaw had assured him that afternoon tea would soon be forthcoming, and then he’d coughed into his fist and suggested that perhaps Gabriel would like to await it in the library, with Lord Westwood, who had arrived some fifteen minutes before.
Gabriel stifled a groan. Since his marriage, Westwood had become one of those meddling sorts of people who simply couldn’t leave well enough alone. For some godforsaken reason, the fool had determined that they ought to befriends, and to that effect, came by every so often in the service of achieving that end.
For some reason quite beyond his understanding, Gabriel hadn’t refused him admittance yet. Oh, he’d made the man wait for interminable lengths of time, and been less than welcoming when he had finally deigned to put in an appearance, but he’d never outright refused to see Westwood. And yet despite the blatant rudeness, Westwood’s efforts had been indefatigable.
“A quarter hour,” Westwood remarked as Gabriel walked into the library at last. “A new record, Leighton. One might be given to believe that you were beginning to enjoy my company.” He had helped himself to a glass of whisky as he had waited, Gabriel saw.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gabriel said. “I’ve only just returned home. It would have been practically impossible to avoid notice going up the stairs, and just lately you’ve become enough of a thorn in my side that I don’t think I’d put it past you to follow me up.”
Westwood sniffed in mild offense. “I’m not some desperate debutante; I’d hardly go haring after you.”
“And yet, somehow you continue to arrive at my door with alarming regularity.” Gabriel sank into a chair of his own, though he declined the whisky Westwood offered him. “What brings you round this time?”
Westwood leveled a look at him. “Did you not think your broken engagement noteworthy enough to merit a visit?”
Damn. The newshadmoved swiftly, then. “Honestly, Westwood,” Gabriel muttered, “I hadn’t taken you for a gossip.”
“I’ve two sisters-in-law who love nothing better than to share all sorts ofon ditsover dinner; gossip is unavoidable. Besides,” he said, “I’ve come to offer my congratulations.”
A flicker of movement behind him had Gabriel turning his head. Mrs. Hotchkiss had arrived with tea, alongside a steaming loaf of gingerbread cut into slices.
Gabriel cleared his throat, turning his attention back to Westwood. “Yes, well, Lady Elaine will make some man an admirable wife,” he said, as Mrs. Hotchkiss laid the tray on the table between them.
“But not you,” Westwood said, a thread of satisfaction in his voice. “I was half-convinced you were going to marry the woman anyway. Your engagement was long enough—I expect most of theTonthought your nuptials would be forthcoming presently.”
Mrs. Hotchkiss backed away, her honey-blond hair gleaming in the light. Though she kept her gaze respectfully averted, doing her best to be unobtrusive, she drew Gabriel’s notice anyway, his gaze shifting to her retreating form as if her very presence were magnetic. Stifling a curse, he reached forward and busied himself with sliding a slice of gingerbread onto his plate.
He didn’t particularly want to share with Westwood that he’d deliberately held up the settlement negotiations with Lady Elaine’s family. It was bad enough that the man thought he held some influence over Gabriel’s decisions, and had ever since Gabriel had confessed to Westwood in one of his weaker moments that he’d never really wanted Elaine.
Still, he was damned if he was going to confess his current tribulations. “I thought it best to let her go after all,” he said. “It had naught to do with your recommendation.” And it hadn’t; at least that much was the unvarnished truth. He took his fork and tore off a bite of gingerbread, and his stomach gave an approving little gurgle as he lifted it to his mouth and bit into it, and it was…perfect.
An instant later, his head began to pound. His vision blurred—something that had not occurred during an attack of migraine for so many years that it provoked a fierce and sudden terror. The plate slipped from his hand, and the fork clattered to the floor along with it, the sharp sound of silver striking china resounding through his brain like a gunshot.
“I say, Leighton—are you well?” Westwood’s voice sounded distant and muted, lightly tinged with encroaching panic.
Gabriel didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He could only bring his hands to his head and press his hands to his head in a futile attempt to will away the pain. A shred of memory pierced his brain, brutal and vivid in its intensity.
A soft voice, sweet and faintly mocking. “You can’t live on gingerbread alone, Gabriel.”
His own reply. “Darling girl, watch me.”
The rich, hearty taste of molasses and ginger bursting on his tongue, intricately woven with cloves and cinnamon, and…something else. The brisk chill of a frosty wind wicking his face, soothed away by the delicate brush of a woman’s gentle fingers. The crunch of the frozen grass beneath his back, and the cold light of the winter sun pricking his eyes. The silhouette of the woman leaning over him, the sunshine burning through her unbound hair.
Her face. He couldn’t see her face. The light glowed around her, casting her in shadow but for the firm tilt of her chin, the leftmost corner of her mouth that hitched up in a teasing smile.
He felt himself sliding, and the grass beneath him faded into supple leather, the winter breeze softening into the ambient heat of a fire kindled in the hearth. The sensation was dizzying, disorienting, as if he’d fallen straight through time.
Sound returned in a piercing shriek—Westwood, shouting for assistance; the corresponding footfalls, muffled by the rugs running the length of every corridor. Somehow he’d pitched from his chair onto the floor, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the influx of light, against the pounding ache in his head. Against the painful advent of memory seven years removed from his brain.
