Mrs. Pentwood paused with her hand on the door leading out to the garden. “Truly, Your Grace, I do not know. While I run the household, I do not ask where my master goes. I’d only know if he himself told me.”
Sibyl nodded, pondering. There had been moments where she felt as though the housekeeper knew more than she let on, but this time, her lack of answer seemed genuine.
She thought of Edmund, of the rumors about his mistresses, of Miss Tremaine and her flirtatious ways. Edmund had also disappeared often without an explanation.
And now the Duke was so secretive, with walls frustratingly high. For a moment, Sibyl wondered if he was sneaking out to visit a lover, just like Edmund used to do. She swore that if that were the case, she would not be naïve this time.
Jealousy flared hot in her chest, unexpected and ugly.
Heavens,you should not care whose bed he seeks. You have comfort and security; that is all you need for Rosie’s sake. That is all this marriage is for.
“Shall we?” Mrs. Pentwood prompted when she fell silent for too long, gesturing to the garden path.
Trying to leave her questions behind, Sibyl followed the housekeeper.
Gabriel pushed open the door to the King’s Hound, a tavern a couple of villages over from Stonehelm.
Nestled in the heart of Bartley, the tavern was the rowdiest place for miles around, and as soon as he walked in, the chatter of the patrons immediately fired him up.
It was exactly where he needed to be, and where he had been every evening since the night he had dragged Sibyl into the dining hall to make sure she ate.
The taproom was packed, ale already spilled on the floor—or likely having not been mopped up for weeks—and already people were noticing his arrival.
“The Helm is back for another victory!” a man cried, throwing his tankard up in the air. The liquid inside splashed onto the sleeve of his tailcoat and the shoulder of the man next to him.
Gabriel grimaced as he pushed through the taproom before the fight about the spill started.
“The Helm is back!” More cries went up, cheers for his return.
“Helm, will you continue your winning streak in the ring?” one man asked as he passed by.
But Gabriel paid him no mind. He didn’t have the patience to stop tonight. He rarely did. Every muscle in his body was tense and rigid, and he needed to take out his frustration in the ring.
His eyes stayed on the open door ahead that led into the room where men of all walks of life went to box. Titles weren’t needed when fists were willing to be bloodied.
He stepped into the room, and the people around him roared. Hands reached out to clap him on the back, and he stalked away from them. The ring was currently occupied, but he was already rearing to go.
Tonight, he couldn’t wait for his turn.
He simply walked into the ring and took the place of the man who looked most likely to fall in the next few moments.
For a second, the crowd gasped in surprise, for Gabriel was not usually so bold as to take over somebody else’s fight.
But tonight was different. His mind was foggy, and he knew the only thing that would clear it was venting out his emotions with his fists. His mind was in such a state because of his damned wife.
His damned wife and the scent of her perfume, an intoxicating blend of violet and vanilla.
She had surprised him by pouring him a glass of wine at dinner, her smile hesitant as though she had been about to ask something but then decided against it.
He had allowed her to fill his glass, but the moment he caught her scent, he had not been able to focus on the drink, or even his meal, and had left early, unable to endure the thoughts that had been haunting him for the past week. Thoughts of how he had begun to look forward to dinners with his wife.
Even though he never knew what to say to her, too lost in his thoughts of how she looked that evening—against his better judgment—he hoped she would always join him.
She did, for he must have made his point clear. But with each evening, Gabriel started to regret his insistence.
That was exactly why he came to the King’s Hound. It was a place where he didn’t have to be a duke, or a husband, or a brother who had failed to save his sister. He didn’t have to be the man who carried his father’s disappointment or the grief of losing his mother.
He was just another opponent, another man in the crowd, even if people knew who he was.
