“He stopped her from taking the Rothley jewels, but she left regardless. It’s said she perished with her lover in some hellhole in France. But, like everything in his life, it’s shadowed by uncertainty.”
She absorbed the words, a glimmer of understanding and pity stirring in her chest. It explained his obsession with betrayal.
“I cannot thank you enough for trusting me, Mrs Boswell, though I doubt I’ll sleep a wink tonight.” Had she known this half an hour ago, she might have stayed downstairs. Might have kept Gabriel company.
“I’ve just the remedy for restless thoughts, ma’am.”
It wasn’t merely restless thoughts. Her body craved his touch, the slow burn of it, the ache that bloomed after. But hewas right. Friendship shouldn’t feel like this. Every hour in his presence blurred the lines a little more.
“I’ll not take laudanum.”
“I was thinking of a peaceful walk, my lady. His lordship’s grandmother designed the sensory garden that leads to the fountain. It’s still light. I can show you the way. I’ll just fetch your half boots and a wrapper.”
The need to escape the house, and to still the pulse that quickened whenever she thought of him, had her agreeing. While she tied the belt of her muslin wrapper, Mrs Boswell insisted on brushing out her hair.
They took the servants’ stairs and met no one en route.
“I’m told her ladyship always began in the herb garden, with the gentle scent of lemon thyme,” Mrs Boswell said as they stepped out into the warm night air. “The path will take you through the ornamental gardens. Keep to the gravel, and when you pass the statue of Psyche, follow the roses until you reach the grand fountain.”
Olivia touched her arm. Mrs Boswell’s motherly manner was something to be treasured; she made everything feel less daunting.
“You’re welcome to accompany me.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but the sensory garden is meant to be enjoyed alone.”
A breeze stirred the herbs, releasing a crisp, calming note.
Then she startled Olivia by pressing a small pocket pistol into her hand, folding her fingers around the cool metal. “Take this as a precaution. It’s served me well in darker days. His lordship would have my guts for garters if I let you wander about unarmed.”
“Perhaps I should stay inside.”
“You’re perfectly safe, ma’am. Still, I’ll let his lordshipknow where you are. Now, take your walk. The night air works wonders for a troubled mind.”
The thought of pacing her chamber all evening held little appeal. She slipped the pistol into her pocket and nodded. “Very well. I shall be but half an hour.”
The last of the daylight lingered on the horizon, bathing the garden in hues of lilac and gold. She followed the path past banks of rosemary and lavender, the air growing sweeter as it wound between clusters of roses and night-blooming jasmine.
It was beautiful here, but Gabriel saw only the pain of the past. She thought of the night he had come to the cottage. How different things might have been had he arrived a minute too late.
She ran her hand through the lavender and thought of every kiss they had shared, the tender press of his lips, the deep sweep of his tongue, the fever of passion they could never quite suppress.
But even beauty had its shadows.
Only time would tell whether fate was a blessing or a curse. The weight of the pistol in her pocket was a sober reminder that danger was never far from her door.
Gabriel held the poetry book in his hands, but the words on the page swam before his eyes, blurred by thought and his lack of interest in anything but the woman he had married.
He reached for his brandy, then decided against it. He considered changing the book, but nothing would distract him tonight—not a hard ride across open fields, not a brawl withthe king of rogues in the basement of Fortune’s Den, not the answers to every damn question that plagued him.
Nothing. Except her.
He should have stopped her from leaving the dining room. Given her the key to his fortress and invited her to come and go whenever the hell she pleased.
What the blazes was wrong with him? He shot to his feet. So what if the saintly Lord Rothley had broken a vow? He hadn’t done so alone.
Hypocrite. The word hissed through his head. He’d promised to love and cherish her, all while expecting to do neither. Why not admit he’d married her because he wanted her, not out of some noble act of benevolence?
He turned on his heel and strode out of the library only to meet a breathless Mrs Boswell hurrying along the corridor.
