“Just because one likes a thing doesn’t mean one should have it,” he said.
Her shoulders stiffened in their frame of blue silk.
“It’s just asparagus,” the duchess said, clearly befuddled. “How much harm can come from indulging in a vegetable, for goodness’ sake?”
Strathaven, the bastard, looked like he was trying not to laugh. Picking up his wife’s hand, he kissed the knuckles. “Have I told you lately how much I adore you?”
This distracted the duchess and gave Gabriel the opportunity to say in an undertone, “May I ask for your forgiveness? I apologize for my churlish behavior earlier. I know you meant well—”
“Frederick is your son, my lord, and I’m sure you know best.” Thea dissected a potato into neat pieces. Perhaps as she’d like to do to him. “I won’t volunteer my opinion in the future.”
But he wanted her opinion. Wanted much more…
You can’t bloody have her. Pull it together, man.
Jaw taut, he said, “Whatever you believe, Miss Kent, I do wish for us to be friends.”
The hurt that shimmered in her hazel eyes cut him more deeply than her anger had. “I’ve come to the conclusion that friendship is not possible between us.”
“Why not? You must know that I admire you.” It was paramount to him that, if naught else, she knew that much. “The fault lies entirely with me.”
“It’s not me, it’s you?” she scoffed.
“It’s the truth. Miss Kent—Thea,” he said in a low voice, “I could not admire you more.”
A pulse fluttered at her throat. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done, and we must move forward.” Her lips fixed in a bright smile that told him they were under scrutiny again. “With the end of the Season fast approaching, I am certain you are as busy as I am.”
He did have plenty to do, although not the sort of social obligations she was referring to. He had three old colleagues to investigate and a turncoat to identify. Then he had to eliminate the problem—and avenge the deaths of Octavian, Marius, and all the other good men who’d been betrayed by the double agent who’d hidden himself—or herself—behind the guise of the Spectre.
Cicero, Pompeia, and Tiberius were all currently in London, which made Gabriel’s task easier. Direct confrontation would only put them on guard, so he’d called upon old contacts, setting eyes and ears on all three. He didn’t expect much to come out of the surveillance, however. From past experience, he knew that the former agents were too careful and cunning to reveal any misdeeds. Thus, he also planned to perform a clandestine search of his ex-comrades’ private domains. To find solid proof that one of them was the Spectre.
“Speaking of busy, I do hope your costume arrives in time, Thea,” the duchess said.
“Costume?” Gabriel said.
“The Blackwood’s annual masquerade. It’s tomorrow night,” Strathaven said. “Join us, if you’d like.”
It was, Gabriel thought grimly, the rare occasion when Fate was smiling upon him. A costume ball would make his plan so much simpler: he could walk into his enemy’s territory through the bloody front door. Conveniently disguised, he could carry out his covert plans during a public affair. The perfect opportunity.
“I have a few appointments, but I might drop by later,” he said.
“Excellent. You can help with escorting duties,” Strathaven said. “I’ll be outnumbered by the ladies.”
“As if you’ve ever complained about that,” the duchess teased. Turning to her sister, she said, “What last minute changes did Madame Rousseau have to make? I can’t imagine there were many. The swan ensemble was perfect for you.”
The vision unfurled in Gabriel’s head: Thea, resplendent in a pure white gown trimmed with feathers. She was every bit a swan. Graceful, delicate, so very lovely.
“We came up with a few new ideas. You’ll see tomorrow,” she said.
Small talk continued, and a wall of politeness once again descended between the two of them. After supper, the duchess suggested that her sister play a few tunes on the pianoforte. Gabriel sat there, riveted by Thea’s lithe lines, her elegant movements. Her music wove a spell over his senses, each note penetrating deeper and deeper through the layers he’d built, excavating artifacts of shame and desire…
The years lying alone in his bed, the closed door of his marriage. The agony of unreciprocated desire, the need that no amount of brandy or frigging could ease. The urge bled into the shadowy rooms of a club, the discreet sanctuary where his darkest pleasures could be unleashed.I’ve been a naughty slave, milord. Punish me.Ram me harder, fuck me…
As Miss Kent’s slender hands stroked the keys to a crescendo, the dark yearning in him strained, yanking on its tether. He knew it would need to be satisfied soon, and yet the idea of paying a visit to Corbett’s didn’t seem like much of a solution. Since becoming a widower, he’d gone to the exclusive club on occasion, but he knew from experience that any relief he obtained would be fleeting. There, he would find release but no peace. The depraved games were a mockery of what he truly wanted; in the end, fucking would relieve his lust but leave him cold and empty. The trading of one beast for another.
At the end of the performance, Strathaven suggested withdrawing for port and cigars, and Gabriel accepted with relief. Fleeing was not the most honorable way of dealing with trouble, but at times it was the most prudent. Miss Kent was an unholy temptation. If he wasn’t careful, his dark desires would break free—and lead to consequences that he wasn’t prepared to face.
Chapter Nine
