The shock on Gabby’s face confirmed Vi’s suspicion: the girl had formed atendrefor the moneylender.
Color suffused Gabby’s cheeks. “I’m certain that isn’t true, Mr. Kent.”
“I’m afraid it is, my dear,” Emma said gently.
“Well, I don’t believe it.” Gabby rose, her chin lifted. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few errands to attend to.”
She left the room.
“Should I go after her?” Vi said worriedly. “Try to talk some sense into her?”
“You can try. We all can.” Em sighed. “But that doesn’t mean she’s going to listen.”
~~~
Closing the door to the suite that evening, Ambrose called for his wife.
Her voice drifted through the doorway of the adjoining room. “Just finishing up. I’ll be right with you.”
Sprawling on a divan, he declared, “This is the most exhausting party I’ve ever attended.”
“You say that every time, darling,” she called back.
“This time, I mean it.” He shrugged out of his jacket and unknotted his cravat. “How many parties involve solving a murder, returning stolen goods,andplanning a wedding for one’s sister?”
“You’re happy for Violet. And you like Carlisle. Admit it.”
Marianne knew him too well. The fact was he did like Carlisle, whom he judged a reliable and honorable sort of man. One couldn’t fault a fellow for trying to protect his kin, after all.
More importantly, there was the way Violet had blossomed under Carlisle’s influence: overnight, Ambrose’s middle sister had matured, her girlish exuberance transforming into the glowing confidence of a young woman in love. Ambrose could scarce credit the changes in the little madcap.
Carlisle, for his part, wasn’t one to wear his emotions on his sleeve, but there was no mistaking the deep and abiding emotion in the Scot’s eyes whenever he looked at his bride-to-be. As if he couldn’t believe his good fortune.
Smiling, Ambrose leaned his head back and slung an arm over his eyes. Yawning, he said, “You’re right, of course. I’m glad Vi will be settling down with a decent chap. But I can’t say I’ll be sorry to leave this place tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow will come soon enough.” Marianne’s voice entered the room. “In the meantime…”
He removed his arm, looked up. All vestiges of fatigue vanished, replaced by hot, belly-clawing hunger. The front of his trousers instantly tented.
For his wife was standing in front of him—and she wasn’t wearing a stitch.
“The party’s not over yet, darling,” she said with a sultry smile.
She lifted one knee onto the divan, then the other, straddling his lap.
Then she proceeded to affirm yet again that he was, indeed, the luckiest bastard alive.
Chapter Forty
Ten days later
Filled with triumph, Richard swept his new wife into his arms. With the skirts of her lemon yellow travelling dress billowing over his arm, he carried her over the threshold. Complements of the Tremonts, their bridal bower was the finest suite at Mivart’s, a grand London hotel. The lavish room was done up in shades of ivory and gold and boasted separate sitting and bathing rooms attached to the main boudoir.
“This suite is theutmost, isn’t it?” Violet said gleefully.
Captivated by her glowing eyes, he said huskily, “Aye. The utmost.”
Setting her gently down on her feet, he watched with amusement as she tossed off her bonnet and gloves and scampered through the rooms like a curious kitten. Her explorations were shared with him via her adorably scattered commentary.
