"It's fashion-forward."
"It's hideous."
"Margaret likes it."
"Margaret loves you. She'd like you in sackcloth."
"True," Edmund agreed cheerfully. "I'm devastatingly lovable."
"You're devastatingly something."
Clara ate while they bickered, marveling at the easy friendship between them. This was clearly an old rhythm, comfortable despite Gabriel's prickliness. Edmund knew exactly how far to push, when to retreat, when to press forward with gentle humor.
"So, Miss Whitfield," Edmund said, turning his attention to her. "The village is alight with gossip about you."
Clara stiffened. "Oh?"
"The mysterious woman who appeared at the duke's door in a snowstorm. Very suspicious,indeedaccording to Mrs. Weatherby."
"Everything's suspicious to Mrs. Weatherby," Gabriel said. "She believes the baker's putting French flour in the bread."
"To be fair, he did wed that French girl."
"Twenty years ago."
"The French play the long game."
“Indeed? I fear I cannot quite apprehend the logic of the matter.”
Clara relaxed slightly. "What is it that they are on about?"
Edmund grinned. “The usual nonsensical rumour, of course. They believe you to be Gabriel's kept woman, or perhaps a spy employed by the French government, a scheming mercenary, or, what is far more diverting, a perfect trinity of scandal.”
"Efficient of me."
"That's what I said! Margaret had to elbow me in church."
"You were defending my honor?" Clara asked, amused.
"I was defending logic. If you were a fortune hunter, you'd have picked someone with a fortune."
"I have a fortune," Gabriel protested.
"You have an estate that's falling apart and a reputation that sends debutantes running."
"The estate is...homely.”
"The estate is a tragedy."
"And my reputation is exactly how I wish it to be."
"Your reputation is that you're mad, bad, and dangerous to know."
"That was Byron."
"And now it's you. Congratulations on the company."
Gabriel threw a piece of bread at him. Edmund caught it, looking delighted.
