Something shifted in Gabriel's expression, a softness that made him look younger, more vulnerable. “You cannot run to my defense each time someone is disagreeable with my person.”
“Be still and observe, Your Grace.” Clara remarked quite heatedly.
"You're beyond all bearing!”
"We've have already concluded that,”
“Gabriel….we shall succeed in our endevours.Of that I am sure."
“I only wish I could share your sentiments, Clara.”
He actually smiled then, It was a feeble smile, but it was an effort he had made.
“Now, be off and go about and attend to your business Clara.
Go and plot my salvation elsewhere.”
She paused at the doorway, one hand resting on the polished brass handle, the faint morning light catching the loose strands of hair that had escaped her braid. Gabriel was still behind his desk, half-buried in correspondence, pretending to be engrossed in estate reports though his eyes had been following her since she’d risen from her chair.
“Yes?” she asked, glancing back.
“The roses,” he said, not looking up immediately, as though the words had to fight their way out. “In the garden…. would you please see after them?”
Her expression softened. “Of course.”
He hesitated again, the sound of papers shifting filling the quiet between them. “And Clara?”
She turned fully now, brow raised. “Yes?”
Please do not allow Mrs. Potter to assist with the staff hiring.”
Her lips curved, amused. “Why ever not?”
“Because she’ll hire people just like her,” he said, finally lifting his gaze, “I cannot bear the vexation of having more than one person defy my instruction.”
A single month, she reflected, as she made her way to the scullery where she intended to draft lists, arrange her plans, and perhaps succumb to a fit of the vapours. What misfortune could possibly befall them in the space of four weeks?
"The burgundy is becoming on you," Edmund stated with mischievous mirth.
Gabriel had been having a perfectly adequate morning, which was to say he'd only contemplated committing a crime twice, once when Edmund arrived at the ungodly hour of six on the hour and once when Clara had confiscated his brandy decanter with the efficiency of someone who'd clearly been planning the theft for days.
Now he stood in his dressing room, shirtless and irritated, while Edmund held up various waistcoats like a demented valet with delusions of fashion expertise.
"My eyes are brown."
"Exactly. Brown and burgundy are complementary."
"They're both dark colors."
"Different darks."
"I'm going to strangle you with that waistcoat."
"That would certainly make an impression at the Weatherby's soirée next week."
Gabriel turned from the mirror so fast he nearly knocked Edmund over. "What soirée?"
"The one you're attending. To prove you're functional."
