Incompetence?
Claire lifted her shoulder without responding.
Sparks flew from Lady Gabriella’s emerald eyes.
“In case you haven’t noticed, there is a whole wall of debutantes planning those very stratagems. They are much younger and pliable than you, my dear.”
James followed Gabriella’s gaze to the “wall.” He counted at least eleven young women, so young, the thought of bedding one sickened him. He snagged another brandy and tossed back its contents then staggered his way to the warm night air. Too warm.
He rarely drank to excess but that was exactly what he felt—drunk. What had she meant by incompetence? Was she out to trap a husband? She was close to being relegated an unmarriageable spinster.
He stood in a shadowed corner, his elbows resting atop the stone wall, and inhaled deeply. At once he was inundated with an exotic scent that belonged in the wilds of Asia rather than a stuffy, overcrowded ballroom in the heart of England. Jasmine. It reminded one of the desert’s hot, sultry nights, tempting him into stripping every stitch of clothing from his body. The confinement of his cravat was suffocating. The enticing fragrance had him slipping further within the shadows. Would she attempt her wiles on him? Curiosity consumed him, along with her drugging perfume and a mild hope that she would. He must be inebriated. Damn.
She hadn’t yet seen him.
He waited in silence. But she didn’t appear to be searching for anyone. After a moment, she patted her face with her gloved fingers. Then dug in a dainty reticule at her wrist and pulled out a lace handkerchief.
He could wait no longer. The spirits rushing his blood had to be what had him acting so uncharacteristically. “Things can’t be that bad, my lady.” Though he spoke softly, she spun around startled, tripping over her skirt. He caught her before she stumbled to her knees and righted her. He didn’t stop there. He couldn’t. And pulled her gently against him.
The moonlight reflected in her jewel-toned eyes, morphing them from emerald to a starlit ebony. He lowered his lips to hers, not quite touching but reveling in the mingled air between them.
She was all that was delicate in his arms. If he hugged her too tight, he feared she would snap.
Slowly, he touched her lips with the tip of his tongue. She gasped but didn’t jerk away. He swooped in, covering her mouth with his and drank in her hopes, her dreams, her innocence. She’d been waiting for him.
“You bastard!” The harsh voice broke through James’s frenzied brain.
He lifted his head and met the fury of the Duke of Ryleigh.
Gabriella jumped back and damn if James didn’t have to steady her a second time.
“Get away from him, Gabriella,” Ryleigh commanded. Behind him stood “Claire” the woman Gabriella had been speaking with inside.
“No.” Lady Gabriella’s chin lifted, and she met her brother’s hard gaze head on.
James dropped his hold, narrowing his eyes on the trio. Disbelief roared through him. Had she set a trap for him? A trap even the most naïve of debutante’s were taught from birth. Did he even care? His body tingled with slow burning need. All he desired was another minute or two with her. She held her small frame proud and rigid against her powerful brother’s blistering gaze. As if that alone would sway her. It didn’t.
“I’ll see you in my library tomorrow at eleven,” the duke was saying. “Or would you prefer Hampstead Heath at dawn? Pistols?”
“No!” Gabriella stepped in front of James as if to protect him from the duke, this time sounding frantic.
James placed his hands on her shoulders and forced her aside, stunned to find his insides quivering. No one had ever stood up for him before. Yet here was this fierce young woman preparing for battle on his behalf. It floored him. Angered him on her behalf. Angered him flat out—he was never one to leave his battles for another to take up. “Your library at eleven suits me,” he ground out, irritated at his loss of control of the situation. He needed time to think, but there was no time. He turned on his heel and stole around the house rather than returning inside, three pairs of eyes boring through to his spine, right between the shoulder blades.
Two
Two months later
It all culminated to this. A loveless match with a husband, she thought glumly, who spoke to her only when addressed directly. Who believed the very worst of her. Every soiree, garden party, glittering ball was now tainted with their stilted conversation. Not once since he’d negotiated their nuptials with Sebastian had he taken her for a turn through Hyde Park or initiated a conversation to smooth the awkward transition of their situation. Not once had he offered her an explanation for his absurd reaction to him kissing her on that damn terrace in the dark of night. Sebastian, she fumed, had ruined everything.
Now, here she sat in her obnoxiously, Georgian-ly outdated bedchamber alone on her wedding night, in her most provocative negligee, pacing like a nervous cat—her last ditch effort for peace in this unsought union. With every pass before the hearth to the windows and back, anger seethed through her with barely banked fires. The slightest touch of oxygen, and her body would ignite.
She stopped at the table where a tray of fruit and champagne with two flutes awaited. Ignoring the fruit, she poured out a measure of bubbly and lifted her glass to the ceiling. “Who is there to care?” she demanded to no one. She downed the pale gold liquid and poured out another. Then another until tears trekked silently down her cheeks.
The wedding breakfast had been a disaster. Her sister closest in age, Antonia, was ill and had left almost as soon as she and her husband had arrived. On the other side of the coin, Rose and her husband, Baron Staunton had lingered for hours on end. And, arbitrator Claire was fielding the lobs, while Sebastian sat back saying nothing, with a watchful yet indiscernible expression on his face.
She stared daggers at the adjoining door. A second later it flew back, hitting the wall behind.
Gabby jumped but quickly gathered her scattered wits, seeing him in his silk robe and appearing stronger and more intimidating than ever. A man who belonged to the night. Her heart thudded until it deafened her. “Well, if it isn’t the doting earl,” she bit out, her anger spewing forth. “My. Husband.”
