Her protests were swallowed by his kiss. Once more, he was entranced by her hold on him. He parted her legs with his knee, positioned himself at her entrance. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” she panted.
He surged forward, her pained cry piercing his ears.
Three strokes. Three, and his release claimed him. He had enough sense to fall to her side rather than atop her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again before the depths of exhaustion claimed him.
~~~
Gabby woke slowly the next morning to an empty bed, save for herself. Her body didn’t feel like her own. She’d been invaded by a drunk and lumbering beast. She came slowly to her feet and rang for hot water.
No one told her she would hardly be able to walk after such an ordeal. She couldn’t understand why his kisses hadn’t smoothed the way for their intimate exchange. She blinked back a sting of tears. There was something wrong with her.
His silk robe had disappeared. Where the devil was he anyway? Likely sleeping off his abhorrent behavior. But was it abhorrent?
If she was truthful with herself, and she tried valiantly to be so, his predatory prowl had excited her. She’d been kissed speechless, senseless. Her body tingled in places she’d never considered alive.
But the pain. The pain was not her imagination. She needed to talk to someone. Not her condescending sisters, and Sebastian was out of the question. If only Rebecca were in town.
Brita led the procession in to fill her tub.
Two hours later, after she was dressed, after she’d broken her fast, there was still no sign of her wayward husband. She peered in his library. A large fire in the hearth blazed and she wandered in. His massive desk was despicably organized, whereas she was a whirlwind of chaos when it came to order. She stopped short of invading his privacy and went back upstairs to check his bedchamber. Why should he be allowed to slumber the day away?
But there was no sign he’d slept in his bed after he’d left hers. She withdrew from his room, disturbed by the scent of him assailing her.
Someone must know where Huntley had disappeared. “Oh, Diggs. A moment, if you please.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Gabby couldn’t help feeling the man despised her. Perhaps it was herself she despised. Which made no sense. “Did Lord Huntley happen to mention any appointments for today?”
One imperious brow lifted. “Appointments, madam?”
“Where is my husband, Diggs?” Her impatience bled through.
“I fear he doesn’t feel obligated in sharing such information with me.”
“Or with anyone it appears,” she muttered. She hurried back to her bedchamber, irritated she’d let the stolid butler get to her. She snatched up her reticule. Checking on Antonia seemed a safe enough diversion for her afternoon.
Three
James huddled deep within his cape against a frosty morning. His head pounded, and despite the aftereffects of his over inebriated state instigated from the night before, he recalled every unfortunate detail of his clumsy actions. He’d let frustration dictate the treatment of his virginal wife. And it was abominable. He’d been unable to face himself in the mirror as he’d dressed.
The note from Liverpool arrived at eight that morning, an ungodly hour after a night of such intemperance. The protégé Liverpool selected had sobered James right out of his fogged stupor. George Welton. Liverpool was not known for his drollery, and everyone in London knew Welton for the fool he was, he thought shaking his head. It had to have been a jest.
The walk to Vauxhall took twenty minutes. James didn’t wish to announce his presence with the pounding of his horse’s hooves, or his marked carriage. Instinct compelled his clandestineness.
He’d passed a number of merchants already readying for a busy day at market. Liverpool’s note indicated an area that would fill with families out for an enjoyable afternoon of picnics and noisy children. Notoriously, that same area under the night skies would turn from safe to dangerous and be populated with prostitutes and pickpockets.
Before 1816, the only access to Vauxhall had been via boat, but in James’s years abroad, a bridge had since been constructed for foot traffic. Despite Vauxhall’s popularity, James was not all that fond of the park, culminating his experiences with the dregs of human behavior. Vauxhall peeled away the strictures of society where strangers could meet without the normal censures.
He reached the bridge at the south bank of the Thames and stopped to pull his cape up and his hat down—a necessary yet familiar disguise. He was ready to leave the secrets behind. And while he was still angry at his wife’s brother for snatching his and Gabriella’s opportunity to grow to know one another, it would make for a long and contentious life if he failed to give it, if not thrive, at least the opportunity to survive.
His attention was instantly jarred—he spotted Welton. So, it was true. Liverpool really had picked the Baron. It was unfathomable. The man was standing in the middle of an open field where anyone could attack—a tow-headed child appeared in his peripheral vision.
James started forward prepared to give the fool the set-down of his life…
The horrific scene played out as a badly acted stage production complete with a dastardly scraggly villain appearing straight from London’s underbelly. James took off in a run. Before he reached the baron, the bastard leapt on Welton without warning.
