Gabriel dusted his hands, slapping them together. He turned and tossed his whip to Bartholomew who caught it and smothered a youthful shout.
“I’ll not stand for this charade,” threatened Maurice, speaking now in fast, spitting French. “If you believe yourself to know me, sir; or to know this family, be prepared to prove your identity with more than a proud gallop and a shiny hat.”
“And what did I say about a crown?” Bartholomew asked beneath his breath.
“Servants are easily fooled,” Maurice declared, “and Lady Marianne and her sisters have ample motivation to play along. She was averse to me from the very beginning—and for no reason. Stupid chit—”
And now Gabriel lunged. It was, Ryan thought, one of her very favorite things to observe. She’d seen it first with Channing Meade and again with Nevil Stanhope. He’d also lunged at Ryan herself several times, although with a different purpose. He was ever so quick and light on his feet.
Now he took Maurice by the shoulders and backed him into the side of Winscombe’s great stone facade. He pinned him there, lowered his face to Maurice’s, and spoke rapidly in whispered French.
Maurice summoned his courtiers to pull him off, but no one moved. He made a general cry for help in English and in French. He shouted for his dogs. The assembled staffers, courtiers, sisters did nothing. Even the dogs kept back. All of them watched as Gabriel informed his cousin of who he was, and who Maurice was not, and what would happen next.
“Oh brilliant,” Bartholomew was saying, “I’d hoped there would be fighting.”
“My lord,” warned Sister Marie.
Bartholomew ignored her and sidled his way to Ryan’s sister Charlotte.
“Hello,” the boy said to Charlotte. “In the spirit of revealing true identities, I’m actuallynota royal page, but an earl, if you can believe it. Earl Dunlock. How do you do? But can you tell me: Ifyoursister is married to thebrotherofmyaunt—are you and I related, do you think?”
It was funny, and marginally concerning, and so very much in character for Bartholomew, but Ryancouldn’t warrant it. She saw only Gabriel, clean-faced, poshly dressed, blindingly handsome, avenging and confident and walking towardher.Choosingher.
She let out a little whimper, watching him come.
“Princess Marianne,” he said, walking to her.
“Yes?” she whispered.
“Where is my welcome?”
He was close enough then, and she threw herself into his arms.
“You came,” she breathed. “Look at you. You came for me.”
“Sorry for the delay,” he whispered into her ear. “We wanted to head off any and all arguments, didn’t we? We wanted it to stick. Bart and the nun arrived, and I recognized the opportunity to do it up properly.”
“You’re brilliant.”
“I’m in love,” he told her, kissing her neck. “I’m so very in love with you, Lady Ryan Daventry d’Orleans. If you’ll have me, I want to have a go at a real marriage.”
“Yes,” she said, crying against him. “Yes. I want that too—so much. It’s all I want. I love you, too, Gabriel. I love you so very much.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“The final test.” Ryan closed them inside the last door on Winscombe’s family wing. She flicked the lock.
“Can you,” she teased, “pass the night in a proper bed, in a proper bedroom, within a proper house? Will you survive the very great conventionality of it all?”
“Too soon to tell,” he mused. “Willyoube in said bed, in said bedroom, in said house?” He was leaning against the wall, watching her fold coverlets and fluff pillows. And this was the real test of his civility, standing patiently by while she walkedaroundthe bed, andtendedto the bed, anddiscussedthe bed, but he didn’t toss her into it. Yet.
He elected not to tell her this; he was trying so very hard to be princely. He would wait.
That is, if the waiting amounted to five minutes orfewer, he would wait. After that, he could not be held responsible. He was, at heart, a cave dweller. And she’d already proclaimed that he was... how had she put it? Starved for a woman’s touch.
“Yes,” she said brightly. “We will broach this bed together. Although...” she said, looking around, and Gabriel thought,Surely bloody not. Employing brisk, jerky movements, he began to undress.
“Thisismy childhood bedroom,” she was saying. “Now that you are here—now that you are theownerof Winscombe and I am your wife, perhaps we should consider one of the larger, more stately bedrooms?”
