But he was thankful for it.
Indeed, his certainty of the matter filled him with jubilation. Ridiculous. It wasn’t as though he wanted to win her himself. Except, of course he did—ever since she’d wriggled her bottom at him. What man could possibly forget such a thing? What man could resist it?
But it was more than that. Much more. It was her kindness, her vulnerability, her pain. He wanted to taste it all on her pretty lips, bathe in her light and soothe away her fears.
A slow and tortured breath poured out of him. Wincing, he shook his head. He had no right thinking of her as anything other than his neighbor. She would marry Fielding, while he would ensure that his sisters made the best matches they could possibly achieve. And then, once they were properly settled, he would decide what to do with his own life.
Chapter 12
Smiling at Fielding, who’d just come to greet her, Gabriella remained keenly aware of Huntley’s presence across the room. It was impossible for her not to, considering his size; looming just beyond her direct line of sight, he portrayed an intense mixture of pure masculinity and raw power. A fleeting glance in his direction was all she’d allowed herself upon arriving. And it had been enough to send a swarm of fluttering sensations straight to her stomach. So she kept her gaze on the man she meant to marry, determined to will away the strange pull that would draw her to Huntley the moment she let down her guard.
Although their interaction had been amicable when she’d helped him with the teacup, she could not forget that he’d accused her of lying to his sisters. Words. That was all they’d been, but they’d hurt, damn him. The fact that he would think her capable of such deceit, of treating his sisters so carelessly, simply meant that he didn’t know her at all. Which was why she’d given herself a very firm talking to after returning home yesterday. “Gabriella,” she’d said, applying her mother’s tone, “you will keep your thoughts on point and quit all romantic imaginings of the duke. He is not the man you’re going to marry.”
It was a reprimand that had worked quite well since she’d had Eleanor to occupy her mind instead—the task of setting up a home for her in a vacant glass box a welcome distraction. Until she’d gone to bed and sleep had claimed her, filling her mind with dreams of lips pressing fully against hers, of strong fingers reaching, touching, stroking . . .
She’d awoken in a fever, her chest rising and falling with heavy beats and her nightgown hiked up around her hips.
“My lady?” Fielding said, reminding her of time and place. “Would you like some more champagne?”
She studied him for a moment, wondering if he might have caught a glimpse of her scandalous recollections by simply looking at her face. No. He did not look the least bit suspicious. So she gave him a nod. “Yes. Thank you.”
His absence allowed her another glimpse at the most unlikely duke in British history. He was even handsomer tonight than when she’d last seen him. He’d filled out since arriving in Mayfair, for which he had his cook to thank. The slim fit of his evening attire now enhanced the breadth of his shoulders and the firm planes of his chest. In the past, Gabriella had never spent any time pondering the shape of a man’s legs, but as she hastily regarded Huntley from head to toe, it was impossible for her not to notice how long and sturdy his legs appeared to be beneath the fine black wool of his perfectly tailored trousers.
His eyes met hers, intense and unyielding. Daring, almost. And then the edge of his mouth tilted into something that wasn’t precisely pleasant. It was rather . . . She struggled to find the right word while awareness took over, heating her in all the wrong places until she felt herself fighting for control. It was awful. He was awful, standing there so casually while she struggled to remain upright.
His cravat was beautifully tied this evening, his dark hair neatly styled, while his jaw appeared to be more freshly shaved than she’d ever seen it. Oddly, to her complete consternation, she found that she missed the faint hint of stubble that usually shadowed the sides of his face. The notion struck her as one of the most preposterous things to ever have entered her head. A man ought to be well groomed and presentable. To be seen by others—especially by ladies—with day-old whiskers bristling forth from beneath his skin, was unseemly.
Why, then, did the memory of him without a cravat, his hair ruffled as though he’d just stepped out of bed, and with his face roughened by unshaven whiskers, form a molten ball of lava in the pit of her belly?
Fear crept in, prompting her to look away just as Fielding returned with her glass. She took a sip, drowning the urge to revert to the impulsive girl she’d once been. She’d already gone far enough by choosing to help Huntley’s sisters. Allowing the duke himself to tempt her would only lead to severe unhappiness.
“Would you like to greet the other guests?” Fielding asked, scattering her thoughts. He offered his arm with perfect poise.
“Of course,” Gabriella replied with a polite smile that felt as though it had been glued to her face.
Slowly, they made a tour of the room, speaking briefly to those whom they passed along the way until they came within a few paces of Huntley. He was speaking to her father now, Gabriella noticed. “Suffice it to say,” Huntley murmured in low, even tones, his face reflecting the cool expression of a marble statue, “that I did not have the time, the funds, or the opportunity.”
Warwick flattened his mouth before speaking with cutting solemnity. “If everything you say is true, then I’d suggest you stop pretending to be someone you’re not, and go back to wherever it is you came from.”
Gabriella’s chest tightened. She knew her parents could be critical of others and blatantly protective of their stations in life, but to publically denounce a duke, was shocking even to her. “Papa,” she heard herself say as she reached her father’s side, “Huntley is the rightful heir. His title demands our respect.” She decided not to mention that he outranked them all, since everyone in the room would be quite aware of the fact.
Swiveling his head in her direction, her father leveled her with a patient look that conveyed a willingness to humor what he no doubt considered a frivolous female notion without substance. “Gabriella,” he told her, “your kindness is commendable, truly it is, but we must face facts.” He smiled with lukewarm sympathy. “Huntley does not have the necessary upbringing that the peerage requires of a duke.”
“And you have come to this conclusion in the space of five minutes?” Gabriella asked, annoyed by her father’s accusation.
“All I can say is that a man—any man—who holds a noble title, must be deserving of its power, and the vast responsibility it embodies.”
The words were as sharp as a newly forged sword—a deliberate attack on Huntley’s worth and one that her father would never have dared use had he been speaking to someone else. Unable to help herself, Gabriella’s eyes flew to Huntley’s, the dangerous blackness of his gaze forcing her back a step. His jaw was clenched so tightly that slashes of white appeared to slice across his temples. Knowing that a verbal attack was no doubt forming in his mind, Gabriella shook her head and prayed for him to resist. Nothing good could possibly come of it.
She turned to Fielding. “My lord,” her voice beseeched him to say something—to do as a host was expected to do when emotions ran higher than what was seemly, and to attempt to diffuse the situation with decorum.
Instead, Fielding eyed Huntley with the sort of fleeting glance he might offer a stray dog, or a beggar. “Your father is right, my lady. The aristocracy is a very old institution to which many aspire, but few belong.”
Her mouth went dry. They hadn’t even sat down to supper yet and already Huntley was being dismissed as an inferior person, unworthy of their attention. She could scarcely believe it. They were snubbing a duke—a man whom they would have had the greatest respect for—feared, even—if only he’d had better diction. And for some reason, that thought alone was enough to make Gabriella’s spine stiffen. “You have invited him here,” she told Fielding sharply. When his eyes widened a fraction, she deliberately calmed her voice. “Please be polite.”
“Don’t you think that Huntley would be more comfortable elsewhere?” her father asked with a sigh.
The tightly held control with which Gabriella had been comporting herself for the past ten minutes began to snap. “I’m sure he would, Papa. Especially considering your hostility.” Tugging her arm away from Fielding’s, she met Huntley’s gaze once more. “Your Grace. If I may, I should like to apologize to you on behalf of us all. Unfortunately, good manners appear to be in short supply this evening.”
