“And I’m glad you did, for it is without question,” she drew a deep breath, forced herself to be honest with him, no matter how difficult that might be, “the most incredible gift I have ever received—besides the beetle, of course. Thank you, Huntley.”
“Raphe.” There was a raspy sound to the name as he spoke it. “I’d like you to call me Raphe.”
Gabriella felt her skin tighten around her. A flush of heat broke out across her chest. It cascaded through her, teasing and tempting and daring. “Raphe,” she said, abandoning what was left of propriety.
He made some sort of noise. Something that almost sounded like a groan—rough and guttural—an elemental response that filled her not only with heat but with a sudden restlessness, a neediness, she didn’t quite understand. The air had somehow come alive between them and she . . . she didn’t know what to do.
“Gabriella.” He spoke her name with so much longing that it almost made her weep.
There was so much emotion that she found herself overcome by it—frightened almost. For she wasn’t sure she understood what he wanted, or if she’d be able to meet his demands, so she pulled back a bit, and chose to reach for safety. “Did you have to leave many friends behind in order to come here?”
He didn’t answer at first, no doubt startled by the sudden change in mood. But then he said, “Just a few, but only one that really mattered. I think of him often, actually, wondering how he’s doing and if he and his family will be all right.”
“Have you considered going back for a visit?”
There was a grunt. Silence. And then, “I can’t take the risk of anyone knowing about my past. The ton would never accept my sisters into their midst if they knew.”
“And yet you confided in me. Why?”
He was suddenly before her, so close she could feel his breath upon her forehead. “Because I didn’t want to deceive you. I didn’t want to . . .” He tilted her chin with his hand, the warmth of his touch seeping deep beneath the surface. “Jesus, Gabriella. Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
She shook her head, unable to fathom the intensity of the moment, of his touch—so gentle and yet so acute. It was dizzying. He’d asked her an impossible question—one she could not answer. So she reverted to the conversation. “When I was younger—once it became clear to me that none of the other girls liked me—I used to wish my life was simpler.”
“The way we lived, Gabriella . . . it might have been simpler, but it was also a hell of a lot harder.”
“I know that, but at the time I just wanted a different life for myself. I just . . . I’ve never felt as though I belonged in this world, where speaking my mind is frowned upon, where one restriction follows another until I feel as though my hands are tied behind my back.” She uttered a sigh. “I’d never had a real connection to anyone outside my own family until I met you and your sisters. You’re different. You like me the way I am.”
“You’re perfect the way you are,” he told her softly. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”
“Not even my birthright?” She tried to say it jovially, but there was no denying the underlying seriousness of the question. It was one that had been niggling her since the day they’d met. “I know you dislike the aristocracy, Raphe.”
“As a group,” he explained. “Not you as an individual. Never you, Gabriella. But . . .” She heard him take a breath, exhale it again—a strenuous sound. “My mother was a viscount’s daughter, and although I don’t remember her well, I remember enough to tell you that she was a deplorable woman. All she cared about was wealth, pretty things, the chance to outdo her friends and to show off. She placed objects and tea parties before her own children. I spent more time with the servants during the early years of my childhood than I did with either of my parents.”
“It’s actually not uncommon for gentry children to be raised by governesses and tutors.”
He laughed grimly. “I’m not talking about that,” he said. “I’m talking about being raised by the maid and the cook in the kitchen. Yes, there may have been a governess once, but I don’t remember her. By the time I was six or seven there were only three servants. Years later, I was told that my father struggled to support my mother’s extravagant lifestyle. He was a second son—a vicar with a modest income. But he didn’t have the strength to say no to her. Got him into a massive debt until one day, there was no way out. She left him for another man and the following day, my father killed himself. I found his body.”
“Good God!” What a terrible thing for a child to endure. “I’m so sorry.”
“Neither deserved to have children.” His voice was bitter now. “They shaped my impression of the aristocracy, and although I always knew I might be wrong—that my parents might have been exceptionally awful—my experience at Fielding House has convinced me of the contrary.”
She couldn’t blame him. He’d been treated abominably by most of those present, including her own parents. Cringing at the recollection, she asked, “Who was it—the person who told you about your parents’ financial troubles?”
“One of my father’s creditors.”
Gabriella frowned as she tried to make sense of it. “I don’t understand. When would a creditor have had the opportunity to speak to you about that? You said yourself that you ran away and that—”
“It was a long time ago.” There was a sense of finality about the way he said it that told her this conversation was over. He no longer wanted to talk about it.
She understood.
She didn’t want to talk about her own bad experiences anymore either. So she asked the first question that came to mind. “How are your dance lessons coming along?”
He closed the distance between them with one step, then bowed his head to whisper in her ear, “I can show you, if you like.” He didn’t wait for her to respond or for the quivers he’d stirred in her belly to cease. Instead, he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her into a waltz, guiding her across the lawn, her feet occasionally sliding against the slippery dew. But he held her upright, his palm spread against her lower back, the heat of it burning its way through her thin robe and nightgown, while the other hand held hers.
He danced with surprising elegance for a man who was new to this sort of thing, his movements agile and smooth, just as they’d been when he’d stood in the courtyard hitting a bag of flour. Her mind went still, narrowing to a point where only that image of him existed.
She felt him shift. “Are you all right?” Just a murmur, but it was enough to make her entire body shudder with pleasure.
