“Then tell me where you’ve really been for the past fifteen years.”
Glaring at him, Raphe felt whatever hope he’d had of winning Gabriella for himself slipping away like sand through an hourglass. Confiding the truth would not help. On the contrary, he stood to lose so much more than just Gabriella if he did that. So he said the only thing he could say. “I cannot.”
A long, drawn-out silence settled between them, and then Warwick finally rose from his chair to face Raphe. He stood completely still, eyes boring into his. “Keep the painting,” he finally said with cool disdain. “And stay away from my daughter.”
Raphe watched him walk away with mixed emotions. As much as he hated the man for denying him the chance he’d requested, he also admired him for putting his daughter’s best interests—no matter how misguided Raphe and Gabriella both believed them to be—first.
I’ve dealt with imposters before.
Briefly closing his eyes, he hoped the earl would not investigate him any further. Perhaps coming here this evening had been a mistake. Perhaps enlisting Gabriella’s help had been selfish. If her parents discovered the extent of their relationship with each other, they would never forgive her. Worse than that, she risked a respectable future with a respectable man—a man whom she’d been dreaming of marrying until he’d come along and ruined that dream.
Christ, what a mess!
Inhaling deeply, he made his decision and strode forward with purpose. Gabriella was funny, intriguing, beautiful and kind, and by God, if she didn’t make him want things he’d never wanted before. He liked her more and more every day and could not imagine losing her to someone else.
So he returned to the ballroom with the intention of seeking her out. He’d have his dance, and then he’d tell her what her father had said. Perhaps together, they could find another solution.
He spotted her almost immediately, her expression serene and with a perfect Society smile adorning her lovely face like a piece of jewelry she’d put on to match the rest of her ensemble. She was standing with her parents and Fielding, listening to whatever it was he was saying with polite attentiveness. And then, as if she sensed he was watching her, she turned her head, and her face lit up, eyes sparkling as her trained smile transformed into a more natural one of pure happiness.
Unable to look away, he smiled back. Oh, how he longed to go to her, to have her in his arms again—to trace his lips along the delicate curve of her neck. He wanted to run his hands over every part of her, feel her tremble and sigh in response to his touch and . . .
Fielding, as if registering Gabriella’s sudden lack of interest in him, looked his way as well. His eyes darkened with uninhibited rage. Gabriella, however, didn’t seem to notice, her gaze never straying from Raphe’s, her body turning as though she meant to come to him.
Fielding’s mouth twisted, and in that moment—in a split second—Raphe knew that something awful was about to happen. He wasn’t sure what, but he knew that somehow, he had to prevent it. So he started forward, intent on reaching her side.
One step.
That was all he managed before Fielding reached his arm around Gabriella’s shoulders, pulling her back to him and kissing her, right there in the middle of the Coventry ballroom, for everyone to see. All conversation ceased, not even a whisper could be heard. And then, finally, after what felt like a decade of inexplicable torture, Fielding stepped back and, speaking to the assembled guests, said the one thing that would ruin Raphe’s chances forever. “Lady Gabriella has just agreed to be my wife. You may congratulate us both.”
Chapter 20
Raphe had taken his fair share of punches before, but none had ever hit him as hard as this. Whether or not Gabriella had really accepted Fielding’s offer was inconsequential. She would not be able to refute it now without scandal.
Cheers and applause swept through the ballroom as the partygoers began closing in on the newly betrothed couple. Raphe wished he could just see her face—wished he’d be able to see the truth in her eyes. Instead, his gaze found Fielding’s. There was an arrogant flicker about it that caused Raphe to clench his fists, nails digging against the palms of his hands. And then the bastard winked! The crowd closed around him and Gabriella, and Raphe, cursing the day he’d met the earl, turned on his heel and strode away.
“I’ll walk,” he snapped at his coachman. He didn’t care that it was raining—a steady downpour that soaked his greatcoat and dripped from the brim of his hat. The gray wetness suited his mood, the beat it played against the shimmering cobblestones matching the furious beat of his heart.
He shouldn’t care, he told himself. She was just a woman. A woman he’d known for a very short time. But the thought of having lost her was gut-wrenching, no matter how he looked at it.
Pulling his hat further down on his forehead, Raphe crossed Piccadilly, his shoes sloshing through a stream of water that flowed toward the gutter. By the time he reached his front door, he looked as though he’d just been for a swim in the Thames.
“Your Grace,” Pierson said, his expression a little perplexed as Raphe handed him his soggy hat and greatcoat. “Did something happen to your carriage?”
“No,” Raphe clipped. “Is the fire lit in my study?”
“Ye—yes. Yes of course.”
With a nod of approval and the anticipation of having a very large glass of brandy, Raphe stepped past his butler.
“Err—Your Grace,” Pierson called after him, halting him in mid stride. “You should know that there’s a man waiting to see you.”
Raphe spun back to face him, annoyed that he would not be allowed to wallow in peace. “At this hour?”
“I told him you’d be late in the hope that he’d return at a more decent time, but he insisted on waiting for you—said you would want to meet with him.”
Expelling a breath, Raphe thanked Pierson for the information before resuming his progress. He wasn’t sure who the man could possibly be—he didn’t think he knew anyone who’d be rude enough to call on someone after ten o’clock at night. But when he reached his study and stepped inside, he realized that unfortunately, he did. “Guthrie,” Raphe growled.
“Good to see ye,” Guthrie said before setting the crystal tumbler he held to his lips and taking a long sip. He didn’t bother to rise from the chair on which he slouched. But he did extend one hand and make a gesture that seemed to encompass the whole room. “Nice place ye ‘ave ‘ere.”
