Page 18 of Gabriela and His Grace

Despite the forcefulness of her words, Gabriela’s hand shook as she reached for her teacup. Sebastian had never asked Fox why she was so intent to leave England. What Gabriela chose to do was not his business. But her obvious discomfiture gave him pause. If her reason for returning to Mexico was that the war was ending, why would she be agitated now? Should she not be elated? Was there another reason why she fled London?

Taking up his own glass of wine, Sebastian took a large sip and forced the questions from his mind.

6

“How was dinner with the Conners last night?” Lucia asked as she and Gabby began their second circuit around the narrow promenade deck.

They had wandered outside after a late breakfast of poached eggs and sausage, and Gabby had eagerly soaked up the warmth. She’d had a fitful sleep the night before, once again stressing over the reception she would receive once she arrived in Altamira. Gabby had thought she’d successfully convinced herself that regardless of what her parents, or more specifically her father, thought of her return, she was not beholden to them once she arrived. Isabel had offered Gabby a home with her and Sirius, and Gabby was more thankful than she could say.

Yet Mrs. Conner’s questions during dinner had started the wheels of anxiety churning in her mind once again. Had she made the right decision to depart for Mexico without telling her parents? Ana María had cautioned her to at least send a letter to their mother, but Gabby had refused. María Elena Luna could be more stubborn than her husband, and would have insisted upon her obedience. Besides, Gabby was four and twenty years old, and did not need permission to make decisions in her own life.

It was a mantra she repeated to herself on a loop, although the message had not quite sunk in.

A shoulder bumped into her own, and Gabby jerked her head around to find Lucia staring at her with a bemused expression. “Did you hear me?”

“Lo siento,” she murmured, bumping Lucia’s shoulder in turn. “Your question actually sent my thoughts spiraling into a replay of dinner.”

Lucia frowned. “Oh. I hope it’s not an unpleasant reflection.”

“Not at all.” Gabby adjusted the set of her hat as they stepped out from under an awning and directly into the sunlight. “Mrs. Conner was gracious and asked interesting questions. And Mr. Conner was intent on learning everything he could about the political landscape in Mexico, especially since the troop withdrawal announcement.”

“That announcement is the only reason my father allowed me to even consider traveling to live with my abuela,” Lucia said, a crinkle in her nose.

“It’s the only reason my sister Ana María let me leave, as well.” Gabby toyed with the strings of her hat. “Although my parents will argue that despite the French departing, the troops are still a threat.”

Lucia turned to look at her, her eyes wide. “Are you worried for your safety?”

Gabby immediately shook her head, although unease swirled under her ribs. “No, not really. When my sisters and I first arrived in London, my tío Arturo was late in collecting us from the docks. We were set upon by footpads.”

“You were not,” Lucia exclaimed, smacking Gabby’s arm.

She laughed. “We were. Isa stabbed one of them in the arm, and I was prepared to stab another in the eye, but my uncle’s men arrived just in time.”

Clutching at her chest, Lucia shook her head. “Well, I am relieved you and your sisters were rescued, but now I wonder if I should have asked for more people to collect me from the docks than just my cousin José.”

Gabby wrapped her arm around Lucia’s and leaned into her side. “Don’t worry. We’ll find a way to get you safely to your abuela’s house.”

“Gracias,” the other woman murmured, squeezing her arm.

Turning the corner in the circuit, both women pulled up short, because there across the deck was the Duke of Whitfield surrounded by a group of noisy, laughing children.

Her gaze focused on Whitfield, who was perched on the balls of his feet. He seemed to be sketching out something in chalk along the deck, with five or six children in a semicircle around him, inspecting his work and calling out instructions in turn. The children spoke over one another, the pitch of their voices competing with the shrill calls of the seagulls swooping overhead, and Gabby could make no rhyme or reason of what they said.

“He’s drawing them a hopscotch court.”

Swallowing back a gasp, Gabby and Lucia spun about to see Mr. Brodie leaning upon the rail, a delighted smile on his face.

“He is?” Gabby asked dumbly.

Brodie gestured to Whitfield with his chin. “His Grace challenged the moppets to a game of hopscotch.”

“He did?” Gabby and Lucia said in shocked unison.

Mr. Brodie brandished a hand. “Just because he’s a duke doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to play hopscotch.”

“I thought that was exactly what it meant,” Gabby confessed, smiling when the older man coughed a laugh.

“Nah, His Grace has always been good with children. Hosts a fishing day at Whitfield Manor, and makes sure the local schoolhouse is fully stocked with books and supplies.” Brodie considered Whitfield as he dutifully drew a square to the exact specifications of a girl with red pigtails. “I believe he respects their bluntness.”