Page 39 of Gabriela and His Grace

“I haven’t had this since well before we fled to England,” she said, studying the flecks of cinnamon that drifted about the creamy liquid. “It’s just as refreshing as I remembered.”

“When Sirius and I wed and set up our household, finding a cook was one of my first priorities.” Isabel reached for a sweet-potato-and-chorizo empanada and placed it on the plate in front of her. “Mother helped me sort through the candidates, and I’m quite pleased with Señora Montez and her cooking. She was even willing to move with us to San Luis Potosí, and we are so grateful. Sirius has said he doesn’t know how he survived so long without Mexican cooking.”

“I don’t know how I survived this long, either,” Gabby quipped, taking another sip of horchata.

“Speaking of Mother,” Isabel began, “how was your visit with her yesterday?”

The sweet taste on Gabby’s tongue abruptly turned bitter. Her shoulders fell as she placed her glass on the tabletop. Of all people, Isabel understood the complicated relationship Gabby had with their mother. As the youngest, Gabby was a reminder to her father that she was not the son he long desired. Then her mother would send her away, as if by not seeing Gabby, she’d be able to erase her inability to birth her husband’s heir. Worst still, their father often pitted Gabby and her sisters against one another in some sort of macabre competition for his approval, so she didn’t have Isabel or Ana María to turn to for support until they’d arrived in England. Therefore, much of her childhood was spent alone in her room or wandering the grounds of the villa.

Expelling a breath, Gabby said, “It went well, I suppose.”

Isabel raised her brows. “Just well?”

“You know how Mother is.” Gabby picked at a crack in the table with her fingernail. “She wanted to know about life in London. The parties I attended and the people I’ve met. Tío Arturo. Did I fall ill on the voyage because I’m too flaca?”

“Ay,” Isabel grumbled with a roll of her eyes. “She asked the same of me.”

“She wanted to know more about Estella, and for me to describe Ana María and Gideon’s home,” Gabby continued.

“Mother was very interested in how many rooms they had. And how large their staff is.”

It was Gabby’s turn to roll her eyes. “Naturally.”

“Did she ask you about your suitors? She asked me all about Lord Westhope until Sirius arrived,” Isabel said, a fond curve to her lips.

“I’m to blame for her knowing about Lord Westhope. He was so kind, and I was thrilled he was enamored of you.” Gabby feigned a wince. But truly the viscount had been infatuated with her sister, and had Isabel not been in love with Sirius, it was possible she would now be a viscountess. “But I should have kept that information to myself.”

“Don’t apologize, querida. Mother just wants us all to marry and have babies,” Isabel said with a snort.

“Which is why she asked about Lord Carlisle’s proposal.”

All the humor bled from her sister’s face. Isabel slowly dusted off her hands with a napkin and gently set it on the table next to her half-eaten empanada. “I didn’t realize she knew about the earl.”

Gabby shrugged, glancing away. “I’m guessing Ana told her.”

“Did Ana also tell her that the earl’s proposal constituted him accosting you in the drawing room at the Wright ball in hopes of forcing you into marriage?” Isabel bit out around her teeth.

The sound of a throat being cleared whipped Gabby’s head up. Sirius and Whitfield stood awkwardly on the threshold.

“Good afternoon, darling,” Sirius said finally, crossing the room to press a quick kiss to Isabel’s temple.

The duke remained in the doorway, his gaze locked on Gabby. His expression was unreadable, but something about the way he held himself, as if he would be trembling if he weren’t so disciplined, left her on edge. Was he angry?

“Mrs. Dawson,” Whitfield voiced as a greeting, although he held Gabby’s gaze as he pulled out a chair next to her and sat. “Miss Luna.”

“Your Grace.” Fighting the urge to fidget, Gabby wrapped her fingers around her napkin and squeezed it tight.

She had hoped the duke would not ever be privy to her shame. But what made her ears hot and her throat tight was the knowledge that the Earl of Carlisle was Whitfield’s friend. She’d read any number of on-dits about their exploits together.

She could only imagine what the duke must think.

Whitfield didn’t speak for several moments, and only the hum of Isabel and Sirius’s conversation reached Gabby’s ears. She wasn’t sure what they were saying—their voices mere whispers at the end of a tunnel—but every fiber of Gabby’s being was trained on the man next to her. Some innate part of her perceived Whitfield’s distress. His agitation. His emotions didn’t spark fear in her, but they made her restless and uneasy.

The housekeeper appeared in the sunroom at that moment to exchange a word with Isabel and Sirius, and Gabby felt the duke lean toward her.

“Are you well?”

She could pretend his question was one of polite inquiry. Was Gabby well at that moment? Not particularly, but she knew that was not what Whitfield was asking. So she answered him truthfully.