Page 43 of Gabriela and His Grace

Licking her lips, Gabby began, “I know Maximilian and the French have not yet surrendered, but I’m sure Presidente Juárez has already begun to look to the future and how to unite the republic—”

“Of course Benito has,” her father snapped.

Gabby inclined her head, refusing to let his cutting tone bother her. “I think that in order to do so, a concerted effort needs to be made to bring the influential peninsular and criollo families who supported Maximilian back into the fold. They need to have an invested stake in Mexico’s future. I think we can do this in several ways—”

“We?” Elías quirked a brow. “There is no we here, Gabriela. The only way you would be involved in such a venture is if you were pledged to marry into one of those families.”

To her great frustration, Gabby felt the flames of her temper fan to life. Yet she did her best to sound undaunted when she said, “Brokering marriage agreements for political power is woefully old-fashioned, Father. There are more effective ways to unite the people of Mexico—”

“Perhaps. But I’d rather you use the skills Isabel claims you have to find a husband,” he declared, raising his glass for a drink.

Before Gabby could growl a retort, the butler entered the room and announced that the carriage awaited them. And just like that, the conversation was over.

“I’m sorry, querida,” Isabel whispered as they accepted wraps from a maid. “We knew he wouldn’t be an easy audience.”

“I suppose I’ll have to try again.” Gabby sighed. “And it’s I who owe you an apology for asking you to accompany me this evening. You could be with Sirius now instead of listening to Father complain about my unmarried state.”

“I’m glad I’m here with you.” Isabel weaved her arm through Gabby’s, and together they followed their parents to the waiting carriage. “You should not have to defend yourself from Father on your own. And it’s easier for me to weather his tirades now that I have Sirius to support me.”

“He loves you very much,” Gabby said, smiling.

“I know he does.” Isabel patted her hand, a fond look on her face. “And you deserve a man who will love you just as much. Don’t let anyone force you to give your hand away.”

“I won’t,” she murmured. Although Gabby wondered if her life would be easier if she capitulated to her father’s demands instead of always fighting against them.

The ride to the Ortiz villa was not long, and soon Gabby found herself within a crowded drawing room standing next to a Spanish gentleman who claimed to want to know about her time in England yet interrupted her constantly.

“I was in Europe last summer to visit my family in Valencia. We originally had plans to spend a fortnight in London to partake of the culture before traveling to Sussex for the derby, but we decided to visit Rennes and then Paris instead.” Señor Valenzuela studied her over his glass of port. “Have you been to France?”

Gabby gaped at the man for what felt like a full minute. How he could ask such a question simply shocked her. “Considering the French have illegally occupied Mexico for years, no, I have not possessed any interest in visiting France.”

Rather than showing embarrassment, Señor Valenzuela chuckled as if she had told a joke. “Well, then you missed an opportunity, for the French are very cosmopolitan. They have brought a refined influence to society in Mexico City.”

“I believe we have different definitions of refined, señor,” she murmured, glancing about for an escape.

And that’s when she saw him. Whitfield stood in a circle of men and women, her father by his side. While the duke always cut an impressive figure, something about his presence now—his broad shoulders, the twinkle in his eyes behind his spectacles, the way his long fingers wrapped around his glass of wine with ease—left Gabby flushed. She’d thought him handsome from the first, but now with the tan he’d earned on their voyage serving as a complement to his dark hair and piercing blue eyes, he was devastating.

She didn’t appear to be the only person Whitfield had this effect on, for women all about the room had their gazes trained on him. Over fans and glasses, eyes studied his every movement, and a foreign and uncomfortable blaze burst to life in her gut. Gabby wasn’t surprised the duke was garnering such attention—she had even predicted it on the ship. Yet the prickles of jealousy that slithered along her skin at seeing Whitfield not just admired by the women in the room but coveted frustrated her to no end.

Her mood soured further when she noted how her father appeared resolved to keep the duke by his side. Standing between Whitfield and Sirius, Elías was a king surrounded by his court. It made Gabby want to scream.

Instead, she swiped a glass of mezcal from a passing servant and swallowed it in one cutting bite.

“Ay Dios, señorita, you know how to make an impression.”

Gabby spun about, her brows arching when her gaze landed on a gentleman she did not recognize. He was young, perhaps Ana María’s age, yet he carried himself with a confidence that belied his years. With his dark hair a little too long, and his chin and cheeks covered by dark stubble, he should have looked unkempt. Instead he was rakish, in a dangerously appealing way.

Gabby was instantly intrigued.

Flicking her fan open, Gabby met the stranger’s dark gaze. “I’m almost afraid to ask what sort of impression I’ve made.”

The stranger cocked his brow. “Almost?”

A slow smile tightened her cheeks. “I’ve never been afraid of a man’s opinion of me.”

His laugh echoed around the room, and it was a very nice laugh. Gabby couldn’t help but smile up at him.

“I’m Pedro Carrasco,” he said, grasping her hand and bringing it to his lips. “And you are Señorita Gabriela Luna, yes?”