Page 5 of Gabriela and His Grace

“It was time for me to venture out.” Lucia clasped her hands together, her chin tilting up. “I’m well past the age my mother was when she met and married my father, and she would have wanted to see me settled. And as I’ve yet to find a man I could envision as my husband in England…”

“It is a bachelor wasteland,” Gabby declared, chuckling when Lucia laughed outright.

“Perhaps I will have better luck in Mexico.” Lucia sighed, her eyes wistful on the horizon. “Or perhaps I will find purpose in caring for my grandmother. I like feeling useful, and recently I’ve felt like a burden.”

Useful. It was a word Gabby had never heard used to describe herself, and she longed for there to be a reason to. Ana María had found a purpose collaborating with Gideon on his work as a member of Parliament. And Isabel had saved President Juárez’s life and now worked for the First Lady of Mexico to aid rebel soldiers and their families in the fight against the French. Meanwhile, Gabby had languished in one boring ballroom after the other, the pretty Luna sister but nothing more. She prayed, with all of her heart, that returning home to Mexico would give her a sense of purpose, just like Lucia.

Gabby laid a hand on the other woman’s arm. “I think it is quite brave of you to travel to Mexico on your own when you’re unsure of what to expect when you arrive.”

Lucia pivoted, a dark brow raised. “I’ve heard I can say the same of you.”

“Perhaps.” Her mouth went dry. “At least my older sister, Isabel, knows I’m coming.”

“Do you think your parents will be upset?” Lucia asked, her eyes wide.

Gabby shrugged, while her gut roiled. “Knowing my father, most definitely.”

Movement from the corner of her eye caught her attention, and Gabby turned with a scowl to see the Duke of Whitfield on the other end of the deck, conversing with the ship’s captain. Of course he would seek out the most powerful man on the ship, Gabby thought disdainfully.

“My word, Señorita Luna, that’s quite the scowl.” Lucia clicked her tongue. “Your sister said you were not fond of the duke, but I suppose I didn’t realize how much until just now.”

“Sí, bien.” She paused, biting her cheek. “He is…not my favorite person.”

“It would seem not.” The young woman studied the duke askance. “I wonder why you hold him in such low regard.”

Shuffling on her feet, Gabby risked a glance in the duke’s direction, her frown deepening to see him now laughing along with a group of sailors. “I will tell you if only to caution you to avoid him as much as you can.”

When Lucia nodded, Gabby held up her hand, ticking off her fingers. “Whitfield’s presumptuous, vain, and arrogant. He believes himself to be the smartest person in any room he steps into and must always have the last word. He’s a rake of the highest order, and his list of paramours could probably circle London twice.”

“Now that last part does not surprise me,” Lucia said, angling her chin to observe the duke and the group of men he stood within. “He’s quite handsome.”

“I suppose so,” Gabby agreed reluctantly. It would be a lie to deny that the Duke of Whitfield was attractive. Even if one ignored his rich dark hair and striking arctic eyes, his broad shoulders always seemed to be in danger of splitting the seams of his dress coats. She’d often noted how he prowled through a crowded ballroom, a bud of resentment blooming across her skin as she took in his easy feline grace. Gabby hated that she noticed the handsome figure the duke cut, but she was never one to lose her head over a pretty face. She’d maneuvered through elevated social circles long enough to know that a comely appearance hid all manner of sins.

“So the Duke of Whitfield is a libertine who would take advantage of a young woman on her own,” Lucia said, clasping her hands together.

“No.” Gabby was surprised by her own sharp tone. Ignoring the other woman’s cocked head, she continued. “Whitfield would never prey upon a defenseless young woman.”

Lucia frowned. “I don’t understand. If he’s all the awful things you said, surely my reputation, if not more, would be endangered by him.”

Gabby pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth, wavering on whether to concede the point. But no, it wasn’t fair. “While he’s not someone I would engage with, it doesn’t mean that Whitfield is dangerous. I’m certain Gideon would not have entrusted us to Whitfield’s care if he wasn’t convinced of the duke’s honor.”

She knew that to the depths of her soul. Whitfield was a scoundrel, but he was an honorable one…of sorts. Yet despite knowing the duke would never harm her, Gabby would never trust the man. There was just something about him and his piercing blue eyes that sparked every one of her defenses.

Rather than explain this, Gabby spread her palms. “You must decide for yourself how you intend to interact with the Duke of Whitfield. If at all. I merely wanted to share what I knew of his reputation, but I don’t think those things make him a threat to your safety and well-being.”

Lucia flashed a bemused smile. “I don’t know, Señorita Luna, a handsome face paired with an arrogant confidence has always been a danger to young women.”

Gabby glanced in Whitfield’s direction, somehow unsurprised to meet his gaze. He held hers for only a heartbeat, then dipped his head politely and looked away.

“Not all young women,” she murmured, a smirk settling on her lips. “Oh, not all of us.”

In an instant, Gabby was back in the darkened hall of Montrose House as she made her way to the retiring room. When soft moans had met her ears, Gabby couldn’t stop herself from peering around the cracked doorway on her left, a gasp catching in her throat. She had met the Duke of Whitfield earlier in the night when he had ignored proper protocol and introduced himself to her directly. Gabby had been charmed by his confidence, and then struck by his droll wit, especially when he had made her laugh with his insightful commentary about those in attendance. The intense manner in which he watched her while she spoke, as if he were keen to hear every thought in her mind, had been incredibly flattering, and she had accepted his request to share a waltz despite her reservations that a handsome titled man could be anything but a rake.

So Gabby had paused when she spied him seated in an armchair, his head tilted back and showcasing the long line of his throat, his eyes clenched closed. One of his hands was tangled in the blond curls of a woman who kneeled in between his spread legs. Heat had coiled low in her belly to see the pleasure etched on his striking face, but before Gabby had an opportunity to ponder what exactly the woman was doing to elicit such a response from him, footsteps had echoed from down the hall. The duke’s gaze had suddenly collided with hers, and Gabby had slapped a hand to her mouth to stifle her surprise. Horrified and embarrassed, she’d grasped her skirts and dashed away. When Whitfield had approached later in the evening to claim her hand for their waltz, she’d arched a brow at him and turned away.

Her cut direct of the Duke of Whitfield had been a minor scandal and had colored her reputation for months afterward, but Gabby had not cared. The duke had revealed his true nature, and no amount of glib compliments, shrewd words, or clever blue eyes would ever convince Gabby that he was worth her time or attention.

Even if the memory of Whitfield’s pleasure in that dark room had been impossible to forget.