Page 63 of Gabriela and His Grace

When her sobs had turned to hiccups, Gabby pulled back to wipe at her cheeks. “I actually thought I could be a new Gabriela here. A confident, intelligent, savvy woman my father would finally see. He’d finally feel compelled to listen to my ideas, understand how they’ve been shaped by the things I experienced in London…”

The fight fled her on one long exhale. All it had taken was one disdainful look from Elías Luna, one arch of his brow, one sneer of his lips, for Gabby to feel as if she’d been left in a large ballroom alone with all the candles extinguished. If that weren’t devastating enough, Whitfield bore witness to her father’s indifference. The duke was a spectator to her great shame, and while she felt she knew Whitfield better now and didn’t think he would make snide comments at her expense, she would not blame him if he did. Gabby had not been nearly as kind to him as he had been to her.

It was another source of shame.

“Do you believe you’re only deserving of your father’s approval if you do something grand or noteworthy?” he asked, tucking a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. The simple gesture chipped away at the armor she had wrapped around her heart.

Abruptly, Gabby remembered he’d asked a question. That sardonic lilt that accented the majority of Whitfield’s words was absent, and Gabby risked a glance up at his face. He was staring down at her, his spectacles slightly askew because of the crinkle in his nose.

Gabby pondered her response. “Look how he treats Isa. He used to ignore her, wanted to send her to a convent, but my clever sister had grander plans for herself. She saved the Juárez cabinet from capture, and now works for the rightful First Lady.” Gabby looked down at her feet, toeing her boot into a groove in the wood decking. “She’s married to Sirius, who is obviously besotted with her…as he should be, of course. And don’t even get me started on Ana María.”

The duke rubbed a circle into her back. Dios mío, he was marvelous at this. “Your sisters are lovely, accomplished women who have found happiness doing something they’re passionate about, with someone they love by their side.” He paused, and when he continued, Whitfield’s voice was softer. “Do you feel that if you don’t have what they have—success, recognition, love—that you’re a failure?”

Yes. Her mind screamed the answer, but Gabby kept her mouth closed. It seemed like a horrible thing to admit. Her sisters were not just deserving of admiration and praise because they had accomplished great things for Mexico, but because Ana and Isabel were exceptional women. Gabby, in comparison, had only ever deserved empty compliments to match the empty head so many people believed she possessed.

She couldn’t stop the helplessness, the despair that wrapped its insidious hands around her throat and squeezed it tight.

“Aren’t I?” She bit her lip to keep it from trembling and weighed what she wanted to reveal to Whitfield. Seeing as how she was already wrapped up in his arms, the linen of his waistcoat under her cheek, and his woodsy scent filling her nose, Gabby wagered she was in for a penny. “A young woman of my position is expected to marry. Is expected to have children and care for her home. And here I am, with neither a husband nor children. Two times in as many months, I have fled a continent to escape being forced into marriage to a man I did not love.”

Gabby buried her face in Whitfield’s chest and whispered, “I wanted to be more than a pretty face. I wanted to matter because of the thoughts in my head and not my surname and the connections I offer. I want to be more than the children I could give my husband. Yet how can I be more if I don’t belong anywhere? Not here in Mexico, and not in England. I just…”

And she was weeping again. Her cries were not as noisy this time, but her shoulders still shook and Whitfield’s coat grew damp with her tears. Frustration and despair coalesced into a ball of anger in her throat.

That was until a gentle hand curled around her chin and tilted her face up. Sniffling, Gabby took a shuddering breath and met the duke’s gaze.

“Please don’t cry, Ella darling.” His thumb brushed a tear from the crest of her cheek. “I would rather you insult me all day than to see you shed another tear.”

“What did you call me?” she asked on a ragged breath.

The duke’s cheeks turned scarlet, but he didn’t drop her gaze. “It just came to me. I apologize for saying it aloud.”

A very different kind of emotion weaved its way around her chest and hugged it tight. The Duke of Whitfield had given her a nickname? A lovely name no one had ever called her before. A name born not of teasing or even contempt…but perhaps of the very same emotion that made it difficult for her to draw breath.

Exhaling shakily, Gabby summoned her bravery and slid her fingers over the ones that still cupped her chin. “It seems appropriate that you would coin your own name for me.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up. “My hubris knows no bounds.”

Gabby shuddered a breath. “And I’ve always done my best to rein in your pride, so I would’ve expected a humbling nickname in turn.”

His fingers slid down her back to cup her waist, and she felt the scorching heat of his touch through her various layers of clothes. “Not once have I ever wanted to humble you. I’ve relished your cutting wit. Your piques of temper. The lightning that flashes in your mercurial eyes when you fix them upon me.”

Her skin tingled, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, and Gabby clutched his hand within her own.

“I’ve watched you contort yourself into shapes, cram yourself into molds that could never possibly contain everything that you are. All for the approval of a man who has no interest in understanding you. Could never possibly comprehend your brilliance.” Whitfield’s blue gaze was anything but icy as he stared down at her. “And it’s been maddening to observe, because you should never have to dampen the fire that blazes so brightly inside you. Those who claim to love you should want you to glow.”

“They should, shouldn’t they?” she sniffled, smiling weakly when he laughed.

“Absolutely,” the duke said, his fingers flexing around her waist. “Despite your inclination to distrust me, rest assured I’m not wrong.”

Gazing up at him, Gabby marveled that she was in this moment with a man she had once despised. Whom she thought despised her in return. But she’d been wrong; what else had she been wrong about?

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and suddenly Gabby wanted to put all of her previous notions to the test.

Straightening her spine, she held his stare. “I would very much like it if you kissed me.”

Gabby gleaned an immense amount of satisfaction from the way Whitfield whipped his head back.

“Christ,” he growled, hitching her higher against his chest, “I’ve been desperate to taste you for too damn long.”