Page 82 of Gabriela and His Grace

“You’re being a cad again,” she panted, baring her teeth at him.

Slipping his other hand under her skirts, Sebastian slapped her once on the arse. “You mean unfailingly charming, love.”

Huffing a breath, Gabriela shifted in his lap, his fingers slipping free of her body. His wife arched a severe brow when she grasped the placard of his trousers, and Sebastian almost swallowed his tongue when she extracted his very hard cock from the tweed.

“Fuck,” he rasped, dropping his head to the seat back.

“Sí, esa es la idea.”

Sebastian opened his mouth to respond, but Gabriela squeezed him within her tight fist, and words became difficult.

He couldn’t see Gabriela’s hand pumping him up and down, or when she angled his flesh so she could slide her body down to encase it in her heat. But Sebastian could observe how her mouth went slack when she rubbed the blunt tip up and down her slit. He watched as her teeth clenched as she worked to take him. He grunted when she bottomed out, her body enveloping him so perfectly he almost couldn’t breathe.

How could Sebastian ever grow bored with such an intensely passionate woman?

The first twist of Gabriela’s hips sent his eyes rolling into the back of his head, and he gripped her tightly as he thrust his pelvis into her movements. Her low hiss sent delight curling about him, so Sebastian did it again, quivering with the sensations bolting through his body. This woman—his woman—would absolutely be the death of him, but he would gladly pay his coin to Charon if he could do so with Gabriela wrapped all around him.

A chorus of mine mine mine looped through Sebastian’s mind as Gabriela pressed her lips against his as she came, her broken gasps and stuttered breaths pushing him toward his own powerful release. In the aftermath, his wife held him close even while she continued to rock in his lap, bussing his cheeks, his temples, and his mouth with soft kisses and panting breaths.

Yes, Sebastian thought, his body sated and his chest absurdly tight. He could think of no better way to go.

• • •

Whitfield Manor was not what she had expected.

Not that Gabby had any expectations for Sebastian’s ancestral home. She assumed it would be grand and stately, a place where generations of Whitfield dukes had been born and died.

Yet as she gazed out the carriage window as they traversed a gravel drive lined with English oaks, Gabby found it was more modest than grand. More cozy than stately. It was lovely.

The Georgian manor house was constructed from Gault brick, and was three stories tall, with sash windows and a Venetian window centered above a stately fluted portico. Ivy clung to the brick facade, and Gabby imagined a young Sebastian using it to sneak from his bedchamber at night. Her eyes could make out a large garden located off the back partition, as well as a small lake sparkling in the distance. The gravel driveway circled in front of the entrance, and at its center was a tall garden fountain, its swirling design topped with a smiling cherub. Gabby grinned at the sight.

“The manor was not initially built to be the dukedom’s primary residence,” Sebastian murmured, staring out the window over her shoulder.

He had insisted on sitting next to her in the narrow cab, and had spent the entirety of the ride from the train station reading a book while alternating between drawing patterns on her palm and rubbing her knuckles against his lips. Gabby found the gestures endearing, and she’d leaned into his side and dozed. It had been an exhausting and emotional day, and their lovemaking on the train had used up the last of her energy.

But knowing they were close to Whitfield Manor had piqued her interest.

“How did it become the primary residence?” she asked now.

“Whitfield Estates burned to the ground when the eighth duke dropped a lantern in the library during a drunken stupor.” Sebastian chuckled when Gabby gasped. “The Brooks family has produced a long line of degenerates and idiots.”

“Three months ago I would have said you were living up to the family name,” Gabby said, arching a brow.

Sebastian winged up his own brow. “And three months ago I was. It’s a wonder you took pity on me.”

“Verdad.” Gabby smiled, and then turned to look out the window again. “So Whitfield Estates burned down, and the subsequent dukes took up residence here at the manor?”

“Yes. It had once been the home of the dowager duchesses.” Sebastian’s expression softened. “It’s small by ancestral estate standards, but I was…content here.”

A sad, wistful note colored his words, and Gabby leaned back until her head was cradled between his neck and shoulder. “And we will be happy here.”

Her husband bussed her temple. “I hope we can fill the old walls with happy memories. And new mortar, because the manor is in desperate need of refurbishment.”

Gabby understood the true nature of Sebastian’s words when they stepped through the front door. She had just been introduced to Roberts, the butler; and Mrs. Evers, the housekeeper; when she followed Sebastian over the threshold and her gaze swept through the vestibule. Everything her eyes touched upon, from the drapes to the carpet to the paintings on the wall, was just a tad shabby. Faded. Worn. Gabby felt terrible for assigning such adjectives to the place when it was obviously well cared for, but a good dusting and scrubbing could only go so far with old and brittle items.

This would all have to change, and Gabby itched to help Sebastian reclaim the manor house’s glory…and possibly put her stamp upon the old bricks.

“Mrs. Evers had a light dinner prepared for us. I told her we would eat in my—our—chamber,” he said, grabbing her hand and leading her toward the stairs.