Chapter 6 #2
Her lips thinned. When she spoke, it was scarcely above a whisper. “Must you marry her now? Could it not wait until you know her better? A week or two might make all the difference.”
He gave a hollow laugh. What could be more absurd than marrying a stranger? “I gave my word. I offered her the protection of my name. The arrangements are merely a precaution. The lady is free to decide her fate when she—”
A sound from the bed cut him short.
Miss Woolf stirred, her long lashes fluttering. In a hoarse whisper, she breathed, “Water … please.”
Mrs Boswell reached for the carafe on the side table and poured cooled barley water into a glass. “Just a sip, miss. Enough to wet your lips.”
Miss Woolf’s hand trembled as she steadied the glass.
She lifted it, the rim brushing her mouth.
Gabriel watched the cool liquid glisten against her lips before she swallowed, her throat working with the effort.
His heartbeat quickened, and he told himself the rush of feeling was nothing more than relief.
She lowered the glass, her gaze wandering about the chamber. Confusion clouded her features as she took in the carved panels, the heavy drapes, and the parade of peacocks. “We’re at Studland Park? The last I recall, we were at World’s End.”
Gabriel stepped forward, eyes fixed on her. “That was two days ago. You’ve barely stirred since.”
“Mr Gentry diagnosed exhaustion,” Mrs Boswell said, setting the glass back on the side table. “He seemed certain you would recover.”
“Two days ago? Good Lord.” She clutched her chest, panic flashing in her eyes.
The thin nightgown offered little defence, and her gaze flicked to him, as though recalling how near he stood.
Awareness quivered in the space between them before colour drained from her face and her eyes swept the chamber, sharp now, searching.
Gabriel knew what she sought. The valise.
“It’s safe,” he said to reassure her.
Her fingers sought Mrs Boswell’s sleeve. “Might I trouble you for something to eat?” The question came gently, as though she were unaccustomed to asking for favours.
“Do you mean to remain abed, miss?” Mrs Boswell asked, patting her hand. “You would be wise to do so.”
She drew a weary breath. “I shall eat first and see how I feel.”
Gabriel caught the faint tremor in her voice, but also the resolve beneath it. “I shall dine here with Miss Woolf. Have Molière send up his onion soup.”
Miss Woolf made no objection. Why would she, when the only thing that mattered was the bag she had hidden at the foot of a corpse? Indeed, Mrs Boswell had barely closed the door before she pushed herself upright.
“Where is the bag? Did you open it? Tell me you didn’t touch anything.” She eyed him cautiously. “I suppose you’re shocked, angry, perhaps disappointed the contents were less intriguing than expected.”
“On the contrary.” His gaze slipped to the three pearl buttons at her throat, undone to reveal smooth porcelain skin, then lower to the copper strands brushing her collarbone.
She looked bed-tumbled, and the sight roused thoughts forbidden to a man sworn to celibacy.
“It’s the smallest things I find most intriguing. But I haven’t opened the valise.”
She frowned. “Why? It’s not locked.”
“I know.”
“You’ve not peeked inside?”
He gave a short snort. “And betray your trust? How am I to prove I have honourable motives if I falter at the first hurdle?”
Her gaze slid over him. “Few men possess your strength—your strength of will, I mean.” Yet her eyes caught on the breadth of his chest, just as they had at the washstand when she’d paused in the doorway, breathless at the sight of him bare.
She was a formidable adversary in this game of resolve. For the first time in years he felt like a man, flesh and blood, not a marquess bound by duty. He would be wise to eat his soup downstairs.
“How would you like to do this?” The words slipped out clumsily, and he cursed himself for it. They lacked the precision he prided himself on. “Shall we eat first?” His jaw tightened. “Eat before we open the valise? Assuming you feel well enough.”
Her throat worked tirelessly before she said, “It’s not too late to bundle me in a hackney cab with that dratted bag and forget you ever met me.”
It was too late. His last chance to do something honourable. He might have lectured her on what it meant to make a vow, how faith was all he had left. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a folded parchment, and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” She took it, her pale fingers shaking as she realised he’d used the weight of his position to make demands of the Archbishop. “You obtained a licence?”
“You’re an intelligent woman, Miss Woolf. Do I strike you as a man who makes worthless promises?”
“No, but—”
“You must make the choice now.” A knot twisted in his stomach. Her answer shouldn’t matter, but it did. The realisation unsettled him, though his voice remained composed. “I can summon Kincaid. He will take you anywhere you wish to go. Scotland. Dover. A ship bound for the Americas.”
He stopped there, letting her weigh the options.
“And the alternative?” she asked quietly. “I sense there is one.”
His gaze held hers. “If you stay, we will marry in the chapel today.” He spoke like a man of Parliament, calm, each word measured. “I need certainty, Miss Woolf. But as your husband, know I will not rest until those hounding you are caught. It strikes me as something we must do together.”
She barely moved, barely blinked. “Ours would need to be a remarkable friendship to withstand a loveless marriage and the shame of infidelity.”
“Infidelity?” The word tasted like poison. He had seen what deception could do, how it seeped into a man’s veins and corroded everything decent in him. “Let me be clear. You will take no man to your bed. I’ll not have cuckold added to my list of monikers.”
She laughed, though a frown creased her brow. “Not me. I could hardly expect you to remain faithful. Do you not possess that animal instinct to mate?”
Her blunt retort caught him off guard, stirring an almost unbearable need to devour her smart mouth.
“Celibacy sharpens a man’s mind. I have no wish to squander my wits on fleeting pleasures.
What I value is constancy, and I see the same in you.
You crave security, Miss Woolf, as much as I crave loyalty. Together, we might yet find both.”
Her gaze dropped to the licence in her hand, which she waved as if the words were flimsy. “What if one of us isn’t strong enough to keep our bargain?”
“Then I will be strong enough for us both. You will not fall while I stand beside you.”
She raised her chin. “You assume I’m the weak one.”
This was what he needed, a woman unafraid to challenge his opinion. He had known that about her from their first meeting.
“I assume nothing. I know your strength, which is why I choose to share the burden.” He bowed. “I shall leave you to consider your options, and trust you will choose reason over the folly of romantic love.”
He had reached the door before she said, “Wait.” She cleared her throat. “What if you realise you still love Miss Bourne? She’s captivating. Beautiful enough to hold any man under her spell. It will be torture living so close.”
He turned, his gaze unflinching. “Miss Bourne holds no claim on me. Whatever she was, whatever spell she cast, ended ten years ago. Do you think me so cruel as to bind you to a lie?”
“Love catches people unawares.”
“The capacity to love was stolen from me years ago.” He drew a breath, loss tightening his chest, and for the briefest moment he wondered if it was entirely true.
Miss Woolf surprised him. She cast back the bedclothes and crossed the room in her nightgown, her bare feet sinking into the rug.
He forced himself to remain still, though his eyes betrayed him, taking in the loose hair at her shoulders, the shift of cotton at her hips, the bare skin where the neckline gaped.
This was not the time to think of her as a woman.
“I won’t have it said I deceived you.” She pressed the licence into his hand, her fingers closing lightly over his.
“I fear my father was a spy and that he may have committed treason. I have not spoken of it to another soul.” She drew a slow breath, as though the admission had cost her dearly.
“Take time to consider your options, my lord. I shall await your decision.”
Her confession should have shocked him, but it didn’t. Men did not stalk graveyards or fire pistols on public lanes unless the stakes were high.
If she meant to persuade him to relent, she achieved the opposite. Did she not know he thrived on truth? That this show of trust touched him in ways kisses never could?
There was only one course left, and he would not waver. “Then we must marry without delay.”