Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Something was off, and it wasn’t the sole meunière.
The clink of silver on Sèvres porcelain grated, as did the blank stares of the liveried footmen and the incessant ticking of the mantel clock.
Though she sat beside Gabriel at the head of the table, his mood had cooled since his confession in the carriage.
His sighs deepened with each mouthful of sautéed green beans. Twice, she caught him studying her over the rim of his wine glass, his gaze travelling over her as if she wore a silk chemise rather than a simple grey dress.
She scoured her mind, replaying her reply.
Then I hope you never tire of your gift.
Was he wondering how they might live together when kissing lost its charm? Or which one of them would feel regret first? Was that what troubled him now?
“You seem preoccupied tonight,” she said, determined to uphold their oath and be honest. “I’m surprised we’re dining here, and not in your private chambers.”
His gaze flicked to the footmen, and they left without a whisper. Then he took a long drink of his claret. “Do you know why the gossips think I keep a secret harem in a hidden cellar?”
The question caught her off guard, though the answer came easily. “Because you’re an exceptionally handsome man who avoids female company, especially the ladies of the ton?”
He seemed to find that amusing.
“Because my parents held wild parties here. They spent their whole married life breaking their vows, degrading their union, disappointing one another.”
She wondered why he was telling her now.
“Is that why you don’t believe in love?”
He stared at his plate, wincing as though the sight of food sickened him. “Love is a weapon. A means to inflict pain. I learnt that long before Miss Bourne took my father’s bribe. She was the final lesson.”
What does it have to do with me? she wanted to say.
“You’re not your father, and I’m not Miss Bourne.”
“No. You’re not.” He met her gaze, his fingers tightening around the glass, the corners of his eyes creasing. “But I’ve broken my vow to you, and you cannot know how much that pains me.”
She was quick to correct him. “Forgive me. I’m struggling to see how. You promised friendship, and you’ve proven you’re the person I can trust most. You swore to protect me and have saved my life twice.”
“I think you know what I’m referring to.”
“If it’s the experiment, then I fail to see the problem.”
“It’s not the experiment.”
“What then?”
“It’s how easily you undo me.”
The words stole her breath.
This strong, self-possessed man, undone by her lips? Perhaps it wasn’t her, but the years spent denying himself affection.
She reached for her wine and took a fortifying sip. “And so you’re rebuilding your fortress and scouring the kingdom for the strongest armour, in a bid to lock me out?”
“That’s all I know,” he confessed.
Her heart softened, though she battled two instincts: one to reach out and take his hand, the other to protect herself, for she feared Gabriel would be all too easy to love.
“It doesn’t help that we’re working so closely on the case,” she said.
He made her feel like his equal, and she would always admire him for that.
Yet for all his talk of restraint, he touched her as often as she touched him.
Perhaps she should be the one wearing a chest plate of steel.
“We might need to limit the time we spend together at home. See each other less.”
Would that appease him?
Ease his guilt for passionately kissing a friend?
The furrows between his brow said not.
Still, he needed to draw his own conclusions. Solitude, not sympathy, was the best course. A man skilled at deciphering poetry would, in time, make sense of his own tangled emotions.
She dabbed her mouth with her napkin and rose. “It’s been a long day, and I’ve no appetite. A little time apart might help you see you’ve done nothing wrong other than test the natural boundaries.” Before he could reply, she added, “Goodnight, Gabriel.”
He murmured her name, a plea, an apology, who knew? But she pretended not to hear and left the room. She didn’t linger but hurried upstairs and dressed for bed. Still, she paced, wondering if he’d drink until he drowned in regret.
Mrs Boswell came to turn down the bed, explaining that the maids always took supper when the master dined, but word had already reached below stairs that Olivia had left before finishing her meal.
“Once you’re settled, we should sit down and discuss your expectations, ma’am.” Mrs Boswell folded back the coverlet and placed a sprig of dried lavender on the pillow.
“You mean I shouldn’t expect too much of him?”
“I mean, discuss the maids’ routine, the menus, and which room you’d like for your private office, where you might deal with correspondence.
There’ll be letters from charitable foundations and invitations to balls, though not before you’ve been presented at court.
We’ll need to hire a modiste to design your wardrobe.
The countess can recommend someone suitable. ”
“Oh. I see.” It all sounded rather daunting. And to think she’d imagined spending her days walking the grounds with him, discussing poetry. “Forgive me, I’ve been so intent on solving a mystery, I’ve not given it any thought.”
“The mystery of who killed Mr Lovelace and why someone might wish to blame you?”
“That, and how best to help my husband manage his feelings, though the latter is rather more complex, I fear.”
Mrs Boswell gave a knowing smile. “May I speak freely, my lady?”
“Of course.” She was out of her depth in every regard.
“Shall I tell you how many ladies his lordship has invited into this house since his father passed nine years ago?”
“Please do.” Jealousy slithered through her chest like a serpent in the grass. In truth, she would rather not know.
“None.” Mrs Boswell paused, letting Olivia feel the weight of her answer. “And shall I tell you how many ladies have occupied space in his mind?”
“I suspect you’re going to.”
“None but you, ma’am.”
That wasn’t entirely true. “His preoccupation with Miss Bourne is common knowledge. He refers to her often.”
“Then I ought to have spoken more wisely,” Mrs Boswell said, inclining her head, “and said how many ladies he’s thought of with any real feeling.
The Marquess of Rothley does not kiss in corridors, nor does he keep a particular poetry book at his bedside.
He lets no one into his carefully constructed world. ”
“What are you saying, Mrs Boswell?”
“I’m saying he hasn’t been the same since he met you, my lady. And now he’s gone and broken his word, and nothing unsettles him more.”
“We merely kissed.” Which was entirely her fault. “He’s not really broken a vow.”
“You can be sure he has in thought, if not in deed, ma’am.”
Her mind raced. What had he imagined them doing? Doubtless something so passionate it had driven him to this moment of self-flagellation.
“And this obsession with honour stems from his parents’ raucous parties?” Small wonder the gossips never let him forget.
Mrs Boswell paled, her shoulders curling inward. “No child should see the things he did. I was barely a woman myself then, but it shocked me to the core.”
Olivia studied her, struck by the depth of her distress. It explained his hatred of the house. A place more like a mausoleum than a home.
“Then why stay here? Why torment himself with painful memories when he has a grand property in town?”
Mrs Boswell moved to the door, peered into the corridor, then returned and lowered her voice. “He’s afraid she’ll return.”
“Miss Bourne?”
“His mother.”
Olivia pressed a hand to her throat. “I assumed she passed years ago, before the incident with Miss Bourne.”
“She left after his father died, when he needed her most. The butler went with her. When his lordship inherited, he dismissed her lover and forbade her friends from calling at the house.”
Olivia’s heart sank. He had comforted her while carrying his own sorrow alone. And she’d never even thought to ask.
“He stopped her from taking the Rothley jewels, but she left regardless. It’s said she perished with her lover in some hellhole in France. But, like everything in his life, it’s shadowed by uncertainty.”
She absorbed the words, a glimmer of understanding and pity stirring in her chest. It explained his obsession with betrayal.
“I cannot thank you enough for trusting me, Mrs Boswell, though I doubt I’ll sleep a wink tonight.” Had she known this half an hour ago, she might have stayed downstairs. Might have kept Gabriel company.
“I’ve just the remedy for restless thoughts, ma’am.”
It wasn’t merely restless thoughts. Her body craved his touch, the slow burn of it, the ache that bloomed after. But he was right. Friendship shouldn’t feel like this. Every hour in his presence blurred the lines a little more.
“I’ll not take laudanum.”
“I was thinking of a peaceful walk, my lady. His lordship’s grandmother designed the sensory garden that leads to the fountain. It’s still light. I can show you the way. I’ll just fetch your half boots and a wrapper.”
The need to escape the house, and to still the pulse that quickened whenever she thought of him, had her agreeing. While she tied the belt of her muslin wrapper, Mrs Boswell insisted on brushing out her hair.
They took the servants’ stairs and met no one en route.
“I’m told her ladyship always began in the herb garden, with the gentle scent of lemon thyme,” Mrs Boswell said as they stepped out into the warm night air.
“The path will take you through the ornamental gardens. Keep to the gravel, and when you pass the statue of Psyche, follow the roses until you reach the grand fountain.”
Olivia touched her arm. Mrs Boswell’s motherly manner was something to be treasured; she made everything feel less daunting.
“You’re welcome to accompany me.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but the sensory garden is meant to be enjoyed alone.”
A breeze stirred the herbs, releasing a crisp, calming note.