Chapter 12 #2
Then she startled Olivia by pressing a small pocket pistol into her hand, folding her fingers around the cool metal. “Take this as a precaution. It’s served me well in darker days. His lordship would have my guts for garters if I let you wander about unarmed.”
“Perhaps I should stay inside.”
“You’re perfectly safe, ma’am. Still, I’ll let his lordship know where you are. Now, take your walk. The night air works wonders for a troubled mind.”
The thought of pacing her chamber all evening held little appeal. She slipped the pistol into her pocket and nodded. “Very well. I shall be but half an hour.”
The last of the daylight lingered on the horizon, bathing the garden in hues of lilac and gold. She followed the path past banks of rosemary and lavender, the air growing sweeter as it wound between clusters of roses and night-blooming jasmine.
It was beautiful here, but Gabriel saw only the pain of the past. She thought of the night he had come to the cottage. How different things might have been had he arrived a minute too late.
She ran her hand through the lavender and thought of every kiss they had shared, the tender press of his lips, the deep sweep of his tongue, the fever of passion they could never quite suppress.
But even beauty had its shadows.
Only time would tell whether fate was a blessing or a curse. The weight of the pistol in her pocket was a sober reminder that danger was never far from her door.
Gabriel held the poetry book in his hands, but the words on the page swam before his eyes, blurred by thought and his lack of interest in anything but the woman he had married.
He reached for his brandy, then decided against it. He considered changing the book, but nothing would distract him tonight—not a hard ride across open fields, not a brawl with the king of rogues in the basement of Fortune’s Den, not the answers to every damn question that plagued him.
Nothing. Except her.
He should have stopped her from leaving the dining room. Given her the key to his fortress and invited her to come and go whenever the hell she pleased.
What the blazes was wrong with him? He shot to his feet. So what if the saintly Lord Rothley had broken a vow? He hadn’t done so alone.
Hypocrite. The word hissed through his head. He’d promised to love and cherish her, all while expecting to do neither. Why not admit he’d married her because he wanted her, not out of some noble act of benevolence?
He turned on his heel and strode out of the library only to meet a breathless Mrs Boswell hurrying along the corridor.
“If you’ve come to tell me Molière is in a temper, you’ll find I’ve no sympathy to spare.”
“No, my lord, though he has locked himself in the pantry with a dish of peaches à la Condé. I came to inform you that her ladyship has left—”
“Left!” He froze. She’d broken their blood oath already?
“To walk in the garden. I only mention it because, with talk of secrets and dead men, I insisted her ladyship take a pocket pistol.”
Suspicion flared, an old pattern he couldn’t break. “Did she take her coat and bonnet? Are her clothes still in the armoire? For heaven’s sake, Mrs Boswell, did she pack a valise?”
His mind raced through possibilities, none of them good. The image of her alone on the road, unprotected, twisted his gut.
“She’s taking the sensory walk in her nightgown and wrapper. It was my suggestion. I thought time alone might ease her mind.” Mrs Boswell hesitated. “She should still be in the garden. If you’re quick, you might see her from the window.”
Mrs Boswell hurried away before he could call her back.
He didn’t wait to argue. He was already moving, taking the back stairs two at a time. The room at the end of the upper corridor, once his grandfather’s beloved art room, offered the best view of the gardens.
The fountain stood beyond the glass, a monument to past debauchery, and he forced himself to banish the memory of naked revellers cavorting during the summer solstice.
Instead, he searched the paths for her—his wife—for the soft billow of muslin, the glint of copper hair, movement among the roses.
His breath caught when she stepped into view, her wrapper drawn close, her hair a glowing cascade that brushed the pale curve of her neck.
Something tightened low in his chest. He told himself it was concern, the need to ensure her safety. But the truth settled like heat beneath his skin, a fire crawling through every inch of him.
She bent to smell the lavender, and the sight near undid him. The delicate grace of her hand. The sensual flare of her hips. Hell, he had no right to want her. Yet his body had ceased to care about rights or reason.
He pressed his palm to the glass, the chill doing little to temper these confounding urges. Lust was a devil.
Then movement beyond the topiary caught his eye, a lone figure approaching the fountain, just as his wife stepped into the clearing, blissfully unaware she was being watched.
Or was she?
Was this all a ruse?
A planned arrangement?
Had he been played for a fool from the very beginning?
He pushed away from the window and strode for the door. The corridors blurred as he descended, his boots striking hard against the marble floor.
Something made him run.
He avoided the gravel path and cut across the grass, the truth the only lure now.
The murmur of voices near the fountain made him slow and slip behind the tall topiary hedge. He recognised the woman speaking to his wife, for arrogance coated every word.
“It’s obvious Gabriel is using you to hurt me,” Miss Bourne said, her tone sharp with spite. “You should visit the vicarage and speak to the vicar. There’s every chance the marriage is a sham. I heard a rumour the register was faked. A prop for appearance’s sake.”
Gabriel was about to march into the clearing and put the woman in her place, but Olivia proved she could hold her own.
“And yet Gabriel proposed before you returned to Islington. I went with him to fetch the licence. It was my name he called in the throes of passion last night.”
Miss Bourne’s light chuckle made his stomach roil.
“You don’t need to pretend,” she said. “You sleep in separate rooms. You with the peacocks, him in his hideaway.”
Damnation. Who the devil told her?
He had a traitor in his midst again.
“That just goes to show how little you know about the man you betrayed.” Olivia sounded confident, as if born to trap deceivers, yet went on to tell a convincing lie of her own.
“We made love in the library. And in his private drawing room. With two hundred rooms to choose from, we’ll be occupied for months. Not that it’s any of your concern.”
Miss Bourne was undeterred. “Soon, I shall be the mistress of Wynbury Hall. Gabriel will be free to visit whenever he pleases.”
“The disillusioned mistress of Wynbury Hall,” Olivia returned. “Do remember, I am the Marchioness of Rothley. You’ll be expected to curtsy every time we meet.”
He smiled, suspecting Miss Bourne’s nostrils were flaring. He would give his wife her moment of glory before he intervened.
“Enjoy it while you can, my lady. Gabriel has spent ten years struggling to forget me. How long before he tires of playing the dutiful husband and seeks excitement elsewhere?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He seems rather smitten to me.”
“Is that why you wear a pauper’s band instead of the Rothley diamonds? Even a maid deserves better.”
Guilt surfaced. Perhaps he should have bought her something grand and ostentatious, something befitting her position in society. And yet he prayed she’d read the symbolism in its simplicity.
“The ring is a statement, Miss Bourne. My husband knows I cannot be bought. He alludes to Donne’s poem, that love, like metal beaten thin, needs no embellishment to endure.” Olivia paused. “What looks plain to you is something I will always treasure.”
He stepped away from the hedge, his heart stirring, because she was the only woman in the world who truly understood him. He returned to the path and called, “Olivia? Olivia, my love.” He’d be damned if Kate Bourne destroyed his life a second time.
“Here, Gabriel!” Olivia’s voice carried across the garden. He started towards the fountain as she addressed Miss Bourne. “You’re trespassing. Leave now. Don’t force me to draw my pocket pistol. It’s perfectly lawful to shoot poachers.”
The rustle of verdure and a sly comment signalled Miss Bourne’s swift departure. But when he entered the clearing and saw his wife—a cascade of copper hair and lips soft as a sigh—he took her hand and drew her close.
“You should have told me you wanted to walk in the garden.” He bent his head and kissed her without hesitation, certain Miss Bourne still watched from the shadows beyond the shrubs.
Her breath caught, the faintest tremor passing through her fingers where they rested in his.
He told himself it was theatre, a lesson in appearances. Yet when Olivia’s lips parted beneath his, he was lost to need, to hunger, to the sudden truth that she was all he wanted.
He deepened the kiss, coaxing rather than taking, tasting rather than claiming. The world slipped away. There was only her warmth, the steady thrum of her heart, and the ruinous tug of lust.
She broke the kiss but didn’t step back. Her breath came quick, her fingers still tangled with his. He’d forgotten how to breathe altogether.
“Come,” she said softly. “Let’s walk back to the house. We might find a little privacy there. I’m quite certain we need it.”
Neither spoke.
Her hand remained in his, small and certain, guiding him along the path and into the house. They walked through the dim corridors, the brush of her wrapper against his thigh a prelude to seduction.
She paused by an open doorway. Moonlight spilled across the floor. “Here,” she murmured, and he didn’t ask why.