Chapter 38 Gabrielle
Gabrielle
Gravel crunched beneath our boots as we walked back up to the house. Cal looped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. I basked in his warmth, anchoring me to this moment.
He’d asked me. He’d really asked me.
“Shall I shout the news from the rooftops?” he murmured against my ear as we climbed the steps to Branleigh’s towering double oak doors. “Or shall it be our secret for now?”
“Just us for now,” I answered, nuzzling into him. “At least until after Isabel’s wedding. I don’t want to steal her thunder.”
“See? You’re already keeping me in line.”
The entry hall was cool and still. As we stepped inside, Cal slid his arm around my waist, his touch easy and sure. James cut across the foyer, a leather satchel slung over one shoulder.
He paused, eyes flicking to where Cal’s hand rested on my hip.
“Look at you,” he said with a sneer. “Rather public, aren’t we?”
Cal tightened his hold around me, his smile sharp. “Don’t you have an empire to run?”
“I do, in fact,” James replied, his tone so casual it stung. “Not that you’d know anything about it.” His eyes glinted with veiled contempt. “We can’t all run off and be mad scientists, now can we?”
Cal stiffened, then kissed my cheek—a soft brush of lips that lingered like a promise. “See you at lunch?” he asked, his voice warmer than I expected.
I nodded, and Cal let go, his hand trailing down my arm before he turned and left me at the foot of the stairs. James joined him, and together they disappeared behind the heavy oak door leading to the library. I couldn’t hear what they said once the door shut—but I could guess.
I went back to my room, which had been serviced while we’d been out. After a quick rinse to wash off the morning’s ride, I slipped into a blouse and skirt—simple but polished for lunch. My body moved on autopilot while my mind ricocheted like a pinball machine.
My phone buzzed, dull and insistent against the polished nightstand. I almost ignored it, cocooned in that blissful haze where nothing else seems to matter, but a second buzz followed. I grabbed it. Two new texts, both from Aunt Suzy.
12:04 p.m. here. That meant it was just after six in the morning in Texas. I could see her now: bare feet on the kitchen tile, coffee maker whirring, glasses perched low on her nose, and a crime podcast humming from the Bluetooth speaker. She’d wake the whole house just to check on me.
The first message:
Good morning, sweet girl! Just checking in. How’s England? Is he treating you right? Send pics!
The second:
NEED PROOF OF LIFE! If you get murdered by a serial killer, I better be quoted in the documentary, LOL.
I smiled despite myself, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The house was still—no voices from the corridor, no footsteps from Avery or the other staff—just the distant rattle and whine of a lawnmower somewhere on the estate.
I opened the curtains wide, flooding the room with wet, milky light, and snapped a shot of the view—a sweep of emerald lawn, tidy hedges, the pewter blanket of cloud cover. I took a mirror selfie to show off my outfit and sent them both.
Alive and well and having an amazing time!
Umm. Where’s the mystery man? I demand photographic evidence.
I laughed—of course she zeroed in on the omission.
I set the phone on the dressing table and watched the cursor blink.
I’d never sent a photo of Cal. Not one. Every time she’d asked, I made an excuse—he hates pictures, it’s not that serious, he’s shy.
And there was always a next time. Always.
Now, even an ocean away, she saw right through me.
I scrolled to the blurry, off-kilter shot I’d taken of Cal outside the stables—his hair ruffled by the wind, the sharp line of his jaw softer in profile, a hint of a smile shading his lips.
For a second, I considered it. The urge clawed at me—weird and primal—to show him off like a trophy. Proof that this was real.
Then I came back to reality and typed out a safe reply.
I told you he’s super camera shy. I promise he exists, and he’s treating me like a queen.
A read receipt popped up, and for a moment, nothing. Then:
I’m on to you, Gabrielle. If you show up married and he’s an 87-year-old lecher, I WILL call the police.
I snorted, then caught my reflection in the mirror—eyes bright, skin flushed, smiling like a girl with her first crush. I didn’t look like myself. Or maybe I looked exactly like myself—for the first time in forever.
The phone buzzed again—this time a call.
I let it ring out, watching the screen pulse with Aunt Suzy’s name and a photo of her grinning with sunglasses and a Houston Astros ball cap.
The urge to answer flared sharp and bright, but I couldn’t do it.
Not with my voice liable to give everything away.
Not with my heart crowding the air from my lungs.
Instead, I typed a brisk reply:
Can’t talk, bad reception. Heading to lunch. More pics soon. Love you!
It was half true, which was better than nothing.
I set the phone face down and stared out the window. The lawn rippled in the wind, shadows skimming the grass like ghosts.
I was engaged.
I pressed my forehead to the glass, trying to focus on sensation—the faint chill, the distant echo of my breath. I was engaged.
To Cal.
To my professor.
No. Not my professor. Not anymore. That was the line I kept repeating, the excuse I wore like a shield.
If we got married—and it was no longer an if, not really—the truth would have to come out.
I’d have to tell Aunt Suzy, tell everyone, that I hadn’t just fallen for some charming Brit with an aristocratic surname.
I’d fallen for my professor. I’d crossed the one line everyone agreed was uncrossable.
Even if I transferred and started fresh with a new school and a new story, the damage was already done.
The rules were clear, and I’d broken them.
No revisionist history would change that.
And it would be a scandal. No matter how many times Cal said it would be fine, that my life wouldn’t be ruined.
I could see the ripples already: Sloane Cartwright savoring the gossip, the story spreading from one group chat to the next, strangers acting like they knew me—like they were owed the details.
I could already hear the whispers trailing me down hallways I’d never walk again—at least, not as a student.
The thought swept cold through my chest, harder than the wind rattling the windowpanes.
I thought of the headlines that had chased Cal out of Oxford and across an ocean.
I thought of my own shaky alibi—the half-lies I’d fed Aunt Suzy, the bland, forgettable name I gave her so she wouldn’t look too closely.
A day would come—and soon—when the truth would crash through it all, shattering the neat compartments I’d built to keep my worlds apart.
In that moment, I didn’t know which was heavier—the secret or the love.
I wondered if Cal’s family had reached the same conclusion.
On the surface, they seemed to have accepted everything—the age gap, my Americanness, the certainty that I would never, no matter how hard I scrubbed, fit within the outline of their world.
My family was considered well-off back home, but nothing compared to the Hawthornes.
There had been no awkward questions about how long we’d known each other, or when exactly the shift from student and professor to something more had occurred. Instead, they had welcomed me—politely, if not warmly. But who knew what they said behind closed doors?
I glanced at the clock.
Shoot!
I’d let forty minutes slip past, lost somewhere between the blue damask wallpaper and my own reverie. I slipped on a pair of ballet flats and checked my outfit in the mirror. Not my best work, but it would have to do.
I hated the sherry—this family’s preferred pre-luncheon ritual. But today, I might need it more than I’d ever admit.