Chapter 2
One could take the man from the country, but one could never take the country out of the man.
The London apartment was modestly furnished, with rugged pieces that emphasized Gabriel’s meager beginnings.
He made no apologies for his provinciality.
It was part of who he was. No matter the formality of his education, he was still a wee boy in ragged breeches, and he would go to his grave with imagined holes in the soles of his shoes.
It annoyed him to no end to consider the betrothal prospects available to a man of means—most of them pea-brained twits, who were far more concerned with putting their breasts on display than they were about revealing just a wee bit of sexy wit.
Sighing, he struck a match, sinking back into his favorite chair as it flared.
He lit the cheroot, then sucked the smoke into the back of his throat as he surveyed the familiar room—terrible habit he’d picked up.
He ought to put it aside as swiftly as the Earl of Aberdeen seemed to put aside his lovers.
But then, as had already been established; Gabriel couldn’t blame the fool man, as there was only one girl in all his life who hadn’t fantastically bored him, and she was long gone from his life—and no doubt he’d embellished that memory as well.
As for the decor of his office… his father had taken up woodworking after retiring from his position with the Duke of Blackwood, as London hardly offered any occasion to “get the dirt under one’s nails.
” A simple wooden rocker sat beside his hearth, evidence of his father’s labors.
Draped over that chair was a plush quilt his mother had stitched for him years ago, “for those wintry nights at school.”
It was only the two of them now—he and his Da—as his mother had passed away some years ago.
His siblings were scattered to the winds—a sister in Boston, another in New York; a brother in India and another in Scotland.
None were flush enough to care for their father, so the task fell to Gabriel, and it suited him well.
However, he’d thought a move from the country would prove beneficial.
Damned if his old man wasn’t behaving strangely of late.
All day long, at intervals, he’d been coming into the room as though he had something to say, and then departing again, shaking his head like an absent-minded fool—something his wily old pop was not.
At sixty-eight, his Da was shrewd as they came, and Gabriel supposed he must have something to say, although his father had never had much difficulty in speaking his mind.
It wasn’t long before he peeped into the room again, and this time he entered, carrying a small box. “Busy, son?”
Gabriel eyed his father curiously. It didn’t take a mastermind to deduce he was not. “No,” he answered anyway.
“Good. Very good.” His father approached the desk with his strange little box, and as Gabriel watched him, he thought for the first time that his father appeared old.
His mother’s death had aged him, truly, but somehow, in the space of these past few days, he seemed.
.. wizened. He didn’t speak, nor did Gabriel, as he watched his father place the small carton on the desk beside him.
But concern for his father’s health kept Gabriel’s attention from the box for the moment.
He sat up, withdrawing the cheroot from between his teeth. And it was only then that he noticed the folded parchment clutched in his father’s fist. His gaze settled on that and somehow, intuitively, he understood the box’s contents must be the source of his father’s agitation.
After a moment, his father pushed the parchment across Gabriel’s desk, then sat in a facing chair.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
Setting the cheroot down in the ashtray, Gabriel did as his father requested, lifting it and unfolding the parchment carefully.
The date marked was only five days past, the scribble unfamiliar.
He meant to turn the paper over to locate a signature, but his father shot up from his chair and prevented him with a hand. “Read it, Gabriel,” he said sternly.
Gabriel’s brows drew together as he turned the paper back over to begin.
“Dearest Mr. Smith,” he began aloud. “I realize it has been some time since our previous correspondence…”
He lapsed into silence as he continued, the tone of the letter becoming painfully familiar.
I am certain I don’t know why I am writing to you with this dilemma, dear sir, but you have ever been so inclined to listen to my ravings.
Do you remember all those hours I rambled on whilst you tended my father’s roses?
I must have worn your patience quite thin, and yet you listened so mindfully, imparting now and again such wonderful jewels of wisdom. Did I ever thank you properly?
Brows furrowed, Gabriel peered up from the letter, eyeing his father with some bewilderment. He wasn’t certain he wished to continue, but curiosity got the better of him and he continued reading, his heartbeat quickening.
It seems, once again, I must find myself babbling, albeit on paper—though I do hope you’ll bear with me.
Dear me, how to begin... From the beginning, I must suppose.
By the time you read this I will most likely be wed—not that I wish to, but it seems I’ve no choice.
Already, I’ve written my agent with the terms, and he is conducting a rather unconventional search on my behalf—for a husband, you see. ..
The letter expounded, explaining rather candidly the terms of her father’s preposterous will. She expressed with some vehemence, her distaste for the proviso, and her reluctance to comply. And yet, her tone was, in fact, resigned.
Gabriel peered up once more, uncertain how it was he was supposed to react to the letter’s disclosure—or to his father’s apparently well-kept secret. “You’ve corresponded with her before?”
His father nodded, nodding at the carton at his side.
Half-heartedly, Gabriel peered into the box, finding the answer to his question.
It was filled to the brim with crusty old letters.
And though his brain went suddenly numb, his hand automatically reached into the carton, withdrawing a letter.
.. addressed to his father... from Lady Margaret Willingham—and then another. And another.
He cast an unsettled glance at his father as he removed a fistful of papers from the storage container.
Through all these years, he’d never once dared seek Maggie out—not even for a fleeting glimpse—not since the day he’d left Blackwood at her father’s command.
He’d been handsomely compensated for his departure—his father, too.
In fact, it had afforded Gabriel an education the likes of which no lad of his station might ever have acquired.
And for his part, they had given his father a substantial enough pension so that he, too, might enjoy the last of his days without working his fingers to nubs.
And for all this, Gabriel might have been grateful, but he’d chosen anger as his balm and he’d wallowed in it day by day, year after year.
All this while… his father had been corresponding with her.
In Gabriel’s youthful pride, he’d vowed to eradicate Maggie from his memory, and to vindicate himself to the world.
And so, he’d committed his years to furthering his assets and his influence, resolved to show Blackwood he could make money enough to provide for any man’s daughter.
But somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten his raison d’ê·tre.
Growing his business and his money had become objectives unto themselves, and he’d stepped on backs aplenty to gain what he’d desired.
And even so, he’d never truly forgotten her—nor his anger.
That much was achingly clear to him as he stared at the elegant scribble of her pen.
“She spent a great deal of time after you left reading in the rose arbor,” his father explained. “I got to know her well.”
Gabriel couldn’t be certain what he was feeling. But there was no denying the churning in his gut, or the anger he suddenly felt toward his father for keeping Margaret’s letters from him. “You never said.” His tone was clipped, cool, restrained.
It was a long, long moment before his father seemed able to find his own voice. “I thought it best, son. He gave us so much money to leave her be. He didna even want me near her, and, as you know, he asked me to leave, as well. Your ma and I decided it was best to hide the letters.”
Gabriel pursed his lips. What good would it do him to be angry now? What was done was done. The time to make things right with Margaret had long since passed. Even so, he felt a sense of emptiness as he reached into the box, his eyes scanning the addresses. So many letters.
“You did nothing wrong, Da. These letters are all addressed to you, not to me. What concern are they to me?”
Once again, his father shrugged. “Before you come to any conclusions, I think you should read them, son,” he said. “All of them.”
Gabriel longed to pick the carton up and push it across the desk, but he needed to read them.
Some part of him regretted all this time, never knowing how she’d fared, never having asked, never daring to insinuate himself upon her life.
He’d gone through his years shoving Margaret’s image from his memory, trying not to think of her—mostly because every time he did so, he saw her face as it was the day he’d left her at the foot of their favorite hill—and felt anger anew that he’d been judged and found unfit for the princess of Blackwood.
They were only children... but Gabriel had fancied himself in love with the lass, and none of the proper lovers he’d known since—even in their maturity—had ever come close to filling the void Margaret left. And yet… so much time had passed…