CHAPTER 10
The new staff had been in residence for four days, and Gabriel found their presence staff such a singular trial that he was on the brink of throwing them all out onto the streets.
Not because they were incompetent as Clara had chosen well. They were quiet, efficient, and practiced the art of invisibility with admirable dedication.
It was due to the fact that they necessitated propriety.
For four days, he and Clara had maintained perfect professional distance whenever anyone else was present. She called him "Your Grace." He called her "Miss Whitfield."
But the moments alone...
Gabriel shifted in his chair, trying to focus on the estate ledgers Edmund had forced upon him. But his mind kept drifting to the previous night, when Clara had found him in the music room and they'd ended up against the piano, her legs wrapped around his waist while he kissed her senseless.
"Your Grace?"
He looked up to find Peter, the new footman, in the doorway. “What do you require?”
"Lord Hartley is here to see you."
"Send him in."
Edmund entered, took one look at Gabriel's face, and grinned. "You look frustrated."
"I'm working."
"You're staring at the same page you were staring at yesterday when I visited."
"It's a very perplexing page."
"It's the title page."
“It is a perplexing title."
Edmund dropped into the opposite chair. "How's the arrangement coming along?”
"What arrangement?"
“The one where you and Miss Clara affect the most improper charade of employer and employee, while the unmistakable ardour between you threatens to quite shatter all decorum.”
“I have not the faintest notion of your meaning.”
“Indeed? I observe a most undeniable token upon your cravat line.”
Gabriel's hand flew to his collar. “You are mistaken.”
Edmund pulled out a letter. "From your aunt."
Gabriel groaned. “Tell me, what nuisance does that dreadful woman seeks?”
"She's coming to inspect your progress in three days."
“I beg your pardon?”
"She wishes to see the improvements you've made. Staff, household management, general functionality." Gabriel rose and paced the chamber toward the window.
“Three days?” Clara must be informed immediately.”
"Where is our dear Miss Whitfield?"
"In the garden."
"In January?"
"She's clearing dead growth."
Gabriel headed for the door. "I need to inform her about Aunt Agatha."
Gabriel left Edmund in the study, striding through the house toward the garden. The new staff scattered before him like startled birds, which was exactly how he preferred it.
He found Clara in the rose garden, or what had been the rose garden before neglect turned it into a thorny wasteland. She was on her knees in the dirt, viciously attacking a dead rose bush with pruning shears, her hair escaping its pins, her cheeks flushed with exertion.
She looked magnificent.
“Pray! Has that bush cause you offence?” He asked.
She looked up, and her smile made his chest tight. “It has failed these years past. It falls to us to put an end to its wretchedness.”
“Can I be of any assistance?”
“I think not.”
But he knelt beside her anyway, their shoulders brushing. "Aunt Agatha's coming in three days."
Clara's hands stilled. "Three days?"
"To inspect our progress."
"Three days isn't enough time."
"It has to be."
She settled back upon her heels, a smudge of earth quite marring her delicate nose, which caused Gabriel to have an overpowering desire to kiss away.
“We stand in urgent need of a sound scheme.”
“What is required is nothing short of a miracle.”
“You cannot impose order upon a miracle.”
“Observe me, then.”
She stood, brushing dirt from her skirts, and Gabriel rose with her. They were alone in the garden, hidden from the house by hedges, and the temptation was overwhelming.
"Clara…"
"No," she said, but she was already swaying toward him. "We can't. Not during daylight. The staff…"
“I pay no heed to the staff.”
"Gabriel…"
He pulled her against him, crushing his mouth to hers with a heated urgency. She made a sound of protest that turned into a moan as he backed her against the garden wall, his hands tangling in her hair.
"Someone could see," she gasped when he moved to her neck.
"Let them."
"The scandal…"
"I don't care about scandal." He pressed closer, feeling her breath hitch. "I care about the fact that I've wanted to do this all morning and couldn't because Peter was serving breakfast with the dedication of someone polishing silver at Westminster Abbey."
"He's very thorough."
"He's very present."
"That's his job."
"His job is interfering with my life."
"Your life is complicated enough without me adding to it."
"You don't add to it. You are it."
Clara went still. "Gabriel…"
"One month," he said against her throat. "You promised one month of honesty."
"This feels like more than honesty."
"What does it feel like?"
"Like falling."
"Then fall. I'll catch you."
"You always do."
She kissed him then, sweet and desperate, Gabriel was quite undone by the realisation that he desired her with an intensity that threatened to break his heart entirely. His hands roamed her back, her waist, carefully respectful but desperately wanting more.
"Your Grace?"
They sprang apart to find Mary, the housemaid, standing at the garden entrance, carefully studying the sky.
"Yes?" Gabriel's voice came out rough.
"Lord Hartley asks if you'll be joining him for tea."
"Tell Lord Hartley to…"
"Tell Lord Hartley we'll be there shortly," Clara interrupted, her face crimson.
Mary curtsied and fled.
"She saw," Clara said.
"She saw nothing."
"Gabriel…"
"She saw her employer and his housekeeper discussing garden maintenance."
"I was pressed against a wall."
"Examining the brickwork."
"Your hand was in my hair."
"Removing a leaf."
"Gabriel…"
"One month," he said firmly. “I am utterly indifferent if the whole of the staff should be witness to our affection.
The talk of the village holds no terror for me.
I would face even Aunt Agatha's most fierce indisposition.
A month's possession of you is a prize that outweighs all consideration of propriety.”
“It is simple for you to declare, as you possess a title of distinction.”
“And you, Clara are my responsibility.”
“That arrangement does not hold true in society's eyes.”
“It shall be made to hold true.”
"You can't just declare…"
He kissed her again, quick and possessive. “I shall prove my words.”
The staff had retired. Edmund had gone home. The house was quiet except for the fire crackling in the library where Gabriel waited, pretending to read while actually counting the seconds until Clara appeared.
She entered wearing a different dress one of blue wool that brought out her eyes causing Gabriel’s eyes to go dry.
“From where did you procure that item?”
"Mrs. Potter brought it. Said I couldn't keep wearing gray as if was in mourning."
"Are you? In mourning?"
"Aren't we all mourning something?"
She sat beside him on the sofa, not across from him, beside him and Gabriel felt like he'd won a small war.
"Tell me about the war," she said.
"Why?"
"Because it's part of you. Because I want to understand."
"It's not a pleasant story."
"I don't need pleasant. I need true."
So he told her. About the mud and blood. About holding dying men while they called for their mothers. About the surgeon who'd stitched his face with shaking hands and whiskey breath. About the fever that followed, the infection, the certainty he would die.
"But you didn't," Clara said, her hand finding his.
"Part of me did."
"Which part?"
"The part that believed in glory and honor and all the specious talk of honour and glory with which they ply you before dispatching you to be slain.”
She shifted closer, and Gabriel pulled her against his side, her head on his shoulder. The sensation was one of improper familiarity, yet it felt precisely what was desired.
"Tell me about Bath," he said.
"What is it you wish to learn?”
"Your life there. Before."
"It was..." She paused. "Lonely."
"You had your aunt."
"My aunt had her own life. I was an obligation she accepted out of duty to my deceased mother."
"And after she passed?”
" I discovered duty doesn't extend beyond the grave. Her friends wanted nothing to do with a penniless relation. The families I applied to for governess positions wanted someone with proper references, not scandal."
"What scandal?"
Clara was quiet for a moment. "The daughter of the house where I worked made certain accusations when I refused her father's advances. Said I'd been trying to seduce him. The fact that I refused him was not of importance, the accusation was enough."
Gabriel's arm tightened around her. "His name."
"Why?"
"So I can destroy him."
"You can't fight all my battles."
"His name, Clara."
"Lord Pemberton."
Gabriel went very still. "The same Lord Pemberton whose house party I attended instead of seeing you that Christmas?"
"Small world."
"I'll ruin him."
"You'll do no such thing."
"Clara…"
“It is concluded. It belongs to the past. Dismiss it from your thoughts.”
“Tell me, how is it possible to disengage one's heart from it?”
"Because holding onto it was nearly the death of . Because forgiveness isn't for them, it's for us.”
"You're far too wise."
"I'm far too tired to be anything else."
They sat in comfortable silence, the fire dying to embers. Gabriel played with her hair, pulling pins until it tumbled around her shoulders.
"You're going to make it impossible for me to leave," Clara said quietly.
“It is what I wish.”
“I must leave.
"Why?"
"Because this is temporary. Because you're a duke and I'm…"
"Mine," he interrupted. "For one month, you're mine."
"That's not how it works."
"It is how it will work."
She turned to look at him. "What happens when the month ends?"
“I cannot say.”
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
“Gabriel…”