CHAPTER 13 #2
“And yet, why should I not speak thus? I weathered the tempest of war, but to what end?
To return to my home marred and ruined? To dwell within this house, which is naught but a mausoleum, forever pursued by the torment of every dear soul departed?
To finally glimpse a moment of pleasure, only to have it cruelly snatched away by the dictates of circumstance and society's rigid laws?”
Clara went to him, unable to bear the pain in his voice. "You survived to help me when I needed it most. To give me shelter and employment when I had nowhere else to go. To make me feel alive again when I thought I'd forgotten how."
He turned to her, cupping her face in his hands. "And you've done the same for me. Which is why the thought of losing you…"
"Hush." She pressed her fingers to his lips. "We have tonight. We have two more weeks. Let's not waste them mourning what hasn't happened yet."
“How is it possible that you remain so entirely unmoved by these events?”
“Calm? Good gracious, I am anything but! My soul is screaming within this breast, raging against the very wickedness of our plight! I am desperate to uncover some means of rendering this affair feasible. Yet, one of us must maintain a practical mind, and you are far too preoccupied with your dramatics to assume that vital role.”
That startled a laugh from him. "I'm not being dramatic."
"You just compared attending a country assembly to a public execution."
"Have you been to a country assembly? The comparison is apt."
"You're impossible."
"You've mentioned that several times, yet you keep coming back."
"Someone has to make sure you're properly attired for your social resurrection."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"Would you prefer 'Gabriel's Triumphant Return to Polite Society despite his strong preference for Hermitage'?"
"Too long for the gossip columns."
“I am persuaded they will soon light upon something considerably more striking 'Scarred Duke Emerges from Seclusion' or 'Ashbourne's Mysterious Transformation' or something equally sensational."
Gabriel's expression darkened. "They'll speculate about you."
“Oh, very well, let them do so.”
"Clara…"
“I am perfectly serious. Let them tattle and whisper, let them invent their small scandals for the society papers. In three weeks, I shall be quite departed, and their chatter will be utterly without consequence.”
“But it shall matter profoundly to me.”
“Do not heed them.” Clara straightened his already-perfect cravat, using it as an excuse to touch him.
"Then we give them nothing to see. You'll be the perfect gentleman with Miss Ashworth, I'll be the invisible servant, “And the world shall never understand that we lie in such sweet, secret contention through the night, cleaving to one another with the desperation of two souls striving to become one flesh.”
He closed the distance before she could finish.
His mouth crashed onto hers, all heat and need, pressing her back until the wall stopped her retreat.
One palm braced beside her head while the other slid down, firm and unhesitating, tracing the curve of her spine until it settled at her hip, drawing her closer into him.
Her breath hitched as he angled his body, pinning her there, the pressure of him forcing every inch of awareness into where they met. His kiss deepened, shifting from demand to something slower and more consuming, his lips parting hers until she was answering without thought.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against her mouth, his breath warm and uneven.
“Stop,” she whispered, then pulled him back, catching his lower lip between hers as if she couldn’t help herself.
“Hypocrite.” he said, the word half groan.
He caught her waist with both hands, sliding her up the wall just enough that their bodies aligned, her skirts whispering around his leg. The rough fabric of his trousers brushed the thin cotton between them, and the contact drew a shudder out of her throat.
“Gabriel…”
Her protest dissolved when he moved, slow and deliberate, guiding her hips forward with his hands, making her feel every heartbeat of distance disappearing between them.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close as his mouth found her throat, his teeth grazing lightly before his tongue soothed the spot.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his voice a low rasp against her skin. “You tremble as if you’ve been waiting years for me to touch you.”
She turned her face toward him, eyes unfocused. “You shouldn’t…”
“Shouldn’t what?” he asked, his lips dragging up the column of her neck. “Touch you? Want you? You think I haven’t imagined this every night since you walked into my house?”
Her breath stuttered; she pressed closer, unable to stop herself. His hands held her there, steadying her even as her body leaned into every shift of his.
“We’re going to be late,” she said, her voice breaking on the words.
“Splendid.”
“Your aunt will…”
“Let her,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along her jaw, tilting her face back up to him.
When he kissed her again, it was slower and deeper, reverent and ruinous all at once. He didn’t rush; he tasted, learned, lingered. Her hands slid to his shoulders, gripping hard, and for a moment, neither of them remembered where they ended.
He finally rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling. “You undo me,” he said softly.
“And you,” she whispered, voice trembling, “make me forget how to breathe.”
“Thus, the score is tallied.” he murmured, his lips ghosting over hers once more.
Clara’s pulse refused to steady. Her body leaned toward him of its own accord, betraying every rule she’d built to keep herself sane.
She pressed a trembling hand to his chest, feeling the heat of him through the fine wool of his coat.
“Your coat,” she said finally, her voice thin and unconvincing. “You’ll wrinkle it.”
“My coat does not concern me.”
“You shall regret this,” she whispered, her voice lacking all strength.
“When you are obliged to present yourself in company, appearing as if you have been…”
“Manhandled?” he suggested, a devilish glint in his eye. “Most eagerly and with utter relish, if pressed for details.”
“Gabriel…”
“Very well then,” He stepped back at last, and the absence of him was agony as her skin prickled where he’d been, her breath catching at the sudden cold.
“But tonight, after this ridiculous farce, I want you in my bed wearing nothing but moonlight and that look you get when you’re trying very hard not to confess how much you want me. ”
Heat surged through her with shame and longing tangled so tightly she couldn’t tell one from the other. “That’s... extremely specific,” she whispered, her cheeks aflame. “And wholly inappropriate.”
“I’m always precise about the things I desire,” he said, voice low and velvet-rough. “Especially you.”
Her heart gave a painful twist. “We have rules.”
“We have suggestions that we disobey on principle.”
She swallowed hard. “Gabriel, if we cross that final line…”
“Then we face the consequences together,” he said simply, stepping closer again, the space between them humming.
Clara turned from him, smoothing her skirts with shaking hands, every brush of fabric against her skin a reminder of where he’d touched her. “I must leave,” she said, forcing the words through a throat still raw from wanting. “People will notice if we arrive together.”
He smiled, slow and sinful. “Let them notice.”
She looked back over her shoulder, caught between temptation and terror, the good sense she prized fraying like ribbon in his hands. “You’ll be the ruin of me.”
Gabriel’s gaze softened, though the hunger in it never dimmed. “You make that sound like such a tragedy.”
"Gabriel…"
“Very well. But you must remain near my person, where I may have sight of you.”
She moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the handle. "Try not to terrify Miss Ashworth too badly. She really is just a pawn in your aunt's game."
"I'll be the picture of gentlemanly consideration."
"Now I'm genuinely concerned."
"Your faith in my social capabilities is overwhelming."
"Your social capabilities extend to glowering and making cutting remarks that send people fleeing."
“Those social graces are, without question, entirely judicious.”
"Not at a country assembly where you're supposed to be proving your suitability to remain uncontrolled by your aunt."
"Very well. I'll smile blandly and make pleasant conversation about the weather."
"Go," he said roughly. "Before I decide the assembly can hang itself and keep you here instead."
She fled before her resolve could crumble entirely.
The assembly rooms were everything Gabriel remembered disliking immensely provincial society it was always too hot, too crowded, and too full of people who whispered behind their fans while pretending to smile to his face. He'd been there exactly ten minutes and already wanted to leave.
"Stop glowering," Edmund murmured beside him. "You're supposed to be proving your social functionality, not your ability to clear a room with your expression alone."
"I'm not glowering. This is my attentive face."
"Your attentive face looks should look less angered.”
"Where's Miss Ashworth?"
"With my aunt, being briefed on her mission to charm me into matrimony, no doubt."
"And where's Clara?"
Gabriel's jaw tightened. "Miss Whitfield is with the other upper servants, as is appropriate for her position."
"Her position. Right. The position where she shares your bed and…"
"Edmund, I vow to you, if you dare finish that sentiment, I shall publicly discredit your words, regardless of our close acquaintance.”
"You wouldn't..."
Edmund laughed. "You're in a mood tonight. More so than usual, I mean."
"I'm being forced to court a child while the woman I…" Gabriel cut himself off.
"While the woman you what?"
“Let it pass.”
"Oh, it's definitely something. The question is what, exactly, you're planning to do about it."