Chapter 16 #2
To her own surprise, her free hand found its way through the air, settling on his chest. He made a noise she could not interpret, something deep and rumbling, and her eyes fell to his mouth in response, the need to kiss him growing with every second that passed.
She traced the outline of his lips with her eyes, focused on the red ridge of flesh beneath his teeth.
“It would be so very wrong to hold you,” he said, confirming every one of her doubts and fears. “But I want to hold you madly.”
“It is the wine driving your heart,” she said quickly, breathlessly.
“It is not the wine.”
“You will not say this tomorrow.”
“I might say it.”
“You will not.” She let her hand fall from his body, calling to mind all the other things he had said, the implications that she was beneath him in quality and beauty. She may have been good enough for a drunken kiss, but nothing more. “I know what you feel, and you will not.”
“Ros...”
She stepped back before he could say anything worse, and he released her, his face contorting with a frown that threatened her decision to retreat.
“Sleep well, when you do fall asleep,” she murmured, turning her back to him and walking toward her room, where the book remained unread.
The rain had abated long before sunrise.
Gabriel woke with a familiar ache behind his eyes, like someone had shoved cotton into his ears in place of his brain.
How long had he and James stayed up the night prior?
He lay there for a moment, cataloging the damage: dry mouth and nose, the heaviness in his head.
Beyond that, the first coherent thought to arrive was Rosalie’s face in the candlelight; the skin of her wrist warm under his fingers.
But there was absolutely no memory whatsoever of what he had said to her afterward.
But if I had entered her room or she had entered mine, there is no doubt in my foggy mind that I would have remembered the exchange come morning, he thought.
Relieved, he rose from bed, unsurprised to find himself still dressed in his trousers from the day before. Once he had found something more complete and therefore suitable to wear, he descended to take his breakfast while most of the house was still asleep, or pretending to be.
Outside, sometime later, the morning air was heavy with the scent of rain but not unpleasant.
He took a sip from his unfinished coffee as he descended into the park, looking at the line of forest on the horizon, streaks of gray-blue staining the sky above the trees.
There were voices around the corner and footsteps on the gravel.
He turned to see Rosalie walking with his aunt and her parents, wearing a similar shade of blue to the undecided sky above them.
“There is His Grace,” Baron Winthrop pointed out, lifting a hand in greeting, too cheerful for the hour. When he approached, he shook Gabriel’s hand. “Your aunt has been showing us around. We had not gone to the fields yet.”
“Indeed?” Gabriel did not look at Rosalie for too long, who was watching him with a mild expression. “If you want to see more of the abbey and Ockley, we are going for a ride this afternoon, my lord.”
“Again?” his aunt cried, shaking her head in dismay. “You should let those poor horses rest—and provide your guests with the company they so yearn for.”
“Anyone who yearns for me should know better,” he said as a joke, taking another sip of coffee. The Winthrop parents had the grace to laugh. “Miss Winthrop, I do not suppose you ride?”
Rosalie’s mouth fell open, and it only closed once her mother elbowed her in the side. “Well, I... I ride very well, Your Grace. Thank you.”
He ignored her thanks, confused but undeterred. “Then you must come. It would smooth over previous lapses—absences—nicely, I think, to spend an afternoon in the saddle together, in perfect harmony. The other ladies may join us.”
“They will not want to,” Rosalie said. “Miss Warwick is holding an embroidery session after breakfast.”
“Do you prefer the needle or the saddle?”
She deliberated for a moment. “The saddle.”
“I knew you would. Join us.”
After a moment of silence from the elder crowd, who were too afraid or too amused to contribute to the conversation, Rosalie sighed. “I should like that,” she said, and promptly turned on her heel and stalked away.
“Where is she going?” Gabriel asked in her wake.
Lady Winthrop came to his side and looked up at him. “She is going to check her riding habit. In the meantime, might we conclude our walk together?”
He found he quite wanted to, and he said as much, as he waited for Rosalie’s return. It seemed his aunt intended to say something to him, locking his arm in hers and allowing the baron and his wife to walk faster ahead of them, in the direction of the bridge.
“Be careful with her,” Elisabeth warned through a smile that was decidedly French. “She may not be as practiced with large, unruly animals as you would like her to be.”
Gabriel tried not to take offense, tipping the dregs of his coffee onto the lawn. “Large and unruly?”
“Yes, and much more. You will listen to what I said?”
“I could not ignore you if I tried.”
“And aren’t we the better for it, nephew?”
Six young men and one young woman took to the southeastern riding path within the hour. The ride out was more relaxed than the day of riding before, with only the occasional dared jumps and half-serious wager.
Gabriel initially led the ride until the men found their footing through the fields.
James, who had been riding behind them alongside Rosalie, soon replaced him at the front, allowing Gabriel to drop his horse back and ride beside their female companion, a quarter of a mile behind the rest of their group.
Rosalie was quiet, staring straight ahead as she rode. She looked comfortable in the saddle, so the activity was not what made her quiet. Irked, Gabriel called ahead of him, telling the men they would race to the woods.
The men peeled off after him down the long field road, which left him circling back alone to find Rosalie had held her mare to a walk.
“You did not join the race?” he said, drawing alongside her.
“Neither did you,” she replied, craning her neck to watch the rest of the riders round a bend. They disappeared behind a field of tall grass, their laughter fading with them. “But you called for the race.”
“Yes.” He looked heavenward. The clouds were parting overhead, and the air had the specific tang of this region. He closed his eyes to relish the sun as it beat down on him.
“Sometimes...” Rosalie said, then seemed to think better of the rest of her sentence. “They won’t let you hear the end of this.”
“I hope they do not.” When Rosalie gave a moue, he sighed. “Most women would be glad I paid them so much attention. A private ride with a duke is a sought-after prize in most circles.”