Chapter Nine #2
His father had died while he was away at war and his brothers hadn’t even thought to inform him.
He had been informed of his mother’s death a short time later—not that he’d seen her since he was a child.
Great-aunt Gert’s death had affected him the most; the degree of grief he’d felt for the stern old woman had shocked him with its intensity.
His most distant relative, she’d been his closest family member, apart from Harry. So no, he was no family man.
He had no need of an heir, either. As the third son he was surplus to requirements, so any potential heirs of his body were even more so.
He didn’t need to marry an heiress, or earn his living. Great-aunt Gert had left him the Grange and most of her fortune, with a list of stipulations, bless the tyrannical old dear. None of the stipulations had included his marriage.
As for being one of those poor fools who fell in love, he’d never imagined it could happen to him.
Had planned never to allow it. People in love could do terrible things to each other, and innocents suffered when they did.
He and Harry had both experienced that firsthand, though in different ways.
Bad enough to ruin each others’ lives, but children became pawns when things went wrong in a marriage…
Gabe pulled out several sheets of writing paper, slightly yellowed, untouched since Great-aunt Gert’s day. He had watched love happen to others time and time again and thought himself immune. He wasn’t even sure it had happened to him now.
All he knew was that every time he looked at her he wanted to touch her, taste her, hold her. And every instinct he had was screaming at him not to let her go.
He shook up a pot of ink. Those instincts had kept him alive throughout eight years of war. He wasn’t going to start ignoring them now.
The last of the sun’s rays touched the octagonal bow window and slid away. It would soon be dark. She had not yet conceded defeat, but she’d given him a reprieve. He had one night. He needed at least two more. It would take the others that long to get here.
Once she was on the road, she was that much more vulnerable.
He hadn’t wanted to alarm her any further, but if he’d been Count Anton and his quarry had slipped though his fingers, he would put men on each of the main roads leading away from Lulworth and at several of the main coaching inns on the London road.
A lone woman and a small boy with a limp would be easily traced.
When she finally left for London, Gabe decided, she’d be accompanied by four of the best—the Duke’s Angels or, as some had called them, the Devil Riders: Rafe, Harry, and Luke. And, of course, himself.
Harry was already on his way, bringing horses.
Rafe was at a house party at Aldershot, trying to nerve himself to do what his family expected—nay, urged him to do, no matter how much the idea of it stuck in Rafe’s throat—marry an heiress.
As for Luke, he was in London, but the Lord knew what he would be doing—anything that could blot out memories of the Convent of the Angels.
Poor Luke. Of all of them, he was the most haunted by the past. If he didn’t learn to master it, Gabe feared he would go mad.
It would be good for Luke to have a real problem to worry about, something in the here and now, a woman, a child he could protect.
Gabe dipped the quill in the ink and began writing.
Dinner that evening was served in the small breakfast room and once again, Mrs. Barrow used the boys as waiters, only this time she sought Callie’s permission.
She’d feed the boys in the kitchen first, she explained. “Young Jim’s manners not being fit for company, Your Highness. Your Nicky now, he’s that correct a little gentleman that it practically hurts to watch him, so I reckon Jim’ll soon pick up the way to behave.”
Callie was not surprised by what Mrs. Barrow had said. Nicky was painfully correct, it was more noticeable here, where everything was more relaxed.
At home, whenever they’d dined en famille, Rupert had directed a nonstop barrage of instruction and criticism aimed at his son—at his manners, his bearing, the way he broke his bread, his attempts to respond to the conversational gambits his father shot at him.
Rupert had been a good enough man, she thought sadly, but he’d been determined to forge his son into a prince worthy of the name. His methods were crushing to a small, sensitive boy.
It was something she needed to redress.
Perhaps being the kitchen role model in manners for Jim might give Nicky a little of the confidence he lacked.
“Very well,” she agreed, knowing how much Nicky had enjoyed waiting on table this morning. “But after dinner, send him to join me in the drawing room, please.” It had been a big day, and she wanted to talk to her son, to hear his thoughts, and to reassure him if necessary.
She was also a little worried about the way he’d taken her announcement earlier that they were leaving. He’d said nothing—he was invariably obedient and well behaved—but his face had fallen with utter dismay.
It was hard for him, she knew. He’d taken to this place like a duck to water, and even seemed to relish Mrs. Barrow’s brusque bossiness. He’d hunted leeches, had his first-ever fight, and made a firm friend from it—males were strange creatures.
He’d even had his first ride on a horse that hadn’t ended up with him sprawled painfully on the ground to laughter or, more humiliatingly, embarrassed silence.
If she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget the way he’d greeted her this morning, all covered in mud, grinning at her from the back of a giant horse in front of Gabriel, breathless with exhilaration and triumph. And burgeoning confidence.
He was happy here, happier than she’d ever seen him, and it pained her to tear him away. But it was his happiness or his safety. Count Anton had not pursued them this far to give up and tamely go home.
She’d had in mind an intimate after-dinner conversation with her son, but Nicky brought his friend Jim with him, and then the men had surprised her by not lingering over their port, and joining her, Tibby, and the boys.
“Do you play chess, boys?” Mr. Delaney had asked and produced a small wooden box that opened up to become a chessboard. “A grand game to while away a chilly night.”
Jim was eager to learn, so Nicky hovered, observing quietly. Tibby wandered over to watch, too. Callie smiled. Even Papa had deemed Tibby a worthy opponent.
Gabe pulled a chair up next to her. He said nothing for a while, just divided his time between watching her pretend to sew and watching the chess lesson.
“Your son already knows how to play chess,” he commented.
She glanced at him in surprise. “How did you know?”
He shrugged. “He’s watching the interaction between the players, rather than trying to learn the mechanics of the game. And since he strikes me as the kind of boy who likes to know things, I assume he already knows the moves.”
She gave a little nod. “Yes. My father and my husband were keen chess players.”
“Took it very seriously, too, I’ll wager.”
She nodded.
“It’s like watching myself and Harry all over again,” he said after a time. “Harry was just such a wild child as young Jim, and I was probably just as needy as Nicky.”
Needy? Gabe caught himself up on the word. He’d never thought of himself as ever being needy.
But watching the young boy’s reserved, intelligent face, his quick, shy responses to Ethan and Jim’s noisy repartee, Gabe suddenly remembered what it felt like to sit on the outer, yearning to be accepted, to truly belong. Grateful for any crumb of approval.
He’d forgotten he’d ever felt like that.
He glanced at her face. His words had annoyed her.
“He’s a fine, spirited boy. He’ll grow out of it,” Gabe told her soothingly. Gabe had grown out of it.
“My son is not needy, and I doubt you even know the meaning of the word,” she told him.
It was meant to be a reprimand, but she’d unwittingly offered Gabe an opening he couldn’t resist.
“Oh, I assure you, I understand what needy means, especially after this afternoon,” he murmured, his voice deepening. His gaze dropped to her mouth and he sighed suggestively. And even though he was only teasing her, the memory of their earlier kiss rose up and he had to battle with his body.
The color in her cheeks rose. “If you were any sort of gentleman, you would not refer to that incident.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth and stayed there. “It was a particularly sweet incident. As are your lips.”
“You will not flirt with me here!” she ordered in an undertone.
“Won’t I?” He gave her a look of faux-innocent surprise. “Where shall we go to flirt then?”
She narrowed those glorious eyes at him. “We shan’t go anywhere.”
“You don’t want to go somewhere?”
“No, I am not budging from this place.”
“Excellent, I thought you were leaving in the morning,” he said instantly. He raised his voice. “Listen, everyone, the princess says she’s not leaving after all. She has decided to stay on here.”
Her jaw dropped but before she had time to refute his outrageous misinterpretation of her words, her son came flying across the room and flung his arms around her.
“Oh, Mama, thank you, thank you! I did want so much to stay, and Jim has told me of a place where we could go fishing and could we go tomorrow please? I have never been fishing and perhaps I could catch you a fish for your supper. Mama, you know how much you like fish!”
Over her son’s head she glared at Gabe, who hoped he was not looking as smug as he felt. She’d walked so neatly into his trap, and he was rewarded with another day, at least. More if he could persuade her. His letters were speeding on their way.
“It will be perfectly safe,” he reminded her. “Nobody knows you are here and there is nothing to connect this place with Miss Tibthorpe.”