Chapter Nine #2
A small thing. Skin to skin, no longer than a breath.
It was worse than the ribbon. The ribbon had been an accident disguised as assistance.
This was nothing at all—only the brush of fingers over a stolen glove—and yet awareness moved up his arm with such force that Gabriel nearly closed his hand around hers.
She looked down at their hands.
So did he.
Gabriel should have stepped back at once.
He did step back…almost at once.
“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was quieter now.
He inclined his head, annoyed with himself for noticing the softness of her fingers.
When the tradesmen had been soothed—one with coin, the other with such earnest promise that even Gabriel nearly believed Friday would produce money—and the soprano had accepted seed cake as readily as Mr. Loxley had, Miss Montfort turned back to him.
“You came about the marriage contract.”
“Yes.” He held out the papers. “I reviewed your draft.”
She took the papers carefully, holding them with equal parts defense and dread. “And?”
“It is sound as far as it can be before there is a gentleman on the other side of it.”
The side of her mouth quirked up. “On the hook, you mean.”
“I would not have phrased it that way.”
“No. You would have said something much more proper and somehow worse.”
He allowed that. “Once there is a named suitor, I can complete the necessary provisions. Jointure, separate maintenance, if possible, responsibility for existing debts, a provision for Lady Montague, and any protection that may be secured for your personal funds and possessions.”
“My possessions,” she said lightly. “How grand that sounds. Like referring to Freddie as an estate.”
Freddie barked, possibly offended or flattered.
“You were right to prepare it,” Gabriel said.
Her expression shifted. The brightness moved, faltered, steadied. “Was I?”
“Yes.”
“Even though no one has offered?”
“Preparation is not wasted effort.”
She glanced toward the papers in her hands. “I thought it might be foolish. Presumptuous, perhaps.”
“It is neither foolish nor presumptuous to know the terms upon which one might entrust one’s future to another person.”
Her fingers tightened around the packet, and, for a second, the bustling room seemed to recede around them. “Thank you,” she said.
He ought to have replied in some ordinary manner. You are welcome. I shall call again when Lord Montague replies. Something useful and empty.
Instead, because the Montfort house had apparently begun eroding his judgment by the hour, he said, “You need not accept the first offer merely because it is made.”
A slight smile touched her lips. “That is easy advice from a man who is not being evicted in seven days.”
“It is still good advice.”
“Is it?” She moved to the nearest table and set the papers down, aligning their edges with the edge of a book. “What if the first offer is the only offer? What if the man has all his teeth, a title, and no obvious appetite for opera fraud? Am I to become particular?”
“Yes.”
The word emerged too quickly.
Miss Montfort looked at him.
Gabriel felt the lapse immediately. His reply had been too resolute, too personal. He softened his tone. “You should be as particular as circumstances allow.”
She pressed her lips together. “And if circumstances allow very little?”
“Then you should still allow yourself some measure of choice.”
The faint humor left her face. “Choice is a luxury, Mr. Ashby.”
“No,” he said. “It is a right.”
Something vulnerable moved behind her eyes. “You say that like a man who has always possessed it.”
He had no answer for that. Perhaps because she was correct. He had chosen his profession, his course, his habits, his restraints. He had chosen almost everything of consequence in his life, except the grief that had taught him order and the father whose tender heart had taught him caution.
Miss Montfort had been given chaos and told to make it palatable. He wanted to reach for her. Place one hand upon her shoulder. Tell her that no man worthy of being her husband would look at her and see only debts, inconvenience, and Lady Viva’s latest collection of improbable acquaintances.
He lifted his hand.
Then the soprano began to sing, Mr. Loxley demanded to know whether seed cake counted as worldly pleasure, and Gabriel remembered that comfort was not his right to offer.
He lowered his hand.
Lady Viva called from across the room, “Poppy, darling, has seed cake ever been known to cause death?”
Miss Montfort turned, composure fastening itself into place. “Not generally, Mama. Cake improves nearly everyone.”
Mr. Loxley lifted his plate in salute. “Then I shall postpone eternity. For today at least.”
“A wise decision,” Gabriel said.
Miss Montfort looked back at him, and the moment between them was gone. Not vanished, perhaps. Only folded away.
That was for the best.
Professionally, the course remained clear.
He would finish the settlement once a suitor appeared, see that Miss Montfort had the best terms possible, and restrain Lady Viva from signing promissory notes to criminals.
When the marriage was arranged, when some titled gentleman finally appeared with a tolerable character and sufficient income, Gabriel would leave.
He would return to his office, his lists, his ordinary future. He would marry someone sensible at thirty. He would not think of yellow morning gowns, stolen gloves, or bonnet ribbons.
Miss Montfort touched the papers in her hands. “Thank you for doing this.”
“It is my work.”
Her brows lifted.
He amended, because that was not quite the truth. “Part of it, at least.” He took up his hat from the table where Jenkins had placed it. “I shall call again when Lord Montague replies. In the meantime, if anything requires legal attention, send for me.”
“I shall,” Miss Montfort replied.
He turned toward the door.
“Mr. Ashby?” she said.
Gabriel looked back.
“What if I cannot tell the difference?”
Between legal duty and personal feeling. Between household disorder and real consequence. Between needing a solicitor and needing someone steady enough to stand beside her.
The question struck deeper than it should have.
“Then send for me,” he repeated.
Miss Montfort’s lips parted slightly.
Before either of them could say more, Freddie darted between them with the stolen glove once again clamped in his mouth.
“Freddie!” Miss Montfort called.
The spaniel ignored her and barreled into the hall.
Gabriel stepped aside to let the dog pass.
It was easier, he discovered, to avoid a puppy than a young lady with tired blue eyes.
He bowed to Miss Montfort, said his goodbyes to Lady Viva, declined seed cake, and left the house with Freddie’s muffled growl of triumph following him out the door.
Professionally, he had done exactly what he had come to do.
He had reviewed the matter, set the proper limits, and reminded Miss Montfort that their association belonged to ledgers, letters, and legal necessity. Everything was in order.
So why did leaving feel so much like a mistake?