Chapter Twenty-Five
At half past one, Gabriel sat behind his desk in his office with Lord Caldermere’s name written at the top of a clean sheet of paper and could not bring himself to dip his quill into the ink.
The page ought not have troubled him.
It was paper. Nothing more. And he had a job to do.
If Poppy accepted Caldermere’s offer, the contract would need to be prepared.
Her interests must be protected as fully as possible.
Lady Viva’s maintenance must be secured in writing, rather than entrusted to any generosity Caldermere might feel once his attention returned elsewhere.
Poppy must have funds settled upon her separately, along with terms clear enough that no future disagreement could be softened into ambiguity merely because a marquess preferred his life undisturbed.
This was work Gabriel understood…work at which he excelled.
He ought to begin.
Instead, he sat motionless while the clock ticked above the mantel and Lord Caldermere’s name stared back at him with intolerable composure.
Caldermere required a wife for appearances and succession. In return, he would offer Poppy comfort, position, and the freedom to look away from the woman who already held his heart.
A bleak arrangement, perhaps. But not an unusual one.
More importantly, Caldermere could give her everything Gabriel could not. Rank. Fortune. Protection from the ridicule that would follow if she married beneath her. A household grand enough to absorb Lady Viva’s extravagance without strain.
But there was more than that.
Gabriel had spent years believing that carelessness invited loss.
Wanting something too fiercely, reaching for it before one had counted the cost, could destroy what one loved.
His own mother had left behind friends, position, and the life she had known for his father.
Gabriel had never forgotten what she had been required to leave behind.
That same fear had poisoned his own offer. Poppy had told him plainly that his proposal had failed.
He had offered duty when she wanted trust. Protection when she wanted partnership. He had spoken of what he could provide and never once managed to make her believe he understood what she was choosing.
The failure of it sat heavily with him.
Never in his life had he wished more keenly for his father’s easy understanding of people.
Gabriel could draft an agreement precise enough to withstand any challenge, untangle the most complicated estate, and find order in a page of impossible figures.
Yet when it came to the only woman he had ever loved, he could not seem to find the words that would keep her from slipping beyond his reach.
Would she decide tenderness was a poor exchange for shelter? Would she accept Caldermere because Gabriel had made love sound like another obligation to be managed?
He had no right to prevent her. Yet he could not banish the fear that one day she would look at the life she had surrendered for him and wish she had chosen differently.
That every cramped room, every slight from Society, every sacrifice made for Lady Viva would gather between them until affection thinned beneath the weight of it.
He loved her. But he had learned long ago that love was no safeguard against loss.
Before the thought could tighten further around him, a knock sounded at the office door.
Gabriel did not look up. “Come in.”
The door opened.
Lord Pembroke entered first, broad-shouldered, green-eyed, and visibly prepared to strike something if reason proved insufficient. Lord Vanover followed with his usual controlled elegance, his clever gaze sharp enough to reduce most parliamentary opponents to stammering.
Gabriel set down the quill he had not used. “This is unexpected.”
“Good,” Pembroke said. “I dislike being predictable.”
Vanover glanced at the paper on Gabriel’s desk. “Caldermere?”
Gabriel resisted the urge to turn the page over. “You are both acquainted with the concept of privacy, I presume.”
“Intimately,” Vanover replied. “Marriage, however, has altered its application.”
Pembroke crossed his arms. “Our wives sent us.”
Gabriel nodded. “That much I had gathered.”
“Georgie said if I allowed you to arrange the marriage of the woman you love to another man without at least attempting to stop you, she would make my life unbearable.”
Vanover removed his gloves with unhurried precision. “Bea used fewer words. They were more alarming.”
Gabriel leaned back, the breath leaving him in one sharp, silent rush.
So even Poppy’s friends understood what he had tried so hard to disguise beneath prudence and duty.
Of course he loved Poppy. That truth no longer surprised him.
What unsettled him was the possibility that, in attempting to spare her regret, he had done nothing but stand aside while another man offered her a future. He had called it honor because that sounded better than fear.
But the two gentlemen remained standing across from him, waiting for a response. He cleared his throat. “I appreciate your concern,” he said. “However, it is misplaced.”
“No,” Pembroke said simply. “It’s not.”
Gabriel’s brows snapped together. “Poppy may accept Caldermere.”
“She may,” Vanover agreed. “The question is whether you intend to give her any reason not to.”
Gabriel blinked at them. Were all aristocrats so obtuse? “I have no title, no estate, and no fortune that can compete with his.” Did he truly have to explain these things to them?
Pembroke made a short, derisive sound. “God preserve us from men who decide rank matters above everything precisely when it should matter least.”
“You are an earl,” Gabriel pointed out.
“Yes, and it has been useful. It has not made me kind, clever, loyal, or worthy of my wife, however. Those deficiencies had to be addressed through other means.”
Vanover’s mouth twitched. “With varying success.”
Pembroke spared him a glance. “Rank has value. No sensible person denies it. But if rank alone made a woman happy, half of London would not spend every Season pretending not to despise the occupants of their own dining tables.”
Gabriel rose. “You both speak from the safety of having rank.”
“Yes,” Vanover said evenly. “Which is why you ought to listen when we tell you what it can and cannot do. A title is an instrument. Useful in decent hands, empty in selfish ones, dangerous in careless ones.”
Gabriel tugged at his coat. “Caldermere is not careless.”
“No,” Vanover agreed. “He is deliberate. That may be worse for a woman who wants to be loved.”
Gabriel’s hands braced on the desk. “Love does not pay creditors.”
“Neither does martyrdom,” Pembroke pointed out.
“No,” Gabriel replied, his voice sharpening. “Love does not restore a woman’s place in Society. It does not return the friends she leaves behind. It does not keep sacrifice from becoming regret.”
Pembroke exchanged a glance with Vanover.
“You speak with remarkable certainty,” Vanover observed, “about what Miss Montfort will one day regret.”
“I am capable of counting the cost.”
“Her cost,” Pembroke corrected. “Without allowing her to count it herself.”
Gabriel looked away. “You do not understand.”
“Then explain it,” Vanover drawled.
Gabriel drew a slow breath.
“My mother gave up everything familiar to marry my father. Friends. Position. The whole of her former life. I watched what it cost her.”
Silence settled in the room.
“At any rate,” Gabriel said at last, “the point is academic.”
Pembroke frowned.
“I have already asked Miss Montfort to marry me.”
Both men blinked at him.
“And?” Vanover prodded.
Gabriel let out a humorless breath. “And I did an exceedingly poor job of it. She refused.”
“Quite right.”
The quiet voice came from the doorway.
Gabriel glanced up.
His father stood there, spectacles low upon his nose, his old brown coat still buttoned despite the warmth.
“How long have you been standing there?” Gabriel asked.
“Long enough to discover that my son has inherited my legal mind without inheriting a bit of my sense.”
Pembroke smiled.
Vanover folded his arms.
Gabriel sighed. “I was trying to spare her.”
“I know,” Father said.
“She would lose everything,” Gabriel continued.
His father regarded him steadily. “Would she?”
“She would lose Society. Friends. Position,” Gabriel pointed out.
Father shrugged. “She might.”
Gabriel slapped his palm to the desktop. “She would lose the life she has always known.”
Another shrug from his father. “She might.”
Gabriel frowned. Why were they all acting as if the things he was saying were of little consequence?
“But none of those things are yours to measure,” Father continued.
Gabriel narrowed his eyes.
“You keep speaking of what your mother surrendered.” His father’s voice softened. “You never speak of what she chose.”
The room fell utterly still.
“She chose me,” his father said. “And she chose you.”
Gabriel's throat tightened.
“She chose a solicitor over comfort, over expectation, over people who believed she had lost her senses.” His father smiled faintly. “Do you know what she said to me soon after we married?”
Gabriel shook his head.
“She said she finally felt she had come home.”
The words landed with astonishing force. Gabriel swallowed.
His father continued. “She never—not once—spoke a word of regret. Not in lean years. Not when clients could not pay. Not when she couldn’t buy new frocks or when she buried relatives who had turned away from her. And certainly not after you were born.”
Gabriel lowered his gaze. He had never considered any of that. He’d just assumed she’d regretted her choice from time to time.
“You have spent half your life mourning sacrifices your mother never asked anyone else to mourn.” His father stepped nearer. “And now you are making the same mistake with Miss Montfort.”
Gabriel said nothing.
“She has told you she loves you,” Father added.
Gabriel nodded. “Yes.”
“She has told you she wants a future with you.”
“Yes.”
“And still you insist you know her heart better than she does.”
Gabriel closed his eyes.
“I only wished to protect her.”