CHAPTER NINE WHAT THE SCHOLAR STOLE #4
Gabriel’s town house was quieter than she expected.
No laughing guests occupied the drawing rooms. No perfumed widow appeared upon the stairs.
The entrance hall contained dark wood, several severe family portraits and a marble table crowded with letters organised into precise stacks. Gabriel’s butler met them at the door.
“Mr. Hastings,” Gabriel said, “the secure cabinet in my study must be cleared.”
“Immediately, my lord.”
“Send word to Mr. Cresswell that we require two archival boxes, acid-free wrapping paper and a lockable document chest.”
The butler did not ask why his employer arrived near midnight with Miss Finch and enough manuscripts to implicate half the scholarly establishment.
“Will Miss Finch require a room?”
Gabriel looked at Eleanor. The question was hers.
“Yes,” she said. “But not yet.”
Hastings inclined his head.
“Have tea and food sent to the study,” Gabriel said. “And wake no one else.”
“The kitchen maid is already awake, my lord. She waits on Thursdays for her brother to return from the docks.”
Gabriel’s expression softened. “Has his cough improved?”
“Somewhat.”
“Send the physician’s fee from my personal account tomorrow. Do not tell her until it is arranged.”
Eleanor watched the exchange. Gabriel noticed.
He dismissed the butler and led her upstairs.
His study differed from Julian’s severity and her father’s scholarly chaos.
Maps covered one wall. Books occupied another, arranged by subject rather than appearance.
A writing desk stood beneath the windows, its surface almost empty except for an inkstand, three sharpened pens and a small stack of coded reports.
A Latin history lay open upon a chair near the fire. Eleanor lifted it.
“You read Tacitus for pleasure.”
Gabriel placed the document case upon the desk.
“Do not sound so disappointed.”
“I was told your interests were confined to women, gaming and avoiding husbands.”
“The husbands occasionally discuss Tacitus.”
She examined the open page. A handwritten note in the margin corrected the printed translation.
His correction was accurate. Gabriel had never needed Eleanor to discover he possessed a mind.
He had hidden it because concealment was useful.
The recognition made her father’s theft feel stranger.
Dr. Finch had built his public identity by taking Eleanor’s intellect.
Gabriel had built his by pretending to possess less than he did.
Both performances depended upon what society expected from them.
Only one had required stealing another person’s voice.
Hastings returned with keys to the secure cabinet. Together, Eleanor and Gabriel wrapped the manuscripts and arranged them chronologically. When the final box had been stored, Gabriel locked the cabinet and gave Eleanor the key. She looked at it upon her palm.
“This is your house.”
“They are your papers.”
“You may require access for the investigation.”
“Then I will ask.”
The gesture entered the fragile space where trust had been.
It did not repair everything. It was a beginning.
Hastings brought tea, bread, meat and a bowl of hot soup.
Eleanor ate because Gabriel placed nothing upon her plate and issued no instruction.
He simply sat opposite her and drank tea while staring at the fire.
His quietness eventually became impossible to ignore.
“You look frightened,” she said.
Gabriel’s gaze shifted toward her.
“I assure you, fear improves me.”
“No performance.”
The familiar command ended the smile before it formed. Eleanor set down her spoon.
“In the carriage, you were angry enough to destroy my father. Here, you have barely spoken.”
“There is nothing useful to say.”
“That has never stopped you.”
He looked toward the locked cabinet.
“You asked me to stand beside you until you decide.”
“Yes.”
“I can do that.”
“But?”
Gabriel rose and crossed to the mantel. He braced one hand against it, his back partly toward her. Eleanor recognised the posture. He had adopted it in the publishing office whenever the conversation moved toward his parents. It created distance without the obviousness of leaving. She stood.
“What are you afraid of?”
“Your questions continue to lack mercy.”
“I am not feeling merciful.”
“No.”
Gabriel looked down at the fire.
“I know how to be wanted,” he said.
The admission seemed unrelated until he continued.
“I know how to make a woman laugh, how to recognise what she desires and how to give enough of myself that she believes the rest is near. I know how to be wanted for pleasure, entertainment, access, distraction or scandal.”
Eleanor remained near the table. Gabriel’s voice lowered.
“I do not know how to be wanted when I have nothing charming to offer.”
The vulnerability of the sentence held her still. He did not look at her.
“My father was charming after every cruelty,” he said. “He made remorse attractive. He gave my mother gifts, recited poetry and touched her as though tenderness erased what came before.”
“You are not your father.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You have known me for weeks.”
“I have watched you for years.”
Gabriel turned. Eleanor continued before he could dismiss the claim.
“You remember servants’ names.”
“That may be intelligence work.”
“You remember their families.”
“Useful people often have families.”
“You read Latin when no one is watching.”
“A private vice.”
“You recognised that my scholarship mattered before my father did.”
His expression tightened.
“You followed my instructions tonight when every instinct told you to take control.”
Gabriel’s gaze moved over her face. Eleanor crossed toward him.
“I do not want your performance.”
“What do you want?”
“The man who noticed I had not eaten. The man who stood beside me in my father’s study and did not speak until I permitted it. The man who placed my manuscripts in a secure cabinet and gave me the key.”
His breathing changed.
“You make ordinary decency sound like virtue.”
“Perhaps because society asks so little of men.”
A faint laugh escaped him. It held no charm. Eleanor stopped before him.
“I do not require promises you cannot make.”
“That sounds generous.”
“It is not. A false promise would be useless to me.”
“What, then?”
“Honesty.”
“You continue to ask for the most difficult thing.”
“Because you continue to offer everything else.”
Gabriel looked down at her. Desire entered his eyes slowly, almost reluctantly. It did not erase fear. It existed beside it. Eleanor lifted one hand and touched his jaw. He did not turn the contact into a kiss. That restraint moved her more than seduction might have done.
“I have not forgiven you,” she said.
“I know.”
“I may not trust you for some time.”
“I know.”
“I still want you.”
Gabriel closed his eyes. His cheek pressed slightly into her palm. When he opened them, the man who looked at her had no smile, no practiced ease and no defence remaining except the choice she had offered.
“Tell me to leave,” he said.
“This is your study.”
“You understand me.”
“Yes.”
Eleanor slid her hand behind his neck.
“Stay.”
She kissed him. There was no punishment in it this time.
No lesson. Her mouth touched his slowly, asking rather than taking, and Gabriel answered with a tenderness so careful it nearly broke her heart.
His hands settled at her waist but did not pull.
He allowed her to choose the distance, the angle and the moment the kiss deepened.
Eleanor stepped closer. Their bodies touched.
Gabriel exhaled against her mouth as though contact had released pain. She opened his coat.
His hands remained upon her waist while she pushed the garment from his shoulders. It fell silently upon the rug. Eleanor unfastened his waistcoat. One button. Then another. Gabriel watched her fingers.
“You do not have to comfort me,” he said.
“I know.”
“You do not owe me tenderness because I told you something unpleasant.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Eleanor opened the final button.
“Because I want to give it.”
His throat moved. She drew the waistcoat away and placed it beside the coat.
His cravat followed. Then his shirt. Eleanor undressed him as she had at Rothmere House, but this time the act held no challenge.
She did not command him to reveal himself or study him as an unknown text.
She already knew where the scars lay and kissed them.
The mark beneath his ribs first. Gabriel’s abdomen tightened beneath her lips. Then the narrow scar at his shoulder.
The older lines across his side. When Eleanor pressed her mouth to those, Gabriel’s hand moved into her hair. He did not guide or restrain. His fingers trembled.
“My father did not touch me kindly after,” he said.
The confession was almost inaudible. Eleanor lifted her head. Gabriel looked away.
“After he struck you?”
“Yes.”
“He did not apologise?”
“He bought a horse.”
The absurdity of the substitution carried its own cruelty. Eleanor placed both hands upon Gabriel’s face and turned him back toward her.
“I am not rewarding pain.”
His eyes met hers.
“I know.”
“I am touching you because I want the man standing here.”
A long silence followed. Then Gabriel bent and rested his forehead against hers.
They remained that way, breathing the same air.
No performance. No seduction. Only presence.
At last, Eleanor kissed him again. Gabriel’s restraint loosened.
His hands moved over her back, opening the fastenings of her gown only after she nodded.
The dress fell around her feet. He removed her undergarments slowly, pausing whenever fabric caught or her body tightened. Each pause asked a question.
Each movement Eleanor made answered it. When she stood naked before him, Gabriel did not immediately touch her breasts or move between her thighs. He looked at her face. The attention made her more vulnerable than his gaze upon her body ever had.
“Still?” he asked.
“Yes.”