Chapter Twenty-One
In the safety of the alcove, out of the prying eyes of the rest of the guests at the ball, Phoebe stared at Gabriel.
Her mouth had gone dry, her cheeks flamed hot, and words of any sort escaped her.
Inside her head, lying in bed at night, she’d gone over and over why she’d so impulsively suggested marriage to him.
And each time she’d come up with a different answer, but also a hot flood of humiliation that had left her cringing with embarrassment even though she was all alone.
Now she was so muddled she had no answer she could possibly give.
She gave a little shake of her head, aware of even more heat rising to her cheeks.
If only she didn’t have such a propensity for blushing, life might be a lot easier.
She dropped her gaze to where she now had her hands clasped in front of her, fingers interlacing themselves in a frantic panic.
Could he not have just pretended it had never happened? That would be so much better than this.
He was standing only inches away from her and she was far too aware of the musky scent of his cologne.
The intoxicating aroma that was playing havoc with her heartbeat, even though she should have been cross with him for ignoring her for nigh on a week and now suddenly ushering her into a secluded nook as though they were lovers.
Her gaze moved to the buttons of his brocade waistcoat.
The tailor had expertly covered them with matching fabric. She needed to concentrate on that.
But she couldn’t. If she raised her head, she would have to tip it back in order to look him in the eye. Into those blue, blue eyes that he had no right to own. And if she did that, she’d be lost.
She swallowed. Of course she’d wanted to see him here, to have him pull her hand through his arm to promenade the dance floor, to even dance with him again.
But that had all been an ideal in her head and had failed to take into consideration her foolish faux pas, not to mention her own clumsiness.
As a consequence, now she was faced with Gabriel, the undoubted man of her dreams, she had no idea what to do.
“Did you mean it?” he asked.
She lowered her gaze to his smart black dancing pumps and shapely calves, only that too was not a good idea.
What could possibly be the right answer to such a question?
Because of course she had meant it, although it had come out sounding nothing like she’d intended, but could she tell him that?
Was a young lady even allowed to do the proposing?
Aunt Fanny would have a fit. This last brought a ridiculous inclination to laugh out loud, but she would have sounded mad.
She even felt mad. That was what he was doing to her.
Nearly a week of daydreaming about the impossible had done little to balance her equilibrium.
She peered past Gabriel’s body out onto the dance floor, for once wishing her aunt would appear as if from nowhere and whisk her away.
Only really, she didn’t want that at all, which was just as well because Aunt Fanny didn’t oblige.
What she wanted was for Gabriel to tell her it had been the right thing to say… and that he would like to marry her.
“I must apologize for my forwardness,” she muttered, the formality of the words enabling her to gain much-needed confidence by the end of the sentence. “I can assure you I did not intend to embarrass you in any way.”
He tapped one foot. “You did not embarrass me.”
She took a deep breath. “But I did embarrass myself, my lord.”
His good left hand that had been hanging by his side tightened into a fist, the only thing betraying a certain tension about him.
“Are we back to Lord Gabriel and Lady Phoebe then? No longer intimates with a shared secret?” His voice was gentle, almost persuasive. If only she knew what he was thinking.
Her mouth felt papery. “I…I do not know. I thought…I thought you were angry with me.” There. She’d said it.
He lifted his hand to her chin, his fingers gentle and warm on her skin and sending a shiver of delight cascading through her from head to toe. Oh, to have him touch her all over, to take her in his arms, to press his lips to hers. That was what she longed for.
He tilted her head upwards until their eyes met.
She was going to drown in that ocean of blue, and her legs were going to collapse under her if she had to look at him in this way for long.
His lips curved in a slight smile, and he shook his head.
“Oh, Phoebe, I am not at all angry with you. Why would I be? You’re the only person who knows the entirety of my secret, as I don’t count Bessie and Violet who out of necessity know some of it.
But with you…with you I chose to share my secret.
I could not be angry with you. Not ever.
” He paused. “You are the only one who knows the truth about my real mother.”
She blinked. His eyes were almost hypnotic and any residual anger that might have been lingering dissipated.
The fingers still holding her chin were warm.
She didn’t want him to remove them. “You couldn’t be angry with me?
” Her voice came out as a dry croak. “You…you couldn’t?
” That was better. “You…you weren’t, I mean aren’t, offended by what I suggested? ”
He shook his head. “I like you too much to ever be angry with you. And how could I not want to marry a girl as kind, and brave and lovely as you are?”
The rapid pounding in her ears must be her heartbeat.
Her chest rose and fell as though she’d been running.
She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his.
A loose curl of sandy-brown hair had flopped forward onto his forehead.
It would be easy to lift her own hand and push it back into place, but, despite her longing to do just that, she didn’t.
His fingers slid round to cup her cheek.
“I find I like you very much. But…” He paused.
“We both know I’m from the gutter, Phoebe.
I just don’t know which gutter. I’m not your equal in any way.
Your aunt, your family, your friends—they’d all say I was marrying you for your money.
You might even come to think that yourself.
And I’m not easy to live with. When I seize on an idea, I do only that until it’s done, to the exclusion of all else, possibly even you.
” He paused. “So this, whatever it is, can go no further.”
Phoebe stopped breathing. The moment seemed to stretch into eternity.
He liked her. He’d said the words. He liked her and he’d mentioned marriage.
His words seemed to echo inside her head, over and over again.
She quite ignored the bit where he’d said he wasn’t good enough for her and their relationship should go no further. That didn’t matter.
His tongue darted over his lips. Was he as dry-mouthed as she was? “Do you understand?” He no longer sounded the confident and somewhat cocky young man she thought she’d come to know. And yes, she felt she knew him, even if it was only a little. He sounded unsure, nervous even. Perhaps afraid.
She took a much-needed breath. “I do like you, Gabriel. Very much. Whoever you really are. And it doesn’t matter to me who your mother is.
” She wanted to tell him she loved him and would marry him even if he lived in the St Giles rookery, but common sense prevented her. That word held too much gravity.
His brow furrowed. “You may not care who my mother is, or was, but your family most certainly will. Your aunt is your guardian. You’re not of age for over a year.
Your father was an earl, your uncle is an earl, and you’re the heir to a vast fortune.
They would cast me as a fortune hunter.” He grinned.
“I might be one indeed, you know. I need a lot of money for my orphanage.”
She could feel her strength returning along with determination to persuade him he was wrong.
“I don’t care, and it’s my decision to make, not anyone else’s.
Don’t forget. My fortune is from trade. My great-grandfather started his life as the son of a blacksmith and built his fortune through his own efforts.
You can’t get much more humble than that.
My grandfather had no pretensions to gentility.
He journeyed on his own ships to see to trade himself, he increased the fortune his father had left him and, thanks to his money, was able to make an advantageous marriage to the daughter of a baronet.
I knew her well, and she didn’t complain about having married the grandson of a blacksmith.
” She paused. “I see no difference in you and I marrying.”
He shook his head. “Your mother was the daughter of one earl and the wife of another. Scarcely any trace remains in you of trade. Your fortune renders you more than attractive to every unmarried man here tonight. And I am nothing. My parents are unknown and likely to remain so. It’s not the same.”
She glanced over her shoulder, but another dance was in progress, the participants whirling about the dance floor with enthusiasm and the music loud.
No one was looking at them. “But I don’t care.
” Suddenly overcome with daring, with one hand she drew one of the curtains across to hide most of the alcove.
“I don’t care at all, and if I were to meet your mother, I would welcome her into my family. ”
His eyes were troubled. “I don’t know, Phoebe. You’ve seen St Giles. I could have been one of those men lounging outside the gin shops or drunk in a corner in the Rat’s Castle. I could have been one of them. Or a criminal deported to Botany Bay.”
She shook her head. “But you’re not, despite your criminal tendencies.” And now she smiled. “Look at yourself. You’re not one of them, Gabriel. I refuse to believe you are.”