Chapter Seven
Gabe had forgotten how beautiful she was, or rather, he’d not gotten a proper look.
His head was still filled with the scent of her, honeysuckle and jasmine and something deep and rich that bespoke woman.
His hands still bore the print of her soft flesh, his mouth the taste of her mouth and the shape of her delicious nipples.
His body remembered everything, and stirred at the reminder.
But he’d not gotten a full look at her face, with the mask and the oil lamps and the shadow of the porch, and Gabe simply stared, pole-axed, at the woman who rose from her chair in the simple parlor and stared back at him.
An oval face with every delicate feature in proportion. A sleek, pert nose. Lips red as rubies. High cheekbones, giving her a look of distinction, and dark brown eyebrows that rose over an intelligent brow.
That smooth, lovely throat with its elegant lines sloping to her breastbone, and below that her magnificent breasts. And lower down—divinity. He was still reliving every moment of how it felt to be inside of her.
His cock was eager to relive those moments, too. Down, he commanded himself, glad for the full skirts of his riding coat.
“You,” she said simply, and her voice was a caress, the brush of velvet against his skin. Though her tone held nothing of welcome.
“Madame.” He gave her a brief bow, then turned to her companion, a woman he’d seen in the usual places where highborn, important women showed themselves. “Milady.”
“Barkham,” the other said primly, drawing her reticule toward her stomach.
“You know one another?” his siren said.
“After a fashion,” said the highborn one. “Louisa, may I present to you…” She didn’t know his name.
“Gabriel Declan,” Gabe said.
“The new Duke of Barkham,” her ladyship said.
His siren tilted and leaned a hand on her desk. “A duke?”
“I currently have that honor, yes.” Until Fenton finished the job he intended and made himself Barkham the Sixth.
He’d tried again just two nights ago, one reason Gabe had been delayed in seeking out his masked beauty.
He blessed the maker of the sturdy boots that lent support to his ankle, after he’d been tripped in the street, snared, and dragged a good way behind the thug’s horse.
His siren blinked at him, at a loss for words. He adored the lovely part to her mouth. He could slip his tongue inside and kiss her again, thoroughly, endlessly.
“If I may ask, Louisa,” said the Marchioness. “What business do you have with the Duke of Barkham?”
His siren shook her head briefly, as if she were clearing out cobwebs. He’d given her a shock, no doubt, but he had to admire the way she took command of herself.
“He has an interest in our property,” his siren said, at the same time Gabe said, “Personal business.”
She scowled at him. “Not personal. We are not acquainted.”
He lifted his brows at her. He’d been inside of this woman and made her cry out with ecstasy. With her he’d experienced the keenest pleasure he’d ever known in his life, a release that had seared his eyeballs and left him panting for breath.
He wanted to repeat the experience as soon as possible. Not acquainted?
The Marchioness stroked her reticule. “Louisa—Matron—you must realize that any association the Duchess of Clarence makes must be a credit to her. I am sorry to say that His Grace has rather an unsavory reputation. I hope you know…”
Gabe narrowed his eyes at her. In another circumstance, he’d let loose the full force of his temper on anyone who tried to cut him down. He’d made a career of it.
But he was Barkham now. A duke. His Grace. He had to behave himself, at least to a fault, and curry the favor of the other highborn who could either cement his position or make his social life a living hell.
Also, he couldn’t let any damage from his past life—or his present one—touch his siren. Louisa. A strong name, befitting a fierce woman.
“I assure you, we at the Benevolence Hospital are above reproach,” Louisa said to her ladyship, not looking at Gabe. “We make every effort to be so.”
She delivered this assurance with a rosy blush rising above the modest neckline of her gown. Gabe smirked at her.
Above reproach, aye? She’d been the one to kiss him. She’d unbuttoned his antique breeches and tugged out his cock. He’d feared he would explode in her hand, such sharp pleasure he’d felt at her touch. The flame in her cheeks said she was remembering that moment, too.
“I’ve a notion to reform my lifestyle,” Gabe said. It wasn’t entirely a lie; he harbored that notion every time he woke up with a thick head from drink or sore knuckles from a fight. “That is why I am here. To become a…benefactor.”
“Benefactor. Is that what you would call it?”
Louisa’s glare stabbed him, her eyes narrowed in accusation. Glorious eyes she had, a deep brown with streaks of gold in them. He wanted to see those eyes fogged with passion, delirious with lust, as he brought her to climax again.
The Marchioness glanced back and forth between them, her brow furrowing. She was an experienced woman; she recognized sexual tension when she saw it rising from them like smoke.
“Yes. I want—er, to lend my assistance.” The words came out a growl, and Gabe cleared his throat. “Perhaps you will give me a tour of the place before I pledge my…support.”
“Oh, how wonderful. The Duke of Barkham as a patron of the Hospital! I cannot wait to tell the Duchess of Clarence you have managed to reform a notorious roué. Well done, Louisa.”
Beaming with approval, the Marchioness rustled out with the small maid in her train, leaving them alone in the parlor.
His siren glared at him. She looked so prim and presentable in a day gown of cotton with small roses printed on a gray background.
Her sleeves were banded at the upper arm and fell in modest folds, the attire of a practical woman who required ease of movement.
A lace pelerine covered her shoulders and buttoned at her throat, and a simple lace cap covered her thick red-brown hair.
She was delectable, and she watched him with pride and fury spilling from her eyes.
For a long moment Gabe hovered, straining, as if they were similar poles of a magnet pulsing in resistance. She’d discovered who he was now, his reputation, his sordid past. The way the members of his own class barely tolerated him. She’d feel the same. He’d never be allowed to touch her again.
Then something shifted and sparked in her eyes as she watched him. Hunger. Fleeting but raw. As if she wanted to touch him but would not allow herself.
The magnets flipped, and Gabe strode across the small room toward her, drawn by an irresistible force.
She might deny herself, but he had no such restraint, not where she was concerned.
He cupped his hands around her shoulders, pulled her close to his body, and bent his head to capture her mouth with his.
Before their lips met, her arms were swooping around his neck, her fingers digging into his hair as she pulled his head down toward her.
There was no hesitation, no awkwardness, no uncertainty.
She tipped back her head and parted her mouth as he slipped his tongue inside, and the small moan that escaped her made him want to howl with triumph.
Everything in him rose to meet her. Skin. Blood. His soul, dammit, because he felt the air rush out of his body as her warmth and heat surrounded him, leaving him light-headed and dizzy.
There was nothing else in the world that mattered but this woman, kissing him, fire in his arms, the promise of heaven and succor and pleasure and redemption in her touch.
Some knowledge crashed into his awareness. Nothing had ever felt so right as holding this woman. He wanted to hold her for always.
“A-hem.”
The huff came from just outside the door of the parlor.
Gabe had no doubt that the little maid had entered, spotted them, and quickly stepped back out into the hallway.
Who knew how long she’d fretted and stewed before deciding to break the spell.
He couldn’t guess how long he’d stood there kissing Louisa.
Not long enough.
“Oh.” Her eyes widened as she stared up at him, shock chasing away the look of dazed pleasure. “Oh.” She unlocked her arms from around his neck and crossed them over her chest like she was an effigy on a medieval tomb.
Her cheeks turned a searing red. “Oh.”
He felt as overset as she did. Something about this woman made his good sense shear away.
He pressed a finger beneath her chin and tipped her face toward his. Her eyes were a light red-brown, the color of cedar, like her hair.
“I do not even know your name,” he said, his voice a low growl.
“Lou—Louisa Bickford.”
She was lying. The way she stumbled over the words alerted him. The world might know her as Louisa Bickford, but that was not her name.
He understood that sense of the world knowing someone other than who one really was.
“And now I’ve compromised you,” he growled.
She pushed him away. Out of reflex he clamped his palm over hers, anchoring her hand to his chest. She had claimed him; might as well admit it.
“Not in the way you think. Alice won’t say a word if I’ve lost my head, will you, Alice?”
“Not I,” said the maid in a lofty tone, “but don’t let that snitch Lizzy see ye. She’ll run straight to Sister Agatha, she will.”
Louisa yanked her hand from Gabe’s chest with another scowl. “And you call yourself a benefactor,” she accused him. “I assume you are here to make your offer in person?”
He frowned back. “I suppose you could say that.”
How else would he approach her but in person? It had been deuced difficult to get the Duchess of Rutland to confess to who his siren was, or where he might find her. Enjoyed being cagey, the Duchess did. Had teased him with the scent and brought out his hunting instincts. But he had found her now.
She stepped away, readjusting her cap, which had come askew during that eternity of kissing. Gabe’s lips burned with the taste of her.
“I supposed you would send an agent in your place,” she said.