Yes, pairing this one with Chloe would be dangerous for all manner of reasons. Fortunately, he’d wager all his holdings when presented with the option of retaining one of Mrs. Belden’s dragons or being spared a companion, if even temporarily, she’d choose the latter.
Poor Mrs. Munroe did not have a hope. As one who’d ceased believing in hope long ago, he recognized as much. The bespectacled miss, however, clearly still retained that useless sentiment. “Are you enjoying your stay, Mrs. Munroe?” Your very brief stay. He’d delight in packing this one up in a carriage, any carriage, closing the door, and having her ride off to Mrs. Belden’s where she belonged.
The color deepened on her cheeks. “Joseph indicated I might visit the library. I…” Her words trailed off. “Forgive me. I will take my leave.” She turned to go.
“Mrs. Munroe?” The quietly spoken words halted her retreat. She stiffened and turned back.
“My lord?” She darted the tip of her tongue out and traced the seam of her bow-shaped lips.
He followed that innocent, yet maddeningly erotic gesture. An agonized groan built in his chest. God help him, he was noticing plain, drab-skirt-wearing Mrs. Munroe.
“Of course you may use the library, or any other room, for as long you are here.”
“Thank you,” she murmured and dropped a curtsy, heightening the awareness of the station difference between them.
Gabriel studied her, this contradictory creature. One moment, hissing and snapping like a cornered cat in the kitchens, the next shy and hesitant. Having lived his life erecting barriers, he recognized Mrs. Munroe—the woman without a Christian name had crafted a carefully constructed facade. “How did you come to be an instructor at Mrs. Belden’s?” It was hard to say who was the more shocked by his unexpected inquiry—he or Mrs. Munroe with her gaping mouth.
She wet her lips and cast a quick glance about. “I’d venture the way any woman comes to find herself in such a post.”
The deliberate vagueness of her response didn’t escape his notice. It did, however, rouse his curiosity. “And how is that?” he asked the question of a genuine desire to know, even as he could not sort why it mattered that he knew—just that it did.
Mrs. Munroe scoffed. “I thought you didn’t care?”
He cocked his head and a frown formed on his lips. The woman possessed a deep cynicism for one so young.
She waved a hand about. “Oh, come,” she said. “Surely you’ll not feign any concern on my account, my lord.”
Gabriel folded his arms at his chest and winged an eyebrow upward. “I assure you, Mrs. Munroe, I do not feign interest on anyone’s account.”
“It is, as you said,” she lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “I am not your concern. After all, you’ve given me a letter and sent me on my way. My position with Mrs. Belden is secure and your obligation is concluded.”
Those words casually tossed out to his butler, and overheard by this woman, roused guilt in his chest. How must Mrs. Munroe have perceived those words? He’d spent the course of his life caring for, nay worrying about, the survival of his siblings and mother. “I meant no insult,” he said at last. However, there was no room within the deliberately small circle of those dependent upon him for anyone else’s happiness. But how should that truth appear to this woman?
She tipped her chin up at the mutinous angle he’d learned upon meeting her meant she prepared for verbal battle. “There was no insult there, my lord. There was a lack of feeling. Regard. Decency.”
“On what do you base your charge?” That terse question silenced her. Tired of her allegations that would paint him as a self-absorbed nobleman who cared about no one, he took a step toward her, and Mrs. Munroe retreated. “You would cast aspersions upon my character and for what? Because I met you, interviewed you, and found you wholly unsuitable to care for my sister?” He continued walking and with each movement, she backed away. Did she believe he intended her harm? At that truth, fury roiled all the deeper within his gut for altogether different reasons than the unfavorable opinion she’d developed of him. He abruptly stopped. “Should I have placed your pride in your capabilities as a companion above all else? Including that of my own sister’s needs and interests?” A mere handbreadth separated them and he expected her to retreat.
Instead, she remained rooted to the floor, her chest heaving. With fear? Anger? Desire? Where would that thought come from?
Then he dipped his gaze lower to her fathomless, blue stare and, God help him, if her eyes were water he’d gladly lose himself within their depths. He swallowed reflexively and urged his feet to carry him away from her but made the mistake of lowering his eyes further to her lush, full lips. No companion should have a mouth such as hers. With a pained groan, he lowered his head, praying she’d slap him in fury, but hoping more that she allowed him to explore the soft contours of her perfectly bow-shaped lips.
But as he touched his mouth to hers, she remained still. A slight, shuddery intake of her honey-scented breath hinted at her desire. Encouraged by that breathy sigh, he deepened the kiss.
She stiffened, and for an agonizing moment he thought she’d wrench herself free of his embrace but then she angled her head and accepted his kiss with a tentativeness that hinted at innocence and belied the Mrs. before her name. He moved his lips in a slow, determined path, brushing his mouth over the corner of her lips. “Surely you have a name?” How did he not know her name? How, when he knew she tasted of honey and smelled as though she’d been traipsing through fields of lavender?
“J-Jane,” she rasped and tipped her head back to aid him in his quest.
At the satiny softness of her long, graceful neck, Gabriel’s heart thundered in his ears. Or was that her wildly beating pulse under his lips? “Jane,” he repeated back, exploring the taste of her name. Short and yet, strength melded with the faintest hint of softness to that one syllable. “Perfect,” he whispered, taking her lips once more. It suited her in every way. He folded his arms about her, drawing her close and taking her lips under his again. A startled cry escaped her. He stiffened and drew back just as Jane punched him. Her fist connected solidly with his nose.
As the lady stumbled away from him, Gabriel touched his nose. He winced. By God, too many counts in a ring against Gentleman Jackson himself and never broken, but then with one dangerously wicked right jab, the lady had broken his nose. Belatedly, he registered the sickly warm trickle of blood. Gabriel yanked his kerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his nose glaring at Jane over the rapidly staining fabric. The lady continued retreating, her pallor white. “Bloody hell.” He winced at the pain of his own touch. What companion learned to handle herself in that impressive manner? If he’d not already sworn to have her gone, and then violated the unspoken vow to never dally with those in his employ, he’d have hired her on as a companion if for no other reason than the certainty that Chloe would be well-cared for in her capable, if violent, hands.
*
Jane pressed her hands to her lips. Her well-kissed lips. Oh, bloody hell, she’d hit him. The marquess withdrew a kerchief from his pocket and then snapped open the stark white linen. Horror filled her as a splash of crimson stained that immaculate fabric. “I—” That strangled word caught in her throat, as she recalled the last man she’d hit and the consequences of that violent, but deservedly violent, outburst. She’d been cast out of her employer’s home and scuttled off to Mrs. Belden’s. But this was altogether different. This circumstance, however, was vastly different. The marquess had not forced his attentions on her. Instead, she’d pressed herself against him like the shameful harlot her mother had been and eagerly returned that kiss.
From over the rim of his handkerchief, he studied her. The faintest amusement glinted in his emerald green eyes, which was impossible. A powerful, commanding nobleman would not take to being dealt a facer by a member of his staff. And certainly not a woman who was merely a member of his staff because she’d laid siege to his breakfast room and refused to leave u
ntil she met and made a plea to his sister.
“A simple no would have sufficed,” he said drolly and experimentally tested the soundness of the bridge of his nose.
“Oh, God, have I broken it?” It would be the very worst shame for that aquiline nose to be forever crooked because of her involuntary reaction.
“I’m merely afforded a ‘my lord’ from the title marquess. I assure you, I’m no god,” he drawled.
How could he affect that droll, dry humor? How, when she’d hit him as she had? She backed into a rose-inlaid side table and the fragile piece of furniture shifted sideways, upending a porcelain shepherdess. The white and pink piece tumbled to the floor and exploded in a spray of splintered glass. She stared blankly down at the mess she’d created and then swung her gaze back to the marquess. “M-my lord. Forgive me,” she said, detesting the hoarseness of her tone; that weak, spiritless quality which had convinced him of her unsuitability for the post as companion to his sister.
He waved his free hand. “It was inappropriate for me to kiss you.” Heat spiraled through her at those uttered words that made the memory of his embrace all the more real. The marquess lowered his handkerchief and she let out a small sigh of relief at the halted blood flow. He gave her a wry smile. “And considering that kiss, I’d venture it is entirely appropriate for you to refer to me by my Christian name.”
She blinked. It would never be appropriate for her to refer to him or any other nobleman by his Christian name. And yet, she angled her head, hopelessly wanting, nay needing, to know the name assigned to a broadly powerful figure such as the marquess.
“Gabriel,” he supplied.
Gabriel. One of those seven archangels, a warrior of the heavenly armies. Strong, powerful. It perfectly suited him. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.” She warmed at that belated, half-hearted protestation.
“No. It would not, Jane.” His thick, hooded, black lashes shielded all hint of emotion within his eyes. There was the faintest and yet, she’d venture, deliberate emphasis on that, her name. A statement from a man who, with his aura of power, could command a kingdom, that he’d noted her regard for propriety and gave not a jot.
She fisted her hands. But then, wasn’t that a luxury permitted one of his lofty station? Jane stiffened as he bent down and retrieved something.
He held up her fragile, wire-rimmed spectacles. “Your spectacles?”
Jane touched her naked face and anxiety pounded at her chest as she flew across the room and, in the most undignified manner, plucked them from his fingers. How could she have not recalled dropping them? The hideous and useless frames she’d donned after her first post as a companion to an aging countess “Thank you.” The woman’s devoted son, with his wandering hands, had taught Jane her first important lesson on those of the nobility who saw in her, and every other woman of her station, someone there for nothing more than their pleasures. She hurriedly opened them and jammed them on her face. Jane smoothed her palms over the front of her skirts. “I would apologize again for hitting you, my lord.”
“Gabriel.”
“Gabriel,” she amended. After all, when one was pleading for one’s post, it wouldn’t do to argue.
He took a step toward her. “And I’ve already said there is nothing to apologize for.”
“But there is.” Putting one’s hands upon a nobleman, a punishable offense that, at least, merited being turned out immediately. She held her palms up. “I’d ask that you not dismiss me outright, but allow me to remain on so that I might meet your sister.”
The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips. “And you still believe that my sister will agree to you as a companion?” There was a faint trace of humor there that gave her pause. He was so very confident that she should be turned out by his sister, and the experience Jane had working with Mrs. Belden’s students should have very well supported his opinion, and yet something gave her hope.
The long-case clock struck eleven and she started. A slow smile tipped her lips at the corner at that slight, but very obvious, sign. “I do believe you’ll not be rid of me as quickly as you wish, my—Gabriel,” she corrected at his pointed look.
“Is that what you believe?” He arched an eyebrow. “That I am eager to be rid of you?”
“Aren’t you?”
“I’m merely trying to see my sister properly cared for.” The serious set to his face hinted at a sadness to him and gave her pause. She recognized that sadness because she carried that painful sentiment within her and she hated that she’d seen a like emotion from him. For it was far easier to challenge and loathe a man for his high-handedness. It was quite another to confront a gentleman who genuinely cared for his sister and wore a cloak of sadness about him. That made him real in ways that were dangerous to her well-ordered thoughts. “I have to leave.” She winced. Should leave. She should leave.
He inclined his head, but made no move to stop her. Instead, he stepped aside, opening the path to the doorway. Jane forced her legs to move.
Gabriel called out. “Jane?”
She stopped and cast a glance back at him.
“Have you forgotten something?” Her common sense, her logic and clear thoughts. He motioned to the lone book, startled from her hands a short while ago lying indignantly upon its spine.
Jane rushed over and claimed the forgotten volume and with the black leather book pulled protectively against her chest, she hurried from the room, desperate to put distance between herself and the suddenly very human marquess.
Gabriel.
Chapter 7
The following morning, Gabriel sipped coffee from his cup. His lips pulled at the familiar but still bitter bite of the black brew. Periodically, he glanced at the empty doorway. Jane, the feisty companion with a powerful right jab, had occupied his thoughts from the moment she’d fled the library. With her parting, he’d sought out his chambers. Alas, sleep had eluded him. Instead, alternating emotions—desire, a hungering to explore her mouth once more, and a nauseating guilt had gripped him. Gabriel didn’t go about kissing those in his employ.
He tightened his grip on the fragile glass in his hand. He’d spent the better part of his life distancing himself from the man the previous marquess had been. He’d dedicated himself to never adopting any part of his father’s ways. Yet, drunk with the scent of lavender and honey, he’d kissed her. Sleep had eventually come and when he’d arisen from that restless slumber haunted by the wide-eyed companion, he’d gone through his morning ablutions resolved to be free of any thoughts of Mrs. Jane Munroe. Her presence here only roused the dark similarity between him and his bastard of a sire who’d taken his pleasures where he would—with ladies of the ton and servants in his household.
He stared into the contents of his cup and then took another slow sip. Except—was she a Mrs.? Was the lady, in fact, a young widow dependent upon her own skills to survive in a society that gave few options to those very women? He frowned at the empty doorway and then shifted his cup to his other hand and consulted his timepiece. Jane had broken her fast at this time yesterday morn. At the prospect of seeing the companion, an odd excitement stirred in his chest.
With a groan, he set down his cup and scrubbed his hands over his face. What manner of madness was this, his thinking of the woman with anything less than annoyance? The sooner the tart-mouthed, yet kissable, lady took her leave, the better he’d be. He didn’t require distractions in the form of stiffly proper companions with a veneer of ice and a coating of molten heat underneath. But now that he’d tasted Jane’s fire, God help him if he didn’t burn for her.
The soft tread of footsteps sounded in the hall and he glanced up, a nonsensical eagerness stirred within, and then died a thankfully swift death. His sister stood framed in the entrance. “Oh.”
Chloe softly laughed. “It is lovely to see you as well.”
Gabriel blinked and then registered her presence. “Chloe.” He sprang to his feet and the wooden legs of his chair scraped noisily along the floor. “How are you feel
ing?” Guilt chafed at his insides. He’d been so fixated on Mrs. Jane Munroe he’d not given proper thought to his sister’s well-being.
Chloe waved a hand about. “I am rested and well,” she said with a smile. As though to prove as much, she moved with energized steps to the sideboard. She favored a nearby servant with one of her patently sincere smiles and proceeded to fill her plate. She carried it over and then claimed the spot beside him, and then froze. “What happened to your face?”
His face. As in his blackened eyes. He’d arisen with the underside of his eyes painted purple and blue for Jane’s efforts. And as he couldn’t very well admit to kissing a stranger fighting for the post as companion and then being dealt an impressive facer for those efforts, he said the first words to form on his lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He winced as soon as the lie left his mouth. His tenacious sister would not release her talons from this juicy morsel.
Chloe leaned up and touched the bruise. He winced. “This. I’m referring to this.” With a moue of displeasure on her lips, she adopted the disapproving tone used by their mother too often. “You do not fight, Gabriel.” No, he disavowed all violent endeavors. Having been the victim of too many fists of fury rained down upon him, he’d vowed to never raise one to another, except if it was to defend himself or his kin.
And so, with his sister staring pointedly at him, he did what any gentleman who’d been kissing his sister’s companion would do. “I was visiting Gentleman Jackson’s.” He lied.
“Oh.” The slight nod indicated she approved of that endeavor. “Well?” she prodded as she sat.
Would she not let the matter rest? “Well, what?” he asked, reclaiming his seat.
Chloe carefully diced a piece of cold ham. “Has she arrived?”
Ah, she spoke of Mrs. Munroe. Gabriel cast another look over at the door. “She has.”
To Love a Lord Page 6