How to Catch an Errant Earl

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Gabriel grasped his chin and stared hard at Arabella. What could he say to that? It was true he’d broken many a heart over the years. Grimacing inwardly, he tried to push away the thought of Lady Astley and how he’d burned her last letter to cinders—she was a married woman and should have known their illicit affair would go nowhere.

  He sighed heavily. Why was it that females always had to attach so much emotion to sexual congress? He’d foolishly assumed that Arabella—rational and practical yet undeniably passionate—would be different. That they’d have their fun, she’d bear him a child or two, and then they’d both seek sexual satisfaction elsewhere. Wasn’t that the way of most ton marriages? And hadn’t she agreed to that when he’d offered for her hand?

  “Any number of women would want me in their beds, Arabella.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Gabriel regretted them. The stricken expression on his wife’s face made him feel like the lowest heel ever to walk the earth. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It was cruel. I’m just so very confused and disappointed.”

  “I accept your apology, but it would be foolish of me not to heed your warning, Gabriel. Women do want you. And you probably aren’t used to being denied.”

  “No. I’m not.” It was true he usually got what he wanted, at least where women were concerned. “I would never take you against your will,” he added gravely. “But do you really expect me to take a vow of priestly celibacy? I have needs, Arabella, and you are my wife. I will ask you to reconsider before you banish me from your bed.”

  She shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, Gabriel, but I won’t.” And then she closed her book and quit the terrace, leaving him all alone with his claret, his bruised male pride, and more than a little bit of sexual frustration.

  Chapter 10

  The morn is up again, the dewy morn,

  With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,

  Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn . . .

  Lord Byron, “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”

  Villa Belle Rive, Villeneuve, Switzerland

  July 10, 1818

  When Arabella woke the next morning, it was to discover someone had left a fragrant white rosebud on the pillow beside her head.

  Of course, that someone must have been Gabriel. She frowned at the bloom, confused. Did this mean he was still trying to court her in the hope of inveigling his way into her bed? Or was it his way of apologizing for brooding and ignoring her for the rest of the afternoon and last night? Indeed, after she’d quit the balcony and retired to her room, she barely saw him.

  Well, that wasn’t quite true. She had seen quite a lot of his strong back. After she left the balcony, he stayed seated at the wrought iron table, drinking his claret and rendering sketch after sketch until the sun had completely set. At one point, he even smoked a cheroot cigar; the tip glowed in the twilight, and the rich, smoky smell drifted through her open door, reminding her of her husband’s potent masculinity.

  When he eventually knocked on her door, her stomach flipped; his appearance had been truly forbidding—still attired in only a banyan and trousers, his black hair was wildly ruffled, and his jaw shadowed with black stubble. His gaze, when it dragged over her as she sat propped up in bed with a book, had a dark, smoldering edge. But to her relief, he simply bid her a brief and perfunctory good night before disappearing into his own rooms next door.

  She pushed herself up on the pillows and picked up the barely open bud. She only had herself to blame for her husband’s bad mood. She’d rejected him on their wedding day. He wasn’t vainglorious, but he was a much-vaunted rakehell, and as he’d already told her, he possessed a great carnal appetite. No doubt, she’d frustrated him and dented his pride by barring him from her bed. While she was relieved he hadn’t tried to persuade her to change her mind last night—as her husband, he certainly did have conjugal rights—she also felt terrible that they were already estranged.

  Arabella rang for her maid, Colette, and after she’d washed and dressed in a simple gown of pale green muslin and a white silk shawl, she emerged to find Gabriel taking breakfast on the balcony.

  What would his mood be like this morning? Would he welcome her company? The rose was clearly a peace offering. Nevertheless, Arabella felt her stomach tumble with apprehension as she pushed open the French doors.

  Gabriel stood and bowed as soon as he heard her. He was dressed in a burgundy banyan and loose linen trousers, and to Arabella’s relief, a fresh cambric shirt; she’d blush like a ninny if his bare chest and muscular torso were still on display. “My lady wife, I trust you slept well,” he said with a perfectly polite smile. A liveried footman, who’d been waiting by a potted fir at the edge of the balcony, stepped forward and pulled out a chair for her.

  “Aye, I did.” It wasn’t a lie. After her emotionally tumultuous wedding day, she’d slept soundly. She smoothed her skirts as she sat, and the footman draped a linen napkin over her lap. “And you?”

  “Dreadfully.” As Gabriel folded his tall frame into his seat, Arabella noted he did indeed have the look of someone who hadn’t slept well; there were smudges of fatigue beneath his eyes, which were ever so slightly bloodshot.

  “Would you like tea or coffee, or even hot chocolate, my lady? The coffee has just arrived, but Soames here”—he nodded at the footman—“can fetch whatever you like.”

  My lady, is it? Well, she had asked him not to call her Bella. She supposed he wouldn’t call her sweetheart, or any other term of endearment now either. Which was for the best really. Summoning a scrupulously polite tone to match his, she responded, “Tea would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  Soames quit the terrace, and as Gabriel sipped his coffee, his gaze fell on the rosebud she’d pinned to her bodice. But he didn’t remark upon it. Instead he removed the silver lids on all the serving dishes set out on the table and invited her to help herself to whatever she wished.

  Arabella selected a slice of ham, a coddled egg, and a fresh roll. She hadn’t sent for a supper tray last night and was quite hungry.

  Gabriel piled a few more rashers of bacon and another egg onto his already quite full plate. “What are your plans for the day?” he asked before he took a sizable bite of egg-smeared toast.

  Arabella concentrated on buttering her roll as she considered his question. “You know, I’m really not sure, to be perfectly honest. For such a long time, I’ve been at the beck and call of Aunt Flora and Lilias, so it’s quite a novel experience to be at a loose end for once. But I suppose I could explore the villa and the garden. And talk to your housekeeper and cook about the menus . . . If that aligns with your plans, of course.”

  Gabriel attacked a kidney before responding. “My inquiry agent is visiting at eleven o’clock to provide an update on his progress in locating my mother. I’ll be sending off some correspondence to London via a courier around noon, so you might like to dash off some quick letters to your friends—Lady Charlotte, Lady Malverne, and Miss de Vere. I’d be happy to include them in the packet.”

  “Oh . . .” Arabella’s spirits lifted immediately. “I would like that indeed. Thank you so much, my lord.”

  His lips twitched with a fleeting smile. “Think nothing of it, Arabella.” He studied her over the rim of his coffee cup for a long moment before adding, “I had also originally planned on sailing us about the lake and then stopping somewhere for a picnic this afternoon . . . but given our current situation”—he shrugged—“I would understand if you didn’t feel comfortable accompanying me on such an excursion. It does seem a tad too romantic, and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable or awkward. I will also admit that my shoulder is a bit sore today, so perhaps it’s for the best that we don’t go for that reason too.”

  Ouch. Arabella dropped her gaze to her plate. Guilt flooded her heart. There was now no doubt in her mind she’d hurt Gabriel’s feelings. Sailing and a picnic
sounded wonderful, but he was right, it smacked of romance. It would be far safer and easier—for her at least—to avoid such an activity.

  “You should rest your shoulder then. I can fetch you some more liniment for it after breakfast if you’d like . . .”

  “Thank you. I’ll have Ryecroft apply it later when I get dressed.”

  What, he wasn’t going to make a quip about her rubbing it in? Soames returned with a tea tray, and Arabella focused on dispensing a cup for herself. Why was she being so annoyingly contrary? Yesterday she’d been quite decided that she didn’t want Gabriel to woo her or take her to bed so she could protect her heart. But now, when he was behaving like a perfect gentleman, she missed seeing his rakish side.

  She sighed, and after she’d finished picking at her breakfast—her appetite seemed to have fled—she excused herself and went to her dressing room to retrieve the liniment. Opening up the bag, she rummaged about, then frowned when she picked up the bottle of laudanum.

  It was empty. Bone dry.

  Annoyance bristled. Had Aunt Flora helped herself when she wasn’t looking? How abominably rude of her. Aside from that, she was concerned her aunt would take too much. It was a stronger concoction than she was probably used to and had to be dispensed carefully.

  When she returned to the balcony, Gabriel immediately noticed her disgruntled expression. “Is everything all right?” he asked as he put down his coffee.

  Arabella handed him the small pot of liniment. “No. I’ve just discovered my bottle of laudanum has been drained dry. I’m worried my aunt has taken it.”

  Gabriel’s mouth twisted. “It wasn’t your aunt. It was me. When your bag arrived along with your trunk, I tipped it out.”

  Arabella gaped at him as anger warred with confusion. “Why would you do such a thing?” she demanded when she could manage to draw breath. “Not only did you have no right to go through my belongings, you shouldn’t have disposed of it. It’s a special blend made by an apothecary in Edinburgh whom I trust implicitly. What if I need laudanum to treat someone who is ill or in pain?”

  Gabriel gave her a long look, his expression inscrutable, but Arabella refused to break eye contact. She lifted her chin. “Well, I’m waiting for an explanation, my lord.”

  To her surprise, Gabriel sighed heavily, then shook his head as though a great weight had just settled upon him. “I can’t bear the stuff for several reasons,” he said quietly, his eyes glimmering with an emotion she couldn’t quite identify. “But the most pertinent one is, two years ago, my father took too much and died. The coroner ruled his death was accidental, but I’m not convinced he didn’t take his own life. You see, at the risk of being indelicate, his physician also informed me that he had syphilis.”

  Oh, dear Lord above. “Oh, Gabriel, I’m so, so sorry. I had no idea.” The sense of guilt assailing Arabella was so strong, she felt as if she’d just been punched in the midriff and winded. “How shocking and tragic.”

  Gabriel shrugged. “My father and I had a complicated relationship. It may sound terrible, but I did not mourn his passing overly much. He wasn’t a good man.”

  Arabella wanted to take Gabriel’s hand in hers, to offer some sort of comfort, but she wasn’t sure if her display of sympathy would be welcome.

  Perhaps sensing her distress on his behalf, Gabriel cast her a small, crooked smile. “I apologize for invading your privacy, but when I saw your bag, just knowing there was a bottle of laudanum in there was too—” He broke off and a sigh shuddered through him. “I do hope you can see your way to forgive me.”

  Arabella did reach out and touch his forearm briefly. “I do. Unreservedly.” Laudanum was easy enough to come by, so she could replace it. The problem was, if she did, she would have to do so surreptitiously. She didn’t want to keep secrets from her husband, but it seemed that she must.

  * * *

  * * *

  An hour later, Arabella sat at a small satinwood table by one of the wide windows in her room, sharpening her quill so she could pen a letter to Sophie. She still couldn’t quite believe her dear friend was a viscountess. According to Charlie’s letter, Sophie was blissfully happy, and Nate, her husband, was thoroughly smitten.

  While Arabella was thrilled for Sophie, she couldn’t help but compare their situations. Would that Gabriel was smitten with his own wife. Arabella sighed as she dug out her inkpot. There was no point in pining for the moon—she’d learned that lesson long ago when she’d lived in the orphanage in Glasgow. When they returned to London, she would try to focus on her charity work just as she’d always planned. At least that was something she could look forward to.

  As she pondered how to begin her letter, her gaze wandered inexorably outside. With the curtains pulled back, she had a marvelous view of the balcony, and although she told herself she was simply drawn to the vista of lake and mountains and cloudless sky, that’s not what really snared her attention; Gabriel’s valet, Ryecroft, was currently shaving his shirtless master.

  Gabriel was sprawled negligently in a chair, his dark head tilted back at a slight angle as Ryecroft slid the razor along his master’s well-defined jaw. His wild black locks shone like a raven’s wing in the morning sunshine. If he liked to laze about in nothing but buckskin breeches, no wonder his sleek skin was such a glorious bronze. Arabella swallowed as an unexpected wave of longing washed through her. She fervently wished she weren’t so physically attracted to her husband. It would be easier to rid herself of this useless yearning if she wasn’t.

  And it would certainly be easier to focus on her letter writing. Forcing herself to drag her admiring gaze away, she dipped the nib of her quill into the ink and began to write, My dearest Sophie . . .

  She’d written only a few lines, when she was distracted by a movement in the corner of her vision. Looking up, she discovered the young maid Colette was in the room. She stood by the French doors, apparently wiping a smudge off the glass pane with her white cotton apron, but her gaze was steadfastly trained on Gabriel.

  The little minx.

  Arabella supposed she couldn’t blame the girl for gawking. She wanted to gawk too. Ryecroft had finished shaving Gabriel and was now rubbing liniment into his master’s heavily muscled shoulder and back. Indeed, the sight was enough to make one’s mouth water.

  Colette had given up pretending to wipe the spot from the window, and Arabella frowned. The prickle of annoyance inside her intensified. She really should shoo the girl away. All things considered, it was most unseemly as well as disrespectful for her to be so blatantly ogling her master in front of his wife.

  She called Colette’s name and the maid jumped before blushing bright red. Arabella coolly requested a pot of tea, and the girl scurried from the room, as well she might.

  Arabella picked up her goose feather quill again, but she couldn’t concentrate. She removed her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose as a sense of despondency settled over her; it felt like a cloud had suddenly covered the sun.

  It would always be this way. Women were bound to stare at—and no doubt actively pursue—her breathtakingly handsome husband. And it wouldn’t be long before Gabriel, who was ostensibly as libidinous as an alley cat, decided to stray. Especially in light of the fact that she’d just informed him she didn’t wish to have marital relations for the foreseeable future.

  Imagining him with another lover, whether a noblewoman or a prostitute—kissing her, undressing her, pleasuring her—hurt as much as a physical blow to Arabella’s chest. A stab to her heart.

  Tears stung the back of her eyelids. She’d been worried she might fall in love with Gabriel, but the way she felt right at this very moment, she rather suspected she’d already started to.

  The idea of Gabriel being unfaithful wasn’t the only thing that troubled her deeply. He was promiscuous, and with that came the risk of infection. He’d already mentioned he used condoms regularly, but t
hey weren’t a perfect method of protection by any means. She’d heard her grandfather inform his patients often enough. Abstinence was the only sure way to avoid contracting terrible diseases such as syphilis and gonorrhea.

  Putting down her quill, Arabella realized she was going to have to instigate another difficult conversation with her husband.

  * * *

  * * *

  When the inquiry agent, Monsieur Rochat, took his leave, Gabriel’s gaze landed on the crystal decanter on the other side of Villa Belle Rive’s study. Was half past eleven in the morning too early to start drinking brandy?

  Rochat had just delivered news he hadn’t wanted to hear: his mother was nowhere to be found in and around Vevey, Clarens, Montreux, or indeed any of the other Swiss lakeside towns between here and Geneva. Gabriel had left word in each and every place he’d visited—in Switzerland and Italy—that he was searching for his mother, hoping beyond hope she, or someone of her acquaintance, might come across one of his messages and reach out to him. But so far, his search had been in vain. The château she’d stayed at in Cologny a year ago was vacant except for a skeleton staff, and no one seemed to remember her. The house’s owner was “abroad.”