by Various
I nod, which, going by the satisfied smile on her face, she interprets as agreement. At the dinner party a week ago she ordered me to propose to Lady Melissande, something I have no intention of doing. My bride will be of my choosing, not hers. No sense arguing about this now, though. She’ll find out soon enough, and then there will be hell to pay. Slapping a grin on my face, I step forward to welcome our illustrious guests.
Chapter 26
Elizabeth
AT SEVEN A GONG SOUNDS, the signal to gather for pre-dinner cocktails in the green drawing room. The Countess and Gabriel greet everyone at the entrance. I barely get a nod from his mother, but Gabriel welcomes me with a squeeze of my hand.
With the only member of the Smith Cannon team, CeCe, chatting with the MP’s daughter and Bri and Royce nowhere to be found, I gravitate toward the only other person I know, Athena.
A passing servant offers champagne. I decline and ask for water instead.
While I wait for the drink, Athena points to the newcomers. “The Duke and Duchess of Marchstone and their daughter, Lady Melissande.”
The duchess sits in a sky-blue cushioned chair, while her husband hovers over her. His florid complexion and robust build contrast dramatically against her frail frame and pale complexion. When a spasm rolls across her face, Lady Melissande immediately reaches down to whisper something into her mother’s ear. The duchess responds with a tremulous smile and a shake of her head. Even from across the room, I can tell she’s trying to reassure her daughter. She must be ill. How very sad.
Gabriel roams to their side, and he too bends down to say a few words to the duchess. Probably offering what comfort he can. When he straightens and bows to Lady Melissande, it strikes me what a well-matched couple they make. The apricot-haired beauty stuns in a black cocktail dress which perfectly complements Gabriel’s tall, broad-shouldered frame.
A twinge of something pinches my heart, and I force my gaze away.
Athena lowers her voice. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I imagine you’ll catch a drift of it. Lady Winterleagh is playing matchmaker this weekend—between Lady Melissande and Gabriel.”
I choke on the water.
“Oh, dear. Are you all right?” She holds out a cocktail napkin to me.
“Yes. Thank you.” A lump of despair clogs my throat. Up until now, I felt like a princess at a ball, but now I feel like a poor country mouse. Still, I can’t allow my emotions to get the better of me. I must get to the truth. “You were saying?”
“Well, Lady Melissande is the youngest daughter. The last of the bunch. Can you believe they had four to pop off?” She shakes her head as if this is a burden not to be wished on anyone.
Please get to the point.
“Lady Winterleagh is dead set on having her as a daughter in law. The duke’s a direct descendant of William IV. The wrong side of the blanket, but still, a king’s a king. She’ll succeed, too, just wait and see.”
My heart sinks. Is this true? Gabriel must marry at some point. If for no other reason than to provide an heir for the title. And Lady Melissande is beautiful and a member of his own class. But from everything Bri revealed and the episode in the library, Gabriel and his mother do not get along. I find it hard to believe he’d go along with her plan.
My gaze steers toward Gabriel. By now, he’s moved away from Lady Melissande and is talking with someone I haven’t met, a man half a head shorter with buck teeth. Bri’s duke? No wonder she hasn’t made an appearance.
As if she’s been summoned by my thought, Brianna drifts into the room, arm linked with her brother Royce. We barely have time to exchange greetings before the butler marches in and announces dinner in a booming voice.
While everyone sorts out the order to proceed into the dining room, Gabriel smiles and winks at me. And I breathe easy again.
He takes his place at the head of the table where I imagine his father would sit. The Duchess of Marchstone is on his right and Lady Melissande on his left. At the other end of the table, his mother’s perched between the Duke of Marchstone and Bri’s duke. Poor Bri’s stuck next to him.
Members of the Smith Cannon team find their seats in the middle, right across from each other. For a moment, confusion reigns when Royce plops down next to me even though the table card is clearly marked with the MP’s name. The councilman, who’d been headed for the seat, shrugs and joins his wife and daughter. Something tells me this is not the first time Royce has pulled such a stunt.
While I’m enjoying the soup dish, a cold vichysoisse, Royce’s hand lands on my thigh. Smiling sweetly at him, I swat it away. On his second attempt, I pinch his hand hard, and I get a lopsided grin in return. So like his brother’s.
Lady Melissande, who sits on his right, is not as adept at fighting him off. Before long, her face turns a lovely shade of pink every time he so much as twitches in her direction. So, of course, he spends the remainder of the meal showering all his attention on her.
When the main entree is served, a delicious coq au vin, he regales the company with a rather risqué adventure in the Australian outback, which even his brother’s glower can’t stop. I suspect somewhere underneath that black sheep exterior, Royce hides an agile mind. Not that one would know it by his outrageous antics.
Once the meal ends, the men remain in the dining room, and the women retire to the green drawing room. To chat, as best I can tell. Exhausted after the stress of this week, I excuse myself for the night.
Some time later, I wake to Gabriel crawling into bed with me. All I want to do is sleep, and I tell him so.
“I just want to hold you, love.”
Half awake, I chuckle. That will be the day when that’s all he wants with me. I brace myself for a round of hot, steamy sex, but he surprises me when, true to his word, all he does is gather me into his body. I drift off to sleep with my head on his chest and his arms around me.
In the morning, I find a note on my pillow. “Gone riding. Will call when I return.”
For once my stomach’s not rebelling so I head down to breakfast. Except for the two footmen who snap to attention as soon as I stroll in, I’m the sole occupant in the room. A full spread of eggs, bacon, sausage, toast and other British breakfast fare beckon me from the buffet. Rather than take up a footman’s offer to help, I decline and serve myself.
Just as I take a seat, Royce saunters in, and after loading up his plate, straddles the chair next to me. Although his eyes are tight around the edges, he appears sober enough. Still, I keep my eye on him, ready to swat him if his hand goes roaming again.
“So tell me, love? What’s your role in the SouthWind transaction?”
His inquiry surprises me since I didn’t expect him to engage in polite conversation. The innocuous topic keeps us busy while we eat. After I exhaust the subject, I ask him about his occupation.
“I travel to the back of beyond to scout likely spots for Storm Industries to develop—mostly wind and water. And then I investigate the geopolitical environment to determine the feasibility of building and managing a project in that location.”
‘That’s quite a mouthful. Would you care to explain it in English?” I ask, while sipping the last of my coffee.
One of the footmen rushes over to refill my cup.
Royce slices off a bit of sausage and pops it in his mouth. “Basically, I find out if the natives will fight off any attempt to build an energy project in their region.”
So there won’t be a repeat of what happened in Honduras. “You must travel quite a bit.”
He sips his brew, makes a face, adds cream and sugar to the porcelain cup. “Close to three hundred days a year.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Yes. The travel gets a bit wearisome at times, but I do love the challenge, and learning about new cultures. And women, especially the women.” He waggles his brows. So much like his brother when he makes an outrageous remark.
But I refuse to take the bait. Biting into a slice of toast, I stare him
down.
“You’re no fun.” He sighs. “The work can be downright dangerous. Some populations don’t take kindly to our developing their habitat. So I acquaint myself with the key players, feel them out, determine if they have real objections or centuries of ingrained habits. Those who hold strong religious beliefs are the hardest to convince, but I usually manage to win them over in the end.”
“You can be quite charming when you want to be.”
“But it won’t do me any good because you are taken.” Mimicking me, he lathers butter on a slice of toast and bites into it.
“What do you mean?” Suspecting where this conversation is headed, I thank God no other guests are present.
He whispers. “Gabe. He’s quite smitten with you.”
“We’re business acquaintances, that’s all.” I blurt out while rearranging the napkin on my lap.
“Sure you are, darling.” He winks at me over a glass of orange juice, but then he turns serious.
“Beware of the mater, darling. If she finds out, well, not knowing what she will do. Her bite is worse than her bark. A lot worse.”
Before I have a chance to ask him what he means, Terry and Brian enter the room, and we’re forced to halt our discussion. Shortly after that, Mr. Carrey and the MP join our numbers, and the conversation turns to last night’s dinner, the castle, the weather.
After everyone’s had a chance to get their fill, Royce stands. “I’m off to do some fly fishing.”
“Really?” I ask. Didn’t peg him as the fly-fishing type.
“Afraid so, pet.” He winks at me again. “Such is the life of a country squire.” He rubs his hands together and addresses the breakfast guests. “Who’s coming with me?”
Brian, Mark and the MP raise their arms. Surprisingly, so does Mr. Carrey.
“Off we go, then.”
He leans over to snatch the last piece of toast, and whispers in my ear, “If you need anything, love, anything at all, let me know.” His words are almost identical to his sister’s.
After breakfast, I retire to my room and settle down to read a book on my e-reader when my phone rings. Not my cell phone. The rotary, in-room antique which appears to date back to the Stone Age. Yeah, it’s that old.
“Hello?”
“Hi, ducks, it’s Brianna. You busy?”
“No, I was just reading.”
“Up for some girl time?”
Not really. I was kind of looking forward to the solitude. But I can’t be rude. “Sure.”
“Thought I’d clue you in on what Mummy has planned for this evening. Can I come to your room and strategize?”
“Come on up.”
“Actually, I’m two doors down.” Seconds later, she breezes in wearing a sleeveless white sheath dress which probably came from Chanel, Valentino, or some other haute couture house. You just don’t find that style and cut on any ole rack.”
She drops into a bench, the match to the gold vanity table. “What are you wearing to the party tonight?”
“Uh, an empire-waist dress I bought on Bond Street. Will that do?” I hope it does. My only other choice is the dress I wore last night.
“Absolutely. I must warn you, though, Mummy always arranges a game of some kind. Excruciating, really. For years, she had an awful ‘Get to know each other’ one. She would pass out cards and you had to write three things about yourself that most people would not know. Well, you can imagine how painful it was to hear about somebody’s loony Aunt Melba or their hammer toe. Honestly, there’s a reason why some things should be kept private. But I put a stop to that.”
“How?”
“I shared vital information about me. One, I’m not a virgin.” She ticks the number off her fingers. “Two, I prefer to do it doggie style, and three, I like to suck big, hard dicks.”
I convulse with laughter. “Oh my God. You’re a menace. What did your mother do?”
“She ripped up my card and sent me to my room where I did it doggie style with ... you know.” When a tear rolls down her cheek, she plucks a tissue from the dispenser on the vanity table. “I can’t believe I’m still crying over that tosser. I wasn’t even in love with him.”
“He betrayed you. It’ll take time to heal.”
She plays with the bottles I lined up there—my perfume, hair spray, the-oh, my God. Please, please, please don’t let her notice.
She picks up the prescription bottle. “Pre-natal vitamins?” Her gaze darts to me as her eyes round. “You’re pregnant?”
I can’t lie, not with her holding the evidence in her hand. “Yes.”
She clutches the bottle to her chest as her eyes beam with happiness. “Please tell me it’s Gabe’s.”
I wrestle with the idea of denying it. But I’ve evaded the truth long enough. “It’s his.”
She races to the bed and engulfs me in a great big hug. “Congrats, darling. Gabe must be over the moon. He loves kids. He’s on three boards for children’s charities.”
When I say nothing, her brows draw together. “Wait a minute. He doesn’t know, does he?”
I shake my head. “I’m waiting for the right moment.”
“You have got to do it this weekend. It will send Mummy shrieking to her psychiatrist.”
My phone rings again. My cell this time. Gabriel.
“Hi.”
“Meet me at the horse barn.”
“The horse barn?”
“The stables, darling,” Brianna says. “Go out the west portico and follow the smell. Big monstrosity. Can’t miss it. Cheerio.” She sails out of the room with a big smile on her face. No doubt anticipating her mother’s nervous breakdown when I tell Gabriel about the baby.
“I’ll be in the back.” He hangs up without giving me a chance to agree. Who am I kidding? I’m not about to say no to him. After I freshen up, I head for the west portico, taking pride I get lost only once. The horse barn is hard to miss. It’s huge. And so are the horses inside. I stroll in as if I know what I’m doing. Thankfully only a couple of grooms are there, and they’re busy with the horses. When I arrive at the back, no Gabriel. Just a closed door. I’m about to turn and double back, when the door opens, a hand darts out, and I’m pulled within.
The place is an office, going by the desk, ancient file cabinet, and sundry equipment—bridles, reins, a saddle or two. Not that I have a chance to notice much, when Gabriel half carries, half drags me to a sofa butted up against a wood-paneled wall covered with framed certificates.
As soon as my back lands on the couch, Gabriel’s mouth descends on mine. I want to slow him down so we can talk. But he presses a long, lush kiss on my lips, tearing my will away.
“Did you lock the door?” I ask out of breath.
He rises to secure the door, and, with a feral stride, stalks back to strip me of my sweater, sweatshirt, blouse, blue-lacy bra.
“Why are you wearing so many clothes?” He growls.
“It’s cold in the mansion.”
He blazes a heated trail up my throat, my jaw, my lips. “Are you cold now?”
I shiver, not from the cold. “No.”
“Good.” His rough-pad fingers travel down my throat, across my collarbone, down the swell of my chest, a simple caress which has me quaking inside. My flesh aches for him, burns for his touch. As if in response, he palms a breast, kneads it with that oh-so-capable hand of his while his lips nibble and suckle a fiery path to the tip. When his clever tongue curls around the ruched nipple and sucks it into his mouth, I practically come off the sofa.
He lays his hand on my naked, quivering belly. “Easy, love. We have time.”
“Do we?” His drugging kisses, caresses, are stealing away my will. And that I can’t allow. I walked—no, not walked—ran to the stables to tell him about the baby, not so he could drive me insane. From somewhere deep, I muster my will. “Gabriel, we need to talk.”
His confused gaze darts up to engage with mine. “Talk?”
Chapter 27
SOMETHING FLASHES I
N HIS EYES. “Not bloody likely.” He tunnels his hand through my hair, pulls me to him. His mouth devours mine, licking my lips, sucking my tongue, stealing my breath. Whatever restraint he possessed is gone, replaced by his ravening hunger. For me.
His lips follow a trail from my mouth to my jaw, down to my throat. As he nuzzles, he suckles, nips my skin before circling back to my mouth to taste me, ravage me, own me. “God, Elizabeth. You taste so bloody sweet.”
“It’s just soap.”
“I could snack on you for hours.”
Please do.
A zipper’s drawn. His? No. Mine. My skirt disappears, tossed to the side like so much confetti. I’m wearing nothing underneath. He doesn’t say anything, but the light in his eyes? I could light a fire with that look.
“You’re driving me insane.” His voice’s gone deeper, huskier.
“Clothes off.” I demand, gasping for air. He’s stolen my breath from me..
He jumps to his feet, tosses his black riding jacket, tight white breeches, shirt, tall boots. Everything lands on the floor and then he kneels between my legs, nudges my legs apart. His cock stands high and proud, harder than I’ve ever seen it. I grasp the base, squeeze and he groans as a drop of pre-cum slips from the head.
“You’re killing me.”
I laugh. “Not just yet.” I try to sit so I can slip him into my mouth, but he stops me.
“Later, love. Right now I have to have you.” His gaze finds mine. He’s asking a question and begging for forgiveness at the same time.
I stroke his chest. “It’s okay. It’s fine, Gabriel.” He doesn’t have to get me ready. Not today. Not when I want him as badly as he wants me.
He palms my ass and slides me under him. No condoms this time. They went by the wayside that morning in the shower. As he slips into me, the angles to his face sharpen with passion. His breath rasps with need.
Stretched to the max, it’s my turn to gasp. He’s right there, cramming into me, filling me to the brim. How do I forget how big he is? And yet I do. Every. Single. Time.