“Long courtships,” he echoed, his heart sinking into his stomach.
“My late son courted his wife for two years before they married,” General Waverly said, with a suspicious glint in his eye. “I’d hate to see my granddaughter be hasty. What do you think, Pierce?”
As alarm built in Gabe’s chest, Devonmont cast him a satisfied grin. “Oh, yes,” he said, lifting his glass to drink. “Two years is plenty of time.”
“Now, Pierce,” Virginia chided him, “you and Poppy are being ridiculous. Two years is far too long.”
Gabe let out a breath. “I should say so.”
“A year is long enough.” She cast Gabe a sly glance over the rim of her wineglass. “Though I suppose it could be shortened to six months.”
At Gabe’s groan, Celia burst into laughter. “How about that, Gabe? Miss Waverly wants a courtship that will last at least until February.”
He bit back an oath. His brat of a sister was certainly going to have fun with this.
“There’s no hurry, is there?” Virginia cast him another of those sweet smiles that gave him pause. “How can I make a judicious decision about my entire life in such a short time?”
Oh, God, could she have found out about Gran’s demand? No, how could she? “No hurry at all,” he muttered and got up to pour himself more wine.
“Besides,” she went on in a suddenly steely voice, “you’ll need that time to prepare for the move.”
Gabe almost dropped his glass. “The move?”
“I assume that if we marry, you’ll come to live at Waverly Farm with me and Poppy. You can’t possibly mean for me to live here.”
“Actually, I intend for us to have a house of our own,” he ground out as he paced in front of the fireplace.
“Then who will look after Poppy? He needs me to run his household.”
“Can’t do without her,” her grandfather said cheerily.
She cast Gabe a falsely pained look. “And forgive me for being indelicate, but given that you have no profession and I have a tiny dowry, well . . . I don’t see how we could afford a house.”
All eyes turned to him. Blast, blast, blast. He could tell they were enjoying this incredibly vulgar conversation. And what gently bred woman brought up her fiancé’s future income as polite dinner conversation, anyway?
Gran didn’t appear the least bit bothered by it. “I assure you, Miss Waverly, that my grandson will be able to support you.”
“Oh, I never thought otherwise.” Virginia’s eyes glittered suspiciously. “But a lady has to be practical. I know that men like Lord Gabriel require wives who can bring something to a marriage. Since I cannot, I must do my best to help our situation.”
Her manner deepened his alarm. She didn’t seem apologetic or regretful. Plus, she was talking about their prospective marriage as if she really did mean to go through with it—quite a turnabout from earlier in the day.
He would lay odds that this vulgar discussion wasn’t typical of her. What if she really had heard about Gran’s ultimatum? But when? Surely not before the ball, or she would have thrown that in his face. Besides, it wasn’t widely known beyond his family, except for some friends.
“I hate that marrying me will materially alter his lordship’s life,” she went on, rousing his suspicions even more. “He’ll have to give up his rooms in town, not to mention his membership in any clubs. And I daresay there will be little racing after we marry. But I do hope our union will make up for those inconveniences.”
“You must trust me in this, Miss Waverly,” Gran persisted. “The lad has prospects.”
“Oh? And what might those be?” Virginia’s gaze met his, ripe with challenge. “One should never count one’s chickens before they hatch, you know. I have to think practically.”
He stiffened. She knew. He didn’t know how, but she must have found out about Gran’s ultimatum. And she was clearly eager to lay into him. She’d just been toying with him until now.
He walked up to her. “Miss Waverly, it looks as if dinner may be a while longer. Perhaps you would like to go view our maze? You seemed very interested in it the last time you were here, and I’d love to show it to you.”
“I’d be delighted,” she said, looking as if she were spoiling for a fight. “We can discuss your ‘prospects’ some more.”
Oh, yes. She definitely knew.
“Perhaps I should come along—” her grandfather began.
“No need,” Gran interrupted. “The maze is close by—it won’t hurt to let the young people have a short walk before dinner. It helps the digestion.” She shot Gabe a long, stern glance. “And my grandson knows that if he doesn’t behave, he’ll have to answer to me.”
“I’ll be fine, Poppy,” Virginia added as she slid her hand in the crook of Gabe’s elbow. “This won’t take long.”
No, it wouldn’t. Gabe intended to remind her of all the reasons she needed to marry, and all the reasons he was the perfect candidate. Her pride might be pricked at the moment, but she kept saying she was a practical woman—and she couldn’t deny that his offer was as advantagous to her as to him.
But he wouldn’t let her bow out of this, by God. He’d won that wager fair and square, and she owed him a courtship. He had Celia to think of, after all. He had to marry.
They both kept quiet as they walked through the halls toward the side door. There were servants everywhere, and Gabe didn’t want anyone hearing this particular discussion.
The minute they emerged into the gardens and headed for the maze, he said in a low voice, “I take it that you’ve heard about my grandmother’s ultimatum.”
“Ultimatum?” she said with that false look of innocence.
It stirred his temper even more. “Don’t play dumb, Virginia. It doesn’t flatter you.”
Leading her into the maze, he hurried her down the small lane between the close-cropped box hedges to find some privacy from any curious listeners.
“How would you know what flatters me?” she snapped. “You barely know me. Which is probably why you chose me for your mercenary plan.”
Blast, blast, blast. “How did you find out about Gran’s demands? How long have you known?”
She tipped up her chin. “Pierce told me just now in the carriage. Apparently he got it from an acquaintance who’d heard something of it at a card game you played in a tavern.”
He’d forgotten all about that discussion, which had taken place in a public arena. “You’re laboring under a false assumption. I chose you as my wife because I wronged your family,” he bit out, annoyed at being painted in so poor a light. “Trust me, there are plenty of women eager to marry a marquess’s son. I could have found one at any of your precious balls without having to go through the risk of racing you.”
As soon as he spoke the words he regretted them, for the mention of other women seemed to inflame her further. Snatching her hand from his arm, she spat, “Then go do so. I want none of your scheme.”
She turned to go back, but he blocked her path. He would make her listen, by God, if it was the last thing he did! “It isn’t a scheme—it’s a desperate situation. And yes, I was hoping you’d help me with it. Not for my sake, but for my sister’s.”
He could see curiosity warring with anger in her face. “Your sister’s?”
“I don’t know how much you’ve heard about Gran’s demand, but she says we all have to marry by the end of the year, or none of us inherit. So if one doesn’t marry, the others lose their fortunes as well. The three eldest of us are in good situations, so I’m not concerned about them. And I have enough income to support myself from racing. But Celia . . .”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “She deserves better than to be cut off without a penny just because she’s too stubborn to give in. If I don’t marry, she’ll use my refusal as an excuse to refuse as well. But if I marry, she won’t want to be the only one holding everyone else up. She’ll do what she has to do.”
She glared at him. “Sweet Lord, yo
u’re even worse than I thought. You want to force me into marrying so you can force your sister into marrying, as well.”
“No, damn it!” He took a breath, expelled it, then took another, fighting for calm. “I don’t want to force anyone into anything. If I had my choice, I’d go on as I’d always planned—racing whomever I want, living on my winnings, and trying to establish a decent Thoroughbred stable.”
He stared her down. “But I don’t have my choice. And neither does Celia. For that matter, neither do you. You want to live forever with your grandfather at your cozy farm, but we both know that can’t happen. This courtship is the only way I could find to make all of us happy.”
She eyed him skeptically. “So you don’t care about the money.”
“Of course I care about the money; I’m not an idiot. I know that my inheritance could allow me to reach my dream much more quickly than if I struggle on my own. But if Celia were already married and settled, I would tell Gran to go to blazes.” God knows he wished he could.
“Instead,” she snapped, “you’ve decided that I should give up my freedom so you and your sister can enjoy the fruits of your grandmother’s labors.”
He’d had enough, damn it! “You seem to forget that you, too, would enjoy those fruits. If I gain my inheritance, you’ll have the money you need to help your grandfather in his old age, to restore Waverly Farm to its former glory, and to live like a queen if that’s what you want.”
She gaped at him. Clearly it hadn’t occurred to her that if she married him, his gain would be her gain.
Then her expression hardened. “That’s only if your sister also marries. What if she doesn’t behave as you expect? What if she digs in her heels and refuses? Then I’ll be saddled with a husband who’s lost his ‘prospects.’ ”
With a narrowing gaze, he bore down on her, forcing her to back up into a blind alley. “For a woman who’s outraged that I would marry her in order to gain my inheritance, you seem awfully interested in my ‘prospects.’ You made quite a fuss about them a few moments ago.”
“That was only because I was trying to provoke you! You know it was.”
He did know it. Because when it came to him, Virginia was not practical. Practical women didn’t challenge men to races in a fit of temper. Practical women didn’t cut off their noses to spite their faces when a perfectly good marriage proposal presented itself, and practical women didn’t turn down pots of money.
Romantics did that. She was a romantic.
God, he should have realized it before. He would never get anywhere by arguing the practicality of the thing. Her emotions ran too high. He needed to take a different tack.
“And do you know why you were trying to provoke me?”
“Because I was angry at you for being an arrogant, deceitful—”
“Because you didn’t like the idea of my marrying you for money. Because you wanted me to marry you for other reasons.”
When her cheeks pinkened, he knew he’d guessed right.
She squared her shoulders. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t want you to marry me for any—”
He lifted his hand to catch her chin. “You desire me. And you want me to desire you.”
A panicky look came over her face. “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Is it?” The time was past for talking. Instead, he kissed her.
For a second she was stiff and still, like a filly about to bolt. Then her lips softened and her body angled into him, and he knew he’d chosen right.
Because Virginia was more like him than she cared to admit. She was physical, susceptible to touch and taste, not words and arguments. And that was fine by him. With his blood still running high from the race and their argument, he burned to touch and taste her again.
He thrust his tongue between her tender lips to tease and explore. God, her soft mouth made him want to lose himself in it forever. She gave as good as she got, too, tangling her tongue with his, curling her fingers into his coat to hold him still so she could set his blood afire.
This was the woman he wanted, with her slender body and her smooth skin and her throaty laugh that was surely the envy of females everywhere. She was a wild forest enchantress succeeding in her merciless mission to drive him mad.
Suddenly she tore her mouth from his. “You can’t just win the argument by kissing me senseless.”
“I can try,” he murmured against her impudent little chin. “You know damned well this isn’t just about money. Every time I see you my blood runs hot, and I can think only of how badly I want to take you to bed.”
The minute she stiffened he knew he’d spoken too bluntly, but he couldn’t help it—words weren’t his purview. Actions were.
“You’re suffering under a grand delusion if you think that I—” she began.
He kissed her again. Only this time, he dragged her into his arms and ravished her mouth. It took a few moments for her to relax, but once he had her soft and eager, he laid a path of kisses down her jaw so he could bury one in the curve of her neck . . . her silky-skinned neck, with its scent of orange blossoms and almonds that made him want to devour her whole.
When he tongued her throat, she gasped. “I wish . . . you would . . . stop being so . . . naughty.”
“No, you don’t,” he murmured and kissed her again.
By God, she was sweet, her body pressing up against his, clinging to him, driving him to an insane arousal. He ran his hands over her trim form, down her slender waist to her surprisingly shapely hips, then up to her ribs and the breasts he ached to touch.
Lyons’s warning about how to treat a respectable woman came into his mind, but his hands seemed to have a will of their own as they slid up to cup her perfect little breasts, with their perfectly aroused nipples poking through her gown. He yearned to tear off her clothes and suck those tips until she moaned and melted in his arms.
But this was insanity. Anyone might come upon them.
Good, his mind whispered. Then she’d be compromised, and he could marry her without having to navigate the obstacle course of courtship.
If whoever found them didn’t kill him first.
But he didn’t care. As long as she would let him touch her, by God, he would. Because some things were worth dying for.
Chapter Eight
Virginia couldn’t believe Gabriel had his hands on her breasts. It was shocking! Outrageous!
Delicious.
How could something so scandalous feel so good? Bad enough that he’d kissed her, now he was wreaking havoc on her senses with his naughty caresses. It simply wasn’t fair. He was cheating. And she was letting him.
She was a fool. She should make him stop. And she would, in a few minutes. After she figured out why she didn’t want to.
He pushed her against the hedge, his body plastered to hers as he ravaged her mouth over and over. The clipped edges of boxwood pricked her through her gown, and its pungent smell wafted through her senses, but she was only conscious of how he made her feel, hot and eager and agitated. Pleasurably so. Especially with him kneading her breasts and thumbing her nipples through her gown. It was hard to tell where his rapid breathing ended and hers began. Sweet Lord, he was driving her wild!
And she must be doing the same to him; she could feel the hardness rising in his trousers where he was pressed up against her. Raised on a stud farm, she knew precisely what that signaled. It ought to be a warning to stop this madness, but it merely made her exult. He’d told the truth about desiring her. When he was kissing her there was no sign of the cold and remote lord, and her feminine vanity thrilled to that.
But when he flicked open the top button on the front of her bodice, she balked and caught his hand. “You mustn’t,” she whispered, staring down at his other tanned hand, still caressing her breast. “It’s unseemly.”
His eyes gleamed at her. “Exactly the word I was thinking. Unseemly.”
Awful man, for laughing at her. “And reckless,” she chided, to k
eep her mind off the fact that he had undone two more buttons. “You’re being very reckless.” And she was dying to feel his fingers on her bare flesh. He might as well tip up her skirts and call her a soiled dove.
“What do you expect of a man like me?” He brushed a kiss to her temple. “Recklessness is my calling. Besides, you like that I’m reckless.”
“I do not!” she said, but that was a lie. The feel of his bare hand sliding into her bodice was exquisite. It made her feel like a real woman. His woman.
Oh, she was mad.
He kissed her ear. “You like it because you’ve secretly got some recklessness in you, too.”
Her heart raced. Why did he have to be the only one to notice her urges to be insanely irresponsible?
“Don’t tell me you weren’t swept up in the excitement of the race this afternoon,” he went on like a little devil sitting on her shoulder, whispering terrible truths. “I could see it in your face.”
“Before or after you almost got yourself killed?” she choked out. Oh, Lord, he’d reached inside her corset cup to fondle her nipple through her shift. She longed to tear her clothes off so he could do it better.
His hand paused on her breast. “You really were worried about me.”
What had she said? Oh, yes. She shouldn’t have said that. “I meant, before you almost got us killed.”
“Don’t deny it—you were worried about me.” He rolled her nipple between his fingers, making her weak in the knees. Why didn’t she just make him stop?
Because she hoped he never stopped.
His breath thickened, falling heavily on her cheek. “No one but my family ever worries about me. Everyone thinks I’m invincible.”
Something in his voice made her want to draw him in her arms and soothe him. Instead she pulled back to stare up at him. “That’s because you think you’re invincible, you daft fool.”
His eyes held a bleakness that made her ache for him. “Actually, I just don’t care if I am or not.”
The words chilled her. Thank goodness, he’d stopped caressing her, because she really needed to think straight right now. “Then why marry, if you’re just going to make some woman a widow?”
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