Caught unawares, a pleasantly surprised Charlotte rose from her chair with a nervous smile. As the trio made their way back to the castle, Gabriel made polite conversation with Charlotte about the weather and its effects on his orchards, but Madelyn kept quiet.
Two nagging concerns had wormed into her thoughts. The first was the shame she felt for forgetting that Charlotte still sat alone. And the second was the surge of reluctant admiration thrumming through her that the duke had remembered.
Chapter 7
He couldn’t stop thinking about her. And all the different ways he wanted to bed her.
“Bloody, weak-minded fool,” Gabriel muttered the next day as he sat on the bench before the pianoforte in the music room.
He assured himself it was only a smidgen of lust he felt, nothing more. Certainly no more than what he’d have experienced had any other attractive woman thrown herself atop him. But then there was his archery instruction…
And she was in dire need of assistance. He was only being accommodating. True, he shouldn’t have teased her or stood so close. But she shouldn’t have smelled so sweet, smiled so openly. He had half a mind to think she knew how to shoot a straight arrow all along.
He ran a hand through his hair, tousling it further. He knew the best course of action would be to quit Wolverest for the duration, perhaps even return to London and catch himself a new mistress. But it would only ensure that Tristan would remain single by the end of the fortnight, and God forbid he should kick off before his brother produced an heir with a suitable bride. If he didn’t get this business taken care of now, the next duchess of Wolverest could very well end up being a beautiful woman with a perfect shape, straight teeth, a flawless complexion—and about as clever as a rock.
Besides, he had a nagging suspicion that Miss Haywood had a plan of her own. And he believed it had everything to do with keeping her friend Charlotte away from Tristan.
He’d realized it only yesterday as he watched Miss Haywood from atop his horse. She shadowed Miss Greene the entire time, ushering her friend under the canopy when Tristan tried to converse with them. She was behaving like an overprotective mother hen determined to keep her baby chick far from jaws of the fox. The meddlesome woman would do well to stay out of his affairs. And damn her for looking so adorable while she was doing it.
Gabriel’s fingers slid upon the keys, finding a familiar position, then broke into a distracted rendition of a long forgotten Mozart lullaby he’d played as a child. But after a few measures his mind ceased to concentrate on the keys, and his fingers danced through the rest of the piece by memorization alone.
His mind drifted again to the day before, when Miss Haywood stood with her back to him as he instructed her poise. He recalled her alluring scent—rose and mint—and the freckles scattered across the back of her neck tempting him for the brush of his lips. His body ached anew remembering how difficult it had been to restrain his hands from easing her short cap sleeves down her arms, to slip his fingers down the front of her bodice, to sink his teeth into the flesh just above her collarbone. If she had known what he was thinking, she’d have run away for sure. And all the better for her.
He stood, pushed away from the bench and walked around it, heading for the door. Perhaps if he looked over his accounts in his office he’d forget about her for the time being.
Truthfully, the fascination he felt for her bewildered him. She was the exact opposite of the sort of women he preferred. She was clumsy and outspoken, often disheveled and more than often impulsive. He was a man accustomed to surrounding himself with beauteous young women equipped with the disposition and decorum befitting their elevated station in life. Their skin was never dotted with mud, their hair never out of place, and their clothes always fit them to perfection. Easy to dismiss, they were often cold, distant females, and his carnal relations with them were straightforward, passionless encounters—by his design. He preferred it that way. There were no emotions other than the mutual will to fulfill a need. He was at all times in complete control. But none of this explained why Miss Haywood’s smile continued to persuade his own.
You would never tire of her.
Ah, hell. He ran his hand through his hair, ignoring the bang that often fell over one of his eyes. He entered his office, striding down the long, narrow room toward his desk in the far right corner adjacent to the hearth.
Miss Haywood deserved someone who would cherish her, protect her, admire her forever-child spirit and revel in her spontaneity rather than fault her for it. She deserved much more than he could ever offer her. She deserved, he hated to admit, better than his impetuous brother.
He sat at his desk, opening a ledger his estate manager had left out for him. Thinking to look over his projected expense for an annual town fete he sponsored, he soon gazed up, knowing his chance at concentration was lost. Rubbing his brow, he ordered himself to stay detached, no matter how badly he craved more of Miss Haywood and her ill-fitted gowns.
Madelyn loved to snoop. It came naturally to her, which was why, she supposed, she did it so very often. Recognizing that most would consider this a flaw, she preferred to think of herself as a victim to an insatiable curiosity inherent at birth. Charlotte told her she was just plain nosy.
Although her inquisitiveness got her into trouble and more often presented her with startling results—at fifteen she’d discovered what exactly their footman wanted to do with the new upstairs maid—she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Only now she had a tangible reason for her snooping: someone was having a jolly good time playing tricks on her and she intended to find out exactly who.
First an overly strong posset which, she suspected, was designed so the guilty party could hide her shoes, nearly making her miss the first scheduled picnic. Second, she’d been locked in her room, again, nearly keeping her from attending the archery lesson if not for her ingenuity. And third, just this morning, when they were all to gather for a late breakfast with Lord Tristan, someone slipped her a note under her door. It read:
Dear M—
Meet me in the orchard at the base of the old mill tower posthaste. I have something of great significance to relate.
Awaiting your swift presence,
C—
Perplexed, Madelyn had a difficult time trying to figure out which tower was an old mill, so she thought to walk the entire perimeter of the inner courtyard, which would have taken her the rest of the morning. Thankfully, a liveried footman spotted her, pointed out the tower and told her he hadn’t seen another living soul since dawn—except for His Grace, who was due to arrive from his daily morning ride at any moment. Not daring another meeting with him, she shouted her thanks over her shoulder and sprinted back inside.
Naturally, she’d missed breakfast. Priscilla and Charlotte filed in the room upon returning and Madelyn questioned them, but to no avail. Her stepmother only accused her of not attending by design, and Charlotte stated she hadn’t any idea about a note. It was then Madelyn came to the conclusion that one of the other bride-hopefuls had it in mind to knock her out of the competition. Funny, but they were wasting their time. She wasn’t participating. And even if she were, she’d be the first to admit she didn’t stand a chance.
A trip to the kitchens was in order. Someone ordered that potent posset the other day, and perhaps someone there would tell the truth. Jenny claimed she didn’t have any idea, she’d only delivered it, but Madelyn knew better than to believe that clanker.
And so, early afternoon on the sixth day at Wolverest, Madelyn snuck out of her room. The other girls were supposed to be resting before changing for tea, and the men, she’d overheard, were in the billiard room with Lord Tristan. She did not, however, know where the duke was, and that thought pestered her as she crossed the marble hall.
As she approached the massive hearth with a roaring fire burning brightly, she contemplated which deep-set, dark corridor led to the kitchens. There were two, one on either side of the hearth. She bit her lip for a spell, then cho
se the one with a gold-tasseled tapestry depicting a hunting scene hanging above it. Hunting equals game, equals food, equals cooking, equals kitchen. Simple enough. And if she was wrong…there was little else she loved to do in a four-hundred-year-old castle than snoop around.
Turning the corner, her eyes took a moment to adjust to the shadows. After a moment of blinking and squinting, she spied a lone sconce down the hall and ambled toward it. The berry-colored walls were lined with various paintings, mostly of men in battle or men on the hunt. There were others where the shadows yet clung and she couldn’t make them out. She paused and admired a few and strolled by others, finally arriving at two sets of doors. The first set were locked, but the second opened easily. Ducking her head inside, she breathed in the scent of leather and mild tobacco. It was certainly not the kitchen, but the strong, masculine presence ignited her senses. What would hurt should she take a peek?
Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling on the two parallel sides of the long, narrow room. The gleaming floor was of polished wood with intricate Turkish rugs placed underneath groups of furniture gathered to inspire one to sit, read, or converse. At the far end, a cheery fire crackled in the grate behind two wing-back chairs, a red lap blanket thrown over the back of one. To the far right, in an alcove, crouched a huge mahogany desk. The mullioned windows behind it showed a gray day, offering little help in lighting the deep chamber. It occurred to her then that the room was designed to intimidate. Anyone sent to walk down the long room to stand before that desk and receive a reprimand had to be in possession of great courage.
She squinted into the shadows dancing within the room, thinking she saw movement behind the desk.
“Do you need something?”
She jumped a foot. “Oh dear,” she said breathily with a hand thrown to her throat. “I didn’t know…that is to say, I hadn’t imagined—”
“Miss Haywood,” Gabriel called crossly, looking up from a stack of ledgers upon his desk. “Do you need assistance?”
“Ah, no,” she answered firmly.
He looked the stuffy, arrogant aristocrat today, scowling as he was at her. Dressed almost entirely in black, he was nearly invisible in the dimly lit room. His cravat was twisted in an intricate knot, his obsidian hair tousled around his face. He exuded confidence, business, and…a touch of wickedness.
She was glad for the shadows in the room for she was certainly as red as a ripe Yorkshire apple. Leave it to her to wander directly into the lair of the one man she was trying to avoid.
Her hands shook and she wasn’t certain why. Only yesterday she laughed and joked with him during the archery lesson. He was amicable, playful, flirtatious, dangerous.
And now he was as approachable as a foaming mad forest creature. She wasn’t sure which was worse.
Up to this point in her life, she had never felt comfortable in her skin. But Gabriel changed all that yesterday. When he was near, she secretly loved being in her skin—especially if that meant she could revel in the shivers spinning down her spine while he stood near, or bask in the warmth of his attention.
Whether his actions were practiced or simply a product of her imagination, Madelyn couldn’t help but feel drawn to him, addicted to the heady sensations he stirred within her starving soul. And that was the very reason she knew she needed to stay away from him. Being near him made her second-guess herself, her opinions. Particularly her stand on pompous noblemen.
“Are you going to stand there, letting the cool air rush in?”
“N-No. I’m so sorry.” She backed out the door with a wobbly smile. “I’ll be on my way.”
“Come here.”
“Ah, no thank you.” The last thing she needed was to be alone with him in a dark room. Besides, Priscilla had squeezed her in yet another one of her tight-bodiced gowns and she’d forgotten her shawl.
He straightened in his seat. “Are your feet fastened to the floor?”
Poking back into the room, she shook her head. “Of course not.” Insufferable man.
“Are your muscles insufficient?”
She shook her head again.
“Is that no or shall I ascertain the suppleness of your legs with my bare hands?”
“My legs are just fine, thank you,” she stated calmly, though the picture he painted flushed her with unwelcome heat.
“Then come here,” he ordered.
Obviously out of her head, she stepped back into the room. Surely this wasn’t as risky as her conscience was screaming to her that it was. She’d been alone with him more times than she dared count, and he’d never tried to ravish her. And why would he want to ravish you? Funny, but the voice inside her head sounded suspiciously like her stepmother. She wanted to strangle that voice.
Pursing her lips, she shuffled over, the swoosh of her pale blue walking dress the only sound in the room other than the occasional pop and hiss of the fire. She came to a halt two feet in front of his desk.
“I must ask,” he said, his silvery-blue gaze glinting in the firelight as he perused her from the top of her head to her waist and back again, “what prompted you to invade my private office?”
She looked about her. “I had no idea. Y-You see, I became lost.”
“Really?” he asked, disbelievingly. He leaned back in his chair, studying her face with hooded eyes.
“Mm-hmm.”
His gaze dropped to her bodice and stayed there a long time. She was suddenly acutely aware of the strain on the fabric.
“Your stepmother dresses you abominably.”
Her face flamed with embarrassment. He was telling the truth; in fact, she agreed with him. But only an unfeeling, selfish beast of a man would have the audacity to point out to a lady that he didn’t admire her fashion.
In that moment she fairly thought she hated him—just as she should have from the start.
“Like almost all the others, this gown is on loan from my stepmother,” she bit out, “which is why, I suppose, it doesn’t quite fit properly. I am aware of the limitations of my wardrobe.”
“Unfortunately…” He rose out of his chair and rounded his desk to stand before her. “…so am I.”
He grinned at her. Grinned! He insulted her, very nearly made her cry and then he grins? Blinking up at him, she prayed he couldn’t see the moisture gathering in her eyes. Many people had insulted her, and with her clumsiness, she had to admit she supplied them with ample ammunition, but his criticism cut straight to her heart. And the realization that this man could hurt her so easily, so casually, unsettled her. She knew he was arrogant and she should have expected snide remarks and dark glances, but at some point an uninvited flicker of hope had come to life within her. The hope that she was wrong about him.
Madelyn bit her lip in agitation. “Is this why you asked me to come to you? To judge my attire? Did you need the light of the fire to be certain?”
“No,” he said. “I told you to come here for an entirely different reason.” He reached behind her with both arms. She leaned backward as he leaned forward. For a moment she thought he meant to kiss her.
Heat radiated from his strong, solid form onto hers. Her skin felt pervaded with his warmth, her only view that of the underside of his slightly bristled chin. A small gasp came from the back of her throat as the heady sensation of having him press into her enveloped her.
“Sir?” There was a soft swishing sound as he pulled the red blanket from the chair behind her. Slowly, he slid it up her back and around her shoulders, his movements slow, lingering.
“You’ll catch cold,” he whispered, stepping back only enough so he could look at her face.
Their gazes met and held. She had no idea what to make of him at that moment. First he insulted her and then he covered her up in an unlikely chivalrous gesture, staring into her eyes as if he would very much like to kiss her.
And she very much wanted to kiss him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to happen. Titled, devilishly handsome men were rotten. They were sel
fish, boorish, arrogant rogues with no care for the tender feelings of the fairer sex, only for the next bit of muslin they could catch. This, she kept reminding herself as she watched the skin around the duke’s eyes crinkle when a small smile crept across his face. Was he even aware of how he was looking at her? No one had ever looked at her like that before.
“I—I have a problem,” she muttered.
The sparkle in his eyes faded. “And what is this problem?”
You’re chipping away at my resolve. “Someone’s been invading my room, stealing my shoes, leaving me overly strong drinks, locking me in, there was a letter…”
At the look of astonishment on his face, Madelyn regretted bringing up the subject.
“Never mind. I must sound mad.”
“Miss Haywood,” he remarked with interest, “are you suggesting one of the other guests has sunk to subterfuge?”
She summoned up some concentration and reiterated the events of the last few days with surprising clarity. Gabriel nodded at the appropriate times and appeared to be taking her concerns seriously, although…no matter what they were talking about, his light eyes seemed to bore into hers with wicked promise, as if he knew some undiscovered dark, secret about her. Like he was only half listening to her while his mind played out sinful imaginings—something like what her footman had wanted to do with their new maid.
She felt flushed, and hoped he was listening to the words pouring out of her mouth because she could no longer remember what she was talking about. “I should go,” she blurted out.
“Please. Sit,” he said, gesturing toward the chairs at her back with a sweep of his hand.
She glanced over her shoulder at the cozy chairs and felt tempted to risk the odds and remain in his presence. But her sense of self-preservation set her back on track.
“It isn’t proper to be alone with you,” she uttered in a breathy whisper.
At the Bride Hunt Ball Page 10