She smiled with pride. “I lived at Willowbrooke Cottage.”
“I know that place,” he murmured. “’Tis a beautiful structure. I used to pass it while taking my riding lessons as a lad. Did you live there long?”
“Until I was eight. When my mother became sick, my father moved all of us to London to be closer to her physicians.”
“From your expression, I can see they were useless,” he said softly.
Madelyn swallowed a tickle in the back of her throat. “They said she was born with a weak heart and it was a miracle she had lived as long as she had. They confined her to bed, urged her to rest, and informed us never to distress her. When her strength was finally depleted and she left us, I yearned to return to Yorkshire.”
Gabriel nodded. “To come home.”
“Yes,” Madelyn said, smiling at his perceptiveness. “There was nothing for me in London. Only the painful memories of my mother slipping away.” She took a deep breath, steadying her emotions. “But by then Father had become entranced by the delights city life could offer him and I never saw home again.”
He released his gentle hold on her hand, only to lift it and press his mouth on her knuckles for a soft, lingering kiss. A delightful shiver ran through her. How many times he had kissed the air above her hand, and now, finally, made contact.
“You are here now,” he murmured. His tender gesture did not shock her, nor did the sympathetic understanding she saw in his gaze move her to retreat into a protective shell. Rather, she found herself tempted to share her entire past with him.
She sighed, reluctant to surrender to the temptation. “Yes, here I am again,” she said with a small smile. “And if I get my way, I’ll get to stay.” That is, if Priscilla decided she was trying to snag the duke. And at the moment, Madelyn wasn’t feeling very confident about that.
“Your way?” Gabriel asked, both of his dark brows raised. “Miss Haywood, explain what you mean.”
“W-Well…” she stammered, calling herself a blithering idiot. She had become so relaxed, talking to him felt so easy, so natural, she’d forgotten he was a part of Priscilla’s twisted plan. “Er…you see, the cottage is now owned by my stepmother’s family, and I—” She broke off, suddenly incapable of digging her foot out of her mouth.
“We should talk about what happened last night, in the corridor,” Gabriel said abruptly.
Madelyn lifted a shoulder. “We don’t have to,” she replied, hoping he wasn’t going to spout some polite apology. She had thought that was what she wanted, but now she gathered it would make her feel worse—that she was the only one who felt the pull in their wave of passion. Her heart skipped a beat then two while she stared into his tan, handsome face, the wind tousling his black, wavy curls making him all the more attractive.
One side of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smirk, reminiscent of his younger brother. “Despite my efforts at self-control, it seems around you I cannot help myself.”
“I cannot believe that,” she parried softly.
“You had better,” he drawled, letting the stones he found drop into her open palm. “Because if you do not, if you continue to tempt me, you need to know there will come a time when I will not be able to stop myself. You are no longer safe with me.”
“Women like me do not tempt men like you,” she spat.
“There aren’t many women like you,” he growled. “In fact, I’ve never met anyone like you in my entire life.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said automatically, though she had to admit her argument was losing its strength. She could no longer ignore nor discount the heat building between them—no matter how implausible.
He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “To disbelieve me at this point would be putting your virtue at a grave risk.”
The sounds of the falls and birds and wind evaporated from her mind. There was only her and Gabriel. His steady, studying gaze dropped to her lips, and she swallowed, aroused and oddly undisturbed by his warning.
“If we were alone,” she said, staring at his mouth as well, “would you kiss me?”
“Miss Haywood, if we were alone, I would not hesitate to lay down my cape and take you right here on this bank. If you continue to play your part in this infernal game—”
The comment halted her blush and took her aback. “A game? There you go again with this ‘game.’ What is your meaning, sir?”
His jaw tightened, a muscle working in his cheek. “Do not pretend to misunderstand me.”
“Misunderstand you? I cannot even begin to comprehend the words coming out of your mouth. You’ve been speaking in riddles ever since you pinned me against the wall.”
“Pinned you?” He gave a short laugh. “You were willing and ready.”
A short, exasperated exhalation left her mouth.
“Besides,” he added, “if you will recall, I told you to return to the safety of the others straight from the beginning. You could have left.”
“And you could have kept your lips to yourself, sir.”
“And you could have kept your tongue inside your own mouth, madam.”
She gasped loudly, her blush so fierce she imagined she glowed. “And you could have kept your…your…”
“My what?” Gabriel taunted, his eyes taking on a sultry gleam sizzling into her soul. “This argument hasn’t anything to do with what body part one put in whom, is it?”
“Your Grace,” came Bernadette’s whine from behind them. “I cannot find any good stones either.”
Gabriel and Madelyn stood abruptly, like guilty adolescents, and turned away from each other. She directed her attention to the stream, and he to Bernadette’s delicate beauty.
Gabriel didn’t even try to smile. He scanned the path along the stream, looking for Tristan, and finally spied him picking wildflowers, handing them alternately to Miss Greene and Miss Beauchamp. Without his help, the young pup managed to find the two women in this bride hunt who still truly wanted him. Perhaps, Gabriel mused, Tristan’s instincts were stronger than he had originally imagined.
His gaze swung back to Bernadette. “Might I suggest you inquire after Miss Haywood’s assistance?”
“Oh no,” she stressed, drawing out the words dramatically. “A gentleman could not expect a lady to soil her gloves. Not even Miss Haywood.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Gabriel watched Miss Haywood discreetly dust her finger on her skirts, then quickly slip on her glove.
Her subtle attempt at propriety provoked his grin, but he instantly regretted it, as Miss Fairbourne assumed it was directed toward herself. She batted her lashes, tilting her head to the side in supplication.
Wearily, he sighed. “All right, Miss Fairbourne, let’s see what we can find.” As he bent toward the ground, he could have sworn he heard Miss Haywood laugh softly.
He had found two stones when a lace handkerchief floated in front of his face, landing on the toe of his boot.
“Oops,” Belinda Fairbourne said.
He should have known her sister would soon follow. Picking up the heavily perfumed square with his thumb and index finger, he stood, holding it in the air between them. “Dropped something?”
“Mais oui,” the younger twin agreed silkily. “Seeing as you so gallantly retrieved it, why don’t you keep it? Consider it a memento of moi.”
Now he was sure he heard Miss Haywood laugh. With flicks of her wrist she sent the three stones he had given her skipping across the slow moving stream in quick succession. Before she walked away, she tossed him a secret smile from over her shoulder.
He looked down at the handkerchief, shaking his head slowly. “Thank you, Miss Fairbourne, but I’m afraid in accepting it, my brother might become enraged with jealousy.” He returned it to her hand, and she purposely brushed her thumb across his knuckles.
“And what sparks your jealousy?” she whispered.
“Belinda! His Grace was helping me,” Bernadette cried.
“Why would he want to help you when ta
lking to me is far more appealing?” Belinda softened the rebuke with a giggle and winked at Gabriel.
And so it began. Discretion might have been in the Fairbourne sisters’ original plan, but the palpable sense of competition between them propelled them to desperate heights.
By the time they were all halfway back to Wolverest, Madelyn had her fill of watching Gabriel bandied about in a Fairbourne-orchestrated tug-of-war. But she did find the sisters’ diminishing lack of decorum and Gabriel’s growing discomfort while he tried to maintain his patience and polite indifference humorous. She could have let Charlotte in on her secret knowledge, telling her that the twins no longer wanted Tristan, but feared that would only encourage her friend and set her up for eventual disappointment and pain.
Their party was a mere mile away from the castle when the skies suddenly clouded over and a light drizzle began to fall. Gentle, distant thunder rumbled in the distance. In reaction to the rain, the driver urged the plowhorse to a faster pace.
And then it happened.
A freak spear of lightning cracked like the wicked snap of a whip directly in front of the wagon. The mare reared up and jerked into a frenzied run, throwing the driver and an unsuspecting Bernadette Fairbourne from the wagon. With a death grip on Charlotte, Madelyn looked back, noting that the driver managed to quickly return to his feet. He ran after the wagon, waving his hat and shouting. Miss Fairbourne remained on her back, her feet in the air, reminding Madelyn of the dead mouse she spied by the stable earlier that morning on her way to the wagon.
The men went into immediate action. Rothbury and Tristan rode ahead, desperately trying to herd the startled beast from crashing into a nearby wooded area. Fairbourne stayed behind, seeing to his daughter, who was now attempting to stand.
Losing his hat to the wind, Gabriel stood in his stirrups, his black cape whipping behind him like a pirate flag as he urged his mount alongside the wagon. He rode dangerously close to the frightened horse, leaning forward in order to grasp the reins bouncing along the startled mare’s back.
Before the duke could grasp them, however, the wagon crested a small rise, and the entire contraption hopped up into the air, then came crashing down with a slam, jolting Madelyn free from Charlotte and sending her over the edge. Frantically, she grasped at a blanket and held tight, her feet furrowing along in the mud as the wagon plowed onward, dragging her with it. She cried out, her right foot popping up as it connected with a rock. Her grip slipped and she flew backward, landing in the cushy mud, flat on her back.
In the distance, the rumble of the wagon lessened as Gabriel regained control. With her bonnet sitting cockeyed on her head, Madelyn remained still, helplessly molded into the mud, stretched out in a giant X.
She would have laughed uproariously if not for the shooting shards of pain centering from her ankle. Gingerly, she attempted to lift her head.
“Wait!” Gabriel shouted, running to her side and coming to a sliding stop on his knees. His broad chest rose and fell as he fought to control his breath. “Don’t move yet.”
To her surprise, he proceeded to expertly pat down and inspect her entire body; the tips of her fingers, her wrists, down her arms, shoulders, and collarbone.
“Tell me if anything hurts.” He smoothed her every rib, working from the back to the front, utterly oblivious to the effect his light touch had on her body.
The light drizzle and, she suspected, sweat from their ordeal, dampened Gabriel’s obsidian hair, leaving wispy locks to frame his face and feather across his neck.
“God damn fool!” He looked up from his work and centered his azure glare across the lawn at Tristan, who stood consoling Charlotte, Belinda, and Harriet. The footman tended to the horse along with Rothbury. “He should have listened to me and canceled this blasted trip to the falls,” Gabriel ranted, mussing up his hair further with a frustrated sweep. “Bloody hell, woman, you fell hard.”
Her breath caught as his warm hands rolled over her hips and gently pressed her leg bones and knees. A voice inside her head told her she should have told him by now it was only her right ankle that hurt, but some sinfully delicious part of her knew he would then stop his glorious torment on her flesh.
“I—Is Bernadette all right?” she asked.
He nodded, looking up at the girl and her father briefly. “Got the wind knocked out of her is all, I suspect,” he muttered as he inched his way down her calves. “Her father’s walking her back to the castle as we speak.”
“Oh,” she managed, hoping her response didn’t sound like a moan—for it did to her ears. Now completely at his mercy for want of his touch, she didn’t even blink when he removed her boots.
Her sharp intake of breath when he reached her right ankle stopped him cold. “Your ankle,” he said, finally meeting her gaze. “It pains you?”
She nodded. “When I was falling out of the wagon, I whacked it on a rock.”
He cringed in sympathy, then assessed it, gently turning her foot this way and that. “No pain here?”
She shook her head. “Only when you—” She gasped as his fingers gently brushed against the sensitive skin on the inside of her ankle.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his damp brow scrunching together. “I think it’s only bruised. I’ll send for the physician once we return. Here, just in case.” Lifting his chin, his nimble fingers loosened and untied his cravat. He unwound it from around his neck and proceeded to wrap her foot and ankle.
The fine linen felt warm, almost hot to her cool, stocking-enclosed flesh. Her attention was immediately drawn to the golden skin of his naked throat. She gulped as his warm, masculine scent reached her, and a sudden longing rose up within her to be kissed by him, held by him, or to be the recipient of any act, really, that would involve this man being closer to her.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to help me stand. You see,” she said, grimacing, “I believe I’m suctioned to the earth.”
She was rewarded with his slow grin. He spared her a quick glance, a flash of blue, then continued to busily wind his cravat around her ankle. His long, tan fingers touched her gently and she found herself longing to feel his deft fingers along her calves again.
“Only you, love,” he said softly. “Only my lovely Miss Haywood would find humor in this situation.” The faint wail of Bernadette compounded his comment.
When he finished, he reached out, slowly pulling her to a sitting position, then helped her bring in her legs.
“Are you certain nothing else pains you?”
She nodded, wondering how in the world she would hobble back to the castle. They were only about five hundred feet away now, but she fretted that she’d have to limp all the way there. And as far as she was concerned, she’d never ride in a wagon again, calm horse or not.
“I will carry you back,” he stated matter-of-factly, as if reading her thoughts. “And might I say, you have very cute feet by the way.”
“Ah, thank you. Oh!” He lifted her effortlessly in his arms, his hard, unyielding body instantly warming her. “I don’t think this is a good idea. I’ll ruin your fine clothes.”
He shrugged, which jostled her. “Ruin me, then.”
She quieted, contemplating his gentle ministrations and the protective, almost loving way he held her to his chest. Unable to stop herself, she rested her cheek against his breast, giving in to the comfy sensation of being taken care of by the man she had thought was an insensitive, pretentious bore.
“As soon as we reach Wolverest, I’ll send for the physician. Baths will be readied for you both, of course. And then…” His voice trailed off, and she lifted her head to meet his gaze, but he was staring, no, scowling ahead. She felt his muscles stiffen and she suddenly likened her position to that of clinging to a brick wall.
“And then…” she prompted.
“And then I’m sending you home.”
Chapter 13
Pulling the thick, ivory coverlet up to her nose, Madelyn sank deeper into the blankets, suddenly overcome w
ith a need to regain some unreachable level of warmth that at the moment evaded her no matter how many blankets were stacked upon her bed.
Priscilla paced the room, her fists planted on her slim hips, her face set in stern displeasure. “Eliminated! How dare he!”
Delicately, Madelyn cleared her throat. “I believe what the duke said yesterday was that he was sending me home. Now, if you remember,” she started with care, “you had promised I could return to Willowbrooke if I had at least tried—”
“Sending you home! Why? What did you do now?”
Madelyn had no answer for that. According to Gabriel, she owed him a confession for her part in some sort of game he claimed was far too dangerous for her to play. If he was talking about her attempts to save Charlotte from Lord Tristan’s clutches, then he had a long wait. Forever, really—she would never apologize for protecting her friend.
“I’m not sure why,” Madelyn offered finally. “But it is done, his decision is made.”
“Nonsense” Priscilla exclaimed, tapping the point of her finger on her chin. “I wonder…could his abrupt dismissal have anything to do with Lady Eugenia’s arrival?”
Madelyn pushed herself up to a sitting position, tucking the covers under her arms. “Who is Lady Eugenia?”
Priscilla sighed impatiently. “How could you not know? She happens to be the old duke’s unmarried sister. Her superior opinion is sought throughout good society. One word from her and even…and even you would be welcomed at Almack’s again.”
Well, that statement certainly spoke volumes about the woman’s influence, Madelyn thought. Somehow, she knew she’d never again see the inside of that King Street assembly room after the Unfortunate Punch Bowl Incident.
“So you believe he’s sending me home for fear I’ll disgrace myself further?”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” Priscilla muttered, stopping just before the connecting dressing room door. “We must sway his mind. Find a way…” And with that, she strolled out of the room, deep in manipulative thought.
Exhaling with relief, Madelyn silently sent the Lord her thanks as her stepmother left. It was awful enough that she had been ordered not to leave her room since returning from the falls yesterday. Making matters worse was having to endure her stepmother’s incessant ranting—and in front of the maid, who desperately tried to appear as if she hadn’t been listening.
At the Bride Hunt Ball Page 17