Notorious

by Minerva Spencer

  Miss Kittridge looked up from her throng of admirers toward Gabriel, as if they were joined by some invisible bond, and Drusilla hated herself for drawing the perfect, wealthy heiress into her conversation with the gorgeous, irritating fortune hunter.

  She bit her lip at that unkind thought; calling Gabriel Marlington a fortune hunter was nothing more than spite on her part. Not only did he have a respectable independence, but he’d never pursued Miss Kittridge. Quite the reverse.

  The delectable debutante—known among the ton as “the Kitten”—had made her preference for Mr. Marlington clear whenever the opportunity arose. Both she and her social-climbing parents would overlook Gabriel’s notorious past and scandalous liaisons thanks to his connections to the Marquess of Exley and the Duke of Carlisle, two of the wealthiest and most influential peers in the land.

  While the ton might consider Gabriel Marlington, the exiled son of the former Sultan of Oran, a baseborn outsider, there were few people either brave enough—or stupid enough—to voice such thoughts. To be blunt, his aristocratic connections were far too impressive for anyone to ignore him, no matter how much some people might like to.

  “I don’t care for the Kitten.”

  Drusilla and Gabriel turned away from Miss Kittridge at the sound of Eva’s voice.

  The delicate but disheveled beauty was chewing on yet another raven-colored curl she’d pulled from her disastrous coiffeur and staring speculatively at the woman in question.

  Gabriel gently detached the curl from his stepsister’s hand and tucked it behind her ear. “Why is that, Evil? Because she is almost as pretty as you?”

  Eva elbowed him in the ribs—hard.

  Gabriel clutched his side. “Lord, you’re such a barbarian.”

  Rather than appear chastised, Eva grinned, pleased with the accusation.

  “Tell me, why don’t you like the Kitten?” Gabriel persisted.

  “She only looks all soft and cuddly like a kitten. I think she is rapacious and sharp clawed beneath all her pretty fur.”

  Drusilla agreed with her friend’s astute observation. How was it that men did not notice there was something hard about the exquisite and seemingly sweet heiress?

  Gabriel cut Drusilla a sly glance. “And what about you, Miss Clare? Do you also dislike Miss Kittridge?”

  “I have not wasted a second’s thought on her,” she lied.

  His lips twitched, as if he knew how Miss Kittridge’s open attraction to him—and his reciprocation of it—ate at Drusilla like an acid when she was alone at night. Or during the day. Or anytime the horrid thought gained purchase in her mind.

  She scowled at him.

  “You’re not really going to offer for her, are you, Gabe?” Eva’s brow was furrowed with concern and Drusilla’s body clenched as she waited for his answer, the suspense painful.

  But the annoying man merely smiled, as if he could sense her agony and enjoyed prolonging it.

  Drusilla assured herself that was impossible: Gabriel Marlington could not know how she felt for him, not after she’d employed her considerable intellect to conceal her humiliating infatuation.

  “Are you, Gabe?” Eva repeated, asking what Drusilla could not.

  He shrugged. “You know how Mama has been these past few months, Eva. One of us must become leg-shackled before the Season is out if we’re ever to have any peace in our lives. And since you are showing no signs of doing so, it seems that I must fall on my sword.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. You should fall on your sword for the good of the rest of us; just make sure that sword isn’t the Kitten.”

  He smiled down at his half sister, who was staring pensively at the sword in question.

  Agony and futility as sharp as needles stabbed at Drusilla’s heart. Was he so blind that he thought the Kitten might actually like—or love—him for who he was? Or maybe he didn’t care about such things? Perhaps his only requirement when it came to a mate was a pretty face?

  He eyed Drusilla with amused speculation, as if she’d just spoken out loud. “And what is your opinion, Miss Clare—because I know you will have one.”

  “Please, fall on whatever sword you wish.”

  He laughed with obvious delight.

  But the thought of Gabriel Marlington married to the Kitten made Drusilla want to fall on a real sword. It also made her want to slap the smug look off his perfect features.

  Instead of doing either, she used the only weapon left to her: her wit.

  “You seem terribly confident that your unsavory antics won’t sour Miss Kittridge’s parents’ eagerness for you and your suit, Mr. Marlington.”

  He turned to Drusilla, arrested. “How flattered I am that you take such an interest in my, er, suit, Miss Clare. And my antics.”

  She flicked a nonexistent piece of lint from the puffed sleeve of her pale blue gown. “Not interest, sir, merely an objective observation.”

  “Ah, I see. But tell me, Miss Clare, just what unsavory antics have you heard about?”

  A wave of heat began to make its journey up her neck. She compressed her lips, as if that could somehow stop the tide. “I can only imagine.”

  “Can you? I’m all agog to hear the fascinating fruits of your active imagination.”

  Drusilla narrowed her eyes in what she hoped was a condescending and repressive fashion and gave him a deceptively sweet smile. “I hardly need to cudgel my brain to invent antics for you, do I, Mr. Marlington? Not when you are so good at providing all of us with real examples.Your notoriety is legend and tales of your behavior—or should I say misbehavior—abound, many of them as entertaining as an evening at the . . . theater.” There, let him chew on that.

  But if she had hoped to discompose or embarrass him with a veiled reference to his notorious liaisons, he disappointed her. Instead he gave her a smile of genuine delight

  “Ah, Miss Clare, I never imagined you to be the type of woman to pay any mind to scurrilous gossip.”

  Drusilla widened her eyes in mock wonder. “Oh? Please, do tell, Mr. Marlington,” she said, echoing his earlier words. “I’m all agog to hear the type of woman you imagine me to be.”

  He leaned toward her and said in a voice so low that only she could hear, “My imaginings are not the type of thing I can discuss in public.”

  Drusilla took a hasty step back and bumped into a passing dandy, the impact enough to send her sprawling.

  Gabriel’s response was quick and unobtrusive as he set a light hand beneath her elbow to steady her, giving the other man a dismissive nod before releasing her arm.

  “The heat in here is quite oppressive, is it not?” He was looking at her with something suspiciously like concern.

  She ignored her palpitating heart and his question, eager to move the subject away from herself and back to him.

  “We were speaking of your recent trip to Newmarket, I believe,” she said. “It has been disappointingly quiet thus far, but it is still early days, Mr. Marlington. Tell me, what stories can we expect? Reckless wagers? Impromptu mills? Duels? Orgies?”

  He grinned in a way that made her wish she could take back her words. Or at least that last one.

  “Orgies?” he repeated.

  Her face became impossibly hotter.

  “You do have an active imagination, Miss Clare. I should dearly love to hear your thoughts on orgies. Not to mention how I fit in with such speculations about orgies.”

  “Quit saying orgy,” she hissed.

  “You started it.”

  “You sound like a twelve-year-old, Mr. Marlington.”

  His lids lowered and heat burned through her body, the conflagration hottest between her tightly clenched thighs. “Orgy,” he whispered.

  Eva’s laughter broke the terrifying trance. “You two! Always funning one another.”

  Drusilla and Gabriel turned to stare at Eva in amazement. How was it that she failed to recognize the hostility that characterized the relationship between her best friend and brother?

>   But Eva was gazing across at the beguiling debutante, oblivious to their astonished expressions. “It looks like you aren’t the only one chasing the Kitten, Gabe.”

  Lord Visel had approached Miss Kittridge while Drusilla and Gabriel had been sparring. The girl—and her mother—were preening at the unprecedented experience of having attracted the interest of a duke’s heir, no matter how scandalous the man’s reputation for outrageous and reckless behavior.

  If seeing his nemesis paying court to Miss Kittridge caused Mr. Marlington any heartache, he certainly did not show it.

  Instead he turned to his sister. “I heard the marquess picked up Gerald Hine’s chestnuts at Tatt’s?”

  The stepsiblings began talking horseflesh, a subject that seemed to occupy at least three-quarters of Eva’s mind.

  As much as Drusilla yearned for Gabriel Marlington’s attention, she was weak with relief when she no longer had it. Sparring with him always made her feel as if she’d barely survived a treacherous journey. She relaxed and permitted herself furtive glances at his irresistible person, behaving just like a glutton at a banquet in Dante’s Third Circle of Hell.

  Dru had no idea what Gabriel’s father had looked like, but the former sultan and the Duke of Carlisle’s daughter, Lady Euphemia, had certainly produced a heavenly son. Not only was he one of the most stunning men in the room, he was also one of the most distinctive. His speech was still quite heavily—and charmingly—accented. His appearance, as well, was rather exotic, his bronze complexion standing out among the pale, pasty-faced crowd of young bucks. And his hair? Well, that was truly his crowning glory. It was a dark, burnished auburn of a sort she’d not seen on any other person. It was true that all of the Marlingtons had red or reddish hair, and his mother—the marchioness—had particularly lovely copper curls. But Gabriel’s hair was almost black with a sullen crimson undertone.

  His nose was a great hawk’s beak that should have made him ugly but instead served to keep him from being too perfect. It also heightened his resemblance to his illustrious maternal grandfather, the Duke of Carlisle.

  Last, but certainly not least, were his eyes.

  Drusilla heaved a half-worshipful, half-disgusted sigh, which earned her a quick questioning glance from the sooty-lashed, almond-shaped green orbs in question. She returned his mild querying expression with a haughty, superior stare she’d perfected years ago. He recoiled as if she’d reached out and poked him. Or kissed him.

  The thought sent heat flaring through her body. Her entire body. She looked away. God save her if he ever had any idea of just how fascinating she found him. Or at least his person. No, that was not true. She found all of him too interesting. Which was unfortunate. If it had been only his appearance, she would have gotten past her obsession quickly. But he was also clever and funny and brave and mysterious and something else for which she had no word—but which made her tingle all over when she was around him. What woman could resist such a combination?

  What she felt for him was something she kept deeply buried: a secret so mortifying she’d never even exhumed it and taken a look at it herself.

  Couples began assembling for the next set, and Gabriel glanced around.

  “Where has Mrs. Peel gone?” he asked, surveying the room for Drusilla’s aunt, who was acting as their chaperone tonight.

  “She didn’t feel well and has gone to the retiring room to rest,” Drusilla said.

  His full lips thinned. “You two should not be here alone, unsupervised.”

  Drusilla bristled at his chiding, but Eva smacked him on the arm with her fan. “We’re not toddlers, Gabe. Besides, we aren’t alone: we’re with you.”

  Gabriel shook his head at his sister but let the subject drop. Instead he asked, “And what are you both doing over here in the corner?”

  Drusilla called him Gabriel in the privacy of her own mind. And why not? After the way she’d treated him these past five years, it was unlikely he would ever invite her to use his Christian name in real life.

  “We like it here,” Eva said.

  He frowned down at his tiny stepsister. “You shan’t meet any nice young men if you hide in the back.”

  “Lord, Gabe, you sound just like Mama: nice young men indeed. You should know better. You’re the only nice young man within spitting distance.”

  His gaze flickered ceilingward, as if rendered speechless by his sister’s vulgarism.

  “Besides,” Eva continued, either undeterred or unaware of her stepbrother’s reaction. “Dru and I have already met every young man in London—nice or otherwise.” She gestured to the aisle of empty space around them with her fan, which Drusilla noticed no longer closed properly. “And they can see where we are perfectly well if they are interested in dancing.” All three of them looked across the room toward the clutch of men Gabriel had passed—several of whom were looking in their direction, but not—Drusilla was sure—with any interest in dancing.

  Eva was right. The young men of the ton had no interest in either of them. They shunned Eva because of her long-dead mother. And they ostracized Drusilla for philosophical reasons: her philosophies, to be precise.

  While Dru didn’t have a shocking family secret or keep two mistresses in the same house, she was just as notorious in her own way. It wasn’t just the prison break she’d inadvertently funded, but her views on marriage and the rights of women that had relegated her to the fringes of society. Not even her considerable wealth could lure suitors.

  The young men weren’t staring at Drusilla and Eva, but Gabriel.

  Lord Visel, in particular, seemed to be watching him. Women might swoon over Gabriel Marlington, but a good number of men seemed to dislike him. Drusilla could only imagine it was jealousy or envy that elicited such animus.

  Eva elbowed him in the side again. “Now that you’re here, Gabe, you can dance with Dru.”

  If Drusilla hadn’t been staring at Gabriel like a condemned woman eyeing her last meal, she might have missed the lightning-fast expression of irritation that crossed his handsome features. But she was watching and she did see it. And when he cut her a quick glance, she could see that he knew she had seen it. And she wanted to kill her well-intentioned friend.

  “Er, but what about your gown?” Gabriel said lamely. “Doesn’t it need mending?”

  Drusilla snatched her friend’s arm before Eva did something even more humiliating, like beg Gabriel to dance with her.

  “Yes, Eva, your gown. We must go and fix it.”

  Eva’s sudden flush said she realized she’d been too impulsive. She glanced from Drusilla’s mortified expression to her brother’s wooden one. “You’ll be here when we return, Gabe?”

  “I’ll be here. With Mrs. Peel temporarily out of commission, it appears I am your chaperone as well as your companion.” The smile he gave his stepsister was warm and protective. And then his green eyes flickered past Drusilla as if she wasn’t even there and settled on the lovely Lucinda Kittridge.

  Chapter 2

  Gabriel watched the two girls head toward the door leading from the ballroom to the ladies retiring room. Should he follow them to ensure they weren’t meddled with? He shrugged the foolish thought away. Who the devil would meddle with them inside a room bursting with women? The retiring room was probably the safest place in the house for two young girls—safe, at least, when it came to their virtue. Not that a roomful of women was necessarily safe. Gabriel had grown up around mostly women and knew they could be just as dangerous—more dangerous, really—than most men.

  He considered the matter of their absent chaperone, Mrs. Peel, his eyes sweeping over the clutch of nearby matrons He did not recognize any of his mother’s acquaintances or he would have approached them and asked for help. Although the marchioness had told him his chaperoning duties were ornamental, Gabriel couldn’t help his concern. In Oran his half sisters had never been allowed outside the palace without proper covering. But here?

  Gabriel glanced around the room at the various neck
lines. He was still shocked at the dresses women would permit their eighteen-year-old daughters to wear. The English aristocracy seemed to have no trouble sending their daughters out into public half-dressed despite their puritanical attitudes toward sex and sexuality.

  Well, there was little he could do about the situation tonight. He would seek out his mother tomorrow and raise the subject of Mrs. Peel, who was quite an elderly woman and had appeared to feel out of sorts often this past month. He believed the two girls required a more robust chaperone, but he could hardly suggest that to Miss Clare as Mrs. Peel was her aunt.

  Miss Clare.

  He snorted. The name brought to mind the face of one who perplexed and annoyed him more than any other woman he had ever met. More than any person, really. Even his half brother Assad—who’d tried to kill him more than once—had not been so tiresome.

  Gabriel knew he wasn’t alone when it came to his feelings about Eva’s bosom friend. He’d heard other men talking about the sharp-faced, sour-tongued—but exceedingly wealthy—daughter of the late merchant king Edgar Clare. She was critical, brutally direct, and sanctimoniously opinionated with everyone, but she seemed to save a little extra judgement for Gabriel. Or at least it seemed that way over the past few months he’d been accompanying Eva and her friend to every wretched event.

  When Eva had first written to him about the wonderful friend she’d made at her finishing school—his mercurial and awkward sister’s only friend outside her family—Gabriel had been overjoyed.