Notorious

by Minerva Spencer

  She laid a hand on the other man’s forearm, her gaze still on Gabriel. The casual gesture—that easy touching of another man—sent fury thundering through him like a herd of stampeding horses. His hands clenched so tightly that the pain brought him back to himself: thrashing this man here and now would not be wise for about a dozen reasons. Besides, he had no wish to air such private feelings in public. He would have time enough to deal with this—and her—later. For the remainder of his life, as a matter of fact.

  “This is Mr. Marlington, my fiancé. Gabriel, this is Mr. Rowland, a . . . a friend of mine.”

  “Fiancé!” Rowland shouted.

  Drusilla, Gabriel, and every other patron in the shop stared at the man, who appeared as though he was already regretting his outburst if his dark, ugly red flush was anything to go by.

  Drusilla frowned at her companion. “Yes, Theo, I told you I was getting married.”

  The man—Theo—shook his head. “But I thought it was to Visel—”

  Drusilla shuddered, her face a mask of distaste. “Never.”

  Gabriel almost smiled; at least there was somebody she found more repellent than him.

  “But I asked you about the duke and you said—”

  “Mr. Marlington’s grandfather is the Duke of Carlisle,” she said flatly.

  “Oh,” the other man mumbled, looking a bit wild around the eyes.

  Gabriel stared down at him, his brain not obeying his orders to focus; instead dozens of thoughts were zinging through his head. Most frequent were graphic suggestions as to what he should do to the man across from him for having the audacity to sit with his betrothed in public and fondle her hand.

  Mr. Rowland was a slender man, and Gabriel knew he could break him in half without effort. The aggressive way he was eyeballing Gabriel demonstrated more clearly than words that while Drusilla might consider them merely friends, he had other ideas.

  She gestured to one of the empty chairs around the table with an unsteady hand. “Won’t you sit with us?” Her face was as emotionless as ever, and Gabriel felt a sudden sense of heaviness, of... depression as he looked into eyes that left him feeling chilled. He would spend his life with a woman who had no emotion, no passion, and certainly no liking for him. On the contrary, here she sat the day before her wedding, holding hands with another man.

  He almost laughed out loud: he would marry a woman in love with another and live out his days in a country where his face and name would forever make him an outcast.

  Some part of his mind pointed out that he was behaving in a dramatic, self-pitying manner, and he shook himself and forced an appropriate expression onto his face.

  “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I cannot stay. I have business to attend to.” He gave her a significant look. “Wedding matters, you know.”

  She inhaled sharply, but did not speak.

  Gabriel dropped an abrupt bow. “I shall see you tonight at dinner, Miss Clare.” He didn’t bother speaking to the man but turned and left.

  Once he was outside, he stood in the shop doorway and glanced left and then right. Now what the devil had he been doing? Where the hell had he been going? He cursed under his breath. Rather than look like an utter pillock, he turned left and continued on past the bow window, this time not looking inside.

  He walked a good five streets before he recalled just what it was he was supposed to be doing. In his pockets were three gifts—two of them parting presents. He’d not given much thought to his amorous arrangements, but his mother—the nosiest and bossiest woman in the world—had cornered him early this morning after he’d finished speaking about settlements, dowries, and a dozen other matters with Drusilla’s three men of business. While it had been entertaining to stun the three men with his disinterest in her fortune, the exchange had still put him in a foul mood.

  And then his mother had pounced on him the moment he’d returned to Exley House to discuss a few matters with his stepfather. She’d dragged him into the library, forced him into a chair, and then stared at him.

  Gabriel had massaged his temples. “What is it, Mother?” he’d demanded when he could take it no longer. He’d been tired from lack of sleep, irritated from the mind-numbingly tedious meeting, and there were still a half-dozen matters to deal with—such as meeting with Viscount Byer to see if he’d received a visit from Visel’s second. But the duel was a far from his most pressing concern.

  Namely, that he was filled with a sense of impending dread: he would soon be married. His life stretched before him, years and years of furtive couplings in dark rooms until she was breeding. Although he wondered what the point was? He was no scion of some great house in need of an heir. He was simply a man without a country who was now living on the bounty and charity of his family. He was—

  “Jibril, you are not paying me any mind!”

  He looked up to find the marchioness staring down at him. “Yes, Mother, I am here and listening. What is it?”

  “You must discharge your mistresses.” Her eyebrows descended to form a surprisingly threatening frown. “All of them.”

  Gabriel was a man of four and twenty, but his mother still had the power to rob him of breath. He could have ended the conversation right then if he’d disclosed that he’d already made up his mind on the matter. But that was none of her concern, and the last thing he wished to do was engage in an in-depth conversation with his mother about mistresses.

  Instead he’d rested one glossy booted ankle on his knee and asked, “What do you know of such things?” But then he raised his hand in a halting gesture. “Never mind that question—I do not wish to know the answer. It is a testament to how exhausted I am that I would even ask such a foolish thing. No, the better question is, Why you have decided it is your place to broach this subject with me?”

  She paced in front of his chair. “Because you are your father’s son and were raised with far different expectations from other English gentlemen, I have not commented on your amorous arrangements.”

  Gabriel considered reminding her of the dozens of times she’d not only commented, but actively meddled, in his amorous arrangements, but he’d decided it would only prolong their conversation. So he clamped his jaws shut, letting her run her course.

  “I’ve seen how women of all ages fling themselves at your head, so it does not surprise me that I hear of your exploits almost daily. Indeed, I believe you’ve almost charmed the ton with your shocking behavior, especially your notorious arrangement with the two French actresses.”

  Gabriel examined his fingernails.

  “You might have been raised with certain marital expectations, but you are English now.”

  His jaw hardened and his head whipped up. Their gazes locked, but Gabriel did not speak. So she continued. “You cannot marry this young girl and maintain mistresses. It will crush her spirit and poison any chance you might have for happiness.”

  His face heated, which only irritated him more. He raised his eyebrows in the haughty fashion he’d seen Exley employ to suppress pretention. “Rubbish, Mama. Englishmen keep mistresses all the time.”

  Instead of being suppressed by his eyebrows, she whirled on him. “Tsst!” She grasped the arms of his chair and brought her face uncomfortably close to his, until he was pressed flat against the chairback. Her eyes were the most startling shade of green, far lighter than his own. It had always been difficult to look away from his mother when she focused her not-insignificant will on him.

  “You must listen to me, Jibril.”

  The fan of deep lines that radiated from her eyes caused an uncomfortable tightening in his chest: his mother was getting old. She’d been the cornerstone of his life—the one person to believe in him, to love him, and to support him, no matter what he did or how he failed—for as long as he had been alive. Hardly more than a child herself when she’d given birth to him, she had fought tooth and nail for him and she’d supported his goal of seizing his father’s faltering empire when the sultan had died. He l
oved his mother with all his heart. But he also knew she was the devil herself when it came to getting her way.

  “You are only allowed one wife under English law, Jibril.”

  It took everything he had not to roll his eyes. “Yes, Mother, I understand that.”

  “I do not think you do.”

  He threw up his hands. “Why don’t you say your piece? Because I know you’ll not stop hounding me until you’ve done so.”

  She smiled, sat on the arm of his chair, and took his hand. “I’ve had an unhappy marriage and a happy marriage, Jibril. I can tell you, in all truthfulness, that a happy marriage is much better.”

  “That does not surprise me.”

  “You have not chosen each other, that’s true, but she’s an intelligent, comely girl and love isn’t something you stumble into; love is something you build.”

  Gabriel did not bother telling his mother how much his prospective wife actively disliked him. Instead he said, “I’m entering into this marriage with the best of intentions and—”

  “Bah!” She flicked one hand, “The best of intentions. What is that? You must enter into it with an open heart. You must look at intimacies with your new, young wife as the first step in a lifelong commitment to each other and to joy.”

  Gabriel’s head became so hot it felt like it might explode. “Fine, I am entering it with a joyous and open heart and mind.”

  She’d squeezed his hand so hard the bones shifted. “You are my eldest son and I love you beyond life itself. But—” Her eyes clouded and she looked, for the first time he had ever seen her, defeated. “But you are also your father’s son and he has left his stamp on you.” She held his hand pressed between her much smaller ones. “Although there was no love between us, I have rarely spoken ill of your father.”

  “That is true.”

  “But I must do so now. You view women as—well, you view them as a sultan would. That is to be expected, given where you grew to manhood, but you live here now.”

  He disentangled himself and got to his feet. “Putting aside your ridiculous assertion that Englishmen somehow treat Englishwomen so much better than the treatment women receive in my country, is it your point that I am an Englishman in England who should behave in the English manner? Because I have grasped that, Mama. Believe me—I know who I am not. I would have thought my behavior over the past five years might have proved that to you. I’ve changed my name and abandoned my people—everything that I was is now behind me. I am English.” His voice had risen, which only bothered him more. “Now, I must go.”

  She caught his arm before he could make his escape.

  “You will do the right thing, Jibril. I know you will.”

  Oh, if only his mother knew just how many wrong things he’d done lately and how he was—most likely misguidedly—trying to make them all right.

  He snorted as he recalled the uncomfortable exchange. His mistresses were the least of his problems.

  Besides its not being any of his mother’s concern, Gabriel was hardly enthusiastic about breaking off a mutually satisfactory association with a beautiful, passionate woman—or women, as the case may be—so that he might enter into marriage with a wife who at this very moment sat holding another man’s hand.

  Irritation roiled with something else—surely not jealousy? No, fury was more like it—inside his chest.

  Such loose behavior might be the norm between English husbands and wives, but Gabriel was not English. At least not in that way. He’d never liked the way Englishwomen went about uncovered and exposed to other men’s eyes, and he liked it even less now that his wife-to-be was one of those women. Drusilla would soon learn that he would not permit handholding with other men—or holding of anything else—once she was his.

  Perhaps he should tell his mother to go and deliver her speech about extramarital lovers to his wife-to-be instead of him. He snorted and shook his head, diverted at the image of that conversation.

  Gabriel had been so caught up in his own thoughts he’d walked halfway across London without even noticing; here he was already at Giselle and Maria’s.

  Their maid greeted him at the door. “Miss Maria is not here, Mr. Marlington. She’s gone out with Sami. Only Miss Giselle is here.”

  Gabriel was relieved to find Giselle alone. He could speak with her first and Maria later.While he cared for both women equally, it would be easier to say what he had to say individually.

  “I’ll see Miss Giselle,” Gabriel said, pulling off his gloves, tossing them into his hat, and handing both to her.

  She showed him to a small second-floor parlor and went to fetch her mistress.

  Gabriel had met Giselle almost three years ago, right after he’d first seen her perform onstage. She’d been in a minor part then, but she’d shone, and Gabriel had found himself with flowers in hand, waiting at her door the very next night.

  At the time she’d just been starting out and could find only small roles. She lived with Maria, her childhood friend, fellow actress, and—unbeknownst to Gabriel at first—her lover. While it had been Giselle who’d first attracted his notice, he’d quickly become fond of both women, who also seemed pleased with him.

  At first he’d believed Giselle had encouraged his interest to divert attention away from her relationship with Marie—or that the two women had needed, like so many other actresses, a wealthy protector. When Gabriel had raised the subject, they had let him know—in their blunt fashion—that he was not their first male lover. That admission had effectively quashed any erroneous notions he’d had of being their savior in that way, but he’d still insisted on leasing this house—citing his own comfort rather than their safety as the reason—to get them away from the collection of rundown rooms where they’d been living.

  Word of their arrangement was bound to get out, and it had. As much as it titillated the jaded palate of the ton to imagine what went on in their notorious pied-à-terre, the relationship the three of them shared was remarkably domestic in nature.

  Having grown up among so many women, Gabriel was comfortable with them.

  At least some women, he corrected as he lowered himself onto the settee in the cozy sitting room—not, apparently, his wife. Unlike his English counterparts, the notion that two women could love each other—even physically—had not shocked him. Perhaps that was a flaw in his character or the result of being raised by a woman who possessed a pliable notion of sensuality and love.

  And so they’d enjoyed their comfortable union for over three years. He would hate to end it, but he knew—deep down—that he would not wish to maintain the liaison once married.

  He probably should have told his mother as much, but it was none of her concern.

  The truth was, Gabriel had hopes—although not particularly high ones—that he and Drusilla might find a way to rub along together. And if they did not? Well, he would reevaluate his decision at that point.

  The door opened, and Giselle made her entrance as only an actress could.

  “How delightful to see you, Gabriel,” she said in her charming French accent, offering her cheeks for his kisses.

  Gabriel took both her hands and held them out to her sides. Giselle Fontenot was small—only a few inches taller than his mother, but her exceptionally lush hourglass figure, full pouting lips, and bedroom eyes had rightfully earned her the title of the French Pocket Venus.

  Today her generous curves were wrapped in an apricot silk peignoir trimmed with chocolate lace, and it made her golden curls appear burnished and rich.

  “How is it that you can work until midnight, play until dawn, and yet look so fresh, Giselle?”

  “Flatterer.” She pushed him down onto the settee, lowering herself beside him. “You have been busy, I hear?”

  Gabriel scowled. “Just what the devil have you heard?”

  “Perhaps one part the truth, nine parts exaggeration? You know how word of scandalous happenings spreads fast.”

  “What did you hear and from whom did you he
ar it?”

  “Maria saw Visel and his cronies when they came to an opening night party—I was not there.”

  “And he was talking, was he? That surprises me.” As much of an irritant as Visel had been, Gabriel had never believed he was the type to have a big mouth.

  “According to Maria, Visel said nothing. It was one of the other men—a man who was somewhat the worse for wear.”

  “Visel wasn’t drunk?” Gabriel asked. He had certainly seemed well on the way during their scuffle. Perhaps the prospect of a duel had sobered him up?

  “Maria only said he was quiet, as he usually is.” She took his hand and placed her delicate palm against his, absently examining the difference in size. “He does not seem the type to run with that crowd of louts. I believe he is more of a lone wolf beneath the reckless and outrageous veneer he has cultivated.”

  Gabriel believed she was correct. “He appears to harbor a good deal of enmity toward me.”

  “Yes, it certainly seems so.” She cocked her head. “Have you had many dealings with him? I thought he only recently returned to England a short while ago?”

  “Yes, only a few months—six at the most, after years in the army.” And then he came to London with the sole intention of annoying and persecuting Gabriel. Or so it seemed.

  Gabriel’s gaze was on her fingers, which were slender, soft, and delicate against his own much broader hands.

  “Tell me what really happened last night? There was a girl, I think?”

  He smiled at her. “You know I cannot speak of such things, Giselle.”

  She gave him a playful nudge. “You are such an honorable man, mon amour. Surely you can tell me who this girl is?”

  He supposed that would not hurt—since she was soon to become his wife. “Her name is Drusilla Clare. She is a close friend of my sister’s.”

  She slanted him a look. “Ah, she is a good girl, then?”

  Gabriel ignored that question. “We are to be married, tomorrow.”

  Her hand tightened, but her expression did not change. “That is what Maria and I suspected. I am so sorry, Gabriel. I know you had become quite fond of Miss Kittridge. We both believed you might ask her to marry you before the Season’s end.”