He gave a bark of humorless laughter. “No, I thought not. That letter is your private affair so I will not pry. Perhaps you might extend me the same courtesy when it comes to my own private matters?”
Drusilla swallowed, trying to think of a way to reassure him she was not carrying on some romantic intrigue behind his back—even though she was receiving hand-delivered missives from another man on her wedding day. The same man her new husband had seen holding her hand yesterday. She winced at what he must be imagining. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out, her wits scrambled by his proximity, not to mention the situation. Besides, who knew what drivel Theo had written on these pages? She could hardly assure her husband it was harmless when it might not be. So she merely nodded.
His eyes burned as he leaned lower, until she could feel hot breath on her cheek. “Oh, and one other thing. Your correspondence is private, Drusilla, but I would caution you to have a care in your dealings.” His eyes glinted, and she knew that he knew who had sent the letter. “Yesterday you were not my wife; today you are.” The planes of his face were hard and merciless, making him look more like a falcon than ever. “While I wish you to be contented and to thrive in our marriage, I will not tolerate infidelity or intrigues—”
Drusilla gasped. The hypocritical nerve of the man. She opened her mouth, but he gave her no opportunity to speak.
“If you think to shame me, wife, know that I will react both swiftly and punitively. And also know that you will not be the one I punish. Do we understand one another?”
Fury and something else mingled within her at his blatant display of masculine dominance.
She ignored the unknown emotion and seized on the fury, giving an ugly laugh. “Thank you for telling me in such barbaric terms who is the master in this marriage. I never expected any less from you—regardless of what you promised when you proposed; nor does your hypocrisy surprise me.”
Drusilla swore she heard a crack of thunder at her words.
Impossibly, he took a step closer, his body emanating volcanic heat. “How relieved I am to hear neither my barbaric nature nor hypocrisy surprises you. It also pleases me that you understand whose hand holds the whip in this marriage. Let us hope you do nothing to make me use it.” His lips twisted into a cruel smile at the sound of shock that slipped out of her. “Now that you understand what our respective roles are—mine to give orders and yours to obey—I expect this will be the last time we shall have to discuss this particular subject.” Behind his barely restrained anger, Drusilla thought she saw something else: Had she wounded him? Or at least wounded his pride?
She dismissed the thought. So what? She didn’t care. After all, he’d wounded her over and over for years with his flirtations and careless, blatant amours.
“So what are you ordering exactly? That I end my association with Mr. Rowland?”
“Not at all, my dear. I am only telling you what will happen if you do not.”
Drusilla’s eyes widened as he stared down at her, his face carved from stone. Good God! Did he mean he would call the other man out just for being her associate? Was this what she could expect? A husband who would kill any man she spoke to? Who would—
“You’ve had little rest these past few days, Drusilla, so I will leave you to sleep tonight. I’ll have your dinner brought to you and shall satisfy my own appetite elsewhere.” His cold green gaze flickered over her, dismissing her—letting her know that going without bedding her was not a hardship—the words satisfy and appetite and elsewhere ringing in her head.
“Sleep well,” he said, turning abruptly on his heel. And then he was gone. Her husband. A stranger, and now a hostile one.
He was leaving her alone—on their wedding night? She stared down at the piece of paper, reeling at her husband’s cold dismissal.
And why do you think he is leaving, you little fool? her conscience goaded. He was behaving toward you in a courteous and generous manner until you began questioning him about the duel. And what man would like to see his wife receive a missive from another man on their wedding night? How would you like it if he’d received a missive from his mistress in front of you?
Drusilla ground her teeth. Why had she let him provoke her into combative, shrewish behavior? She’d suspected the letter had offended him, and yet she’d pushed him even further instead of simply admitting Theo had become rather hysterical. Instead of reassuring Gabriel, which was what she would have wanted if the situation were reversed. Drusilla stared at the door—should she go after him?
And say what? Will you tell him the letter is not from Theo? Will you let him read it? Will you beg him to stay? Offer him your body? Tell him that you have been thinking about what would happen tonight for the last forty-eight hours? Perhaps even for the last five years? That you could have married Theo if you’d wanted, but instead you wanted him—a man who clearly wanted another woman, a beautiful, wealthy woman that he can now never have thanks to you? Is that what you will tell him, Drusilla?
She groaned, staring at the crumpled letter and cursing its sender. Why would Theo do such a thing? He must know she was married already and that this was her husband’s house. Why?
The letter felt heavy in her hands and the temptation to merely throw it in the fire was strong. But her fingers had a will of their own, and they broke the seal and exposed the contents.
* * *
Gabriel had not been this furious even when he’d been banging Visel’s head against the wall. How dare this Rowland creature send a letter to his wife on his wedding day?
You went to your mistress’s house the morning of your wedding, some bloody-minded voice in his head pointed out.
I went to see Samir, to explain why I would be scarce for the next few days.
Perhaps she is merely discussing yet another of her tedious charities with the man? Perhaps the letter is nothing more than a report on spending?
“Ha!” Gabriel wrenched open the door to his library, his vision red. “Then why the devil didn’t she just tell me so?”
His bellow startled a shriek out of a maid who was dusting a bookshelf, and she shot toward the door without being dismissed. Gabriel heard a soft click behind him as he went to stare out the window and impose some order on his chaotic thoughts.
The library looked out over a small garden, its flowers, hedges, and little winding path charming. The whole house was charming—not that he’d had anything to do with it. His stepfather had won the place in a card game, and then he’d proceeded to do what he always did: fix the property and either sell it, allow the family of the gambler a life estate, or lease it for some purpose or other.
Given the size of the dowry his wife had brought with her, they could have set up housekeeping anywhere short of St James’s Palace—although Prinny might even lease them that since he was pockets to let.
It was bad enough taking houses from his mother’s husband or an allowance or country estate from his grandfather. But taking money from a woman who hated him—and who might even have some lover waiting in the wings? No, that would be unbearable.
His fingers gripped the wide window frame until his knuckles whitened. He was behaving like a child. He knew in his gut that his bride was still an innocent and would not be unfaithful to him with another man—at least not physically. If anything was going on between her and the milksop she’d been sitting with in the tea shop, it was the sort of tragic, gothic tale the Minerva Press cranked out—and which his sisters adored.
He shouldn’t care what she was doing or whom she was doing it with, but he did.
“Blast and damn.” Gabriel closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He had no interest in living a life of turmoil and tension. Their union was permanent, and he was not a child to rail against reality. He would need to sit her down and try to find common ground—try to overlook their differences and find something in which they both shared an interest.
But not tonight. Tonight he was tired, impatient, and irritable. Bedding his virgin wife
in his current condition would certainly lead to tears.
He turned from the window and went to his desk. Other than a pen knife, a few quills, and empty ink vials, there was only the leather-wrapped packet from his grandfather, His Grace of Carlisle.
He opened the deed, even though he’d stared at it for a good hour last night.
“This was a property that came to your grandmother through her mother,” the duke had explained when he’d spoken to Gabriel in Exley’s library last night after dinner. Even after five years, Gabriel was not quite sure what to make of his proud, distant grandfather. The Duke of Carlisle was a famous stickler for propriety whose sensibilities had taken a battering since the day his daughter returned to England six years earlier. Gabriel knew the duke couldn’t have been happy about his own appearance a year later: a bastard grandson with a notorious connection to corsairs But—and Gabriel had to credit the man—the duke had made certain he would never want for money or security.
“The estate is called Sizemore Manor—is between Exham Castle and London.” His Grace had given Gabriel one of his distant, wintery smiles. “So it will have the added advantage of being near the marchioness,” he said, seemingly unable to refer to his own daughter by her name. “And yet not too close.”
Gabriel had almost laughed at what the man had left unspoken. Yes, he loved his mother, but it would not do to live too close and have her constantly in his pocket, offering nonstop advice to him or, God help him, to his new wife.
The duke had continued, as unsmiling as ever. “It comes with a pretty piece of farmland which has always supported the property with some to spare. It has been unoccupied, although Abermarle has periodically stayed there during the summer.” The Marquess of Abermarle was Gabriel’s uncle, his mother’s only brother and the duke’s heir. He was a studious, bookish man who was a great disappointment to his father. The duke was a skilled rider to hounds, a crack shot, and a skilled political orator who was a close associate of the Regent and had long been part of the Carlton House set. His son, Cian, preferred solitude to socializing, history to hunting, and privacy to politics. Gabriel liked the quiet man, although he had spent very little time with him.
Gabriel unrolled the packet of information and studied it. There were drawings of the houses, additions, and outbuildings and also a survey of the land. It was near the coast but far enough inland to have plenty of fertile land worth farming. It was a modest-size manor house with perhaps ten thousand acres, most of it divided into tenant farms with a smallish plot reserved for the home farm.
A detailed plan of the property was included, and Gabriel felt a frisson of pleasure as he examined it. A stream, a small lake, even a little wooded area. It would be the perfect place for a boy to run wild. Samir could have a pony and explore and grow up without all the dangers Gabriel had faced as a boy: poison and assassination plots and the stomach-curdling jealousy of his half brothers’ mothers.
Yes, he could take a property like this and make even more of a success with it, just as he’d done for his father when the sultan sent him out to one of his holdings once he’d turned fifteen.
Gabriel could still recall the day he’d left home. His mother had been desolate and Gabriel, himself, had been more than a little concerned about leaving the only home he’d ever known. But leaving the palace and going to one of the Sultan’s palaces to prove himself was a sacred rite of passage for a royal heir.
And of course there had also been the lure of Fatima to ease his homesickness. Her family had once controlled the al-Kamat palace but her father had been relegated to acting as the sultan’s vizier after Abdul Hassan had seized the property over a decade earlier.
Al-Kamat was where Gabriel had been when his father died and Assad assumed the sultanate. Gabriel had been lucky to escape with his life when Assad made a secret deal with Fatima’s father: the return of his palace and lands for his support against the sultan’s chosen heir. And his daughter’s hand, even though Fatima had already been promised to Gabriel.
Gabriel had been over one hundred miles away from Oran when his friends—the men who’d supported him since he was a boy—sent a small contingent to tell him of his father’s death and his mother’s disappearance and to help him to safety. His life had changed forever that night, but he hadn’t known the full extent of those changes until weeks later. His sixteen-year-old self had been arrogant to a fault, believing all he had to do was return to Oran and summon his people—that they would rise up and support him without question.
Instead, it had been the beginning of a year-long civil war within their tribe. That’s how his father’s people had always viewed themselves: as a Berber tribe rather than an Arab nation. They had nominally accepted Arab and Ottoman customs, habits, and religion, but they remained, first and last, Berber, even hundreds of years after they’d been conquered.
Gabriel turned his mind from the past and focused instead on the plans before him: his new life and this new property. The Season would be over soon, and they would leave the city. He’d been looking forward to going to Sizemore Manor with Samir—before. Perhaps his new wife would rather go to Brighton and continue the endless round of balls and assemblies? He would speak with her. If she wished to stay in Brighton, they could rent her a house and he would spend his time at Sizemore. After all, it was a marriage of convenience. They might as well arrange it to be convenient.
He doubted his wife would find Samir’s existence convenient. Gabriel winced at the thought of that particular conversation. Whatever he decided, he had a little more than a month to say it.
He rolled up the papers and put them away. It was always possible he would never see this property—that he would die tomorrow morning.
Strangely, that thought did not cause him any worry or concern. Perhaps that was because his life had contained so many other, more real dangers. Heading into a desert skirmish with fifty men, going up against his brother’s army—better armed, better fed, probably better trained—had stripped him to the bone and left him raw. Meeting the nephew of a duke in the park at dawn? It seemed about as dangerous as a visit to Almack’s. Not that he would know, never having been invited to such an elevated gathering. According to his friend Byer, whose mother had dragged him to balls at Almack’s for almost a decade, the place was the culmination of every man’s greatest fear: a Tattersall’s for men. Where marriage-mad mamas inspected and selected the prospects with as much ruthless expertise as a man chose a mount.
“It’s a dashed nightmare,” Byer had complained more than once. “Women inspectin’ your teeth, trying out your paces, reviewing your bloodlines. You’re lucky, Marlington—that will never be your lot in life.”
And it hadn’t been. He’d skipped the inspection period and had jumped straight into the traces. He ground his teeth. Thinking of marriage only made him think of his wife, and he didn’t want to do that right now. Gabriel hated to admit it, but he was more than a little jealous as to what her hot-eyed swain had sent her on their wedding day.
“Fool,” he muttered, focusing on more important matters. Like this meeting with Visel. He’d seen the man fence at Angelo’s. He was not bad with a sword, but Gabriel was better. He had practiced with his stepfather over the past few years, and the Marquess of Exley had been accounted one of the best swordsmen in Britain in his youth.
No matter how certain he might be of his skill, Gabriel couldn’t help recalling his last conversation with the Marquess of Exley, which had taken place just this morning while the women were preparing for the small wedding ceremony.
“Dueling is not only a matter of skill. Sometimes the outcome is a matter of odds, probability—statistics,” the marquess had said.
Gabriel cocked his head. “I beg your pardon?”
“Cardano, Pierre de Fermat, Pascal, Huygens, Laplace.” Exley frowned when Gabriel continued to look blank. “What did they teach you at Oxford?” He waved a dismissive, elegant—and, Gabriel knew—lethal hand. “Never mind. The point is, you’ve en
joyed good fortune thus far. That will become less of a certainty if you continue to engage in such dangerous activities.”
Gabriel bristled at that. “Good fortune and no small amount of skill, I would like to think.”
“That is true; you are a superlative hand with both pistol and sword,” Exley agreed mildly—since he was the one who’d honed and polished Gabriel’s skills in both areas. Gabriel tried not to preen at this rare praise from a man all of England considered one of the most proficient at both. “However, all good things come to an end. Sometimes a less skilled opponent can surprise you. Sometimes”—his features hardened—“the outcome depends upon nothing but chance. After all, a clock that stands still is sure to point right once in twelve hours.”
Gideon frowned. “I beg your pardon, sir. A clock that—”
Exley rested his fingertips against each other and stared at Gabriel over the steeple of his fingers. “I’m going to do something I rarely do: repeat myself. I advise you to heed me well.” His tone was neutral, but Gabriel could see by his calm, implacable stare this would not be over until Exley finished saying what he had to say. Well, he owed the marquess the courtesy of listening.
“I am listening, my lord.”
“You will eventually either run out of luck or your skill will fail you or your opponent will have more skill, or your opponent will be so . . . clumsy you might inadvertently cause more damage than you intend or even, God forbid, kill somebody.”
Gabriel agreed. Still . . . “That never happened with any of your duels, and you had four—three more than me.”
“That is correct.”
He had not needed the older man to spell out his meaning. While Gabriel might think that engaging in swordplay with Visel would be like whipping a puppy, he knew he shouldn’t make the mistake of viewing the duel with complacency: No outcome was ever certain. Especially not when your opponent was as irrational as Visel appeared to be. The man hated him—and had their situations been reversed, Gabriel knew Visel would have chosen pistols.
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