Notorious

by Minerva Spencer

  Still, what else could he do but say, “We would be honored,” and nod at the younger man, whom he’d played cards with on several occasions. Deveril was a shy, spindly, and pockmarked young fellow, but he would inherit an earldom one day: no doubt the reason he was Lucy’s partner for the supper dance.

  Gabriel felt Drusilla stiffen beside him at the invitation and looked down as he followed Deveril. Her face had the set, superior expression he had always associated with her in the past—not the sweet, soft, almost affectionate look she’d given him in the garden. A sudden insight struck: this was her mask—for those times she felt insecure, it must be. How had he been so foolish not to notice? She was far cleverer and more interesting than the kittenish Miss Kittridge—even if her tongue was also sharper—but the other woman was, undoubtedly, far more physically beautiful, so it must be insecurity about her appearance. But then she was best friends with Eva, a woman even more lovely than Lucy. Perhaps it was something else?

  Gabriel drew her arm closer, feeling an overwhelming urge to protect her wash over him. It surprised him—and surprised her, if her quick glance was anything to go by.

  Lucy and another couple—people whose names Gabriel could not recall—were already seated when they arrived.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Marlington,” Lucy gushed, her remarkable blue eyes flickering from Drusilla to Gabriel. “I told Deveril that I absolutely must have the ton’s newest couple at my table.”

  Gabriel waited until Drusilla was seated before taking Lucy’s hand and bowing over it, ignoring the almost painful squeezing of his fingers such a delicate hand could inflict. “What a dark horse you are, Gabe. I was just telling Deveril that I had no idea you and Drusilla were such fast . . . friends.”

  Gabriel ignored the unconcealed dig. Instead, he smiled. “I think I speak for both myself and my wife when I say thank you, Miss Kittridge.”

  Her laugh—a sound that was truly heavenly, even though he now knew it held nothing but thwarted anger—filled the air like chamber music. “Oh please, we were Gabriel and Lucy before—I do hope that won’t change now that you are married?” She cut Drusilla an arch look.

  Drusilla returned her look with a slight, almost contemptuous twist of her lips. “Indeed no, Miss Kittridge. Rest assured that Gabriel’s name remains the same; only my surname has changed.”

  Gabriel bit back a smile.

  “How you must dislike that, Mrs. Marlington.” Lucy was looking at Drusilla with a notch of concern between her luminous eyes.

  Drusilla blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Changing your name—isn’t that something your heroine, Mary Wollstonecraft, advocated? That women should not have to take their husband’s names?”

  “No thank you,” Drusilla said to the footman who’d arrived to pour her a glass of wine. She turned back to Lucy. “I must say I am pleased, Miss Kittridge. I did not know you’d read Miss Wollstonecraft’s books.”

  Lucy frowned, the expression a petulant moue. “But I haven’t.”

  “Ahh.” Drusilla’s features were arranged in an expression of patient understanding.

  Gabriel’s face ached from suppressing a grin. His wife was a mistress of subtle but oh-so-effective snubs—who should know that better than he? Even so, being the focus of the Kitten’s claws could not be enjoyable.

  Gabriel laid a hand on her forearm. “Will you come help me select our supper, my dear?”

  She flashed him a look of gratitude and anger mingled with fierce pride. But it was replaced in an instant by cool, imperturbable acceptance taking its place. “I should be pleased to.”

  Gabriel took two plates from the hovering servant. “I will do the heavy lifting if you choose for us.”

  “You trust me to select your food?”

  “It is a weighty burden, I know. I trust you are up to the challenge?”

  “You’d better behave, Mr. Marlington, or I’ll fill your plate with nothing but pilchards.”

  Gabriel’s stared in mock horror. “God no—they can’t have such horrid things here, can they?” She laughed, as he was hoping she would. “Who the devil told you I loathed pilchards?” he asked, holding out both plates for lobster patties.

  “Eva frightened you with one,” she said, placing two on each plate. “Several times, if I recall.”

  “I take great offense at the word frighten, ma’am.”

  “Oh?” She gestured to a platter of thin slices of ham, and he nodded. “And what word would you use, sir?”

  “Menace, or perhaps brandish. Yes, definitely brandish.”

  “One brandishes pilchards?” She was openly grinning as she put a cluster of purple grapes on each plate.

  Gabriel nodded, transfixed: Lord, she was a bloody siren when she smiled.

  He realized she was waiting for a response and gave her an exaggeratedly lofty look. “Yes, it is most assuredly brandishing. It is a little-known fact, but pilchards were at one time offered along with pistols and swords. Thankfully, that barbaric practice has been discontinued.”

  She made a choking sound, the tongs she was holding shaking with her suppressed laughter.

  Gabriel was foolishly pleased to have made such a serious woman laugh with his silliness. “Oh, please, some of those strawberries, Mrs. Marlington. Yes, that big one fits just nicely on my plate—no, no—do not try to take it for yourself.”

  She laughed outright.

  “I know that is what you were thinking, ma’am, and I must say I’m disappointed you would try to cheat your lord and master out of the finest bounty,” he chided.

  She responded by piling a half-dozen more berries on his plate, and it was his turn to laugh. “Enough, enough—you’ve got me on my knees—I beg for mercy.”

  They’d reached the end of the buffet, and she laid aside the serving fork and glanced up at him, her eyes glowing. “Hmm,” she said, her look arch. “You are not on your knees nor do you sound like you are begging, to me.”

  He leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Would you like to have me begging on my knees, Drusilla?”

  Her cheeks blushed furiously, but she coolly retorted. “I know Miss Kittridge would. Preferably while crawling over burning coals.”

  Gabriel laughed.

  As he accompanied her back to their table, Gabriel felt a sense of hope for the first time since this debacle had started.

  He realized that Drusilla’s dry playfulness must be one of the qualities Eva prized in his new wife. That shouldn’t have surprised him; after all, a mutual appreciation of the absurd was something that had drawn Gabriel and Eva together from the first time they’d met. It seemed Drusilla was a kindred spirit. Why was it that he’d taken so long to see this in her—her light, witty, and amusing side?

  Unfortunately, her laughter had dissipated by the time they returned to the table.

  The following half hour was filled with barbs so finely honed the average person would be unlikely to recognize them as such. Even so, the atmosphere at their table was underlaid with a tension even the witless Deveril and the other young couple could not fail to miss. As for Drusilla? How she kept her cool in the face of Lucy’s incessant attacks was a mystery. Gabriel soon realized Miss Kittridge was anything but a kitten. In fact, he would compare her to a tigress—one who’d been thwarted and did not relinquish her prey without a struggle.

  Her behavior was not only astonishing, it was fatiguing and annoying. Just what did she hope to achieve by such a display? He was already married; making a spectacle of their prior attachment could only make Drusilla uncomfortable and embarrass him. What she ought to be doing was sitting with Visel and working her wiles on him. Which made him recall his sister.

  While Lucy prodded and poked, Gabriel tried to keep an eye on the table where Eva sat with Visel and two of his cronies and their partners. Of course, he could not hear the conversation, but he could see by Eva’s rather fierce expression and the flushed faces of their tablemates that she was probably behaving as badly—if not as subtly
—as Lucy.

  Lord, what an evening.

  At least his mother and the marquess were not here to witness the small dramas being played out. They’d left just before supper.

  “You needn’t concern yourself with Eva, Jibril,” his mother had said as she and Exley prepared to leave. “Elizabeth is here.” Elizabeth was his great-aunt on his mother’s side, a matronly woman who’d launched five daughters of her own. “She will see that Eva returns home tonight.”

  “Are you sure Aunt Elizabeth is up to the challenge?” Gabriel had asked, not entirely jesting. Even with all her experience, his aunt was no match for Eva when she went on a tear. As she was showing dangerous signs of doing with Visel this evening.

  But his mother had merely patted his hand. “Go home, Jibril.” She’d given him a sly smile. “You are a newlywed.”

  Her laughter had followed him even after he turned away and left her with the marquess. His mother was relentless.

  Chapter 14

  Tonight Drusilla permitted Fletcher to dress her in the finest nightgown she owned. But even that was not much to look at. She supposed she should purchase new bedclothes now that she was a married woman. Wasn’t that what women did? Wore attractive negligees?

  Drusilla shuddered at the thought of putting on such a garment and presenting herself to her beautiful husband.

  The evening had been unpleasant in parts—especially supper—but her time in the garden with Gabriel and their silly banter at the buffet had made all the uncomfortable bits of the ball melt into insignificance.

  He wanted to make this marriage work. He was almost . . . courting her. She just needed to suppress her insecurities, raging jealousy, and suspicious, judgmental nature.

  I need to stop and think before I speak. She knew that—impulsiveness had always been her worst fault. And when you coupled that with a swift and rather barbed tongue, it led to poor results. And with Gabriel it always led to arguments. Tonight she would be different. She would—

  A light tap on the door made her spin around. He was in the open doorway between their dressing rooms, once again wearing the deep red silk robe. But, unlike this morning, she saw no pantaloons beneath it.

  He lifted his hands to reveal a bottle and two glasses. “I brought my last bottle. Would you care for a glass?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He smiled at her while his hands worked on the cork. “Do you like the wine? Or are you merely being polite?”

  “Both.”

  He laughed. “You are a diplomat.”

  She smiled like an idiot.

  He brought her a glass and gestured to the seating area. “Shall we sit?”

  Her legs were wobbly and she was grateful for the opportunity to gather her wits. At the same time, she was anxious to get this awkward part of their lives over and done with. Still, she could hardly say such a thing.

  “I think tonight went well,” he said, taking a sip of wine.

  “So do I. We shall see them again tomorrow?”

  “Yes, His Grace indicated he would be occupying his box, which was his way of letting us know he would pay us a visit.” He shrugged. “Of course, he did not come tonight, so who knows?” He cocked his head at her. “What is it?”

  “What is what?”

  “I think you want to say something, but have decided against it.”

  “Am I that easy for you to read?”

  He just smiled.

  “I was wondering why Visel seems to dislike you so much. I couldn’t help feeling he might have apologized, but he was not really sorry.”

  “I agree. He seems to be driven by something. Tonight Eva suggested perhaps he is a victim of male hysteria.”

  Drusilla considered that while also considering the matter of the little boy the earl had mentioned. She decided to leave that be—at least for the moment. Instead she said, “Well, he was away a long time—a decade, I believe. But how would his war experience manifest itself into hatred of you?”

  “I don’t know. It was Eva’s notion. I personally think he simply hates what I am more than who I am. But come,” he said, setting down his glass and standing. “That is enough talk of Visel.”

  Drusilla stared as he came toward her, his body far more masculine and imposing in a robe than it appeared fully dressed.

  He held out one hand. “Come here.”

  Drusilla stood, but her legs seemed to have grown roots into the floor. Moving her feet the few steps toward Gabriel was one of the most difficult things she’d ever done. He waited, patient and expectant. His lids had lowered over his eyes, giving him the look of a sleepy predator. His chest, she was pleased to note, was rising and falling faster—although not as fast as hers.

  When she stepped within reach, he grazed her jaw with the back of his hand, the gentle touch making her jump.

  “Shhhh,” he whispered as he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the tips of her fingers with a lingering sensuality.

  Drusilla made a noise unlike any that had ever come out of her mouth.

  He chuckled softly. “What was that?”

  “Uhmnph.”

  His smile turned to a grin. “That is what I thought you said.” He released her hand and slid both of his beneath her jaws, his thumbs caressing her cheeks and brushing over her lips.

  He looked at her through green slits. “I know it is said that there is some pain the first time, but I will see that you experience great pleasure—you trust me, don’t you?” He continued his distracting exploration of her face, her chest rising and falling faster with each gentle stroke of his thumb over her lower lip.

  She nodded. She’d never stood so close to him. She’d always known he was broad chested, but he seemed to surround her with his body. And his eyes. Lord, just looking at them made her feel faint. A thousand shades of green shot through with gold, his eyelashes like soot—all except the very tips, which were a surprising reddish gold. He took the glass she still clutched in her hand and set it down before turning back to her.

  “I wish to see your hair down.”

  A shock went through her body as if he’d yelled, and his lips, full and shapely, flexed into a gentle smile.

  “You are so nervous. Is it me?” His gaze flickered over her, and her heart clenched. Was she behaving like a lovelorn girl? Was that what he thought he saw?

  “No, it is not you.”

  “You’re afraid of what will happen tonight?”

  “Not . . . afraid, but perhaps—” Perhaps what? She didn’t even know herself what she felt—how could she describe it? “A little anxious. But I do not wish to stop.” The words came out in a garbled rush. “I understand my duty.” She expelled a careful breath. “I know what a wife owes her husband.”

  His eyebrows jumped up, and his white, even teeth flashed briefly. “Does your duty include letting down your hair?”

  The playful question left her speechless, so she nodded.

  He removed her cap, his full lips pulling down at the corners as he stared at it and then tossed it to the floor. “I do not care for that.” His dark eyes met hers. “My sisters and mother do not wear such things. Why do you?”

  Drusilla had no idea why. She’d been raised by her aunt and governess, both of whom had made it plain that a virtuous woman covered her hair. But she could hardly say that as it would imply his mother and sisters were not virtuous and—

  “You are giving such serious thought to the matter.” His mouth twitched, and that was when Drusilla noticed the small freckle just on the curve of his upper lip. She had a mad urge to reach out and touch it, to—God save her—taste it.

  “You have beautiful hair and I would like it to be unbound when I come to you.”

  His words rocked her, sending shock tremors through her body. The realization that they would do this again and again made her stomach quiver and the area below tighten, the sensation that echoed outward so intensely pleasurable she felt ready to slide to the floor in a boneless heap.

  She began
to lift her hands, but he shook his head.

  “I will do it.” He turned her around, her back to his front, and she felt his hand moving on the heavy braid that hung down her back. “Hold out your hand.”

  Her hand shot out before her brain had approved the gesture. “Do you never say please?”

  He gave a soft laugh and placed the ribbon that had held her braid in her hand before lightly grasping her shoulders and pulling her back, hot breath fanning her neck. “I will say please for you, my wife.” He kissed her beneath her ear, and Drusilla swayed, grateful his hands and body were propping her up. She’d had only one glass of champagne and had barely sipped her wine at supper, but she felt as though she’d come unmoored from her body.

  “It is like fine silk,” he murmured behind her, his low, intimate growl vibrating through her back and shoulders.

  “It is too c-curly and impossible to control.”

  “And my sisters complain theirs is too straight.” He began to unbraid the rope of hair. “This must be a heavy crown to wear.” He combed out the braid with his fingers and kissed her temple again. “A crown for my queen.”

  She swallowed; she should say something—anything—but she was empty of words and thought. His chest was warm and hard against her shoulders; had he moved closer, or had she?

  He spread the froth of curls over her shoulders. “Would you like me to tell you what I am doing? Do you wish to know what is happening?” He buried his face in her hair, his nose pressing against her throat as he inhaled deeply. “Or would you like me to shut my potato hole?”

  A laugh broke out of her at the unexpected words.

  “That’s better,” he said, the words a caress against her skin. “This is not serious business; this is pleasurable business.” He inhaled again. “Mmm. You smell delicious.” His voice roughened. “I wonder how you taste.” He flicked a tongue over her, and she jolted. “You taste of flowers,” he whispered, his mouth leaving a chain of hot kisses that encircled her throat like a warm embrace, his words turning her legs to jelly.