Notorious

by Minerva Spencer

  “I’m at liberty today and would join you.” He hesitated at her wide-eyed reaction. “That is, if you do not mind?”

  “Oh,” she said faintly, glancing down at her hands, which were gripping her reticule in a death hold. “That would be very . . . nice.”

  * * *

  Drusilla sneaked a look over the top of the book she was considering purchasing. Gabriel sat in one of the chairs reading, his hat balanced elegantly on one knee, his cane propped against the chair. Why had he decided to join her? He’d been treating her like a stranger—a polite stranger—ever since the night she’d told him the truth about Rowland.

  Every night she’d wondered if he’d come to her, and every night she’d been hurt and disappointed. Why? Why was he avoiding her? Was this the way it would be from now on? Had he gone back to his mistresses? She’d heard him return near dawn several mornings and had been seized with a mad, furious desire to burst into his rooms and demand where he’d been.

  But then she’d wondered if she really wanted to know. Or was her imagination even worse? A man and two women . . . The thought was enough to drive her mad with jealousy. And something else: a tingling sensation between her thighs, a heaviness in her hips, a low, insistent pulsing inside her. In that place he had woken and now ignored.

  She had gone so far as to leap out of bed and storm toward his door a few times, but then she’d stopped, her body throbbing. No. She could not demean herself so—she refused to beg.

  And now here he was: Drusilla allowed her eyes to wander from his highly polished Hessians over his pantaloons and come to a rest on his magnificent torso. Why was he accompanying her on her daily errands as if it were the most natural thing in the world? Just what did he want from her?

  He looked up and caught her staring. His gorgeous face creased into a smile, and he closed his book and stood. Drusilla took control of her rampaging thoughts and assumed a cool expression.

  He held up Waverley. “Have you read this?”

  “I do not read much fiction.”

  “Ah, only improving tracts?”

  She shut her book and showed him the spine, a biography of Leonardo. “No, not only improving tracts.”

  He grinned. “I stand corrected.” He reached out, and she handed him her book. “Here, let me buy this for you, to make up for my ignorant comment.”

  “Oh, you needn’t.”

  “Oh, I need,” he teased.

  He paid not only for that book, but for the two she’d ordered. They went out to the waiting barouche, and he handed the parcel to her footman.

  “How far is your dressmaker? It is a lovely day—perhaps we might walk?”

  A thrill of pleasure rippled through her. “You were not jesting then?” she blurted. “You really wish to come to my dressmaker with me?”

  “I never jest about ladies’ garments.” He glanced down. “Do you have proper shoes for walking?”

  “I am wearing my half boots.” Drusilla couldn’t help wondering what he thought she’d be wearing. And then she recalled the type of woman he normally consorted with.

  He turned to John Coachman. “I shall see Mrs. Marlington gets back safely. Fletcher, you may go with him.” He turned to Drusilla. “That is, if you do not need her?”

  Drusilla’s face heated at her maid’s curious look. “No. I shan’t need you, Fletcher.”

  The streets were busy and they passed more than a few people one or both of them knew.

  “What are you collecting from the dressmaker’s?” he asked her.

  “Two new gowns.”

  “You have a riding habit, I trust?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. It is my hope we will get the chance to ride together when we are in the country.”

  She glanced up at him, ridiculously pleased by his words.

  “You would like that?” he asked, cutting her a quick look before leading her around a steaming pile of animal manure.

  “I’ve always wanted to ride more, but the only times I seemed to get around to it were those visits to Exham every summer.”

  “Those visits will not cease. We are not even a day’s ride from Exham.”

  “I am glad.”

  “Are you? You and Eva have patched up your disagreement?”

  Had they? “Things are slowly going back to the way they were before.” She chewed her lip before adding. “I’m afraid she feels betrayed by me.”

  “She will get over it in time.”

  Drusilla wasn’t quite so certain. “I also think she has developed other interests. At least she seems somewhat distracted.”

  “Oh? You mean new friends?”

  Drusilla thought about Eva’s confession that she’d been spying on Visel. She could not betray her friend yet again. So she said, “I don’t know.” It was a truthful, if evasive, answer.

  “Eva has her quirks, but I’m sure she’ll come around eventually. You are her best friend, after all.”

  Drusilla wasn’t sure it was only the issue of the duel that was bothering Eva.

  “Are you still riding with her in the morning?”

  “I haven’t gone the past few days but I know she goes with Byer.” He glanced down at her, his lips twitching. “I have always wondered if she might be a little sweet on him.”

  “Byer?”

  “I can tell by your tone you do not agree?”

  “Indeed, no. She teases him, but I believe she views him as yet another brother.”

  “Hmm. Has she any particular partiality for any of the young gentlemen?”

  “Not that I’ve seen.” In fact, her friend seemed to have closed off the possibility of love and marriage in her mind. Although they never spoke of it, she knew the strain of madness in her mother’s family was an issue that weighed heavily on Eva’s mind. Her elder sister, Catherine, had married, but to a young baron who’d been injured in the war and could not have children, which was exactly what Eva’s shy, quiet sister had wanted: no chance to pass along the potential taint of insanity.

  Drusilla understood all too well that any man wanting children, or with the responsibility of providing an heir, would probably not wish to take a woman with such questionable family history.

  “Ah, here we are—Maison d’Hortense,” he said, opening the heavy wood–and–beveled glass door to the Frenchwoman’s elegant little shop.

  Any opportunity for private conversation was over.

  * * *

  It was a few days after their shopping trip—and the first night since their marriage—that they had no plans for the evening; at least not beyond dinner.

  They ate at Exley House, along with three other couples and an assortment of unmarried young men and women—no doubt invited for Eva and Byer. Drusilla found she enjoyed going out in public, now that she could put behind her the days of awkward introductions to young men who clearly had no interest in meeting her. Behind her also were the days of worrying about chaperones. So, when dinner had finished, she and Gabriel were free to wander the extensive Exley House gardens by themselves.

  Although there had been no resumption of flirtation like that the night of the Renwick ball, they’d conversed on a wide range of topics without devolving into an argument as they used to do.

  Drusilla had wanted to tell Gabriel that she’d severed ties with Theo. She’d been eager to terminate her relationship with the young man, so she had contacted the members of her small group and called a special meeting. His behavior that day had been a sore disappointment. In spite of his letter, he’d continued to behave just like a rejected lover. It had made her and the other members of her small group intensely uncomfortable. She had regretted that she’d misjudged him and was glad that was their last meeting.

  She’d been on the verge of telling Gabriel about Theo during their walk in the garden, but she hadn’t wanted to drag such a negative subject into what was a lovely evening.

  They stayed at Exley House for another hour, and then Gabriel, to her surprise, begged his mother’s par
don and asked to leave early.

  Lady Exley had looked at her son with a concerned notch between her eyes. “You are tired, Jibril—the skin beneath your eyes is bruised.” She glanced at Drusilla. “Take my son home and pamper him, my dear. Every man is a big baby who loves pampering.”

  Gabriel rolled his eyes and fired off something in Arabic. Lady Exley laughed and waved goodbye.

  After they were settled into the carriage, he turned to her. “I told my mother her tongue was so loose it would fly away if it wasn’t attached.”

  Drusilla gave a scandalized laugh. “What a dreadful thing to say to your mother.”

  He grunted. “It is the only thing to say to a mother like mine.” He turned to her, his gorgeous features shadowed but still distinct thanks to the small lantern in the carriage. “I am an ignorant oaf and have never asked about your mother. She died when you were young?”

  “Very young—she died in childbed.”

  His warm hand covered hers. “Ah, my poor Drusilla,” he murmured, gently caressing her.

  Drusilla was not expecting what happened next: her eyes watered, her throat tightened, and a tear slid down her cheek.

  “What is this?” he asked, his voice wondering. “I have made you cry?”

  “I don’t know why I’m blubbering,” she said, her voice approaching a wail.

  He slid an arm around her and held her tightly. “There’s nothing wrong with crying, Drusilla. All of this has been a strain on you—on both of us.”

  His kindness was the last straw. “I don’t wish to live at odds with you, Gabriel—I hate it when we quarrel.”

  His expression was arrested and her face heated under his tiercel-like gaze. “I don’t wish to live at odds with you, either.”

  A sob of relief tore out of her before she could clamp her jaws shut.

  He leaned down and kissed away her tears. “Shhhh, ya amar,” he whispered.

  She sniffed in a most mortifying fashion. “What does that mean?”

  He kissed her cheek, using the tip of his tongue on the path of her tears. “My moon.”

  That just made her cry harder. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what has gotten into me.”

  He kissed her temple. “I know what will be getting into you.”

  Drusilla gasped. Surely he could not mean . . .

  He chuckled. “There, see? You are no longer weeping.”

  “That was so—so—wicked.” There had to be a better word, but she could not think of it.

  “Mm-hmm.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You have a nice nose—small and with a sweet little tip that turns up.”

  “Ugh, I hate my nose. But yours . . .”

  “What? You like this beak?”

  “Yes.” The single word somehow managed to waver and the naked desire in her voice made his nostrils flare.

  “Well, there is no accounting for taste.” The carriage rolled to a gentle stop and his lips curved into a smile just before his mouth covered hers. Although she was ready and eager for his touch, he kissed her with a passionate thoroughness that left her head spinning.

  When he pulled away, they were both breathing heavily. “Thank God. We are home . . . at last.”

  * * *

  Gabriel was so hard he was tempted to barrel into her chambers and lift her skirts. But, wisely, he gained control of himself before reaching the third floor.

  He turned to her on the landing outside her room. “I will come to you in—”

  “Ten minutes.”

  He’d been about to say a half hour, but grinned at her answer and kissed her—hard. “Ten minutes,” he said, watching her disappear into her chambers before going to his own room.

  Gabriel felt like a bull going into rut and it was a struggle to sit still and allow Drake to shave him when all he really wanted to do was burst naked into his wife’s room and mount her.

  Luckily he restrained that barbaric instinct and allowed Drake to handle the razor since he could not trust his own hand. In his heightened condition he could very well cut off the nose his new wife appeared to like so much.

  He recalled the husky desire in her voice, and his cock throbbed, the cool slide of the silk brocade torture against his hot, sensitive skin. Was there any aphrodisiac as potent as the stare of an eager lover? If there was, Gabriel could not think of it. Especially not a lover who managed to appear so cool and unmoved, but was really boiling beneath her icy façade.

  Gabriel had no idea at what point he’d started wanting her so much; it had sneaked up on him like one of the desert storms, the sudden attacks his people called khamsins, for which there was no English translation.

  He studied his puzzled expression as Drake shaved him. Perhaps it was these days of self-imposed abstinence that had heightened his desire. He had gone much longer without a lover before, of course; one did not have time to engage in bed sport in the middle of a desert war. But never had he been in such prolonged contact with a woman he desired without taking her. Something about delaying his pleasure while they became easier with each other had increased his ardor tenfold.

  It also helped that she’d gazed at him with desire, rather than judgment or recrimination.

  She’d looked very well tonight. The gown she’d worn, a primrose silk with a tight, low-cut bodice, flattered her far more than her normal run of gowns, white muslins that were primly cut and better suited to a schoolroom miss. She was the sort of woman who should wear colors and should not be shy of accentuating her voluptuous curves. Gabriel thought of what he’d bought—unbeknownst to her—at the dressmaker’s today, smiling in anticipation of seeing it on her body.

  “Sir?”

  “Hmm?” He looked up to see Drake had finished. “Ah.” He took the hot linen cloth from his valet and pressed it against his freshly shaved skin.

  “Thank you, Drake.” He handed back the towel, and his eyes flickered toward the door for the millionth time. “That will be all for tonight. I shan’t need you again.”

  Drake dropped a quick bow. “Very good, sir.”

  Gabriel’s eyes narrowed; was that a smile on his valet’s face? He’d never seen the dour, highly efficient man smile before. He shrugged. Who cared if he was smiling?

  He pushed out of his chair and made for the door, knocking once before entering.

  Chapter 19

  Drusilla was in front of her window, her back to him. He grinned like a fool: she was wearing the negligee he had purchased for her.

  “Drusilla?”

  She jumped a little and then turned.

  Gabriel sucked in breath and said a silent prayer as his eyes ate her body.

  She ran her hands awkwardly down her sides and plucked at the diaphanous skirts with her fingers. “Thank you for this; it is—it is . . . lovely.”

  His eyes had become stuck at the level of her chest. She had the kind of nipples he loved—big, dark rose peaks that thrust up when erect and aroused. Like right now.

  He looked from the flushed skin over her sternum, up her throat, to her slightly parted lips.

  How had he ever thought she was not attractive? True, she wasn’t pretty, but she was sensuality personified.

  “You look delicious.” That was the only word for it. He wanted to eat her.

  She turned her face away, her expression one of mortification.

  Gabriel laughed and caught her chin, forcing her eyes to his. “My wife is shy. Delectable, and shy.”

  “You speak of me as if I am food.”

  He grinned the moment what she’d said dawned on her face, which she promptly hid between her hands.

  “You are so—” She appeared to run out of words. His articulate, clever wife was out of words. His smile grew even bigger.

  “This gown is perfect for your body,” he said, taking her wrists and gently pulling them away from her face, exposing the bodice of the lacy nightgown to his hungry gaze. The rosy pink lace had been cunningly designed so that it swirled around her breasts, exposing only a glimpse here and
there. But her nipples . . . Those refused to be concealed.

  Gabriel leaned forward and took one in his mouth and sucked it. Hard.

  “Gabriel.” Her voice was scratchy, raw, needy. She arched into him, pushing into his mouth. “Please.”

  It was the most erotic word he had ever heard.

  He took her waist and held her motionless while he switched to her other breast, teasing it until she vibrated beneath his touch.

  “Pull up your gown,” he said as he released her nipple. She hesitated. “Do it. Now.”

  Her hands scrambled over her hips and he felt the silk fabric bunching between them. He walked her backward toward the bed, not stopping until her thighs hit the mattress. When the nightgown reached the apex of her thighs, he slid a hand between their bodies, and between her legs.

  A vulgar word slipped out of him before he could stop it, and she shuddered, her thighs tightening on his hand.

  “You are so wet for me, Drusilla.” He thumbed her peak while pushing a finger inside her. He stroked and she tightened, her sheath unspeakably soft and hot. “You like it when I talk to you—tell you what I feel, what I like, what I’m doing.”

  It wasn’t a question, but she nodded.

  Gabriel nipped the pebbled tip of her breast as he worked her with his hand. “I’m going to take you in my mouth and make you orgasm.”

  Panic flashed across her face as he slid to his knees.

  “Wh-what?

  “Hold your gown up higher.” He didn’t stop stroking and probing. “Better yet, remove it.”

  She was looking down at him, her lips parted, bright red stains of passion across each cheek.

  “Take it off, Drusilla.” He punctuated his demand with a quick, deep thrust that made her body shake. “Do it now.”

  Her hands fumbled to unfasten the bodice, which had a row of diabolical, tiny buttons that he’d thought about today when he’d purchased it for her. He’d imagined removing it slowly, teasingly. But now . . . his eyes dropped to her sex, mere inches from his mouth, from his tongue—now it was her teasing him with her wet, tight arousal. And all for him.