Reaching the door, Gabriella studied the coarse grain and the iron handle for what felt like an eternity. She knew where it led—to the stable courtyard that stood between her house and Huntley’s. Both had access to it. Another few grunts. Ugh. Hmpf. Augh. Gabriella wrinkled her nose at the door. She should not venture through it. She ought to move on—continue with her ladybird search and ignore whatever was going on in the courtyard. That would be the proper thing to do. But as yet another grunt was hurled up into the air, she couldn’t help but push down the handle and ease the door open, just enough to appease her curiosity.
Instead, she came face-to-face with a brick wall that rose before her a few feet away—the back of the stables. So she opened the door a bit more and leaned slightly forward. She still saw nothing. Whoever was making that sound of exertion was hidden from view. It came again, and then once more. Frowning, Gabriella glanced back over her shoulder to ensure that no one had seen her. She then stepped all the way through the doorway and into a narrow alleyway that ran between the garden wall and the Warwick stables. Closing the door behind her, she inhaled sharply. A knot had formed in her belly, and her heart was leaping so rapidly against her chest that it ached.
Swallowing, she started forward with hesitant steps in the direction of the courtyard—a short distance of less than ten yards that seemed terribly far in the nervous state she was currently in. Another grunt hit her ears, this one louder than the previous ones. Oomph! Her pace quickened, and she finally reached the end of the stables.
Easing her head forward, she peered around the sharp corner, and almost expired from shock.
There, hunched over in the middle of the courtyard was Huntley, his legs firmly planted in a wide stance and his knees slightly bent for ease of movement. Arms raised with fisted hands, he bobbed slightly on the balls of his feet. Heat washed over Gabriella, flushing her skin as she took in the scene, her mouth going dry at the stark realization that he wasn’t wearing any clothes, besides a pair of scandalously tight breeches.
She’d never seen a man’s bare chest before, and could not help but stare at the rippling muscles that were drawn tight, like the grooves of a washboard, across his abdomen. Everything about him screamed masculine strength, from the bunching and flexing of his toned biceps to the powerful punches he threw at the canvas bag that was strung up before him.
Fleetingly, Gabriella wondered if Fielding might look like that as well beneath his starched shirts and crisp jackets. No, she decided, dismissing the thought. Nobody else could possibly look like this—as though he were capable of felling a dozen men with his bare hands. And the way he moved . . . his agility was nothing short of impressive.
With her blood simmering in her veins, Gabriella flattened her hand against the stable wall, steadying herself. She ought to look away and return to the safety of her garden before her weakened knees gave way beneath her. Yet she remained transfixed, her body refusing to listen to her brain—as though the two had become disconnected from the moment she’d laid eyes on him.
Another punch split the sack, and flour poured out onto the ground in a fine, powdery stream. Huntley stepped back and straightened himself. Hands on hips, he watched as the flour spilled through the tear in the canvas, his back heaving slightly with his heavy intakes of breath. Fielding did not look like this, Gabriella decided as her gaze slid over Huntley’s sharply defined contours. In fact, she very much doubted that anyone else of her acquaintance did, considering how much effort it probably took to develop such a mouthwatering physique.
Feeling the tips of her fingers tingle with a sudden desire to touch him, she stepped back hastily with the intention of fleeing at once. But then he turned, alerted no doubt by the scrape of her feet against the gravel. His eyes met hers, capturing her with intense awareness and freezing her in place. She’d intruded, spied on him, and she could not for the life of her get the necessary apology past her lips. Not when he was now striding toward her with swift precision, his sweat-dampened hair a chaotic mess that clung to his forehead and temples. Gabriella’s throat tightened. Dear God, she could see his nipples and his naval—a dusting of fine, dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his breeches . . .
With flaming cheeks, she averted her gaze, fixing it on a spot somewhere to the right of his shoulder. And then he was before her, so close she could smell him—the pungent scent of his labor mingling with underlying hints of musk and sandalwood. It ought to make her stomach roil. Instead, it made her pulse beat faster.
“Lady Gabriella,” he said, his voice a gruff rumble that stirred her senses even more.
“F—forgive me,” she managed, in spite of her protesting tongue and a mind that felt far too muddled for any coherent thought. “I—”
“Were ye watchin’ me?” Gone was the perfect diction with which he’d spoken last night.
The unexpected question brought her eyes to his with surprising swiftness. Her chest squeezed as she faced the dark gleam of his gaze. There was curiosity there, but there was also something more—something hot and tempting, and very, very dangerous. “I heard a sound and came to investigate,” she told him honestly. “It was not my intention to pry.”
“So yes, ye were watchin’ me?” he asked again with a mischievous lilt. Annoyed by his insistence to increase her discomfort, she flattened her lips and tried to glare at him. “It was difficult not to when you were right there, for the entire world to see.”
“Hmm . . .” He nodded. “Even so, ye probably should have turned away. Or at least made yer—your presence known.”
He was right, of course. “Sorry.” And then, because she felt as though she ought to explain herself, she said, “I was surprised by what I saw and found it difficult to look away. I’ve never seen anyone box before.” She took a step back, adding distance, and then repeated, “I’m sorry.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call this boxing.” His tone changed and he was speaking properly once more, with greater effort. “I was just doing some training—trying to keep fit.”
Shifting restlessly beneath his gaze, she fought the many responses that formed in answer to that comment, and said, “Most gentlemen would ride or duel with swords, and if they were to box, as I know many of them do at Gentleman Jackson’s, they would do so properly attired.”
He responded with a mischievous chuckle—a contradiction to his otherwise serious façade—which produced a pair of charming dimples, while his eyes maintained their wicked appeal. The combined effect was so potent that Gabriella felt herself caught in a net of desire so intense it became quite painful to breathe. He pierced her with his gaze. “As your father mentioned last night, I am not a gentleman.”
The harsh rebuke made her wince. “He did not say that.”
“He might as well have,” Huntley replied. His eyes hardened, burying the welcoming look he’d given her earlier. “I was judged and deemed unworthy of my title.”
“I tried to warn you.” She could no longer look at him directly. The shame of her father’s harsh dismissal of Huntley the previous evening, and Fielding’s blatant dislike of him, was too acute. “The aristocracy does not favor outsiders. Least of all when they come from questionable backgrounds.”
Huntley’s eyes darkened. “My background is far from questionable. I am the rightful heir!”
“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But you are too different—too common.” Oh dear. That was not the right word.
He responded with a gruff snort. “I should have known that my expensive clothes would make no difference. I should have listened to you and to Richardson, Humphreys and Pierson, but I was too bloody stubborn—too bloody intent on putting Fielding and his ilk in their damned places!” Gabriella’s eyes widened, but he did not apologize for the expletive. Instead, he just tempered his voice, before saying, “Thank you for speaking up on my behalf.” He expelled a breath. “Your kindness did not go unnoticed.”
“Think nothing of it,” she said with a lightness she did not feel.
“It seemed like the right thing to do.”
He nodded once before saying, “I hope it doesn’t complicate things for you.” His features softened around the edges, and then something awful resembling pity seeped into his eyes.
It was more than she could bear. And yet, hearing the sincerity with which he spoke—as though he actually cared—she could not seem to fault him for it. So rather than the clipped retort that initially formed on the tip of her tongue, she spoke from her heart, saying simply, “So do I.” Deciding that it was time to leave, Gabriella straightened her spine and prepared to retreat. “I,” she began weakly.
It was at the same moment as he said, “My—”
Befuddled by their overlap, Gabriella allowed a helpless smile, and then tried again. “I should probably go.”
“Of course.”
She turned away, ignoring her heart’s wish to stay.
“You look very pretty today,” he called after her. His voice was shallow, the compliment so unexpected that she couldn’t help but look back at him. His eyes caught hers and the edge of his mouth lifted. “Beautiful.”
“I . . .” She shook her head. “You don’t have to say that.” She couldn’t bear the thought of him making her believe that she was anything but plain.
He shrugged one shoulder. “I know. But I thought it was time for me to tell you that I quite like looking at you.”
I quite like looking at you. The words vibrated through her.
She stepped back further, suddenly more afraid than she’d ever been before in her life. Because here stood a man—the most incredible specimen she’d ever seen—and he was telling her that he thought she was beautiful. That he quite liked looking at her. And she was tempted—tempted to let herself wish for something she’d never allowed herself to wish for before—tempted to bask in the joy of his appreciation—tempted to turn her back on her responsibilities just as her sister had done.
Dear God. What was she thinking? It was just a compliment, for heaven’s sake. Nothing more. “Th . . . thank you,” she said, then added, “My eyes are too big and my mouth too wide.” Other girls had made her aware of her flaws years ago.
He nodded. “A strange combination and yet so lovely.”
Was he mocking her?
“Are you mocking me?” She had to know.
“No.” The word rumbled out from somewhere deep inside his chest. “I was just making fun.”
“Of my appearance?” Of course he was. So many others had done. Why would he be any different?
“Oh no, love, not of something so perfect. Just . . . your nerves seem a bit frayed, so I thought to ease the tension. I’m sorry if I offended you.” He puffed out a breath. Scratched the back of his head. Eyed her carefully.
She stood completely still now, unable to move or to gather her thoughts. What had he said? That her looks were perfect?
Something like that.
It seemed impossible. Incomprehensible. It made her feel like laughing.
Instead she simply smiled.
He kept on looking at her until he was smiling as well—grinning almost. “Do you know how tempted I am to kiss you right now?”
The question was so astonishing it landed like a punch to Gabriella’s senses. She almost stumbled from the shock of it. “You . . . you . . .” Oh God, she didn’t know what to say, except, Yes please. I think I’d like that. And then what? Break her engagement to Fielding just as her sister had broken hers to Bellmore? Add fuel to the scandal her sister had started? Disappoint her parents? Marry Huntley? Heavens, he said he wanted to kiss her, not marry her. What was she thinking?
“I . . . I . . .” She retreated a few steps. “I have to go.”
He didn’t comment, simply watched her with curious eyes as she moved closer to the door leading back to her garden.
Reaching it, she gave Huntley one last glance and then flung it open. Hurrying back to her house as fast as her feet could carry her, she dared not contemplate the feelings the Duke of Huntley had stirred in her as he’d stood before her just now, bare chested, and with thoughts of kissing. To do so would be dangerous territory indeed.
Chapter 13
Returning upstairs to his bedroom with a brisk stride that made his boots click sharply against the marble floor, Raphe waited for the footmen and maids preparing his bath to leave before shedding his breeches and smalls. Christ, what a morning. And it wasn’t over yet. Lady Gabriella would be back soon to tutor his sisters.
He thought of her as he sank into the warm water. Yes, she was dazzling and yes, she was tempting, her luscious lips inviting him to imagine all sorts of naughtiness. But it was more than that. It wasn’t all physical. His attraction was also based on her stalwart determination to defy her parents in the name of something that mattered more to her than their censure—namely doing what she believed to be right. Her kindness toward his sisters and her willingness to face all kinds of disaster on their behalf exceeded anything he’d ever experienced or witnessed before. Selfless. That’s what she was. And then there were her quirks—her peculiar fondness for insects. He couldn’t help but smile. Most women would prefer a puppy or a kitten. Not Lady Gabriella though.
Lathering himself with soap, he pondered her reaction to his complimenting her looks. She’d doubted his sincerity. That much had been obvious. The question was why? Why didn’t Lady Gabriella realize how gorgeous she was? Her face was delicately shaped but with strong features, her body slim and lithe, perfectly proportioned—her breasts, he’d noticed, not too big or too small. And her bottom . . . for heaven’s sake, he could not shake the vision he’d had of it. Could not stop himself from wondering what it might look like without several layers of fabric draped over it.
Indecent.
That was what he was. He set the soap aside and lowered himself further into the water, washing away the suds. What if some man were having such lewd contemplations about one of his sisters?
“What then, Raphe?” he asked himself.
The only response was the sloshing sound of water as he stood up. He knew the answer of course. He’d bloody murder the blighter, that’s what.
And yet . . . Christ, the way she made him feel. It was as if the air came alive around him whenever she was near. And that hint of pain in her eyes when she’d explained that she had no friends. It had made him want to take her in his arms, soothe away the hurt and reassure her of her worth. Instead he’d let her go, watching as she’d beat a hasty retreat, like a mistreated kitten who no longer trusted the world around it. He hated thinking of her like that, hated whoever had made her feel that way.
Drying off, he considered his options. There were two: leave her the hell alone, or pursue her until he got what he wanted. If he picked the first, he could go out and sate his desires elsewhere. It wouldn’t be the same, granted, but it would rid him of the itch that had been building since . . . well, since the first time he’d laid his eyes on her.
Or, he could try and convince her that he was better than Fielding. He’d certainly give her greater pleasure. Of that much he was certain. Smiling wickedly in response to that thought, he started to dress, making use of the clothes that Humphreys had laid out on the bed. But bedding a lady like her would require marriage.
Could he do that? Marry a woman he barely knew just to satisfy a craving? It seemed like an awfully high price to pay. He flung his shirt over his head and stuck his arms through the sleeves. Forget her then? He could not. The very idea of it seemed more impossible somehow than pledging his life to an institution he didn’t believe in. There was also his responsibility toward his title to consider. He’d dismissed the notion at first on account of his aversion to marriage, but perhaps he ought to re-think this position if it involved Lady Gabriella. He put on his smalls, acutely aware of the frustrated fool he’d turned into because of a woman. Not just any woman though but the most intriguing one he’d ever met.
Making his decision, he finished dressing and went downstairs. “I need you to find an ex
cuse to leave me alone with her,” he told his sisters without preamble as soon as he’d located them in the music room. Amelia was banging away at the piano while Juliette danced along to the arrhythmic tune.
Both went completely still. The music ceased. They stared at him as though his head had fallen off on his way in. Perhaps it had. He certainly wasn’t using it.
“What?” Amelia asked.
“Lady Gabriella,” he clarified. “I want to be able to talk to her without the two of you there.”
“She’s a lady, Raphe,” Juliette said as though he might not have realized that much.
Amelia narrowed her gaze on him and stood up. She crossed her arms, standing as though she were blocking his path. “Don’t think we haven’t seen the way you look at her—the way you’re always trying to be close to her. It unnerves her, you know.”
“I just . . .” He looked at each of them in turn. Was he really having this discussion with his sisters? “I like her, all right?”
“No,” Amelia told him sharply. “It’s not all right.” She shook her head. “We know you, Raphe, you’re a good man, a kind man, but you’ve never been with a woman for anything other than a bit of sport.”
“Amelia . . .” He put a hard edge into his tone, hoping to stop her right there.
She didn’t listen. “Lady Gabriella is not a plaything, Raphe. She’s a gently bred woman—a lamb to your wolf. I won’t allow you to chase after her just because it’s been a while since you—”
“Stop!” He gave Juliette a hasty glance. Bringing the subject to his sisters’ attention had been a colossal mistake. Jesus. He was practically blushing because of it.
Except Amelia had set her mind on having her say. “You’ll leave Lady Gabriella alone. She deserves better.”
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