Gabriel was leaning against the stable door, his rumpled black coat retrieved and slung over one broad shoulder. His expression betrayed only a detached amusement as he regarded her. Mrs. Bryant had gone off to pay her daily visits and pray for her parishioners.
“This fence needs to be mended,” she called back at him on impulse.
He nodded. “I can see that. It looks sturdy, though.”
She shook her head in disparagement. He wasn’t looking at the fence, at all. He was looking right at—She straightened her back. She’d never thought of herself as beautiful. Her nose had a bump. She was almost as tall as her brother. But she did take pride in her posture, the result of wearing a whalebone corset throughout all her school days to correct her rounded shoulders.
She frowned. “I hope you enjoy your violet jelly. It’s nice on toast.”
A smile crossed his face. “And my prayers.”
The only prayer Alethea could manage at this moment was that she pay attention to her leave-taking and not ride off in the wrong direction. Or worse, turn full circle and return to his tall, sultry figure, that lean mocking face. She couldn’t believe his uninvited kiss could have so pleasantly unbalanced her after what Jeremy had done. She would have expected to feel dirty and insulted. Instead, she was trembling deep inside from a not entirely unpleasant perception.
And when he’d kissed her, she really had not tried to stop him. She felt almost guilty that he’d apologized for it. The entire time his mouth was on hers she had been laughing and crying inside; she’d wanted to tell him that she was every bit as bad as he was, but she’d never let anyone know.
She’d go straight home and drink a half-pint of distilled dandelion and burdock. And then—she straightened her seat in the saddle. Brazen man. Putting those bold hands on her backside as if he were testing its softness.
Of course, he hadn’t felt soft at all. The brief contact with his muscled body had given an impression of rock-hard strength. She might have been more upset had he not stopped the instant she made it clear that he ought to behave. She had begged Jeremy to stop, pleaded until her throat was raw, but he’d gone ahead and hurt her. She was surprised that Gabriel’s kiss had been wickedly sweet in comparison and dealt her no lasting offense, unless one counted the strange compulsion she’d felt to bid him continue.
She rode slowly, wondering idly whether he had ever forced himself on a woman and knowing he had not. He was more likely to hurt himself in some misadventure. Still, he seemed like a rough sort who could turn dangerous if he were provoked. Alethea’s governess had claimed that he and his brothers had inherited from his mother that blood affinity of her Bourbon background for plots and intrigue. From his Boscastle blood had come his striking looks and magnetism.
She could not decide what to make of him. He hadn’t mentioned the three older brothers who had disappeared before he had. Alethea’s mother had confessed once that she’d breathed a sigh of relief for their benefit. It had been the countess’s belief that whatever misfortune the missing brothers encountered in the world could not equal the evil of what they’d endured in the privacy of their home.
But Gabriel had stayed behind with his mother to protect her from his stepfather. It wasn’t until later years that Alethea had come to understand how miserable life must have been to a young boy who had lost a gruff but loving father only to find a hostile stranger standing in his place. In learning to defend himself he’d become understandably hard-hearted.
Which suggested that while he might indeed prove a benefit for Helbourne, a formidable master to supervise for once, he wouldn’t necessarily contribute to Alethea’s peace of mind.
Still, it was hard to completely avoid one’s neighbor. It was maddeningly hard when one harbored an inexplicable and long-standing interest in his fate. They had known each other before, before he’d lost his father, before she’d lost her self-worth and all that a future as a married woman would have provided. She could only hope that the two people they had once been could agree to a polite association. She had no reason to be afraid of him.
In a way it was such a relief to be ruined. She no longer had to pretend that she never felt mean or impatient or that she could not meet a man like Gabriel on his own ground.
Chapter Ten
Light rain began to patter down a few minutes after Alethea rode from his sight. He had not made a secret of watching her. Nor would he pretend that he aspired to be the fine gentleman she desired as a neighbor. He wasn’t going to deceive her. He would have taken her if she had given him any encouragement. But he would never dishonor a woman unless it was part of their decadent love play. In fact, he would never wish to distress Alethea at all. She was apparently still trying to bring out the best in others. Perhaps she’d met with success before him.
He grimaced as rain from the stable roof splashed upon his cheek. He turned, nearly stumbling over the basket delivered by Mrs. Bryant. Alethea’s riding crop lay beside it. He picked both up with a grin.
“Violet jelly and—”
The whickering of his horse from deep within its stall interrupted him. He glanced around sharply to perceive a shadow stealing behind the bales of straw that had formed his bed. The indistinct figure soon passed from his detection, but not, however, before Gabriel recognized the costly bridle and cavalry sword it carried beneath one gangly arm.
Blood rushed to his face. He was a man of few possessions, but those he kept, he treasured.
“You, thief!” he shouted indignantly. “Don’t take another bloody step unless you wish to find yourself impaled on that weapon you would steal.”
This warning, roughly delivered as it was, only served to give the thief impetus to escape through the back window of the barn. Cursing beneath his breath, Gabriel dropped the crop and heavy basket to the ground and gave chase, via the same route as the agile sneak who thought to rob him. A young lad in a soiled yellow jerkin and the patchwork trousers of a parish lockup case. He knew the garments too well.
“Drop that bridle and sword before you hurt yourself, you stupid little bastard!” he roared.
The commotion drew a crowd of curious servants from the direction of the scullery, though none ventured forth in the rain to assist their raging master. Gabriel flung them a look of disgust that sent all but one young kitchen girl scurrying for cover. She stood, mouth open, to witness the excitement.
By now the nimble thief, motivated no doubt by the fact that he had robbed a lunatic lord, had scaled the paddock fence and headed for some unseen footpath.
Soon enough Gabriel ran him down, these byways not unfamiliar to a man who’d raised worse mischief in his day. For a disorienting moment he might have been running away from someone to whom he had given offense, instead of the other way around. He’d acted in this play before, the roles reversed.
The intervening years had flown by. Why had he come back? What had he hoped to prove? That he was better than a lockup boy who’d had the guts to try and trump him? Or that he was worthy of kissing the only girl who had ever dared to stare the dragon in the eye?
He reached out, grabbed the boy by the scruff of his jerkin, and wrestled him to the ground. The sword fell in the mud. The bridle flew from the thief’s bony arm and landed in a thicket.
He stared down into an angry red face and a pair of blue eyes that burned with the hatred of hell. “Eff off, you scruffy sod,” the boy said with a sneer.
“Do you know where little arseholes like you end up?” he asked coldly.
“Yeah. But tell me another time.”
Gabriel raised his fist, knowing it wouldn’t do any good, that no one could beat the demons from another, that violence only made a rebel grow stronger. But he meant to—
A firm hand gripped his shoulder. He turned his head and glanced up in disbelief into Alethea’s face. “Don’t, Gabriel,” she said. “Don’t hurt him—he’s half your size.”
“Do you know this little thief?” he asked in an incredulous voice.
“I’ve seen him about the village, yes.”
“He was stealing from me—my sword and bridle, most likely at the same moment the vicar’s wife was instructing me to pray and—”
“Here.” Taking advantage of his captor’s inattention, the boy squirmed loose, shooting to his feet, only to have Gabriel jump up and block his path. “The lady said you should let me go. I was only taking the sword and bridle to polish them up as a surprise for you.”
“You damned liar,” Gabriel retorted in amusement.
“It’s true,” the boy insisted. “I was lookin’ for work and thought I’d prove myself first. You’d have had ’em back by nightfall. I’m fast.”
Gabriel glanced back, distracted by the woman who stood behind him. The rain fell harder now, filtered through branches that arched in a tangle above them. Several tendrils of Alethea’s hair lay plastered to her throat. A deep-bosomed wench with dark hair and a gypsy’s face. She made him forget what he had been thinking, and God knew what was going through her head. He felt a flash of panic, his footing unsteady. What was he supposed to say next?
“You do realize he is lying?”
She nodded, her gaze shifting past him, bright with guilt. He heard a twig snap behind him and knew his prisoner had taken flight.
“You ought to retrieve your possessions and go in from the rain,” she said. “You’re not wearing a coat even now.”
He stared at her in frustration. He didn’t feel the rain at all. But what he felt made it hard to breathe. “I thought you wanted me to demonstrate discipline in my role as master.”
She smiled and swept around him, plucking his sword from a pocket of mud. “But you did demonstrate discipline,” she said as she handed him the weapon. “You mastered your own anger. And I have every confidence that you realize even a thief deserves at least one chance for redemption.”
He laughed and stopped short of asking her what she thought he deserved. Up until now he had never really cared about anyone’s opinion of him. From what he knew of Alethea, she would give him an all-too-honest answer.
He spent the rest of that day taking his errant staff to task for their countless misdemeanors. He berated the groom for the moldy straw in the stables and the dark water troughs. He ordered the stalls mucked out thrice a day, the pasture checked for rocks and holes, and the paddock fence repaired. He might not intend to stay, but neither would he wallow in the previous owner’s filth, and he liked putting his shoulder into hard work.
The kitchens smelled as foul as the devil’s furnace, the rafters blackened with soot and ancient splatters of grease. He suspected that any man fool enough to consume a full-course meal prepared by the cook’s hands would die in agony under the dinner table.
“I want these caverns scrubbed from top to bottom and clean enough that one could eat off the floor.”
“We eat off the floor all the time,” the scullery maid informed him. “Ain’t never sickened any of us yet.”
“You’re upset, sir,” the housekeeper said unhelpfully. “It’s a big responsibility taking over someone else’s home. All that worry over whether one of the old masters will sneak back one night and murder you in your sleep.”
Gabriel snorted. “I was nearly murdered in the entry hall by one of my staff.”
“Well, that won’t happen again, sir,” she promised. “We’ve imprisoned the offender in the cellar for a spell. Why don’t you take a good bottle of gin into the garden and get yourself all calm while I see what I can do about supper?”
“Home?” he muttered as she scurried off toward the kitchen. “Not bloody likely.”
He couldn’t imagine lording over this place. The walled garden where he was supposed to becalm himself was a tangle of thorny roses, shoulder-high weeds, and pungent herbs that released the scent of bitter memories beneath his bootsteps.
How could anyone prefer the rustic life over the bustle of London? The air here knocked him dead with the pungency of cow ordure and growing things. The stillness alone gnawed at his nerves. There was no one with whom to gamble or even smoke a cigar. Most of all, though, he detested the quiet because he could hear his own thoughts, loud and angry with too many unanswered questions from a time upon which he chose not to reflect. He was a man of the present. Perhaps coming back had been a mistake. The revenge he’d hoped for might be served upon himself.
When evening fell, he even found that the moon shone too brightly in the country. He had forgotten how often he had stared up at the stars and hoped. He wasn’t sure when he’d lost hope and the stars now had ceased to glitter, but he was too old for that nonsense.
He washed, rinsed the taste of bad gin from his mouth, and wandered back into the dining hall. His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since he’d devoured Mrs. Bryant’s ham hours ago.
Mismatched Wedgwood plates and pewter knives sat upon the damask-covered tablecloth. But there was nothing edible in sight. Nor could he hear the rattle of plates on their way to the hall.
Hunger drove him to the kitchen outbuildings, where he found the sorrowful lot of Helbourne’s staff playing a game of hazard at the table.
“Where is my supper, Mrs. Miniver?” he asked as he lifted the lid from an empty pot on the stove.
Hiding the pair of dice in her apron, the housekeeper rose to curtsy. “I was about to make a fresh pie, sir, only to realize we’ve run out of flour. With your permission I shall walk to a neighboring manor to borrow a bowl.”
“Don’t you market, Mrs. Miniver?”
She pulled off her grimy apron. “When there’s money to spend, sir. I shouldn’t be long. Lady Alethea understands.”
“Does she?” he asked, frowning.
“Oh, yes, sir. She keeps an eye out for her neighbors, poor lady. I expect it eases her grief now that she has no expectations of raising a family of her own.”
“I’ll ride over, Mrs. Miniver. It will be faster.”
“You, sir?” she asked slyly. “The earl isn’t at home, you know.”
He ignored her perceptive look. He wanted to ask more but resisted. Alethea had not struck him as being overly mournful, but sorrow that ran deep did not have to be shared. He tried to picture her sitting alone at her table, a vacant place opposite her. Perhaps she saved a spot in memory of her late fiancé. For all he knew she had invited someone else, a bloody stupid lockup boy who caused trouble in the village.
“Are you sure, sir?” The housekeeper stared at him in interest.
He wasn’t sure of anything, except that if he stayed here he would probably lose his mind and that there was no point in he and Alethea both sitting alone. Furthermore, since he had already crossed the bridge of no return, he had little else to risk by going over it again.
Chapter Eleven
Alethea was sequestered in the library of her brother, Robin Claridge, the Earl of Wrexham, when the under-footman appeared in obvious agitation to report that a stranger had come to the door.
“A stranger?” She put down her quill.
“A gentleman who claims a prior friendship with you,” he added with a mysterious air.
Alethea sat numbly in her chair. She had already unpinned her hair, made use of her toothbrush and toilette, and taken her nightly glass of sherry. She could not remember anyone calling at this hour, although it took little imagination to conclude who her visitor was.
She rose, suddenly imbued with purpose. Gabriel may have enjoyed his midnight amusements in London, where the young bucks refused to go home until morning. But in the country one enjoyed quiet evenings, with the occasional party to attend. Of course, she did ofttimes wish for a few livelier pursuits herself, but the annual masquerade assembly would soon be held before the autumn chill kept everyone by the fire at night.
Prude. Spinster. That was what she was becoming, one of the pitied gentlewomen she and her friends had secretly made fun of not long ago. Gabriel must think her dull in comparison to his London ladybirds, and she had to admit that he invigorated his surroundings and that…sh
e hoped it was him. She laughed softly at the thought, at herself. She couldn’t believe she was looking forward to telling him off for coming here this late at night. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked forward to anything.
Still, it was not Gabriel who stood awaiting her in the entrance hall. And when her visitor turned, she felt not only a great disappointment, but stark panic and an impulse to run for her brother’s pistols.
A ghost. Jeremy’s ghost.
Then he lifted his face into the light. The illusion vanished, and she realized with a shudder of relief that her caller was only Jeremy’s older brother, Major Lord Guy Hazlett. Unsmiling, he was gaunter of countenance than his deceased sibling. She had barely exchanged more than three words with him at the memorial service. Yet she had felt him observing her with unnerving intensity, as he was now.
She’d hoped she would never see him again. He and his family maintained a grand estate in nearby Ashwell. What brought him here? What could he want? The engagement ring that his brother had given her?
She’d thrown it off the bridge for the two lovers who had died there. She had nothing else of value to give the man who might have been her brother-in-law.
She met his stare. The same green eyes as Jeremy, the same chiseled features and arrogant demeanor. Guy had not deigned to visit Helbourne in years. He considered the village beneath him.
What did he want?
He rushed forward and warmly embraced her. “Forgive me for intruding at this hour, Alethea. I had personal business in the area, and promised my wife I would inquire about your welfare. This has been a difficult time for all of us, with Jeremy gone.”
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