by Candice Hern
"And that, my girl, is why I love you. Because you are smart enough to figure that out for yourself."
He took her in his arms and kissed her again.
Chapter 17
Gabriel sat with Rochdale in a small library while the ladies and Burnett shared a cold supper in the dining room. He had asked for a moment alone.
"I want the truth, Rochdale. Were you planning to bed that girl?"
Rochdale slowly swirled the brandy in his glass and took his time answering. "I might have done, if I hadn't known to expect a rescue party. She admitted she'd told her cousins what she was doing, so I knew Lady Somerfield would come after her. As much as I'd have enjoyed it, I did not wish for her ladyship to find us in the act. A pity. But there you have it."
"And so you had hoped to bed her. An innocent young girl."
Rochdale smiled. "What would you do if an exquisite creature like that threw herself at you? She's a headstrong little vixen. She will not take no for an answer."
"You tried saying no?"
"Well, maybe not precisely. But I could see what she was up to. I was at that ball, too, you know. I saw what happened. The girl was embarrassed about your affair with her aunt. And angry enough to get back at her by doing the same thing."
"She did this because of Lady Somerfield and me?" One more disaster to plague him with guilt. All because he'd forced his way into Beatrice's house and made love to her.
"That is what she led me to believe," Rochdale said. "She told me more than once that what she was doing by running off with me was no worse than what her aunt had done with you."
"Good God."
Rochdale grinned. "Of course, she had no idea what that meant. The girl is as innocent as a babe."
"And knowing that, you still agreed to bring her here?"
He shrugged. "She is too naive for her own good. Perhaps I have taught her a lesson. I gave her a bit of a fright, I think. Kissed her once. Nothing fancy, fairly chaste. But I hinted there was more to come, and she trembled like a leaf. That girl needs to be married off, and soon."
"Burnett will do his best to make that happen."
Rochdale uttered a disdainful snort and rubbed his eve. "Damned spindle-shanked puppy. This eye will be black for weeks, I have no doubt."
"You cannot blame him. He loves the girl. He would have killed you if you had ravished her."
Rochdale leaned over and glared at Thayne. "I do not ravish young girls. Contrary to popular opinion, I do not ravish anyone. They come to me willingly. If they think better of it later, that is not my concern."
"I want a promise from you, Rochdale."
"Oh?" He lifted a challenging brow.
"I want your solemn oath that no one will hear a word from you about what happened here."
"I have told you, nothing happened."
"I do not want it known that Miss Thirkill was ever here. Or that she ever concocted this scheme, or that you were ever in communication with her at all. Do I make myself clear?"
Rochdale took a long swallow of brandy. "Abundantly clear. Though I have no idea why it is any of your damned business."
"There has been enough scandal involving Lady Somerfield and her family," Thayne said. "I want this incident kept quiet. I will tell you now that if I ever hear so much as a whisper of this tale from anyone other than the six of us here tonight, I will come after you with ten times the fury you saw from Burnett."
"Egad. Such drama. I am quaking in my boots."
"I will have your word, Rochdale."
He heaved a sigh and leaned back in his chair. "You have it. My lips are sealed on the matter."
"I shall depend upon it."
"You take an uncommon interest in that family, Thayne."
"I do not wish for Lady Somerfield to suffer any more scandal."
Rochdale grinned wickedly. "It was bound to happen to one of them sooner or later, what with their secret pact. Got yourself well and truly caught up in that one, didn't you, old boy?"
"Secret pact?"
"The widows' pact. All those charity widows. She didn't tell you?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't you? Well, I suppose it's only fair that you know, since you got involved in it. Those pure-as-snow charity widows, two of whom are seated in the next room, are all on the hunt for lovers. Cazenove learned of it by accident, or figured it out on his own, I've forgotten which. They have a secret pact, those women, never to marry, to find the best lovers, to use the fellows for their own pleasure, and to share with the rest of the group every private detail. Rather amusing, isn't it? I suppose that's what they think we do at our clubs and they want to do the same."
Gabriel was speechless. A block of ice seemed to have lodged itself in his chest. She'd used him?
"I trust you gave Lady Somerfield the best you've got, old boy, for you can be sure the rest of the women know every move you ever made."
Good Lord. Had Beatrice regaled her friends with all those Kama Sutra positions? Everything they'd shared in private?
"And as for your noble gesture at that infamous ball," Rochdale continued, clearly enjoying Gabriel's discomfort, "you mustn't take her repudiation personally. None of them plan to marry. Marianne was an exception, of course, since she and Cazenove had loved each other for years, though they never admitted it. But the rest of the charity widows? All you'll get is a bit of pleasure and nothing more. Not that there is anything wrong with that. It's a perfectly reasonable philosophy, if you ask me. Just be sure not to have an off night with one of them. The rest are bound to hear about it."
The block of ice in Gabriel's chest exploded into a thousand angry shards. Icy hot rage filled him. How kinds of fool had he been over her?
No more. He was through with her. He'd had enough.
The drive back to town was only marginally more uncomfortable than the drive out. Grace had given up her seat to Emily, which meant that she would drive with Lord Rochdale. And so Emily and Jeremy at side by side on the opposite bench making calf's
eyes at each other. Finally, something good had come out of all that had happened. Jeremy was so charming. and full of life. He would make Emily happy.
Ophelia would be furious at first, since he had no title, but she would accept the situation well enough when she learned of the fortune he'd made in India.
Emily no longer cared what her mother wanted. It seemed that her mother's inexcusable behavior had shaken her so thoroughly that she came to understand how unimportant the quest for rank and fortune was in the long run. Beatrice wondered if Emily would ever reconcile with her mother, and suspected that if she did, it would not be for a long, long time.
Sitting beside Gabriel on the drive back was worse than sitting across from him had been. Instead of only their knees bumping, now their whole bodies brushed against each other from time to time. But there was no hint of warmth between them. She might have bumped against a stone statue, he'd grown so cold and stiff.
Beatrice suspected Grace's drive back with Rochdale might be at least this uncomfortable. Poor Grace.
Gabriel's chilliness was a puzzle. Beatrice thought they had got through this episode rather well together, without coming to blows or shouting at each other. In fact there had been a few moments between them that had made her think they could eventually overcome their recent friction and at least remain friends.
But now she began to doubt it. He had not spoken a single word to her since before they had left Twickenham.
Why did men have to be such difficult, prickly creatures?
When the carriage turned into Brook Street at last, it was close to midnight. Jeremy leaped down and offered his hand to Emily. They walked up the steps to the entrance and stood close together, deep in conversation at the front door. Beatrice wanted to give them a few moments alone before interrupting them, so she lingered behind with Gabriel at the carriage door.
"May I ask," she said, "why you have grown suddenly so cold toward me? I realize we have
been at odds, but this is something new."
"Perhaps it is because I learned something new, something you would rather I did not know."
She looked at him, puzzled. What could he have learned in Twickenham that he had not known before? "What is it?" she asked.
He glared down his nose at her in his most obnoxious lordly manner, as though she were an insect. "Let us just say that I learned what our love affair— correction: our sexual affair—really meant to you."
"What are you talking about? You know what it meant to me. I told you often enough."
"But you never mentioned that it was merely a game, that I was little more than your toy, your sex to be played with and discarded."
"My sex toy?" Don't deny it, Beatrice. I know about the widows' pact."
Her mouth dropped open. Good God. How could he possibly know about the Merry Widows? And how could he have learned about it in Twickenham? Oh, dear Lord. Rochdale. Rochdale must have told him. But how did he know? And how much did he know? "What do you know about a pact?" she asked. "I know that you are all on the hunt for the best lovers, and you play at kiss-and-tell. I have no doubt every move I ever made with you has been duly reported."
Beatrice blanched. She could hardly deny it. And what difference did it make if the Merry Widows shared personal secrets? Men probably talked about their mistresses to one another in the same way.
She drew herself up tall and faced him squarely. "Not every move."
"You little bitch. How dare you share our private intimacies with your friends?"
"So what if we share a few intimate details? What difference does it make? At least I don't keep a little slave girl at home to cater to my sexual needs."
"What?"
"I know all about the Indian girl you have at home. The one who probably instructs you in all those positions you taught me. I even know her name, Gabriel, so you cannot deny her existence. Chitra."
His brows lifted in surprise. "Good God. What do you know of Chitra?"
"I know that you brought her, and who knows how many other slaves, back to England with you. You probably keep an entire harem, for all I know. So don't get all righteous over a few private conversations with my friends."
He scowled furiously. "I do not know where you heard such lies, but it's ridiculous. I thought you knew me better than that. You really believe that I keep slaves?"
"So you never once bought and sold slaves while in Asia?"
"I never sold a slave in my life."
"But you bought them?"
Silence.
His hesitation almost broke her heart. Until that moment, she had believed him, believed that what Ophelia had heard was all a lie. But he could not deny buying slaves. Nor had he denied bringing them back to England with him. And he as good as admitted there was a girl named Chitra.
She groaned her disappointment aloud and looked away from him.
"So this is what you think of me." His voice had a steely edge that was almost frightening. "This is the sort of man you think I am. I wonder you can bear to be in my sight. I certainly have no wish to remain in yours." He turned away and took a step up into the carriage, but stopped, and swung back around to face her.
"I wish to say one thing before I go. I am truly sorry, Beatrice, that I have been such a disappointment and a burden to you. And I take full blame for all the business that started at that wretched ball. It was my fault, all of it, because I insisted on coming here that night. My only excuse is that I love you. Oh, yes, Beatrice. I love you." He shook his head and sighed. "But now I wonder how I could possibly love a woman who thinks so little of me. Good night, ma'am."
He stepped up into the carriage and closed the door in her face.
Beatrice walked to her front door in something of a daze. She barely noticed Jeremy and Emily jump apart as she approached. Jeremy said a quick good-bye and dashed down the walkway to join Gabriel in the carriage.
As Beatrice and Emily entered the house, Emily was agog with excitement about her new relationship with Jeremy. "He has asked me to marry him, and I have accepted. Is that not wonderful, Aunt Beatrice? I am bursting with joy." She threw her arms around Beatrice and hugged her.
And all at once, tears were streaming down Beatrice's face. She could not stop them. She hugged Emily tight, and told her how happy she was for her. "I feel like crying, too," she said when Beatrice released her. "For happiness. Who ever thought things could work out so well after all that has happened? It is a miracle. It is—"
"Serendipity."
"Yes! That's it. Oh, I feel like shouting the roof down!”
"Not tonight, I beg you. I am exhausted, Emily. Let’s go up to bed, if you please." It was not until much later, after Dora had finished with Beatrice and gone to her own bed, that Beatrice was able to sit quietly and consider Gabriel's parting words.
I love you.
Such a simple thing. A simple phrase. Three little words. But in all her life, in thirty-five years, no one had ever said those words to her.
Not Somerfield. There had been affection between them, but no words of love. Her parents had never said they loved her, though she was quite certain they did. Her daughters had never said so, either, but then, she had never told them how much she loved them. Love was something that had never been spoken of in her life. Oh, she had heard it said about other people. Only tonight Jeremy had said he loved Emily. It was certainly not a foreign concept. But in her life, it was not spoken of. Neither to her nor by her. Love was simply there, or it was not. But it was never acknowledged. The words had never been spoken aloud.
Until tonight.
It was astonishing the difference it made to hear those words spoken to her. To hear them from Gabriel had shaken her to the core of her soul. Almost paralyzed her. She had not known how important those three words could be. It made love more tangible, more real. Surely words were not as important as love itself. Or were they? Did Georgie and Charlotte really, truly know that she loved them? Did Emily? Did her friends know she loved them?
Perhaps they did, but she had never told any of them—not even her much-beloved daughters—so how could they be sure?
And Gabriel. Dear Gabriel. The only person in all her life who had spoken those precious words to her. Words that took possession of her, filling her so completely that she could hardly breathe.
And now he was lost to her.
What a fool she had been. She had suspected he was a little in love with her. Would she have reacted differently to his proposal if he had said the words? Considering her reaction to them tonight, she believed she might have overlooked every objection for the possibility of hearing those words from him for the rest of her life.
I love you.
How silly, that simple words should make so much difference to her. It made no sense that words could cause such an overpowering emotion, but hearing them changed everything, painted everything in a new light. It suddenly seemed that anything was possible, any obstacle could be overcome. All that talk of domination and control suddenly seemed so much nonsense. Even all that business about slave girls. With love, love that was acknowledged out loud and was therefore somehow more powerful, none of the rest mattered. Things could be worked out. Compromises made.
Lord, what an epiphany.
But too late. The enormity of all she had rejected suddenly threatened to overwhelm her. Gabriel. Her beautiful young man. The way he looked at her and made her feel young and beautiful. His dry humor. His stalwart sense of honor. His passion for India. His passion in bed. His adventurous spirit. The way he seemed to know her as no one else had ever done. Even his lordly arrogance was suddenly endearing.
What a mess she had made of things. All because she had not heard three words.
I love you.
And now that she had heard them, nothing would ever be the same.
The next morning, Beatrice sat on Emily's bed with the three girls, as she so often did, discussing fashion, friends or the previous night's party. This time
, Emily had regaled them with the news of her betrothal, which delighted Charlotte in particular, as she was so fond of Jeremy. She also felt a certain smugness for having had the good sense to send him that note, for she was quite sure that having him come to Emily's rescue, so to speak, was all that was needed for her to recognize that he was the perfect man to marry. Beatrice had scolded Charlotte for having the temerity to send a note to any gentleman, ever, but the girl was so pleased with the outcome that the scolding had been shrugged off as unimportant.
"I want to tell you girls something," Beatrice said. "I want you to hear the truth from me rather than from gossip or rumor."
"What truth, Mama?" Georgie asked.