“If you wish, I’ll accompany you when you tell him.” He couldn’t imagine Tidwell responding badly. The boy was utterly smitten with Sara. But if he did reject her, Gabe couldn’t bear for her to face it alone.
And, of course, as her older brother, it would be his duty to throttle the bounder.
“No.” She shook her head in that firm brook-no-argument way he knew so well. “This child is ours, and we will do what’s right by him.” She cast Gabe a soft smile. “Or her.”
“Best not to say a word to—”
“To anyone other than Thomas. I know.” Lifting a hand, she nibbled at a nail. “Can you imagine how Jane Morgan would react? Even if you’re not ashamed of me, she would be horrified. Jane is so proper, she’d probably never speak to me again.” Her lower lip began to tremble, and she swiped her hand across her mouth as if she could wipe the emotion away. “It doesn’t matter. Thomas and I will be married soon. I’m to meet his aunt and uncle this evening. I must go to him now. I’ll tell him we must set a date to be married. What’s taking him so long?”
Gabe couldn’t bear her inquisitive gaze and turned to glance out the window into the tidy back garden. He spotted one of those yellow flowers Clarissa had shoved under his nose and wished he could smell its scent.
He knew exactly why his sister’s beau hadn’t set a date for their wedding. Tidwell was waiting on him. The young man worked hard and saved as much as he was able, but marriage and securing a home required the dowry Gabe had promised to provide.
What Gabe hadn’t planned on was Sara spotting Rigg near their Cheapside lodgings. Part of the twenty-five pounds Ruthven had paid out for mentoring Clarissa had gone to their new landlady, and Gabe awaited his next wages to add to the sum he’d give Tidwell. He’d planned to keep adding to the pot for months, but now they’d need the money quickly. He had no idea where he’d acquire the funds.
“Thank you, Gabe, for taking me to the doctor this morning.”
He shot her a grin. “Thank me by getting rest, as he suggested.”
“I can’t.” She shook her head determinedly. “I must go and speak to Thomas.”
“Is he not at work?”
“He promised to leave early today. As I said, we’re going to visit his aunt and uncle in Walthamstow.”
Gabe knew the town was miles north of the city, but he had no idea how far. Like his sister, he’d never ventured outside of London.
“Don’t you need to be returning to Ruthven’s?”
“I do.” He did need to get back. Wondering how Daughtry was managing the place had weighed on his mind all morning. No, that wasn’t true. Clarissa had been on his mind since the moment he’d stepped away from her, the taste of her kiss still lingering on his tongue. Thoughts of returning to Ruthven’s tormented him. It was the one place he felt as if he belonged. The one place where he was in control. The one place others treated him with deference and respect.
Now it was also the place where the presence of Clarissa Ruthven had upended his control.
He couldn’t resist her, couldn’t govern his feelings where she was concerned. And more terrifying, he no longer wished to.
“You’ll be all right?” He glanced back at his sister as he started for the door. “Both of you?”
She placed a hand on her belly and smiled. “We’ll be fine. And Thomas too.”
“You know I’ll happily pummel him if he doesn’t do right by you.” Gabe opened the door and stepped into the hall. “Give him my regards, and ask him to call on me as soon as he’s able.” He’d need to visit the bank and withdraw what funds he could to ensure Sara and Tidwell had the best start they could in their life together.
As he made the short walk to Ruthven’s, his mind wandered. He’d told Clarissa nothing had changed, yet he felt the lie in his very bones. The moment he saw her again, he’d want to kiss her. He couldn’t imagine a day going by now when that desire, and others, would not be paramount.
Wrestling with what lay ahead, he could think of only one option. The question was whether he had the brass to do it. Consequences be damned.
He frowned as he started down Southampton Row toward Ruthven’s. The sky had filled with dark clouds, and the air was dense with moisture. Along the row, gaslight beyond office windows cast a buttery glow onto the pavement. But not Ruthven’s. Its windows were dark. Had they shut up shop because he hadn’t come to work?
Quickening his pace, he reached the door and found the latch unlocked. Stepping inside, he took in the empty workroom. Clerks’ desks were irritatingly untidy, as if they’d all stepped away in the middle of their duties and abandoned the office in a rush. A ripple of fear shook him. Had some mischief chased them all away?
Ahead, his office door stood ajar. Through the opening he could see a candle glimmering at the edge of his desk. In the flickering light stood the most enticing woman he’d ever met. Candle glow lit up the rich burnished gold of Clary’s hair. She heard his footsteps and turned, blew out the candle, and burst through the door.
“It’s you,” she said, offering him a smile that chased the day’s worries from his mind. “I can explain.” She lifted a hand, and he longed to catch it in his and feel the soft warmth of her skin.
He glanced at the suspended gaslights dotting the workroom. “You wished to save on the cost of gas?”
“You’d probably commend me for that, wouldn’t you?” Another smile. Another shot of warmth through his chest. “Actually, there’s some trouble with our gas line. We’re not the only business affected on the row. The solicitor behind us and a tobacconist next to him are without lights too. The clerks waited an hour in the darkness, and I finally told them to go home for the day.” Clasping her hands in front of her, she bit her lip before asking. “That’s what you would’ve done, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.” By rights, she could have told the men to take the rest of the week off if she’d liked. “But why did you stay?”
“To wait for you.” She licked her lips, and Gabe swallowed hard, remembering the heat of her mouth against his. “Perhaps I should have wired to let you know there was no reason to come today.”
“You could have.” He took a step closer and caught her fragrance, floral and delicate but far sweeter than her spring bouquet because of her own unique scent underneath. She shifted on her feet, as if she might dart toward him or sidestep away. “But if I’d known you were here, I would have come anyway.”
“I wished to see you too.”
As it always did, the sight of her, her scent, the sound of her voice, lit him up inside. Warming every cold, dark corner of his soul. For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to say all he needed to while they were in the office, where he was ever reminded that she was a Ruthven, and he was no more than her family’s employee.
“Would you come with me?”
She took his hand immediately and stepped forward, threading her fingers with his.
“Into a darkened alley for more lessons in fighting?” she asked with a saucy grin.
“We’ll save that for another time.” He let go a smile, and the freedom of doing so was a strange kind of bliss.
She stared at his mouth in dumbstruck fascination. “You definitely need to do that more often.”
Gabe waited while she retrieved her coat and bag from his office, resisting the urge to adopt her habit of fidgeting. His body fizzed with frantic vigor, not unlike what he’d felt before entering a fight. Though this was worse. He’d readied himself for every round of fisticuffs, but he never felt prepared for his encounters with Clary. She surprised him every time.
He was a novice with her. He’d never conducted a proper courtship in his life.
Steady, man. He wasn’t courting her. Not yet. Would he ever deserve that privilege?
First, he had to tell her the truth. No, that wasn’t right. First, he had to find the courage to confess it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Do I get a hint about where you’re taking me?” Clary had to
pick up the edge of her skirt to keep up with Gabriel’s long stride. They’d been walking for what seemed like an hour, and he clearly knew where he wished to take her. Yet his pace was so quick, he was in danger of leaving her behind. She reached for his arm. “Are we in a terrible hurry?”
He stopped in front of her and glanced up at the storm clouds overhead.
“I don’t mind a bit of rain.” Clary didn’t care if they were caught in a downpour. She sensed Gabriel wished to tell her something important. The frown pinching his brow hadn’t eased since they’d left the office.
“I thought we’d head to Regent’s Park.” He tucked her hand against his arm. “Just a bit farther.”
“Are we going to the zoo?”
“Not today.” He grinned down at her, and the lines of his brow smoothed.
She liked the sound of not today. There was promise in it. An implication that there would be more days together. More hours spent traipsing through London at each other’s side. When she tightened her hold on his arm, his grin deepened, as if mirth was easy for him now. As if he was an entirely different man than the stoic office manager of Ruthven’s.
When they reached the park’s green, he led her to a bench set back from the main path. He indicated the seat, but Clary was too full of nerves to sit.
“Perhaps we could speak over there.” Clary pointed to an oak tree set deeper within the park.
He led her over with two of his fingers hooked around two of hers, and she could feel that his hand was shaking ever so slightly. Once she was standing with her back to the broad tree trunk, he began pacing in a circle around her, as if she was holding up a maypole.
“You asked me last night why I was in Whitechapel,” he finally began. “I was looking for someone.” He stopped in front of her, looked into her eyes.
The pain she saw there made her want to reach for him, but she didn’t want to stop him from saying more. He drew in a deep breath, his gaze never leaving hers.
“I was looking for my mother.”
“You were raised in Whitechapel.”
“That detail doesn’t seem to surprise you.”
“It’s your accent.”
“I worked years for this accent,” he insisted, enunciating every word as if he was biting off each consonant.
Clary chuckled. “Helen noticed. She says she could hear the Cockney underneath, yearning to get out. She’s from Bethnal Green. Her father was from Whitechapel.”
Gabriel’s eyes widened. “She’s not Abraham Fisk’s daughter, is she?”
“Yes, that was her father’s name.”
He smiled, a flash of white, and then a lovely sound rumbled in his chest. Like thunder breaking from far off and rolling ever closer. Finally, the chuckle burst out, and Clary found herself transfixed. She was sure he’d laughed before but never while she was near. The sound was intoxicating, infectious, and she found herself chucking too. Then she realized she had no idea what was so amusing.
When he caught his breath, he said, “Fisk was a scoundrel of the first order. A terrible gambler, a cheat, and an outrageous charmer. My mother used to say he could peddle water to a drowning man.”
“Did you find her last night?” Clary regretted her question, because Gabriel’s face fell before he looked away from her, casting his gaze toward the far edge of the park.
“No, I didn’t find her.” He gazed down at her again. “But I encountered someone else. A man I wished never to see again.” He swallowed and closed his eyes a moment. “A man who used to own me.”
Clary shook her head, an involuntary reaction to the denial she felt ringing in her soul. “No man can ever own another.”
Gabriel stepped away, turned his back on her a moment and then returned. Drawing closer. Close enough to touch her, but he didn’t. “My mother worked for him. She ran up a debt when I was young and offered me in payment. I stole for him, lied for him, fought for him. On the street and in the ring.” His mouth stretched in a horrible mockery of a grin. “I was one of his thugs. And when I became his best brawler, he only allowed me to fight in the prize ring. Men bet on me like I was a terrier in a rat pit.”
He lifted a fist between them. “That’s where I got the scars.”
Clary stroked a finger across his knuckles, then lifted her hand to trace the line near his mouth and the jagged slash near his brow. “But you got away and made yourself a success in business. You’re not a brawler anymore.”
“Aren’t I?” Gabriel unclenched his fist and let his hand fall to his side. “I was a beast back then. Feral, he used to call me. I ran away, so he put me in a cage for a while.” He lifted a trembling hand, stroked his fingers along her cheek. “I wish I were half the man you think I am.”
“I’ve always known there was more to you. Secrets you kept locked away.”
“More than a boring, rule-bound man. Isn’t that what you thought of me?” He slid a finger under her chin and lifted her gaze to his. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking I’m what you see before you. A fine suit and elocution lessons don’t change what a man is at his core.”
“I know who you are.” Clary pressed closer, until the buttons of her shirtwaist clicked against the buttons of his shirt.
“You don’t know all of it yet.” He dragged in air as if it hurt to breathe. Hands clenched into tight fists, he faced her. “Men died, Clary. They died because of my fists.” He swallowed hard, tendons straining in his neck as if the rest was stuck inside him. “The fight didn’t stop when a man was bested. Rigg insisted we fight on.” Shaking out his hands, he flexed his fingers before curling them into fists again. “Two men I fought never recovered from their injuries. Onlookers came for blood. That’s what we gave them.”
“Gabriel.” The whispered word was meant to soothe him, but her voice had turned quavery. The horror of it welled in her chest—grief for him and the men he’d fought and those who loved them.
He deflated once the confession was out, broad shoulders sagging as his fists unfurled. When he finally raised his head to look at her, he wore the starkest, saddest expression she’d ever seen. “Now you know who I am. What I’ve done.”
“I admire you more because of what you’ve overcome.”
He laughed, but the sound came out rusty and bitter. When he pulled away from her, she let him go.
“You’re confounding me with those girls at your school.” He began pacing around the tree again, his voice fading and rising as he passed her. “Some sad East End charity case just waiting for the benevolence of a well-meaning spinster or noblewoman.”
“I’m neither,” Clary said, unable to resist pointing it out.
“And I’m not a waif to be redeemed.” He came to stand before her and smirked. “There were nights I loved fighting, Clary. The shouts of the crowd, the sawdust under my feet, the iron tang of blood on my tongue.” He shoved a hand through his hair, disheveling the perfect waves. “Some nights, I still hear and smell and taste those moments, as if they’re calling to me.” With a hard jerk, he squared his shoulders, as if he could shake off the past. “But I don’t want to go back. I want to make a different kind of life.”
“Gabriel, you have made a different life.” Clary offered him a rueful grin. “One in which you’ve been burdened with mentoring me.”
He stepped closer, bracing a hand on the patch of tree trunk above her head, another planted near her waist. “I don’t want to mentor you. I want to—” He swept a hungry gaze across her lips.
“What?” Clary lifted onto the toes of her boots. “Don’t you dare stop now.”
With agonizing care, he slid his fingers along her jaw, caressing her cheek with the pad of his thumb. Then he slid his fingers into the pinned hair near her nape. He tilted her head and lowered his own until he was a hairbreadth from claiming her lips.
“I want what I should not. To touch you. Kiss you.” He feathered a tantalizing kiss at the corner of her mouth and then bent to whisper near her ear. “Have you for my own. I want you
.” The heat of his mouth against her ear set off goose bumps across Clary’s skin.
“Yes,” she whispered. She couldn’t manage more because Gabriel bent to kiss her neck, and she could only feel. Could only relish the strange elation of having him against her, his hands on her, his breath heating her skin. Strange, the odd combination of comfort and agony she felt in his arms. She wanted more, always more. To get closer, to know him deeper, to get past the maddening control he imposed on his emotions. Especially now that he’d shared his past, when it clearly pained him to do so.
When he lifted his head, she tugged at his lapel, pulling him down for a kiss. One deep, tempting taste of him, and he straightened.
“I’ll ruin you,” he said in a low, husky voice that did nothing to encourage her to think of propriety or etiquette or a thoroughly compromised reputation.
“Take me home,” she urged him.
“Where your brother can challenge me to a duel?”
“Duels are outlawed, and Kit is only familiar with theater weaponry,” she teased. “Besides, they’re not at home. They’ve gone to visit friends and plan to attend the opera this evening.”
His gaze burned even in the dim afternoon light, and she longed to wrap herself in that heat. She’d meant what she’d said to him at Ruthven’s. She wasn’t afraid of him. Not of how much she wanted him or of the hunger with which he seemed to want her. For once her in life, she wasn’t alone in feeling too much, wanting too much.
“If I take you home”—he dragged a thumb across her lower lip—“there won’t be any turning back from this.”
“Turning back has never been my way.”
“I don’t deserve you.” He drew one finger down the row of buttons on her shirtwaist, and Clary gasped. Her body was sensitive, attuned to his touch, throbbing for more. His hand stilled when he reached her belt; then he stretched his fingers, flattening his palm across her waist. “There’s more you don’t know.”
“Tell me while you’re walking me home.”
How to Woo a Wallflower Page 16