“They merely said that a young man, of fourteen or fifteen, turned up one afternoon declaring that he was Mr. Give’s son,” Amberford continued, squirming a little under Gabriel’s intense gaze. “They knew little else for Bernard secreted him away to his chambers. But then he left for Vienna, and Lady Caroline did not accompany him, and we all assumed…”
Amberford trailed off, clearly uncomfortable with saying what everyone had assumed. Gabriel felt ripped apart by sorrow for his sister, and he recalled her longing gaze as she had watched the children in the Bazaar just a few days ago. Being childless and discovering that your husband had sired a son elsewhere must have been torture for Caroline; no wonder she had taken up residence with him and refused to travel to Vienna with her husband. It all made perfect sense, now.
“I trust you will never discuss this again,” Gabriel stated, with more than a hint of a threat, once he had finally digested the news.
“Oh, upon my honour,” Amberford blustered, “Please don’t think I that would discuss your sister with anyone else bar you, my Lord.”
“My thanks, Amberford,” Gabriel said as he stood to leave. He knew that he could not prevent the tabbies from discussing his sister’s marriage but he could at least try. “I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”
With that Gabriel left for home, which conveniently was just around the corner. Caroline was in her bedchamber, fussing over a dress with her lady’s maid and both women started when they saw the Marquess leaning against the door.
“What are our plans for this evening, sister dear?” Gabriel asked, feeling a rush of affection for Caroline.
“I am going to Lady Jersey’s Masque,” Caroline replied, patting her blond hair, “Which if you recall last week you flatly refused to attend.”
“Did I?” Gabe asked, playing the innocent.
“Yes. You did,” Caroline said with a tight smile, “If I remember correctly, your exact words were: Only the threat of death could force me to attend one of that dullards’ parties, though death might be a more attractive activity if I was forced into actually having to make the choice.”
“Oh, I’m sure you misheard me, Gabe said smoothly, ignoring the fact that she had in fact quoted him directly. “For nothing would give me greater pleasure than accompanying you.”
“Oh, for goodness sake,” rather than looking pleased that her brother was trying to spend time with her, Caroline looked flustered and annoyed at the news. “You can’t decide to attend a masquerade last minute Gabe, you have no costume! And if you think I’m going to spend my morning looking for something for you to wear…”
“Oh,” Gabe said deflated; he had hoped to cheer Caroline and seemed to have made a pig’s ear of it. “I’m sure Wilkes can rustle something up.”
And rustle something up he did, for later that evening the Marquess found himself standing in the entrance hall wearing the costume of a lion and feeling rather foolish.
“You look darling,” Caroline said, as she caught sight of her brother, her expression one of barely concealed amusement.
Gabe stifled a sigh; he was a lion, he was supposed to look intimidating not adorable, but Wilkes’ efforts had rendered him looking like a buffoon rather than the ruler of the animal kingdom. On his face, he wore a gold mask, which luckily concealed his most identifying features, whilst around his neck was a mane made from orange feathers that resembled a Cyprian’s skirt. The valet had attempted, valiantly Sutherland had to admit, to cajole his master into wearing a suit of bright yellow to evoke a fine pelt. But after much sulking - on both men’s part - they had resorted to dressing the Marquess in a muted gold coat, which he wore over buckskin breeches.
“I look like a turnip,” Gabe muttered in annoyance, until he remembered that he was supposed to be there to cheer Caroline up. “But then everyone will look like a turnip next to you Caroline, for you look wonderful.”
His sister was dressed as Little Bo Peep, complete with a crook, an item that she seemed childishly delighted with.
“I shall use it to drag you away from the punch bowl,” she teased.
Her hair was in ringlets, and she looked much younger than her years, which Gabe dutifully informed her of.
“You don’t think I am too old to wear white?” Caroline asked nervously, checking her reflection in the large mirror above the hall table.
“Never,” Gabe dismissed her worries, wondering why it was that women fretted over the smallest of things when he never even considered what anyone would say about his clothing - excepting the bright yellow suit of course.
Evening was falling as they left the house, and above their heads the sky resembled a watercolour as blue faded to the pink of the setting sun. The air was still, St. James’ Square was remarkably quiet, and the Marquess paused for a few moments to appreciate the beauty of life. For life was beautiful, and precious, he thought to himself, but it was all the more beautiful when you had someone to share it with. And that person, however valiantly he tried to wish it away, would always be for him Lady Lydia Beaufort.
Chapter Ten
Lady Sarah Jersey - or Sally to her friends - was one of the tons most famous hosts. As the wife of George Villers, Earl of Jersey she wielded significant influence, yet due to her mother in law’s infamous affair with the Prince Regent, Lady Jersey adopted a rather dull approach to socializing in order to distance herself from any scandal. As such, the Masque, while filled with glittering, beautiful guests, was rather dull. Not a thing like the Masquerades held at Vauxhall which Lydia had read about in the papers.
It was refreshing though, she thought to herself, to be incognito. Tibby had miraculously managed to acquire her a costume which was meant to represent Cleopatra, and Lydia’s face beneath the half-mask that she wore concealed her identity completely. Her costume consisted of a head dress which fell to her feet, and a gown of white sarsnet which clung at the bust and then fell to the floor in folds. Lydia moved around the marble tiled ballroom, happily sipping on ratafia, and pondering who each guest might be. Some were easier to distinguish than others, to her left was Lady Cowper in a simple silk domino, and Count Zitelli was most obvious, braying with laughter by the buffet table whilst dressed as a Roman Soldier. Sensing the Count’s eyes roving curiously around the guests, Lydia scurried along the periphery of the room, trying to look as inconspicuous as one possibly could, whilst wearing the costume of a Queen.
Mercifully she stumbled upon a doorway, which when she opened it a crack was cast in darkness. With a quick look, over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being observed, Lydia stole into the room, thinking that she might find a little respite inside. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the dim light, but once they had she saw that she was not alone, for standing at the open French doors, which led out to the terrace, was a man smoking a cheroot and watching her calmly.
“I hope you don’t mind,” the man drawled as he waved the cigar, his words polite but his tone insinuating that the cigar was not going to be extinguished no matter if she minded or not.
Lydia felt a smile play at the corner of her lips, for the man was no other than the Marquess of Sutherland, dressed in a coat of gold.
“Don’t stop on my account Lucifer,” Lydia said warmly, walking across the room, perching on the edge of Lord Jersey’s writing bureau and swinging her legs happily. “I rather like the smell.”
For she did love the smell of cigars, which reminded her of evenings spent reading with her father in the library of Stockett House. Lydia felt a pang of longing as she thought of the Earl of Galway, and wondered what he was doing right at that very moment. Probably reading and smoking cigars, she thought wryly to herself, for her father was a creature of habit.
The Marquess remained where he was, standing at the open door, watching her warily.
“I did not realise it was you Lydia,” he said after a moment.
“That’s rather the point of a Masquerade, is it not?” Lydia replied tartly. She cast an appraising gaze over
the Marquess’ costume, and under her mask raised her eyebrows in question.
“What on earth are you dressed as?” she asked, for she could not work out what the gold coat signified. Though it was rather charming, and suited his eyes.
“A lion,” Gabe replied morosely, nodding to a chair where a discarded pile of feathers lay. “Or rather I was. The mane itched something terrible - nearly as terrible as Lord Jersey’s conversation. So, I abandoned both, as you can see, to come hide in the library.”
“It’s not like you to play the wallflower,” Lydia observed, wondering why the usually ebullient Marquess was so quiet.
“No that’s your trick Lydia,” he said eventually, after taking a thoughtful drag off the cheroot and exhaling slowly. “At least it was.”
“I can assure you I still deplore most situations that involve social niceties and ball-gowns,” Lydia offered lightly, trying to add a little joie de vie to their otherwise lacklustre conversation.
“Except when those occasions involve Italian Counts?”
Lydia paled. She had known when she stood up with Zitelli that her actions could have consequences on Sutherland’s feelings. And now here they were, standing in Lord Jersey’s library, eyeing each other through plums of grey smoke, Lord Sutherland obviously wounded.
He’s jealous, a little voice inside her mind whispered, almost triumphantly.
“I had no choice in the matter my Lord,” she replied, hopping gracefully from her perch on the desk and pacing the Persian carpet as she tried to figure out how to word all that had happened between her and the Count.
“Of all the ladies I have known,” Sutherland countered, “You are the only one who would never deem to partake in any activity that wasn’t of your choosing.”
“By the time I realized that we were going to dance, we were in the middle of the dancefloor,” Lydia replied, somewhat testily, for she knew her defence was weak. “I couldn’t very well beg off then, it would have caused a scene.”
“Perhaps you should have caused a scene,” Sutherland’s voice was low and even, “If you were that opposed to dancing with the man.”
Silence fell, in which the ticking of the clock and the low murmur of the guests outside was all that could be heard. Lydia thought that her heart, which was hammering loudly against her breast, was making such a din that it would be audible to even the Marquess. Passion stirred within her, clouding any rational thoughts she might have mustered to counter Gabriel’s stinging barbs.
“I did not mean to hurt your feelings my Lord,” she said softly, after an interminable silence in which she and the Marquess stood feet apart, glaring at each other.
“And yet you did.”
Gabriel once more wore a look of vulnerability as his tawny, gold flecked eyes held hers. The sharp planes of his face contrasted sensuously with the lusciousness of his lips, which were set in a rather grim line. An overwhelming urge struck Lydia to run her fingers across his mouth, to smooth out the sadness and replace it with one of his boyish smiles. To kiss away all the hurt that she had caused.
She started, for she had never wanted to kiss any man before.
Outside the orchestra struck up the first song of the night, a rather rousing piece to accompany a quadrille or another similarly active dance.
“Forgive me then please,” Lydia said, holding his wary gaze as she traversed the distance between them. “The last thing I have ever wanted to do is hurt you, Lucifer.”
His hand reached out and caught hers, drawing her towards him, but instead of pulling her to his chest - as she had surprisingly hoped he would - he began to lead her in a waltz. His other hand, which was placed possessively at her waist, seemed to burn through the very fabric of her dress, so aware was she of his touch. In the darkness of the empty library the two friends moved gracefully, their eyes locked, caring not that the music was muffled or that their dance floor was comparatively tiny to the one outside.
“This isn’t so bad now, is it?” Gabriel whispered as he looked down at her.
Lydia shook her head in agreement, afraid of speaking lest she broke the spell of what was happening. She knew that over the past few months she had come to admire the Marquess, and to value his friendship, but these thoughts had never stretched to his physical features, which at that present moment were threatening to overwhelm her. His elegant clothing had belied the body beneath, and now that she was in his arms Lydia understood that the Marquess was in possession of a most athletic, dangerously masculine, physique. His shoulders - which her head just reached - were wide, and the arms that held her were firmly muscled. His thighs, clad in buckskin breeches, were strong and hard, the thighs of a man who rode every morning. Lydia flushed; she had no idea why she was contemplating the Marquess of Sutherland’s thighs but the act had made her feel most peculiar, like a jar full of butterflies had been let loose in her stomach.
The music outside stopped, and the Marquess stilled, though he did not let go of her, in fact his grip became more determined. The hand that was on her waist, drew her towards him, and Lydia felt a rush of delicious anticipation as Sutherland unveiled a new side of himself that she had never seen. Commanding, confident and dangerously seductive.
Her breath escaped her chest shallow bursts, as she realised his intent. He was going to kiss her, and her lips parted of their own volition inviting him closer. Inviting him to take her in the darkness of the library.
The handle of the door began to rattle, breaking the heady spell that had fallen between them.
“As much as you like a scene Liddy,” he whispered, stroking her cheek before moving with speed and grabbing his lion’s mane from the chair, “I have no wish to cause you a scandal.”
He disappeared out the door, vanishing into the darkness of the terrace, leaving Lydia alone in the dark library feeling rather bereft.
The door opened, illuminating the dark room and Lydia saw Lady Jersey framed in the doorway.
“Oh,” the dark-haired Lady Jersey started upon seeing Lydia. “I didn’t realise there was someone here.”
“I was just…” Lydia looked down at the writing desk and spotted the ashtray where Sutherland’s cheroot still smouldered. “Having a cigar.”
“Oh dear,” Lady Jersey whispered, scandalized. “You shouldn’t be doing anything like that in public Lady Beaufort, people will talk.”
“Oh, people will my Lady,” Lydia nodded in solemn agreement. And you will fan the flames, she added silently to herself. Making her excuses, Lydia swiftly left the room in search of her Aunt, her knees still weak, but not before neatly lifting a paperweight from Lord Jersey’s writing desk whilst Lady Jersey wasn’t looking; she wanted a souvenir of this momentous occasion and she slipped it into her reticule happily.
I don’t want to cause you a scandal, the Marquess had said. Which was most chivalrous of him, but Lydia’s lips rather wished that Lady Jersey had walked in on her kissing Lord Sutherland - scandal be damned.
Chapter Eleven
I don’t want to cause you a scandal.
A little irritating voice in Gabriel’s head kept repeating this phrase over and over again as he went about his business the next morning. His sleepless night, and the ache in his groin had him agreeing with the mocking voice that a scandal would have been most gratifying, but he was also glad that last night his head had - for once - overruled his libido. If he had been caught in flagrante in Lord Jersey’s library with Lydia, he would have had to offer for her. And he had quickly decided that if he was going to propose marriage to Lady Beaufort, that he wanted no outside influences exerting pressure on her to answer yes. No scandalized society, weeping Aunt or threatening cousins should have a say in their future; when he proposed to Lydia he wanted her to say yes on her own terms.
And he would be proposing to her, of that Gabriel was certain. The feel of her soft body beneath his hands, and the way that her violet eyes had turned almost black with desire was seared into his memory. There was no way in hell Gabriel was
going to give up the chance to experience the sensual pleasures that he now knew Lydia could offer if only she would let him teach her. As he went about his morning affairs, he was clumsier and less attentive than usual, leading to several nicks on his chin from his razor, and the discovery - as he sat opposite his man of business - that half the buttons of his shirt were undone.
“Dash it,” Gabe mumbled abashed as he noticed the rather large portion of chest he was flashing as he sat in the mahogany lined office of his agent, Mr. Danvers. “I’ve forgotten so many buttons - I wouldn’t blame you for thinking I was attempting a seduction.”
Mr Danvers stared back at him, completely mute, his pursed mouth portraying his lack of amusement at his employer’s joke.
“Though who could blame a man for attempting to woo such a barrel of laughs as yourself,” Gabriel added glibly.
Mr Danvers cleared his throat.
“As I was saying, my lord,” the bespectacled man continued blithely, as though Gabriel had not spoken at all, “The lands in Sligo require your attention. The forests need a final thinning before they are cleared in three years’ time. It involves a small lump sum, for the work involved, which you shall recoup ten times over if timber prices remain stable.”
“Sligo?”
Gabriel had never heard of the place.
“It’s in,” Mr Danvers consulted the papers in front of him, “The west of Ireland. Some ten thousand acres bequeathed to your father nearly thirty years ago by the King.”
“And how have I not heard of this ‘till now?” Gabriel asked, slightly aggrieved, thinking that ten thousand acres of land anywhere deserved a small mention at least once during his twenty years as title holder of Marquess.
“Well, the land wasn’t really doing anything,” Danvers answered, slightly perplexed, “The trees were planted when you were an infant, and it’s only now they show any prospect of making you money that I mention them. Before now they were simply…growing.”
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