“In general, mine only pains me when it has been subject to abuse. If I were to fall down so that I injured it, for instance, or if something heavy were to land upon it, it would hurt for some days afterward.” The polite smile with which she said this was accompanied by a darkling look that laid the blame for her current pronounced limp squarely at his door.
He smiled at her. The silent message was, your point.
Gabby’s attention shifted to her sisters. “My dears, if we don’t hasten, we shall be late, and it would never do to keep our aunt waiting.”
With that reminder, Claire and Beth forgot all about Gabby’s leg, which was to them very old news indeed, and, with pretty good-nights to Wickham, hurried from the room. Gabby stayed just long enough to pull the bell rope to summon the footmen to come and clear away the table. Then she, too, headed for her room.
“Gabriella.”
She was walking through the door when his voice stopped her. Glancing back, she saw that he was standing on his own, holding onto the back of the chair in which he had been sitting for support. Instinctively she started to caution him to sit down again, and to warn him against overtaxing his strength. But he was none of her concern, she reminded herself, and instead of doing either of those things she merely lifted her brows at him questioningly.
“Perhaps one of these days you and I can show each other our scars.” Uttered in a soft voice, it sounded like no more than the merest pleasantry. It took a few seconds for the underlying lasciviousness of the suggestion to penetrate. When it did, she felt her spine stiffen and her eyes widen with outrage.
He grinned at her, a deliberately mocking grin that acted like a spark to the fuse of her temper.
“You are a disgusting lecher,” she hissed. “Stay away from me, and stay away from my sisters.”
With that she turned her back and walked with careful dignity out of his view. It was only later, as she was taking her seat in her aunt’s box at the opera while Claire and Beth exclaimed over the many fascinating sights to be found in the pit below, that she realized that his infuriating coarseness had likely been done on purpose and had served one very useful function: it had stopped her from feeling like the poor, pathetic creature her father had named her, and given her back her dignity.
22
His careful plans had been blown to hell, he reflected wryly while, as part of a concerted effort to regain his strength, he walked with slow steps around the perimeter of his bedchamber. Knowing that time was of the essence, finding himself laid by the heels was driving him mad. And Gabriella was the cause of the whole damned fiasco. From the moment he had first laid eyes on her, in her ugly black dress with her nose stuck up in the air, he had known she was trouble. What he hadn’t known was just how much trouble she was going to be.
She’d threatened his cover, defied him, shot him, excited him, and now she’d made him feel guilty besides.
If he’d known her limp was a permanent affliction, he would never have called attention to it as he had, he thought, faintly aggrieved that he hadn’t known. But when he’d seen the hesitation in her gait as she’d crossed his bedchamber, his instant fear was that he was somehow responsible for the injury. Had he hurt her as he’d snatched her up in the hall that first night, perhaps, or later, when she’d fallen off his bed? The thought had troubled him enormously. Whatever else happened, he didn’t want to cause hurt to Gabriella. But he had hurt her, by calling attention to the limp that was, most of the time, not noticeable. He’d seen the stricken look in her eyes, and so he’d set out to banish it with the most objectionable comment he could call to mind. He’d succeeded, too. He’d made her angry instead.
Which was, he supposed, an improvement.
“Uh, Cap’n, what would you be wantin’ me do with this?” Barnet, who was in the process of changing the bed linens, held up one of Belinda’s musk-drenched missives. A footman had brought it up to him when it had arrived earlier, and, as he’d been in bed at the time, he’d given it a quick perusal there. When Beth had bounced in on him without warning, he had tucked it beneath the covers and promptly forgotten all about it.
“Put it in the drawer with the others,” he said with a shrug. Belinda had really been a most faithful correspondent, he reflected. Indeed, he was quite sure that he had only Gabriella’s daunting presence in the house to thank for Belinda’s failure to visit him personally during his convalescence. The type of naughtiness involved in calling on an ailing gentleman in his bedchamber—and entertaining him most royally there—was the breath of life to Belinda. Only the presence of a lady of the house possessed of a quelling mien, the demeanor of a duchess, and the eyes of a hawk—to wit, his oldest “sister”—would be enough to keep Belinda away.
“The bed’s ready, Cap’n.” Barnet gave a last twitch to the covers and straightened, looking at him expectantly.
He grimaced. “I’m sick to death of lying abed. If I lie there much longer I’ll be weak as a newborn kitten. The stiff-rumped little witch almost did for me, Barnet.”
Now in the process of removing empty glasses from the bedside table, Barnet gave him a disapproving look. “You oughn’t to go talkin’ about Miss Gabby that way, Cap’n. ’Twasn’t ’er fault that you scared ’er enough to make ’er shoot you.”
He stopped walking and stared at his henchman. “What magic has she wrought on you?”
“I’m sorry, Cap’n, but I calls ’em like I sees ’em. Miss Gabby’s a real fine lady, and I won’t be listenin’ to you or anybody else be less than respectful about ’er.” His tone severe, Barnet piled the glasses on a tray.
“Well, here’s a high flight.” More entertained than affronted, he resumed his careful walk around the perimeter of the room. “She’s a royal pain in the arse, is what she is, Barnet.”
Barnet turned and walked toward the door, loaded tray in hand, casting him a censorious look as he passed. “The trouble with you, Cap’n, is you’re so used to ’aving females turn top over tail every time you give ’em a slip on the shoulder that you don’t look kindly on them as don’t.”
“I don’t look kindly on them as shoots me,” he retorted as Barnet set the tray outside the door, then turned back into the room. When Barnet came toward him with the obvious intention of helping him back to bed, he waved him off with a testy hand. “I can put myself to bed when I’m ready. Go away, and come back in the morning.”
Barnet halted and frowned. “But, Cap’n . . .”
“Go away, you traitor.” A wry smile curved his lips as Barnet looked affronted at being so named. “Nay, ’twas but a jest. We’ve been through too much together for me to doubt your loyalty now. You may champion Miss Gabby with my goodwill.”
Barnet argued for several minutes more, but was eventually persuaded to take himself off to bed. Left alone, Wickham looked at the bed with loathing, walked around the room a few more times, then settled down before the fire with a book he discovered on the mantelpiece: Marmion. It looked like the veriest nonsense, but a trip downstairs to the library for reading material more to his taste was beyond him just at present, he feared. How such a novel had come to be in his room he couldn’t imagine: it was not, in the general way of things, the kind of book he would read. He preferred histories, especially those having to do with the military, or perhaps a biography . . .
The book belonged to Gabriella. Thumbing through, he discovered her name, inked in a careful, neat penmanship that made him think of her, on the frontispiece. Of course, he thought, he should have guessed. It was the kind of book that would appeal to a woman. At least, to many women. Somehow, he wouldn’t have suspected Gabriella of possessing romantic notions, but if her taste in books was any indication she did.
He was glancing through it with greater interest, reading select passages with high amusement for the flowery language and orgies of sentiment that she apparently enjoyed, when he heard the unmistakable sounds of her entering her chamber. The opera must be over, then. He listened idly to the murmur of her voice
talking to her maid. Her voice was soft and musical—until she was angered. Then it could become as sharp and cold as a dagger. The thought made him smile. More often than not, her voice was daggerlike when it addressed him.
Of course, much of the fault for that was his, he had to admit. He had discovered in himself a truly reprehensible predeliction for teasing her.
She rose to the bait so delightfully.
The voices in her room had died away. She must, he thought, be alone, and was probably now snug in bed. It occurred to him then that she might be missing her book. A slow smile stretched across his face. The idea of delivering it personally took possession of his mind. Though he fought against it, knowing that to involve himself with his “sister” any more than he had to was pure folly, it proved, in the end, irresistible.
Getting carefully to his feet, the book in one hand, he moved toward the door connecting their apartments. He was just a few paces away when a sharp rap on the wooden panel, followed by the unmistakable sound of the key turning in the lock, stopped him in his tracks.
He watched with a mixture of interest and enjoyment as the knob turned and the door swung open. Gabriella stood in the aperture, clad in, from what he could tell, a high-necked, long-sleeved white nightdress, a pink-sprigged wrapper, and a bright blue quilt with one end flung over her shoulder. The quilt almost covered her nightclothes, and completely concealed her shape, which he supposed was the object. Her hair she wore pulled back as she always wore it, in the clumsy knot that did nothing for her features; a frown darkened her brow. As she spotted him, her eyes first widened in surprise and then narrowed in distrust.
He waited for what she would say to him with a degree of anticipation he hadn’t felt for anything in a very long time.
She had not expected him to be so close. Momentarily taken aback, Gabby blinked up at him, then mentally prepared for battle. The resolve that had hardened in her during the course of the opera was not to be dissolved merely because he was standing three feet in front of her rather than lying safely abed half a room away, she told herself. In whatever posture she found him, she meant to have this out with him, now.
“Good evening, Gabriella.”
Tousle haired and unshaven, still clad in his maroon dressing gown and maddeningly handsome despite his deshabille, he was far taller than she even in the flat-soled Turkish slippers he wore. The sensation of being physically at a disadvantage was unsettling; she had grown used to him ill, and flat on his back. He greeted her with a slight, gentlemanly bow, one hand pressed flat against his chest, that was belied by his dancing eyes. Gabby scowled at him. He looked unaccountably amused, and she mistrusted his amusement, for it could only be at her expense. Letting him get in the first word was probably a mistake, she thought crossly, but there was no doing anything about it now. He had already, in the course of their unfortunate association, had things far too much his own way. She meant to lay the law down tonight, with no possibility of mistake.
“If this charade is to proceed any further, we must have certain things made clear between us,” she said without roundaboutation, her gaze steely with determination as it met his.
“Must we indeed?” It was no more than a polite murmur, but again Gabby got the impression that he was laughing at her. She regarded him suspiciously. “How so?”
“First and foremost, let me make this perfectly clear: I will denounce you for the imposter you are if you don’t keep well away from my sisters, particularly Claire.” It was a bald statement that permitted no debate.
“Ah, Claire.” The faintest of reminiscent smiles touched his lips. “A rare beauty, she. A diamond of the first water, in fact.”
Gabby’s scowl darkened. “Do not mistake: I mean what I say.”
“What, that you will announce to the world that I am not your brother? Won’t that be a trifle awkward for you, since you have already accepted me in that guise?”
“I care nothing for any awkwardness, if Claire’s well-being is at stake.” Gabby’s tone was fierce.
“Do you not indeed?” His gaze swept her. A smile once again curled the edges of his mouth. “If you wish to discuss this, can we not sit down? Thanks to your hastiness with a pistol, I find that I tire more easily than I like.”
Gabby hesitated, then nodded. “Very well.”
“You left your book in my room, by the by.” He held the book out to her, then crossed the room and settled himself into one of the pair of chairs before the fire.
“Marmion?” Gabby took the book, then followed in his wake. Her movements were somewhat restricted by the trailing quilt that she had thought, for modesty’s sake, to drape around her person. She could not feel comfortable with the idea of him seeing her in her night attire, especially after . . . But she wasn’t going to remember that. Remembering flooded her with shame, and her shame gave him an advantage. She would not allow herself to be so weak. Sitting down opposite him, she settled the book on her knee. “Thank you. I wondered where I had left it. Now, do we have an understanding? If you wish to continue in your chicanery without hindrance from me, you must leave Claire and Beth too, for that matter, well alone.”
“You cannot have considered,” he said in a thoughtful tone, his head resting back against the plush upholstery and his eyes meeting hers with a gleam in them that she misliked, “how difficult you might find it to actually prove that I am not, in fact, the earl of Wickham, now that I am well established in the eyes of the world as such. Also, I feel I would be remiss if I did not point out to you that, should you succeed in proving such a thing, you might well be considered my accomplice, having now conspired with me to defraud the rightful earl for nigh on a week.”
Gabby swelled with indignation. “I did no such thing. Conspire with you, indeed!”
“Didn’t you?” He smiled at her gently. “Not that I blame you, you understand. From what I have gleaned from Claire and Beth—well, mostly Beth, who is most charmingly confiding—as well as from tidbits Barnet has picked up from the servants, I gather that you found yourself in a very difficult position upon your father’s death. All was left to your brother, in fact. No provision whatsoever was made for you or your sisters. To put it bluntly, without your brother’s goodwill, you are penniless; and the man who stands to inherit on your brother’s death is a distant cousin who is not over fond of any of you. Am I right so far?”
“And if you are, what of it?” Gabby sat stiffly erect in her chair now, eyeing him with open dislike.
“Why, then, the mystery of why you went along with my little masquerade is explained, and the fact is that you, my dear, need me even more than I need you.” The very charming smile he bestowed on her was, Gabby thought, enough to make her long to throw her book at his gleaming white teeth.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
“I am sure of it, so don’t think to threaten me with exposure again. It won’t wash. If it makes you feel any better, console yourself with the knowledge that I feel quite brotherly toward Claire and Beth.” There was a sudden, amused glint in his eyes. “Well, at any rate, toward Beth.”
Gabby rose to her feet abruptly. The quilt slid, and she had to clench her fist around a handful of cloth to keep it in place. Marmion she clutched, forgotten, in her other hand. Her eyes glittered with anger as they met his.
“Who are you? You do have a name of your own, do you not? I demand to know it. As well as what your purpose is in pretending to be my brother. Besides leading a luxurious life to which you aren’t entitled, of course.”
For a moment they stared at each other without speaking. When he replied at last, his tone was almost casual.
“I see no compelling reason for you to know anything about me.”
This languid speech made Gabby’s eyes blaze.
“You, sir, are a cad.”
“Oh, I admit to it quite freely.”
His mild tone as much as his words caused Gabby to quiver with temper.
“You will leave Claire alone.”
Gabby’s eyes narrowed at him. “Bribe you?” she asked mistrustfully.
He nodded. His eyes laughed up at her, but his voice, when he spoke, was solemn enough.
“My price for keeping my hands off your sister is—a kiss.”
23
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“No.” Gabby was outraged. Her face, she judged, must by now, from the volatile mix of anger and embarrassment she was experiencing, be as red as Beth’s hair.
He shrugged as if her refusal was a matter of indifference to him. “Just as well, I suppose. I’ve been quite looking forward to furthering my acquaintance with Claire. My position as her “brother” provides me with a great deal of opportunity to do so, you know. She—delightful innocent—thinks nothing of being alone with me in my bedchamber, or . . .”
“You—you lecher,” Gabby almost choked on the epithet.
“Now, now. Name calling is very childish, after all.”
“You won’t get next or nigh her. I’ll warn her . . .”
“Of her brother? I doubt you’ll convince her. Claire strikes me as one who believes the best of everyone—unlike her older sister.”
“I’ll tell her the truth about you, of course.”
“And still hope to keep it a secret? Come, Gabriella. You know better than that. She’ll let it slip, and then we’ll all be in the basket.”
“Give me your word you’ll stay away from her, then.”
“I will—for the price of a kiss. On the lips, mind. None of your old-cattish pecks on the cheek.”
Still clutching the quilt around her shoulders, Gabby glared impotently down at him as the argument came full circle. His eyes looked almost black in the flickering firelight, and he was clearly enjoying himself enormously.
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