Feeling guiltier than ever, she pulled open the single drawer in the table beside the bed.
The first thing she noticed was the smell. A heady smell, sweet and cloying, like roses past their prime. Wrinkling her nose at it, she almost smiled. Such a scent was unlikely to appeal to Nick, although, she thought with a gathering frown, it did seem faintly familiar. Then her eyes fell on the collection of unsealed, neatly folded notes that graced the drawer, and she knew.
The scent came from Lady Ware’s billet doux.
38
Reading another person’s mail was reprehensible. Gabby knew it, knew she should close the drawer and walk out of the room. To do so was utterly beyond her. She picked up one of those perfumed notes, and began to read.
Besides fulsome words of love, they contained erotic descriptions of the things mon cher Wickham had done to Lady Ware, or things she wanted him to do.
By the time Gabby had finished—there were perhaps six notes in all—Gabby felt as if she had sustained a mortal blow. She could feel the blood leaching from her face; her stomach churned, and she feared she would be sick.
Some of the acts described in the notes she had experienced first hand. Mon cher Wickham had introduced them to her, too.
“My lady!”
Mary’s voice from the other room brought her head up. Putting down the note she had just finished, she closed the drawer, and walked with deliberate steps toward her own apartment. She no longer worried about being caught in Wickham’s chambers. She no longer worried about anything to do with Wickham at all. She could almost hear the cautionary tone in which he had uttered, on that never-to-be-forgotten night when she had allowed herself to be seduced by one who was, in Jem’s words, a right blackguard, the word tomorrow. She couldn’t say that he hadn’t warned her, in his fashion, that tomorrow would come.
And it had.
Her fear for him now seemed foolish. Worse, it seemed pathetic, like the unwanted clinging of a love-smitten old maid. Of course he had not thought to leave word for her when he had taken off with Barnet for whatever reason. What they had done together might have meant the sun, the moon, and the stars to her. To him, it was no more than a little pleasant exercise undertaken in female company, the type of thing he clearly indulged in with different and various women almost every night. Nothing special at all: the knowledge tore at her heart.
“Oh, mum, there you are!”
Gabby had walked right through to her bedchamber without even realizing it. Mary was there, first smiling at her, then frowning.
“Is your headache back, my lady?” she asked sympathetically. “You’re that pale.”
“Did you want me for something, Mary?” Gabby asked, surprised at how cool and composed her voice sounded. Inside, she felt wounded, no, shattered. But the best thing about having lived with the kind of father she had endured for most of her life was, she had learned how never to let an injury show.
“Mr. Jamison is here, my lady, and Lady Salcombe—she’s here too—bade me come up and tell you so. Shall I tell them you’re unwell, my lady?”
Gabby took a deep breath. If Mr. Jamison was here, it could only mean one thing: he wished to make her a formal offer.
She would be a fool to turn him down. She could only thank God that she had come to her senses in time.
“No, Mary, I’ll come. Just let me wash my hands, and tidy my hair.”
Gabby washed her hands, and Mary repinned her hair. Then Gabby went downstairs. With every step she took, she could not escape the sickening scent of past-their-prime roses. No matter how she scrubbed, Lady Ware’s perfume would not come off her skin.
The following night was Claire’s come-out ball. Despite the frenzied preparations that had, under Aunt Augusta’s direction, taken place around her, Gabby had almost forgotten about it. If it had not been for Claire to bully her into her dressing room and Mary to bundle her mistress into the bath and dress her and fix her hair, she might have pleaded illness and stayed abovestairs. In this case, claiming that she was unwell would not have been far from the truth. She had not been able to eat more than a bite or two for the last three days, and she could not sleep at all.
Wickham had still not come home. He had been gone without a word for nearly three full days.
“I am going to kill that boy,” Aunt Augusta hissed in Gabby’s ear as she took the latecomer by the arm and hustled her into place in the receiving line. The older woman was resplendent in purple satin, with a magnificent diamond necklace and a trio of ostrich plumes adorning her silver hair. Clad in a ballgown of dull gold lace over an underdress of gold satin, Gabby knew that, between her magnificent aunt and her beautiful sister, she was overshadowed, and was content to have it so. “He is the host. What will everyone think if he is not here?”
Her eyes swept over Gabby and Claire, who stood beside her sister looking like a fairy princess in purest white, with spangles, and a simple strand of pearls. “You both look just as you ought. Gabriella, pinch your cheeks. You are by far too pale.”
Then the first guests began to come up the stairs.
The ball was a smashing success. As the evening progressed, a palpable sense of excitement hung in the air. All of fashionable London was in attendance, the ladies in their most extravagant ballgowns and their finest jewelry, the gentlemen elegant in their best evening attire. Aunt Augusta overheard several guests describe it as a dreadful crush and, knowing that for the highest of accolades, was almost giddy with triumph. Wickham’s absence, while still galling, as she confided to Gabby in an occasional muttered aside, was not being overly remarked on, as she had had the good sense to ascribe it to a death in a distant branch of his mother’s family. And Gabby’s own less-than-decorous behavior with her brother seemed to have been forgotten.
“Though how Wickham can have gone off without a word,” Aunt Augusta said with disgust as Mr. Jamison went off at her instigation to fetch her a glass of punch, “you must some time explain to me. Well. It would be wonderful if we could announce your engagement at our own ball, but without Wickham here we cannot do it, I suppose. It will have to wait until he returns.”
If he returns, Gabby thought, feeling the hard cold knot of pain that had not left her since she had read Lady Ware’s missives tighten in her stomach. Though she had always known him for a womanizing cad—among many other, probably worse, things—she had idiotically allowed herself to imagine that their relationship had evolved ino something unique. Having been so foolish as to permit herself to fall in love with him, she could not just pluck the feelings she had for him from her heart like a troublesome splinter. They were lodged in place for, she feared, quite a while. The difference was that she was no longer blind to what he was: a charming rogue, no more, no less.
And she had a life to live, and sisters to provide for.
Mr. Jamison would make her a good, steady husband. Better than she deserved.
She had accepted him yesterday, knowing full well that she was coming to him defiled. But she meant to do her best to make herself into just the wife he wanted.
It was the least she could do, when, in accepting him without revealing her altered state, she had made herself into a liar, and a cheat.
“I suppose that’s the last of them. After we’ve greeted these, we may as well join our guests,” Aunt Augusta said, observing that the line on the stairs had slowed to a trickle. In the hall below, the servants in their livery were scurrying away with the last of the cloaks and topcoats. The closing front door blocked the sound of departing carriage wheels.
Gabby greeted the latest arrivals, and then, taking Mr. Jamison’s proffered arm, turned to enter the ballroom. Claire, who had been dismissed from duty earlier, skipped down the room with other couples to the strains of a merry quadrille. Her partner, Gabby saw, was the Marquis of Tyndale, who was looking quite smitten as he gazed at Claire. More guests milled around the edges of the floor. A few unfortunate debutantes who had not yet been asked to dance sat in chairs along one wal
l, their white dresses easy to spot among the more colorfully clad chaperones. Desdemona was among them, and beside her Lady Maud sat with a smile on her face that could have been carved from granite as she exchanged conversation with the lady on her other side. Taking pity on her cousin, Gabby vowed to dispatch an eligible gentleman her way as soon as she could, then turned her attention elsewhere.
The room was long, and narrow, and already growing over warm, though it was still fairly early in the evening. The long windows that looked out on to the garden were flung open, and filmy curtains fluttered in the breeze. Dozens of candles burned in gilded sconces. More candles shed their light from sparkling crystal chandeliers overhead. Flowers and greenery were banked in the corners, and the mirrors set into the wall reflected it all. The orchestra, hired for the evening, played beautifully, and the air was filled with infectious music and the sound of laughing, chattering voices.
Gabby circulated on Mr. Jamison’s arm, and was introduced to his sister, and several of his particular friends. She chatted with her own friends, and, without seeming to be so, was aware of a rising stream of comments linking her to Mr. Jamison that was just one of many tributaries to the river of gossip that was the ton’s lifeblood. The only bad moment in what was otherwise a tolerably enjoyable evening came when the orchestra struck up the first waltz.
She had a sudden vivid memory of waltzing with Nick.
“Would you care to . . . ?” Mr. Jamison offered gallantly, indicating the floor.
Gabby smiled at him. He was a kind, good man, and it was not his fault that she had fallen top over tails in love with a handsome scoundrel instead of appreciating her good fortune in attaching a man like him.
“I really don’t dance,” she said with a smile. He looked relieved, and led her down to the supper room instead.
39
After three days spent mainly in the saddle, Nick was dead tired. Trotting beside him, Barnet looked as weary as he felt. Approaching the mews through the narrow alley that ran behind the row of fashionable houses, they both heard the music at the same time and looked at each other.
“Hell, I forgot about Claire’s thrice-damned ball.”
“I’d say you’re in for a rare trimming, then, Cap’n.” Barnet sounded annoyingly merry at the prospect. “Miss Gabby’ll ’ave your ’ead on a plate. And Lady Salcombe. That old lady’s been plannin’ this thing with more care than Napoleon plots ’is campaigns. She’s gonna chew you up and spit you out.”
“Just whose side are you on, Barnet?” Nick asked sourly. His mood was not improved by the wide grin he got in return. To cap his enjoyment, the groom who emerged from the stables a few moments later to take their horses was Jem. He scowled when he recognized them.
“So yer back, are ye?” he said with a marked lack of respect as Nick swung down, and handed him his reins. Barnet did likewise and was rewarded with a growl.
“How are the ladies?” Nick asked, both because he truly wanted to know and because he had come to the reluctant conclusion that this old fool was going to have to be tolerated for Gabriella’s sake.
“Jest dandy,” Jem said in a grim tone that in no way matched his words. He started to lead the horses away, then turned around to glare at Barnet. “You can put your own bloody horse up.” He thrust Barnet’s reins back at him. “I ain’t your bloody groom.” His jaw tightened, and he slanted a glance at Nick. “I ain’t yours, either, when you comes right down to it. ’Cause you ain’t he.”
“Crabby old coot,” Barnet said as Jem stalked off, leading Nick’s horse. “One of these days I’m goin’ to plant ’im a rare wisty castor, Cap’n, not bein’ able to ’elp meself an’ all.”
“Well, you can’t.” Nick’s reply was short. “Miss Gabby wouldn’t like it.”
Barnet made a disgruntled sound, and headed into the stables with his horse.
Left alone in the dark, Nick walked quickly through the back garden. He stuck to the shadows near the shrubberies, walking across the grass rather than following one of the meandering brick paths, trying to stay out of the patches of light that spilled from the windows of the ballroom along with music and laughter and chattering voices. If he could do it, he would prefer to reach his chambers without being spotted. He hadn’t had a bath since he’d left, and to his own nostrils he smelled about as ripe as three-day-old garbage. He hadn’t had a shave either, or a change of clothes. In his opinion, anyone who looked less like an earl than he did at the moment would have been hard to find.
But—he thought, he was almost sure—he’d found what he’d been looking for. He’d only meant to be gone for perhaps half a day, but one thing had led to another and suddenly, the answer to the whole riddle had dropped into his lap, and half a day had stretched to three.
Now all he wanted to do was see Gabriella.
However the whole convoluted mess unraveled, one thing was crystal clear: she was now his. In taking her virginity, he had committed himself, although under the circumstances honoring that committment was going to be tricky. They’d just have to work out the details as they went along.
He was smiling faintly as he let himself in the back door and took the servants’ stairs two at a time. The question was, just how much had she missed him?
If he was lucky, and he always had been, the answer, which he hoped to give her a chance to demonstrate in the very near future, would bea lot.
“Marcus! Marcus!”
He looked up in surprise. Beth, clad in a demure white dress, was sitting on the landing just above him, her black-slippered feet resting side by side on the step beneath her. For a moment he couldn’t think what she was doing perched there. Then he saw the plate in her lap, and smiled in sudden understanding: she’d obviously been raiding the supper room.
“Where have you been?” She got to her feet, beaming at him, and came down to give him a quick, one-armed hug. He hugged her back, realizing that he was as glad to see her as if she were in truth his little sister, and, as he released her, tweaked her chin. “You’re missing Claire’s ball. Aunt Augusta is livid, and Gabby’s upset, too—at least, I think she’s upset. She claims she’s been sick.” Beth abruptly wrinkled her nose, and stared at him suspiciously. “What is that smell?”
He had to grin, even though his interest had been caught—more than caught, really—by her previous statement. “Me, I think. Never mind that. Did you say Gabriella’s been ill?”
“That’s what she says.” Beth looked at him earnestly. “I think she’s upset because she’s agreed to marry Mr. Jamison. She doesn’t like him above half, you know.”
“What?” He stared at Beth, thunderstruck.
She nodded vigorously. “Didn’t you know? Well, Gabby said she didn’t need your permission when I asked her, but I thought you knew.”
“I knew Jamison was going to make Gabriella an offer,” he said carefully, trying to keep clear in his mind that, as far as Beth was concerned, it was their mutual sister they were discussing. He was so tired it was difficult to think straight, let alone keep all the threads of the web of deceit he’d woven from getting tangled in his mind. “It was my understanding that she was going to refuse.”
Beth shook her head. “She said yes.”
“Are you certain?”
Beth nodded.
“When?”
“He came and asked her yesterday. She accepted. Aunt Augusta wanted to announce it at the ball tonight, but she said she couldn’t if you didn’t get home.” Her voice trailed off, and she looked at him with a growing frown. “But you’re home now, aren’t you? If you get changed and go downstairs, you could still make the announcement.”
“Like hell,” he said, before he thought.
Beth seemed to see nothing out of the way in that. “That’s what I think. Gabby doesn’t really want to marry him, I can tell. Maybe you can stop her. She won’t listen to me.”
“I’ll do my best.” He started up the stairs again, giving a quick tug to one of Beth’s red curls as he passed. “Th
anks for warning me.”
“I’m glad you’re home,” she called after him as he reached the landing and headed down the hall toward his rooms.
When Barnet showed up some fifteen minutes later, he was already out of the bath he’d had one of the footmen prepare, dressed in black evening breeches and white silk stockings, and half shaved.
“Some valet you are,” he commented acidly, scraping away.
“There’s no need to get snippy with me, Cap’n. I can’t ’elp it if Miss Gabby found ’erself another feller while we were away.” Barnet searched the wardrobe for his master’s coat, shook it out, and hung it over the back of a chair.
“So you heard that, did you?” There had never been any keeping secrets from Barnet, and most of the time he didn’t bother to try.
“Talk of the mews. And the kitchen. They say she’s anxious to wed as soon as can be.”
The razor slipped, and Nick swore as a bright dot of blood appeared on his cheek. Barnet made a choked sound that could have been either a cough or a laugh. Nick shot him a sideways glare.
“Makes a nice turnaround for you, though, don’t it? Usually females is climbing all over each other to get to you.”
Nick wiped the last of the soap from his face and tossed the towel aside. “Mind your own damned business, why don’t you? And hand me my shirt.”
When he was dressed at last, he headed down the front stairs, quickly but with at least a little of the decorum befitting an earl. He was almost at the bottom, waving off Stivers who had stepped out to greet him, when something, a sound, a movement, made him glance to the side.
There, in the drawing room, was Gabriella. She was with Jamison. From what he could see the two of them were alone, and the fat fool was clasping her tightly in his arms.
Kissing her.
For a moment Nick stopped dead. Anger, possessiveness, and a thick hot tide of primitive feeling that he recognized with some distaste as jealousy warred for supremacy in his breast. Finally they joined forces. His jaw clenched. His eyes glinted.
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