by Eloisa James
He couldn’t do it.
He could not marry this talkative, frumpy, plump woman who had no social graces and no instinct. It didn’t matter how much money she had. By God, he could more easily transform a merchant’s daughter into a lady.
Cold fingers crept up Peter’s spine. This awkward girl would effortlessly pull down the delicate social structure on which his happiness depended, and she would have no idea what she was doing. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right.
He’d spent six years building his position in London society, befriending the high and the low. Peter thought little of those who hoped to reach the upper echelons by trod-ding on those below or by making cruel remarks. He was unfailingly kind, and he had accepted defeats with grace. For example, there was the intimate gathering that Bladdington gave for Prinny’s forty-third birthday last year, to which he was not invited. And even though Peter’s chest burned, he was perfectly amiable with Bladdington the next time he saw him, because everyone told him that Prinny had loudly demanded to know where Dewland was and said the party was no fun without him.
Bile rose up his throat again, and Peter clenched his teeth. Father had no right to demand such a thing.
His parents were due to arrive from Bath in the afternoon to greet their future daughter-in-law. He had always found it difficult to stand up to his father, but this time he would simply have to do so.
He could not go through with this marriage.
GABBY, PETER, AND PHOEBE returned to Dewland House to find that an elegantly slung traveling carriage had just drawn up.
“It’s my new mama come to fetch me!” Phoebe cried.
Peter looked at the little girl sympathetically. He had to remember to locate that woman—Mrs. Ewing, wasn’t it? “I’m afraid not, Phoebe. That is my parents’ traveling coach. They will have returned from Bath to welcome Miss Jerningham.”
Gabby drew Phoebe up against her side in a hug. “We will find your mama,” she said. “And meanwhile, Phoebe, just think about all those lovely clothes that Madame Carême is making for you!” For Phoebe, too, had ordered a complete wardrobe.
Phoebe’s eyes brightened. “Mademoiselle Lucile said that I would have a gown with pin tucks and puff sleeves.”
“Absolutely,” Gabby replied. “Why, it’s just as well that Peter has not located your mama yet. Because I would like the pleasure of your company, and your new garments will not be delivered for some weeks.”
In Phoebe’s eyes shone the passion of a young woman who already understood—even at the tender age of five—the importance of a first impression. She had had a lovely time looking at pictures of children’s clothing in La Belle Assemblée with Mademoiselle Lucile, one of Madame Carême’s assistants. “I shall wear the gown with puff sleeves,” she said. “And then my mama will love me more.”
Gabby frowned and was about to say something, but the footman opened the coach door. She was just a bit nervous to meet the viscount and viscountess. What if they were as disappointed with her as Peter seemed to be?
But there was no viscount. And within a few minutes of entering the sitting room, it became clear that she might never meet the viscount at all.
“He slept and slept,” the viscountess was saying, weeping and wringing her hands. “When I finally woke him, Thurlow looked at me, but I could tell that he didn’t know who I was.”
Quill was standing in the middle of the room, saying nothing. Peter turned white and sank into a chair.
“Last night he did recognize me,” the viscountess continued. “But the doctors say he is unlikely to recover the use of his limbs. And worst of all, he doesn’t seem to be able to speak! Although this morning, when I explained that I had to go to London for a day and tell you what had happened, I’m sure that he heard me. Because I asked him to close his eyes if he understood, and he did. He blinked his eyes.”
She started weeping harder, and Quill moved over and gave her an awkward hug. Kitty held out her free arm, and as Peter moved toward her, Gabby turned and fled from the room. There was something about seeing Kitty Dewland cling to her two sons that made tears come to her eyes. She had tried her entire life to please her father, but he would no more think of hugging her than of complimenting her.
Gabby swallowed hard and climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. The truth was that if her father had an attack and couldn’t speak, she would probably be grateful. That was a terrible, terrible thought.
I would have taken care of him, Gabby thought defensively. But even as she pictured the tender care she would have given her father, she knew it would have been just another attempt to gain love. And it would have failed. If there was one lesson Gabby had learned from her childhood, it was that no amount of wooing could make someone love you.
Gabby rang the bell, and Margaret appeared after a moment. “I’m to be your lady’s maid,” Margaret said happily. “Mrs. Farsalter confirmed it.”
“How lovely,” Gabby said. “Then for goodness sake, Margaret, help me loosen this infernal corset.”
Margaret looked surprised, but she began to undo the small buttons that ran up the back of the orange walking dress.
The problem was that when Margaret had unlaced the corset enough so that Gabby could take a deep breath, the gown pulled even tighter in the front.
Margaret looked at it dubiously. “Mrs. Farsalter is a dab hand with a needle. Perhaps we should see if the seams can be taken out.”
“Madame Carême already did that. I’ll just wear this shawl, Margaret. See? If I keep it draped over my front, no one can see that the bodice is a little tight.”
“Are you quite sure, miss? Because we could tighten your corset just a trifle.”
“Absolutely not. I’m quite certain that we will be taking luncheon at home.” Gabby reckoned that Peter was the only one in the household who might notice the inconvenient tautness across her breasts.
Margaret nodded. “Given the master’s condition, I expect you’ll be marrying right away. Perhaps Mr. Peter will obtain a special license.”
Gabby looked at her curiously.
“I didn’t mean to be presumptuous, miss. Mr. Codswallop had an uncle who had such an attack, and he didn’t linger. The family will go into mourning.”
“Oh, of course,” Gabby murmured. Presumably Margaret was saying that one couldn’t marry when in mourning. Yet more English rules that she had never learned. For some reason the idea of marrying Peter by special license wasn’t quite as exciting as she would have thought a week ago.
She shook off the feeling. It was time for luncheon, and she was absolutely ravenous.
The meal was a strained affair. “I must return to Bath,” Kitty Dewland explained to her young guest, “but I have sent a note asking my dear cousin, Lady Sylvia, to act as a chaperone in my absence.”
Kitty gained a spark of animation when Quill murmured something under his breath about her choice of chaperone. “Lady Sylvia is of the highest character,” Kitty snapped. She added, “Besides, it is very difficult to obtain a chaperone now, when the Little Season is upon us!”
And then she burst into tears. “Oh, if Thurlow is not able to take his seat in Parliament, it will positively break his heart!”
Gabby was very pleased to find that Peter was endlessly kind to his mother, rubbing her hand and murmuring in her ear. Quill sat silently across from them, and after the third or fourth eruption of tears, Gabby could tell that he was becoming irritated. And yet…poor Lady Dewland. It was clear that she had never contemplated the idea of her husband being incapacitated, and the pain was almost too much for her.
Halfway through luncheon, Kitty clutched Peter’s wrist. “I cannot sit here for another moment,” she declared, her voice breaking. “All I can see is my Thurlow’s face, waiting for me to return.” She stood up. “I am delighted to have met you, Gabrielle. I trust we can have a long coze the moment Thurlow is back on his feet. Why, I shall likely be gone only a few days.”
Gabby murmured ag
reement, although it was abundantly clear to her that the viscount would be very lucky to speak again, let alone walk.
“You cannot return to Bath alone, Mama,” Peter said. Both men had leapt to their feet when Kitty stood up. “I shall accompany you and stay as long as you need me.”
“Oh, no, I could never allow that,” Kitty said in a distressed tone. “Why, dear Gabrielle would be most inconvenienced if you left at this moment!”
Peter and Gabby spoke at the same moment. “He must accompany you,” Gabby said earnestly. It was clear that Kitty and Peter shared a special relationship.
“I could not think of being away from you during this terrible ordeal,” Peter said.
“But your friends,” Kitty protested feebly. “They must think it very odd if your betrothed is in London and you are in Bath.”
“They certainly will not,” Peter said, with the utmost confidence of someone who knew that his sense of social protocol could never be questioned. “My place is by your side.” He pressed her hand.
Kitty smiled at him tremulously. “I shouldn’t. Oh, I shouldn’t.”
Only Quill frowned. “I am persuaded that Peter should be here with Gabby. After all, they are to be married, and she only just arrived from India. It does not sound as if Father is in immediate danger, and I can easily accompany you to Bath for a few days.”
Gabby shot him a look. “Lady Dewland, Peter must accompany you and stay as long as you need him,” she said warmly. “I insist. I will not allow Peter to stay here when he could be of so much comfort to you.” Obviously Peter would be much more of a consolation to his mother than Quill would be.
“At any rate,” Peter said, “Gabby is not prepared to enter society. We ordered a new wardrobe for her this morning, but Madame Carême estimates it will be over a month until she is able to deliver it. Given Lady Sylvia’s presence, no one can question the propriety of Gabby staying here in London.”
“In that case,” Kitty said with obvious relief, “perhaps I will accept your escort, Peter. Are you quite sure that you won’t be disappointed, Gabrielle dear? I am certain that Thurlow will be better in a matter of a week or so, and I should hate to injure our relationship in any way. I am so looking forward to having you as my daughter-in-law!”
Gabby leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Peter is yours for as long as you need him, Lady Dewland.”
Kitty laid her hand against Gabby’s cheek for a moment. “We are lucky to have you, my dear. I can see that you will be a great comfort to me.” And that was the closest that the viscountess ever came to acknowledging that perhaps Thurlow would not be out of his bed in a week.
Gabby watched Lady Dewland and Peter set off in the traveling coach—after some eleven bags of Peter’s had been piled precariously on top—with just a touch of envy. It wasn’t that she resented Lady Dewland’s delight in Peter’s company, but she did slightly resent Peter’s delight in his mother’s company. In the past two days, he had never looked at her with such glowing attention.
Because you haven’t earned it, Gabby told herself. He loves his mother, and he will grow to love you.
Quill was standing sturdily on the pavement beside her. He took in the slight droop to Gabby’s lower lip in an instant.
“What would you like to do this afternoon?” he asked, amazing himself. He never took excursions in the middle of the day. He had far too much work to do. Even now he could feel a rising tension due to the stacks of reports awaiting him. But he disliked seeing Gabby look dimmed by his brother’s absence. At least she showed no sign of tears. Quill couldn’t abide women who cried all the time.
“I should like to take a little trip around London,” Gabby replied. “But you needn’t accompany me, Quill. I shall hire a hack. I believe that is the proper term?” Gabby had questioned Margaret about London conveyances earlier in the day.
“Out of the question,” Quill said. “I will take you wherever you wish to go.”
“In fact, I would prefer to take this particular trip by myself.”
“No.”
Gabby waited, but nothing more seemed to be forthcoming.
“As I said,” she repeated politely, “I would prefer to take a trip by myself. May I borrow your carriage?”
Quill sighed. “Gabby, a lady does not travel anywhere—ever—on her own. When you know your way around London, you may take the carriage on a brief shopping excursion or to make a call. But that is the extent of an English lady’s solitary travel.”
“Thank goodness I am not fully English,” Gabby replied amiably. “Perhaps it is my French side that makes me so certain that I shall safely spend an afternoon on my own. I would not wish to keep you from your work.”
Quill, who had just been remembering the papers awaiting his signature, instantly changed his mind. “I have no work scheduled for this afternoon. I will accompany you.”
Gabby had the sudden thought that perhaps Quill didn’t want to be alone, given the saddening news about his father. It was unfortunate that his mother showed such a clear preference for one son over the other! Likely Quill was feeling neglected.
She turned and walked back into the house, absentmindedly handing her cashmere shawl to Codswallop.
Quill swallowed. What kind of gown had Gabby obtained from Madame Carême? He had never seen such an enticing garment in his life. It looked like something a courtesan might wear. From the back it perfectly outlined the rounded curve of her bottom. A curve that was longing, begging, to be cupped in Quill’s hand.
And the bodice of the gown was even worse. The flimsy muslin seemed to have been molded to her chest.
“I have located Mrs. Emily Ewing,” he said abruptly.
“How splendid! Does she live in London?”
“Yes.”
“She must not have received the letter sent from India. I shall write her a note directly,” Gabby exclaimed. “We can’t simply appear at her doorstep with a child and such unwelcome news about her sister.”
Quill just nodded. “I should like to know where you plan to go this afternoon.”
Gabby was stubbornly silent.
Quill moved over and tipped up her chin. Standing this close to her, he could smell an enticing, drifting smell of jasmine flowers.
“Gabby.”
In his quiet voice was a command. Gabby realized that. And it was no use asking something as foolish as Can I trust you? Obviously she could trust Quill. Her large, silent, future brother-in-law was the very essence of trustworthiness.
“It’s a trifling errand only,” she said desperately.
“Gabby.”
“All right. I would like to visit Hoare’s Bank. My father gave me a letter—”
“Ladies do not enter Hoare’s Bank,” Quill explained. “The letter will be delivered, and a representative of the bank will visit our house.”
“My father told me to never trust minor associates,” Gabby insisted. “I should like to speak to Sir Richard Hoare myself. And I can hardly request that the director of the bank journey to our house.”
“Then I shall accompany you,” Quill said. “You must understand, Gabby, that a woman’s reputation is her most important asset—” He broke off. Gabby had clearly stopped listening.
“Gabby, are you attending me?”
Quill was standing just in front of her, delivering his little lecture. Gabby had the oddest wish that he would put his arms around her. She must be demented. Hoping for an embrace from her future brother-in-law? It was just that—Gabby’s common sense came to the rescue. Quill was an uncommonly handsome man. His eyes made her feel weak in the knees and warm in the belly.
The problem, Gabby rationalized, is that Father never allowed me to have anything to do with men. So now I am overcome by the species in general. And for the first time, she wished that Peter hadn’t traveled to Bath. Because she had never been kissed by a man.
Quill had paused and was waiting for her to reply.
Gabby nervously chewed on her lo
wer lip. The look in his eyes couldn’t be described as amusement, precisely.
“Gabby,” Quill said, his voice dark with—with something.
She swayed a bit and his large hands steadied her shoulders. In a second she could be in his arms, Gabby realized.
“I…I …” She fell silent, struck by a fiery wave of rebellion. She wanted a kiss. She didn’t want to be an un-kissed person for one more second.
“My mother died at my birth, and my father is not a demonstrative man,” she said, looking at Quill’s lips.
“Yes?” Quill’s thumbs had begun a small massage just at the base of Gabby’s collarbone.
Gabby shivered.
Quill was well-aware that Gabby had not told him the truth about her afternoon’s errand. Hoare’s Bank indeed. There was something about Gabby’s eyes that gave her away when she was fibbing. Just now those beautiful eyes were looking at him in a way that made his blood rage in his veins. She couldn’t mean that look. It was not an innocent look.
And then she swayed toward him, and he smelled jasmine again. Without a second’s thought, Quill’s mouth came down on Gabby’s lips as softly as a dandelion clock floats to the ground, as sweetly as a mother’s lips brush the head of her babe.
Gabby closed her eyes and stood stock-still, arms at her sides.
She tasted better than she smelled. Quill pulled her closer. His hands slid down toward the magnificent curve of her bottom.
“Put your arms around my neck, Gabby,” he whispered.
“All right,” Gabby said, sounding surprised. “This is very enjoyable,” she whispered back.
“Be quiet, Gabby.” Quill’s deep voice sent a tremor down her spine. And when she opened her mouth to respond to him, he took advantage of her open lips. Tenderness was replaced by a fierce demand, by a craving, hungry request.
Gabby lost her impulse to speak. Her mind went utterly blank, replaced for the first time in her life by her body’s demands. A sigh passed between them. She wound her arms around Quill’s neck and held on, allowing his ravaging mouth to send flames up her back. She melted against his chest, pressing herself feverishly into the kiss, shamelessly reveling in the feeling of his hard body against hers.