“And then you will accept that she is yours and you are hers, and that your marriage is final. Whether you wished it or not.” The earl set his snifter, nay Gabriel’s snifter, down, just beyond Gabriel’s reach and then planted his elbows on the table. He glanced about a moment and then dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. “And when you are done with that, do not leave her side again or else condemn her to a life to which she’ll never fully belong.”
Gabriel sat in stiff silence and took in the other man’s words. “I cannot,” he whispered, unsure whether he spoke to himself or Waterson. He slid his gaze beyond the other man’s shoulder.
His friend gave a wry grin. “Alas, my friend, you already have.”
He looked about and his skin pricked with the pointed stares studiously trained on him.
“Why did you wed her?” Waterson asked bluntly, bringing his attention back. “To protect her?” he supplied before Gabriel could speak. “Then do so. Prepare her for Society and spare her from further gossip.” He jerked his chin toward the entrance of the club. “Go,” he urged.
With guilt twisting in his belly—that hated, too-familiar sentiment that had dogged him all these years—Gabriel stood. “Waterson,” he said in clipped tones. “Th—”
“No thanks are necessary. Now, go.”
Gabriel turned and started over the crowded floor of White’s when a familiar, hated form caught the corner of his eye. The rakish gentleman with his Brutus curls tossed back his head and laughed at something the person opposite him said and then he froze. The Earl of Montclair shifted in his seat and a mocking grin formed on his lips. “Waverly,” the earl called out, raising his glass in mock salute. “I understand congratulations are in order.” Mockery tinged his words. Gabriel stared at the man’s mouth as it moved, imagined that mouth on Jane’s, hard and punishing, as she cried and fought for her freedom, then ultimately attained it. Only to be punished for resisting Montclair’s vile assault. And then of their own volition, his legs carried him over to the table.
The earl looked questioningly up at him with a jeering glint in his eyes. “Waverly. You’ve come to join—”
He hauled the bastard who’d put his hands upon Jane up by the lapels of his jacket, up from his seat and buried his fist into his nose, relishing the crack of bone and an agonized cry rung from Montclair’s lips. There was a triumphant thrill of revenge, a satisfaction of his bloodlust. Perhaps he was more like his father than he’d ever dared believe, for the sight of the man’s suffering filled him with an unholy glee. Gabriel tossed the other man to the floor, a bleeding, whining mess and then ignoring the frantic whispers, continued his march to the front of the club. A servant, with his gaze carefully averted rushed forward with Gabriel’s cloak and he shrugged into it. As he exited his clubs and accepted the reins from a waiting servant to his mount, he drew in a deep, steadying breath, filling his air with lungs. Then he swung his leg over the chestnut creature, Devotion, and guided it onward to his townhouse. To his wife. To his future.
His mount shifted under his legs, at the tension in Gabriel’s, and he lightened his grip upon the horse. In the quiet of the London streets, he mulled his friend’s words. He’d pledged to care for Jane. The minute he’d ruined her, she’d become his responsibility and he was shamed by the truth that by seeking out his clubs to avoid the woman who’d upended his world, he’d only brought greater difficulty, too. And more—he couldn’t avoid responsibility. It was part of who he was and one he could not extricate himself from, no matter how much they might wish it. Nay, no matter how much he might wish it. Gabriel guided Devotion down the cobbled roads.
She professed to love him. And while he’d spent the better part of his life wanting nothing to do with that damned sentiment, when she’d uttered those words, she’d breathed into him the truths he’d buried deep down inside. Truths he’d kicked the dust of life upon and hid—even from himself—that damned longing to have someone. What she’d dangled before him preyed on his greatest fears, but also a desire he’d never known he possessed grew inside him.
The façade of his townhouse pulled into focus and he urged his horse forward. No sooner had he leaped to the ground than a servant rushed forward to claim the reins. With a murmur of thanks, Gabriel strode up the handful of steps and through the doors opened by Joseph. “My lord,” the butler greeted. There was a reproach in his eyes that may as well have been a mirror of Waterson’s sentiments at the club.
Gabriel shrugged out of his cloak. “Joseph,” he said. He looked up the staircase and cleared his throat.
“Her Ladyship has retired for the evening.” The servant had developed an uncanny knack to know precisely what Gabriel was thinking before he even spoke.
“Er, yes, right. Of course.” He started the path up the stairs and reached the landing to the main living quarters when a figure stepped into his path.
He swallowed a curse as he nearly crashed into his sister. “What are you doing a—”
Chloe planted her hands on her hips and glared. “Do not finish that sentence.”
It was the truth of his existence that he’d be ordered about by mouthy, bold, English ladies. With a sigh, Gabriel tugged out his timepiece. “Chloe it is late.”
“Is it?”
“It is.”
“I was being facetious, Gabriel,” she said between clenched teeth. “Of course it is late. And you should have arrived home long ago.”
First Alex, then Waterson, now Chloe. He should be expecting an opinion from Joseph on his marriage to Jane.
“Jane needs your support.”
“I know that.”
“She must do what Imogen did.”
Perhaps it was the infernal hour or the brandy he’d consumed at his clubs, or mayhap it was just that his sister was deuced difficult to follow and always had been. “What Imogen did?”
Chloe pointed her eyes to the ceiling and her lips moved in what he suspected was a silent prayer. “Brave the scandal.” A determined glint lit her eyes. “She is going to have to enter polite Society and only then, when they see she can’t be cowed, will they move on.” She wrinkled her nose. “Society is cruel and merciless, you know.”
And Jane would have to brave that. At the idea of her facing down the condescending sneers and pointed looks, fury unfurled in his gut. “I know that.” Gabriel curled his hands so tightly into the palms he nearly drew blood. “I’ve already, with Alex’s help, arranged several ton functions for Jane to attend.”
“And…” She blinked several times in rapid succession. “You what?”
Did his siblings think him wholly ignorant of what Jane must do and face? “Both Waterson and the Earl of Primly will throw Jane—us—their support. I’ve accepted an invite to the Duke of Crawford’s ball.” He firmed his jaw. Despite everyone’s low opinion of him, he’d not see Jane disparaged or shamed before Society. Then abandoning her on her wedding night, aren’t you already responsible for that crime? Guilt knifed at his conscience. “I will speak to Jane in the morning. She will be presented to Society and I will stand beside her and—”
“Then you will send her to her finishing school.”
His sister and Jane had spoken. He swiped a hand over his eyes. “Chloe, it is late.”
“As you’ve previously stated.”
With her in one of her tempers, it wouldn’t do to tell his sister that the missing piece to her words was her inevitable marriage and then Jane’s departure. “And I will not debate the terms of the contract I’ve entered into with Jane. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said with a firmness he’d usually reserved for Alex through the years and stepped around her. He made it no more than five steps when she called out.
“You think to protect everyone, don’t you? You would protect Alex from himself and his once roguish ways. And you’d protect me and Philippa by seeing us wed to proper gentleman who would not abuse us.” She paused. “You would protect me from the truth about Philippa’s uncertain condition.”
He s
tiffened and then turned back.
She arched an eyebrow. “Do you believe I would not know about Philippa and her unborn babe?”
“I…” What could he say? Any defense he’d make would likely be met with a thousand and one arguments of why he’d been wrong in shielding her from Philippa’s complicated pregnancy.
“You what? Wished to protect me?” Chloe took a step toward him. “Don’t you see, you protect people in the hopes of protecting yourself from caring.” She motioned behind him to Jane’s chambers. “To protect yourself from loving, but you cannot shut yourself off from feeling. No matter how much you may will it.”
With that, his sister left him, as he’d been for thirty-two years—alone.
Chapter 25
One Week Later
One week after her marriage and her husband’s subsequent abandonment, Gabriel had provided Jane tutors and dance instructors and gowns and well…everything, with the exception of himself. They broke their fast together, in relative silence, and took their evening meals together in even greater silence. For the times Jane had attempted to speak to Gabriel, he’d proven the aloof, distant figure she’d first met, so that she didn’t know what to do with him. In fact, if it wasn’t for the company of Chloe, Jane was certain she would have gone mad days ago with the tedium of her own company. Until now. Now, she thought she might go mad for altogether different reasons. Is this to be my life? This cold, distant relationship with a man who, despite of what they’d shared, had become more of a stranger than ever before?
Standing beside her sister-in-law, Jane stared wide-eyed down at her bed. “They are pink.”
“Well, they are not all pink.”
The “they” in question were in fact the gowns selected, ordered, and now delivered by the fashionable modiste once upon a lifetime ago. The color preferred by Jane’s mother and a shade she’d detested for the endless packages sent by her father—or rather her mother’s protector. She’d sworn to never don a pink dress. Then, she’d done all manner of things now that she’d sworn never to do.
Chloe picked up a satin creation. “See, this one is not pink.”
Jane angled her head and studied the garment in the young lady’s fingers with dubious eyes.
Gabriel’s sister shook it. “It is mauve.”
Mauve, which was very nearly pink. With a sigh, she brushed her knuckles over the soft fabric. “It is lovely,” she conceded.
The young woman beamed. “See. You will look splendid at the Duke and Duchess of Crawford’s upcoming ball.” She dropped the dress atop the others and spun around. A duke’s ball? “Of course, you’d look splendid in anything you donned,” Chloe continued without breaking her stride.
“What ball?” Jane called out.
Chloe paused and turned around. “The Duke and Duchess of Crawford’s. The duke and duchess attend few events and host even fewer. An invite to their ball is the most sought after.” She paused. “Everyone will be there.” Bloody wonderful. “Which will be the perfect place for you to confront the ton. All you must do is force a smile, dance a handful of sets with your husband, Alex, and Lord Waterson for support, and then we shall be on our way and the gossips are free to move on to their next victim.” A handful of dances. She’d have as much luck in navigating through one set as she did having the circumstances of her birth reversed.
At the prospect of not only facing down the vultures of high Society but also dancing before them, Jane curled her toes into the soles of her slippers. “But…” Her mind raced. Of course she would have to be presented to the ton. Those were, after all, the terms of her arrangement with Gabriel.
Chloe looked at her expectantly.
“But…” But she’d not believed her introduction would take place so quickly. Montclair slipped into her mind, as he’d been at the theatre—cruel, relentless—then she imagined a ballroom full of the Lord Montclairs and the young ladies she’d known at Mrs. Belden’s. “I can’t…” Go. “I can’t…” Do this. “Dance,” she finished lamely. Jane drew in a slow breath and smoothed her palms over her skirts. “I still do not know how to dance.” There had never been a need to master those steps reserved for ladies and gentlemen who’d flit from balls to soirees. Now, however, there was a need and she’d proven herself a rather poor study.
“I daresay it is Mr. Wallace’s fault.”
Poor Mr. Wallace who’d had his feet trod upon for the better part of the week. If he didn’t end up with broken toes by the end of Jane’s lessons, that would prove his greatest career accomplishment. “I hardly think it is fair to blame Mr. Wallace for my inadequacy.”
Chloe smiled and patted her hand. “I do say that is why I so like you. You never shift blame to others as you should have done with…” My brother. The young woman cleared her throat. “Regardless, Mr. Wallace is likely waiting and we really should be off to your lessons.”
Jane sighed as a determined Chloe took her by the hand and all but dragged her to the door, out of the room and down the corridor. This young woman hadn’t needed a companion; she’d needed to be someone’s companion. As they walked at a brisk clip through the corridors, they passed the occasional servant who shot her a sympathetic look.
She grimaced. Apparently, the servants had learned how poorly their new mistress was faring with the whole presentation before Society business.
“I have faith in you, Jane. Mr. Wallace will prepare you for the Duke of Crawford’s ball.”
Jane wasn’t altogether certain who Chloe sought to convince, Jane or herself with that promise. “Yes, you said as much,” she said weakly. “Perhaps another ball?” she ventured. It didn’t have to be a duke’s ball. After all, there was a kind of awkward irony in a duke’s bastard making her entrance to Society at another duke’s ball.
Yes, a few more days would allow her time to accustom herself to the idea of a public shaming. One would think after years of Societal condemnation she’d grow accustomed to such treatment. Alas.
“No,” Chloe said forcefully. “It must be this one,” she said as they reached the empty ballroom. “His wife is kind,” she said as an explanation. A kind duchess?
Mr. Wallace, tall, frequently frowning, and always put out, stood at the entrance of the ballroom. With his chestnut brown hair pulled back in queue and his lean frame, he very well could have been considered dashing to some.
If he wasn’t always frowning.
Jane repressed a groan as her sister-in-law shoved her between the shoulder blades. “Off you go.” Then she dropped her voice a whisper. “I will be here.”
As she’d been for the week since Jane had been abandoned. With a sigh, she started for Mr. Wallace.
He said something to the violinist assembled and then turned to Jane. A beleaguered sigh escaped him. “My lady,” he said in cool, clipped tones her husband would have been hard-pressed to emulate.
“Mr. Wallace.” Though there was something very real and appreciated in a person who disdained her not for the status of her birth but because of her dreadful habit of plodding all over his toes.
“We have but two days,” he reminded her needlessly as he held out his arms. She really didn’t require that reminder.
She knew precisely how much time she had. Jane settled her hand upon his shoulder and then he placed his upon her waist. “I do not see how this is proper,” she muttered under her breath. A man’s hands so intimately upon a lady?
Mr. Wallace winced as she stepped hard on his toes. “It is the waltz, my lady,” he said, righting her as she stumbled.
“It is a one-two-three count,” Chloe called from the side.
She didn’t care if it was a one-count shuffle along the floor. She couldn’t keep the beat.
“And it is all the rage. Brought over recently from the Continent.” So, now it was to be a history lesson.
“Oomph.”
“I am sorry,” she said automatically.
His lips moved in what she believed was a curse, if the staid dance master did somethin
g as improper and impolite as curse. Jane stumbled—again—and he steadied her, catching her firmly about the waist and drawing her close.
“I fear your efforts are futile.” She would not master the steps of any one of the blasted dances he’d shown her and certainly not in time for the duke’s blasted ball.
“Gabriel!”
At Chloe’s exclamation, Jane looked up swiftly and trod all over poor Mr. Wallace’s toes once more. Her heart jumped as her husband’s towering frame filled the doorway.
“Gabriel, you startled me,” his sister said, a hand at her chest. “I was just speaking to Jane about the Duke and Duchess of Crawford’s ball.”
Gabriel stood at the entrance of the ballroom. He never removed his hard gaze from Jane. The intensity of that stare burned her with its heat. It sucked the breath from her lungs. Then he moved his focus to where Mr. Wallace’s hands lingered on her waist. The moss green of his eyes darkened near to black.
Mr. Wallace abruptly relinquished his hold upon Jane.
Chloe continued to fill the silence. “Jane still does not know how to dance.” She favored both Gabriel and the poor dance master with accusatory looks.
Gabriel blinked several times as though brought to the moment and then turned to his sister. “What is this?” A slight frown played on his lips.
She swallowed a groan. “This is nothing.”
“Dance,” Chloe explained and threw her arms out and demonstrated a step. Apparently Jane and Chloe were of a different mind-frame on the importance of the nonsensical steps and Gabriel’s need to know such information. “Even after Mr. Wallace’s attempts, she still doesn’t know how.” The dance master’s scowl indicated his displeasure at having his efforts called into question before his employer.
Jane shifted. In her defense it really had only been a week. Granted, she’d made little to no progress in the endeavor. “It’s true, I fear. I’m really rather horrid.” Chloe and Mr. Wallace’s silence stood as confirmation to her admission.
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