Scandalous (36 page)

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 be
a 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. "Thanks 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.

And he walked with carefully controlled aggression toward the entwined pair.

40

"What the hell is this?"

That was the first Gabby knew that he was home. Her head turned so swiftly that her neck hurt. For a moment it was enough to simply know that he was safe. Her eyes drank him in: he was clad in impeccable black evening clothes that fit his broad shoulders and long, powerful legs to perfection. His black hair was brushed back from a hard, handsome face that looked stern now, and even angry. His eyes— yes, certainly he was angry— were a stormy dark blue. They glinted dangerously at her.

Her first, idiotic thought was, nobody, but nobody, looks like Nick.

Her second was, I'd like to break his neck.

Mr. Jamison, clearly cowed by the intimidating presence of the man glaring so fiercely at them, removed his arms from around her with a swiftness that made her stagger. She had to catch hold of a nearby chair to keep from losing her balance. Perversely, she blamed that on Nick, too, and gave him back glare for glare.

"Sir— um, my lord— my affianced wife— ah…" Mr. Jamison, red-faced, was stammering more like a schoolboy than the fifty-year-old, prosperous landowner he was.

"Gabriella," Nick said, ignoring Mr. Jamison and addressing her in tones of stark outrage, "were you
kissing
him?"

Gabby smiled at that. Her chin lifted, and her voice, when she spoke, was very clear and cold.

"Yes," she said, "I certainly was."

For a moment they stared at each other in charged silence.

"Nothing havey-cavey here, you know. Your sister's accepted my suit. Um, she's going to marry me. No need for you to be upset, my lord, although I certainly honor your sentiments in desiring to protect your sister…."

"Mr. Jamison," Gabby said sweetly. "Perhaps we should return to the ballroom."

"Uh, yes, certainly. If you like." He proffered his arm to her, and Gabby tucked her hand in it. With no more than a final scathing look for Nick, she prepared to sweep past him.

"Gabriella." He stopped her as she tried to do just that by the simple expedient of catching her arm. She looked down at where his long brown fingers gripped her slender white arm just above the elbow, then glanced up to meet his gaze. Her eyes flashed. "A word with you, if you please."

"No," she said baldly, and jerked her arm free. Her other hand was still tucked in Mr. Jamison's arm, and she practically propelled him from the room. She could almost feel Nick's hot breath on the back of her neck as he stalked behind them.

"Lady Gabriella," Mr. Jamison remonstrated, looking as unhappy as he sounded. "Your brother— perhaps you should— no wish to have bad relations in the family— he is your guardian, after all."

"He is
not
my guardian," Gabby said through her teeth. Recollecting herself, she added, "I am of age."

"But still…"

They reached the ballroom then, and Gabby pinned a smile on her face. Behind her, Nick was stopped the instant he stepped over the threshold, and engulfed. Glancing back as she hurried Mr. Jamison across the room, she saw that he was shaking hands with Lord Denby, while Mr. Pool and Sir Barty Crane waited for his notice. Lady Alicia Monteigne was closing on him from the left, with Mrs. Armitage in tow, and Aunt Augusta, having clearly spotted him from where she stood talking with an acquaintance, was headed straight toward him like a ship in full sail.

"Hah!" Gabby said with satisfaction, steering Mr. Jamison toward where Desdemona once again sat with the chaperones. Nick would come after her as soon as he could, she knew, and she meant to have a weapon to hand.

"I do think you were rather hard on Lord Wickham, I must say. I thought you were quite fond of him, to tell you the truth. It has certainly seemed…" Mr. Jamison's voice trailed off. "But no doubt something has occurred to put the two of you at outs. It is most unfortunate, if so. Do you think you might see your way clear to making it up with him? I was hoping he might be persuaded to announce our engagement tonight. The quicker it is known, the quicker we can get the wedding over with, you know." This attempt at humor on his part fell on deaf ears. In the act of sitting down, Gabby had been waylaid by Claire.

"Marcus is back," Claire said excitedly, having just run from the floor between dances. Her partner, young Mr. Newbury, followed her, looking besotted, as men always did around Claire. "Have you spoken to him? Did he tell you where he's been?"

Before Gabby could answer, she was waving at their "brother." Watching him wave back, then excuse himself from the crowd around him and head purposefully their way, Gabby found herself, for one of the few times in her life, feeling cross with Claire.

"We're so glad to see you," Claire trilled as Nick reached them. Smiling, she stood on tiptoe to peck his brown cheek, and he took her hands in his, twirling her around to admire her dress.

"Ravishing as always," he said with a smile.

"Thank you." Claire laughed up at him as he released her hands. Gabby caught herself looking baleful, and once again pinned a smile on her face. "We've been worried about you, Gabby especially. You really should not go off without letting us know."

He slanted a glance down at Gabby. "Obviously not."

The band struck up again.

Claire said, "Oh, dear, where is Mr. Newbury? It is his dance. Oh, there you are, Mr. Newbury. I'll talk to you later, Marcus, Gabby, Mr. Jamison."