Page 162 of The Wallflower Takes All
At half past one, Gabriel sat behind his desk in his office with Lord Caldermere’s name written at the top of a clean sheet of paper and could not bring himself to dip his quill into the ink.
The page ought not have troubled him.
It was paper. Nothing more. And he had a job to do.
If Poppy accepted Caldermere’s offer, the contract would need to be prepared. Her interests must be protected as fully as possible. Lady Viva’s maintenance must be secured in writing, rather than entrusted to any generosity Caldermere might feel once his attention returned elsewhere. Poppy must have funds settled upon her separately, along with terms clear enough that no future disagreement could be softened into ambiguity merely because a marquess preferred his life undisturbed.
This was work Gabriel understood…work at which he excelled.
He ought to begin.
Instead, he sat motionless while the clock ticked above the mantel and Lord Caldermere’s name stared back at him with intolerable composure.
Caldermere required a wife for appearances and succession. In return, he would offer Poppy comfort, position, and the freedom to look away from the woman who already held his heart.
A bleak arrangement, perhaps. But not an unusual one.
More importantly, Caldermere could give her everything Gabriel could not. Rank. Fortune. Protection from the ridicule that would follow if she married beneath her. A household grand enough to absorb Lady Viva’s extravagance without strain.
But there was more than that.
Gabriel had spent years believing that carelessness invited loss. Wanting something too fiercely, reaching for it before one had counted the cost, could destroy what one loved. His own mother had left behind friends, position, and the life she had known for his father. Gabriel had never forgotten what she had been required to leave behind.
That same fear had poisoned his own offer. Poppy had told him plainly that his proposal had failed.
He had offered duty when she wanted trust. Protection when she wanted partnership. He had spoken of what he could provide and never once managed to make her believe he understood what she was choosing.
The failure of it sat heavily with him.
Never in his life had he wished more keenly for his father’s easy understanding of people. Gabriel could draft an agreement precise enough to withstand any challenge, untangle the most complicated estate, and find order in a page of impossible figures. Yet when it came to the only woman he had ever loved, he could not seem to find the words that would keep her from slipping beyond his reach.
Would she decide tenderness was a poor exchange for shelter? Would she accept Caldermere because Gabriel had made love sound like another obligation to be managed?
He had no right to prevent her. Yet he could not banish the fear that one day she would look at the life she had surrendered for him and wish she had chosen differently. That every cramped room, every slight from Society, every sacrifice made for Lady Viva would gather between them until affection thinned beneath the weight of it.
He loved her. But he had learned long ago that love was no safeguard against loss.
Before the thought could tighten further around him, a knock sounded at the office door.
Gabriel did not look up. “Come in.”
The door opened.
Lord Pembroke entered first, broad-shouldered, green-eyed, and visibly prepared to strike something if reason proved insufficient. Lord Vanover followed with his usual controlled elegance, his clever gaze sharp enough to reduce most parliamentary opponents to stammering.
Gabriel set down the quill he had not used. “This is unexpected.”
“Good,” Pembroke said. “I dislike being predictable.”
Vanover glanced at the paper on Gabriel’s desk. “Caldermere?”
Gabriel resisted the urge to turn the page over. “You are both acquainted with the concept of privacy, I presume.”
“Intimately,” Vanover replied. “Marriage, however, has altered its application.”
Pembroke crossed his arms. “Our wives sent us.”
Gabriel nodded. “That much I had gathered.”
