Page 26 of Notorious

“Mr. Marlington’s grandfather is the Duke of Carlisle,” she said flatly.

“Oh,” the other man mumbled, looking a bit wild around the eyes.

Gabriel stared down at him, his brain not obeying his orders to focus; instead dozens of thoughts were zinging through his head. Most frequent were graphic suggestions as to what he should do to the man across from him for having the audacity to sit with his betrothed in public and fondle her hand.

Mr. Rowland was a slender man, and Gabriel knew he could break him in half without effort. The aggressive way he was eyeballing Gabriel demonstrated more clearly than words that while Drusilla might consider them merely friends, he had other ideas.

She gestured to one of the empty chairs around the table with an unsteady hand. “Won’t you sit with us?” Her face was as emotionless as ever, and Gabriel felt a sudden sense of heaviness, of... depression as he looked into eyes that left him feeling chilled. He would spend his life with a woman who had no emotion, no passion, and certainly no liking for him. On the contrary, here she sat the day before her wedding, holding hands with another man.

He almost laughed out loud: he would marry a woman in love with another and live out his days in a country where his face and name would forever make him an outcast.

Some part of his mind pointed out that he was behaving in a dramatic, self-pitying manner, and he shook himself and forced an appropriate expression onto his face.

“Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I cannot stay. I have business to attend to.” He gave her a significant look. “Wedding matters, you know.”

She inhaled sharply, but did not speak.

Gabriel dropped an abrupt bow. “I shall see you tonight at dinner, Miss Clare.” He didn’t bother speaking to the man but turned and left.

Once he was outside, he stood in the shop doorway and glanced left and then right. Now what the devil had he been doing? Where the hell had he been going? He cursed under his breath. Rather than look like an utter pillock, he turned left and continued on past the bow window, this time not looking inside.

He walked a good five streets before he recalled just what it was he was supposed to be doing. In his pockets were three gifts—two of them parting presents. He’d not given much thought to his amorous arrangements, but his mother—the nosiest and bossiest woman in the world—had cornered him early this morning after he’d finished speaking about settlements, dowries, and a dozen other matters with Drusilla’s three men of business. While it had been entertaining to stun the three men with his disinterest in her fortune, the exchange had still put him in a foul mood.

And then his mother had pounced on him the moment he’d returned to Exley House to discuss a few matters with his stepfather. She’d dragged him into the library, forced him into a chair, and then stared at him.

Gabriel had massaged his temples. “What is it, Mother?” he’d demanded when he could take it no longer. He’d been tired from lack of sleep, irritated from the mind-numbingly tedious meeting, and there were still a half-dozen matters to deal with—such as meeting with Viscount Byer to see if he’d received a visit from Visel’s second. But the duel was a far from his most pressing concern.

Namely, that he was filled with a sense of impending dread: he would soon be married. His life stretched before him, years and years of furtive couplings in dark rooms until she was breeding. Although he wondered what the point was? He was no scion of some great house in need of an heir. He was simply a man without a country who was now living on the bounty and charity of his family. He was—

“Jibril, you are not paying me any mind!”

He looked up to find the marchioness staring down at him. “Yes, Mother, I am here and listening. What is it?”

“You must discharge your mistresses.” Her eyebrows descended to form a surprisingly threatening frown. “All of them.”

Gabriel was a man of four and twenty, but his mother still had the power to rob him of breath. He could have ended the conversation right then if he’d disclosed that he’d already made up his mind on the matter. But that was none of her concern, and the last thing he wished to do was engage in an in-depth conversation with his mother about mistresses.

Instead he’d rested one glossy booted ankle on his knee and asked, “What do you know of such things?” But then he raised his hand in a halting gesture. “Never mind that question—I do not wish to know the answer. It is a testament to how exhausted I am that I would even ask such a foolish thing. No, the better question is, Why you have decided it is your place to broach this subject with me?”

She paced in front of his chair. “Because you are your father’s son and were raised with far different expectations from other English gentlemen, I have not commented on your amorous arrangements.”

Gabriel considered reminding her of the dozens of times she’d not only commented, but actively meddled, in his amorous arrangements, but he’d decided it would only prolong their conversation. So he clamped his jaws shut, letting her run her course.

“I’ve seen how women of all ages fling themselves at your head, so it does not surprise me that I hear of your exploits almost daily. Indeed, I believe you’ve almost charmed the ton with your shocking behavior, especially your notorious arrangement with the two French actresses.”

Gabriel examined his fingernails.

“You might have been raised with certain marital expectations, but you are English now.”

His jaw hardened and his head whipped up. Their gazes locked, but Gabriel did not speak. So she continued. “You cannot marry this young girl and maintain mistresses. It will crush her spirit and poison any chance you might have for happiness.”

His face heated, which only irritated him more. He raised his eyebrows in the haughty fashion he’d seen Exley employ to suppress pretention. “Rubbish, Mama. Englishmen keep mistresses all the time.”

Instead of being suppressed by his eyebrows, she whirled on him. “Tsst!” She grasped the arms of his chair and brought her face uncomfortably close to his, until he was pressed flat against the chairback. Her eyes were the most startling shade of green, far lighter than his own. It had always been difficult to look away from his mother when she focused her not-insignificant will on him.

“You must listen to me, Jibril.”

The fan of deep lines that radiated from her eyes caused an uncomfortable tightening in his chest: his mother was getting old. She’d been the cornerstone of his life—the one person to believe in him, to love him, and to support him, no matter what he did or how he failed—for as long as he had been alive. Hardly more than a child herself when she’d given birth to him, she had fought tooth and nail for him and she’d supported his goal of seizing his father’s faltering empire when the sultan had died. He loved his mother with all his heart. But he also knew she was the devil herself when it came to getting her way.