Page 38 of Notorious

Gabriel frowned at his thoughts: Now was not the time to be thinking of such things. No, he should be thinking of his virgin wife and not the life he’d left behind.

Gabriel’s eyes flitted around the table. This was his life now; these people were his family—all the family that remained to him. Even before he’d fled Oran in disgrace, his war with Assad had scattered and divided their vast number of stepsiblings. There was nothing back there for him. He no longer had to tell himself that a dozen times a day, but the yearning for his old life still hit him—sometimes with a violence that took his breath away. Today made him think about the life he might have had—and the one he now faced.

Gabriel looked at his new wife. Her expression reminded him of the Sahara: one did not always see movement in the desert—not until it crept up and surprised you.

Chapter 8

Drusilla hadn’t seen inside the town house where she would live with her new husband. There simply hadn’t been time before the wedding. But her clothing and possessions had been packed, and Fletcher had taken care of moving everything.

The house wasn’t far from the huge mansion where she’d lived with her father, and then, after his death, with her Aunt Violet, who would now make her home with Drusilla, so she could see to her care.

Drusilla had been glad to leave the monstrosity, and the first instructions she would give to her man of business, now that the property was hers, was to sell the house and everything in it. The house had never been home. Indeed, her father had constantly built or purchased bigger houses as his wealth increased. A poor lad from St. Giles, he’d seemed to feel it was the only way to keep track of his progress.

Drusilla had hated all those cold, empty, cavernous houses. She immediately liked this cozy town house far better. It looked like many others from the outside, but within it was warm, intimate, and decorated with taste and elegance.

The ride from Exley House had taken only a few minutes, and she and Gabriel had hardly exchanged a word. She wondered if he was thinking about tomorrow morning. The wedding ceremony would have been strange enough in itself, but the overhanging threat of his duel—the complete unreality of eating, drinking, and celebrating when he might very well die tomorrow—had left her feeling as if she’d suffered a hard knock on the head.

A dozen servants waited inside the small foyer and trailed down a hallway that must lead to the kitchens. Drusilla recognized her two favorite footmen among the servants and reminded herself to thank Fletcher later for thinking of such matters.

“This is Parker and Mrs. Parker,” Gabriel said, introducing her to the man dressed in the sober suit of a butler and a woman swathed in black bombazine.

Mrs. Parker dropped a curtsy and Parker bowed low. “Welcome, Mrs. Marlington.”

“Thank you, Parker, Mrs. Parker.”

The butler introduced the members of Drusilla’s staff, but when Mrs. Parker opened her mouth—no doubt to offer to show her to her room—her husband spoke.

“I shall give Mrs. Marlington the tour,” Gabriel said, dismissing the servants. He turned to her. “It’s far smaller than what you are accustomed to, I’m sure.” He continued before she could offer any comment. “There’s a small parlor on this floor, behind the stairs, and the kitchens are down the corridor.”

He gestured toward the staircase that led up one side of the foyer, and Drusilla preceded him up the stairs.

On the second floor were a pretty blue sitting room, a small library already partially stocked with books, a dining room with an adjacent drawing room, a retiring room, and a study. The third floor held bedrooms.

Gabriel opened the door at the end of the hall. “This is the mistress’s quarters.” The rooms beyond were smaller than those at her father’s house, but they were beautifully decorated in shades of fawn, gold, and chocolate brown.

“And through here”—he went into her dressing room, which was already full of her possessions, and opened another door—“are my rooms.”

Drusilla peered into the room, but didn’t enter. It looked like a mirror image of hers, but decorated with dark green and antique gold. His valet was busy filling the drawers of a tallboy, but stopped and bowed.

“This is Drake, my valet. Drake, this is Mrs. Marlington.”

The valet uttered the correct pleasantries, and Gabriel shut the door, leading her back to her sitting room.

“You must be very tired,” he said, his own eyes shadowed.

Drusilla pulled off her gloves and tossed them onto the nearby table. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

He came to stand before her, close enough to put his hands on her shoulders. Drusilla started at his touch, and he immediately removed them.

“I wanted—”

“I didn’t—”

They both spoke at the same time, and then stopped, cutting each other embarrassed smiles.

“Please,” Drusilla said, feeling like a fool for jumping at the mere touch of his hands on the fabric of her dress. “What were you going to say?”

“I wanted to say that I hope we can both find happiness in our marriage. I’ll do everything in my power to make certain you do not regret your decision.” The look that accompanied this declaration was almost shy, and Drusilla recognized nothing of the arrogant young man in his hopeful expression.