Page 41 of Notorious

And say what? Will you tell him the letter is not from Theo? Will you let him read it? Will you beg him to stay? Offer him your body? Tell him that you have been thinking about what would happen tonight for the last forty-eight hours? Perhaps even for the last five years? That you could have married Theo if you’d wanted, but instead you wanted him—a man who clearly wanted another woman, a beautiful, wealthy woman that he can now never have thanks to you? Is that what you will tell him, Drusilla?

She groaned, staring at the crumpled letter and cursing its sender. Why would Theo do such a thing? He must know she was married already and that this was her husband’s house. Why?

The letter felt heavy in her hands and the temptation to merely throw it in the fire was strong. But her fingers had a will of their own, and they broke the seal and exposed the contents.

* * *

Gabriel had not been this furious even when he’d been banging Visel’s head against the wall. How dare this Rowland creature send a letter to his wife on his wedding day?

You went to your mistress’s house the morning of your wedding, some bloody-minded voice in his head pointed out.

I went to see Samir, to explain why I would be scarce for the next few days.

Perhaps she is merely discussing yet another of her tedious charities with the man? Perhaps the letter is nothing more than a report on spending?

“Ha!” Gabriel wrenched open the door to his library, his vision red. “Then why the devil didn’t she just tell me so?”

His bellow startled a shriek out of a maid who was dusting a bookshelf, and she shot toward the door without being dismissed. Gabriel heard a soft click behind him as he went to stare out the window and impose some order on his chaotic thoughts.

The library looked out over a small garden, its flowers, hedges, and little winding path charming. The whole house was charming—not that he’d had anything to do with it. His stepfather had won the place in a card game, and then he’d proceeded to do what he always did: fix the property and either sell it, allow the family of the gambler a life estate, or lease it for some purpose or other.

Given the size of the dowry his wife had brought with her, they could have set up housekeeping anywhere short of St James’s Palace—although Prinny might even lease them that since he was pockets to let.

It was bad enough taking houses from his mother’s husband or an allowance or country estate from his grandfather. But taking money from a woman who hated him—and who might even have some lover waiting in the wings? No, that would be unbearable.

His fingers gripped the wide window frame until his knuckles whitened. He was behaving like a child. He knew in his gut that his bride was still an innocent and would not be unfaithful to him with another man—at least not physically. If anything was going on between her and the milksop she’d been sitting with in the tea shop, it was the sort of tragic, gothic tale the Minerva Press cranked out—and which his sisters adored.

He shouldn’t care what she was doing or whom she was doing it with, but he did.

“Blast and damn.” Gabriel closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He had no interest in living a life of turmoil and tension. Their union was permanent, and he was not a child to rail against reality. He would need to sit her down and try to find common ground—try to overlook their differences and find something in which they both shared an interest.

But not tonight. Tonight he was tired, impatient, and irritable. Bedding his virgin wife in his current condition would certainly lead to tears.

He turned from the window and went to his desk. Other than a pen knife, a few quills, and empty ink vials, there was only the leather-wrapped packet from his grandfather, His Grace of Carlisle.

He opened the deed, even though he’d stared at it for a good hour last night.

“This was a property that came to your grandmother through her mother,” the duke had explained when he’d spoken to Gabriel in Exley’s library last night after dinner. Even after five years, Gabriel was not quite sure what to make of his proud, distant grandfather. The Duke of Carlisle was a famous stickler for propriety whose sensibilities had taken a battering since the day his daughter returned to England six years earlier. Gabriel knew the duke couldn’t have been happy about his own appearance a year later: a bastard grandson with a notorious connection to corsairs But—and Gabriel had to credit the man—the duke had made certain he would never want for money or security.

“The estate is called Sizemore Manor—is between Exham Castle and London.” His Grace had given Gabriel one of his distant, wintery smiles. “So it will have the added advantage of being near the marchioness,” he said, seemingly unable to refer to his own daughter by her name. “And yet not too close.”

Gabriel had almost laughed at what the man had left unspoken. Yes, he loved his mother, but it would not do to live too close and have her constantly in his pocket, offering nonstop advice to him or, God help him, to his new wife.

The duke had continued, as unsmiling as ever. “It comes with a pretty piece of farmland which has always supported the property with some to spare. It has been unoccupied, although Abermarle has periodically stayed there during the summer.” The Marquess of Abermarle was Gabriel’s uncle, his mother’s only brother and the duke’s heir. He was a studious, bookish man who was a great disappointment to his father. The duke was a skilled rider to hounds, a crack shot, and a skilled political orator who was a close associate of the Regent and had long been part of the Carlton House set. His son, Cian, preferred solitude to socializing, history to hunting, and privacy to politics. Gabriel liked the quiet man, although he had spent very little time with him.

Gabriel unrolled the packet of information and studied it. There were drawings of the houses, additions, and outbuildings and also a survey of the land. It was near the coast but far enough inland to have plenty of fertile land worth farming. It was a modest-size manor house with perhaps ten thousand acres, most of it divided into tenant farms with a smallish plot reserved for the home farm.

A detailed plan of the property was included, and Gabriel felt a frisson of pleasure as he examined it. A stream, a small lake, even a little wooded area. It would be the perfect place for a boy to run wild. Samir could have a pony and explore and grow up without all the dangers Gabriel had faced as a boy: poison and assassination plots and the stomach-curdling jealousy of his half brothers’ mothers.

Yes, he could take a property like this and make even more of a success with it, just as he’d done for his father when the sultan sent him out to one of his holdings once he’d turned fifteen.

Gabriel could still recall the day he’d left home. His mother had been desolate and Gabriel, himself, had been more than a little concerned about leaving the only home he’d ever known. But leaving the palace and going to one of the Sultan’s palaces to prove himself was a sacred rite of passage for a royal heir.

And of course there had also been the lure of Fatima to ease his homesickness. Her family had once controlled the al-Kamat palace but her father had been relegated to acting as the sultan’s vizier after Abdul Hassan had seized the property over a decade earlier.

Al-Kamat was where Gabriel had been when his father died and Assad assumed the sultanate. Gabriel had been lucky to escape with his life when Assad made a secret deal with Fatima’s father: the return of his palace and lands for his support against the sultan’s chosen heir. And his daughter’s hand, even though Fatima had already been promised to Gabriel.

Gabriel had been over one hundred miles away from Oran when his friends—the men who’d supported him since he was a boy—sent a small contingent to tell him of his father’s death and his mother’s disappearance and to help him to safety. His life had changed forever that night, but he hadn’t known the full extent of those changes until weeks later. His sixteen-year-old self had been arrogant to a fault, believing all he had to do was return to Oran and summon his people—that they would rise up and support him without question.