Page 85 of Notorious

The older lady was too ill to travel and Drusilla knew she wouldn’t wish to leave England even if she could. Her aunt was visibly excited about moving to Bath at the end of the Season. So that would mean Drusilla would need to leave alone. It was not ideal, but the option was available—if things became too unbearable.

Thanks to Gabriel’s generosity with their marriage contract, she was in full control of all but a portion of her money—the money set aside for any children.

Children.

Even if she remained in England, it was likely they would never have children. At least not together.

She pressed her cool hands to her hot cheeks but did not slow her pacing.

Was she jealous he had an illegitimate child? Drusilla had examined her conscience on the question at least a hundred times. The answer, she was sure, was no. That had relieved her—it would have been unbearable if she’d been petty enough to blame an innocent little boy for his situation. She was, however, angry at Gabriel and the irresponsibility of his action. His son would have to bear the stigma of illegitimacy his entire life.

Drusilla knew how Gabriel struggled with the label in England. Of course, he’d been something of a prince in his own country—surely where this child had been conceived—so probably the specter of illegitimacy had not been an issue. Besides, his father had been a sultan—the ruler of his people. No doubt it was like England, where it was prestigious to be the bastard child of a king.

She could never be happy that Gabriel had had many other lovers and had even had a child by one. But the fact that he could believe she would take out her anger on an innocent child? That she would believe the boy should be raised anywhere but with his father? What kind of monster did he think she was?

Drusilla stopped in front of her dressing room mirror and stared at her reflection, searching for whatever it was in her face that would make him believe she could act so cruelly toward a child.

All she saw was a woman with purple circles beneath her eyes from lack of sleep. Her pale skin—skin he had praised as beautiful—broadcast her exhaustion as plainly as a torch on a moonless night.

But that wasn’t all.

Nasty thoughts pushed up like weeds between cobbles: What about the rest of what he said, Drusilla? What about that? What about those two mistresses who must have the boy right now? What does a man do with two women at one time . . .

“Oh, stop!” she cried, slumping onto the padded bench in front of her dressing table and dropping her head into her hands. It ate at her that he would not introduce her to his son, that he would keep the child with . . . Drusilla could not say the words out loud even though the women were indelibly etched in her mind after the play she’d been forced to watch. Jealousy and anger surged again at the thought of being forced to watch his mistresses. She told herself it was not his fault—he’d not been the one to arrange the evening. It had been the Duke of Tyndale. The thought should have calmed her, but her anger was joined by hurt, and that was much harder to forget or ignore.

She could not live this way. If he planned on flaunting his multitudinous affairs, she would—

“Drusilla?”

She looked up to find Gabriel standing in the opening, dressed for dinner. She must have been so distracted she’d not even heard him come in.

“I knocked, but there was no answer.” He sounded as emotionless as he looked. “Are you ready?”

She stood, her legs watery. “Could we take just a moment?”

He hesitated, but then stepped back and gestured to his room. Drusilla followed him though the dressing room, bedchamber, and into his study. It was very similar to hers, but decorated in soothing shades of brown and forest green. Two overstuffed leather chairs faced each other in front of the dormant fireplace.

“Please, sit.”

Her pulse was pounding in her throat and she hoped he did not see it. “I wanted to explain something to you.”

He raised his eyebrows and crossed one black pantaloon-sheathed leg over the other.

“It is about Mr. Rowland.”

His lips tightened, but he did not speak.

“I did not know he was coming last night.” She chewed her bottom lip. “I had forgotten all about the message he sent the night of our”—she broke off—“well, the message he sent the night we were married. I’m afraid that with everything else, it slipped my mind.” She ignored his skeptical look and rushed on. “The message was still in my dressing gown.” Drusilla held the paper, which she’d folded into a tiny rectangle, in her palm and offered it to him. “Please, read it.”

While he unfolded and read the letter, Drusilla smoothed her skirt. The gown was one of her favorites, although it was nothing particularly special. The color, a pearly off-white, was accented with a navy-blue sash that ran beneath her breasts, somehow managing to make them look far less conspicuous. It was probably old-fashioned and too modestly cut, but she believed it suited her generous figure.

She heard paper rustling and looked up to see him refolding the letter.

“When I found and read the letter, I sent him one in return—a letter saying I forgave him, but that he should no longer send me messages or attempt to meet me in private.” She swallowed, needing to prepare for this next part. “Apparently he was anxious that he’d not received a response. So he came here last night and delivered a note to Thomas and then waited in the garden.” She took a deep breath and exhaled. “I told him the same thing I said in my letter. Additionally, I told him it would be better if he left the group entirely. He asked to attend one more meeting and then agreed he would leave.”

Gabriel handed her the letter, his face still shuttered.

Drusilla could not tolerate the silence, the suspicion, no matter that she might deserve it.