M Is for Marquess (9 page)

He supposed he’d developed a prejudice against the medical profession. As physicians went, he could find no fault with Abernathy, who seemed learned and had more common sense than most. But Gabriel had no intention of subjecting Freddy to further indignities. The cycle of hope and disappointment was too much for a child to bear. Or even an adult.

He must be kept away from others.
Sylvia’s decision had been weighted with finality
. For his own good and for ours.

He fought back a sudden, unexamined swell of emotion. He told himself that Sylvia had wanted what was best—for all of them. Her well-bred nature made it difficult to acknowledge imperfections, and when they couldn’t be fixed, she avoided them or swept them under the carpet.

Out of sight, out of mind.
Closed doors and brief, scheduled visits with one’s child. That philosophy had worked well for her.

Guilt gnawed at him. He had no cause to think ill of Sylvia, who’d only wanted peace and harmony, a civilized existence for all of them. His grip tightening on his fork, he blamed his reaction on stress. After all, a murderous spy was on the loose—one who was most likely a former associate of Gabriel’s, a treacherous double agent. His son had nearly been kidnapped and suffered another falling spell. And the woman who starred in his nightly fantasies, whose delicate sensuality had been driving him mad
for months, was acting as if he didn’t exist.

A man could only take so much. He couldn’t have Thea for a lover, but he found the idea of them being enemies repugnant. Clearing his throat, he fished for an opening.

“Er, how do you find the asparagus, Miss Kent?” he said.

Her head turned slightly in his direction. Her hair had been simply and elegantly dressed, the chandelier’s glow burnishing her honey brown curls. A pair of tortoiseshell combs held those luxuriant tresses in place, and, for an instant, he allowed himself to imagine plucking out those impediments and feeling the silken weight sliding over his palms.

That’s a husband’s privilege, you bastard—one you’ll never know.

Her brows raised. “You care to have my opinion, my lord?”

He winced. He deserved that.

“You must know I do,” he muttered. “If I have given you reason to doubt that, then I must ask your forgiveness.”

She said nothing, lifting a bite-sized chunk of asparagus to her mouth. The green spear slid smoothly between her coral lips, releasing another debauched image: of her on her knees, taking him that way. Of her eyes, sultry gold, looking up at him as her mouth sweetly received his throbbing length…

A shudder travelled through him. He reached for his wine glass.

She finished chewing. “The truth is, I find it rather hard to swallow.”

He choked on his beverage. “Er, I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t like to waste time and effort on something that ought to be simple,” she said calmly. “Food, like company, ought to be easy and comforting rather than a challenge to enjoy.”

Touché. Unfortunately, he was still preoccupied by the outrageously erotic notion of her swallowing what he yearned to give her. Of her willingly submitting to one of his favorite pleasures.
God’s teeth.
His napkin tented in his lap; if he got any more aroused, he’d be butting the underside of the table.

“Is something wrong with the asparagus?” Looking puzzled, the duchess sampled some from her plate.

“Don’t worry, darling. It tastes fine to me. Then again,” Strathaven said, “there’s no accounting for a person’s appetite. Or lack thereof.”

The duke flicked an amused glance between Gabriel and Miss Kent.

At least
someone
was enjoying himself, Gabriel thought irritably.

“Take Tremont, for instance,” his host went on. “He’s abstemious by nature.”

“Perhaps he just doesn’t like asparagus.” Turning to him, Her Grace said, “Would you care for a different vegetable? I’m sure Cook could whip something up.”

“Thank you, Duchess, but I like asparagus,” he said quietly. “I like it very much indeed.”

Thea’s thick gold-tipped lashes lifted. She cast a pointed glance at his plate. “If that is the case, then why have you left it untouched?”

Because my demands would scare you witless. I want to chain you to my bed, have my way with you day and night. And I want you to love it.

“Just because one likes a thing doesn’t mean one should have it,” he said.

Her shoulders stiffened in their frame of blue silk.

“It’s just asparagus,” the duchess said, clearly befuddled. “How much harm can come from indulging in a vegetable, for goodness’ sake?”

Strathaven, the bastard, looked like he was trying not to laugh. Picking up his wife’s hand, he kissed the knuckles. “Have I told you lately how much I adore you?”

This distracted the duchess and gave Gabriel the opportunity to say in an undertone, “May I ask for your forgiveness? I apologize for my churlish behavior earlier. I know you meant well—”

“Frederick is your son, my lord, and I’m sure you know best.” Thea dissected a potato into neat pieces. Perhaps as she’d like to do to him. “I won’t volunteer my opinion in the future.”

But he wanted her opinion. Wanted much more…

You can’t bloody have her. Pull it together, man.

Jaw taut, he said, “Whatever you believe, Miss Kent, I do wish for us to be friends.”

The hurt that shimmered in her hazel eyes cut him more deeply than her anger had. “I’ve come to the conclusion that friendship is not possible between us.”

“Why not? You must know that I admire you.” It was paramount to him that, if naught else, she knew that much. “The fault lies entirely with me.”

“It’s not me, it’s you?” she scoffed.

“It’s the truth. Miss Kent—Thea,” he said in a low voice, “I could not admire you more.”

A pulse fluttered at her throat. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done, and we must move forward.” Her lips fixed in a bright smile that told him they were under scrutiny again. “With the end of the Season fast approaching, I am certain you are as busy as I am.”

He did have plenty to do, although not the sort of social obligations she was referring to. He had three old colleagues to investigate and a turncoat to identify. Then he had to eliminate the problem—and avenge the deaths of Octavian, Marius, and all the other good men who’d been betrayed by the double agent who’d hidden himself—or herself—behind the guise of the Spectre.

Cicero, Pompeia, and Tiberius were all currently in London, which made Gabriel’s task easier. Direct confrontation would only put them on guard, so he’d called upon old contacts, setting eyes and ears on all three. He didn’t expect much to come out of the surveillance, however. From past experience, he knew that the former agents were too careful and cunning to reveal any misdeeds. Thus, he also planned to perform a clandestine search of his ex-comrades’ private domains. To find solid proof that one of them was the Spectre.

“Speaking of busy, I do hope your costume arrives in time, Thea,” the duchess said.

“Costume?” Gabriel said.

“The Blackwood’s annual masquerade. It’s tomorrow night,” Strathaven said. “Join us, if you’d like.”

It was, Gabriel thought grimly, the rare occasion when Fate was smiling upon him. A costume ball would make his plan so much simpler: he could walk into his enemy’s territory through the bloody front door. Conveniently disguised, he could carry out his covert plans during a public affair. The perfect opportunity.

“I have a few appointments, but I might drop by later,” he said.

“Excellent. You can help with escorting duties,” Strathaven said. “I’ll be outnumbered by the ladies.”

“As if you’ve ever complained about that,” the duchess teased. Turning to her sister, she said, “What last minute changes did Madame Rousseau have to make? I can’t imagine there were many. The swan ensemble was perfect for you.”

The vision unfurled in Gabriel’s head: Thea, resplendent in a pure white gown trimmed with feathers. She was every bit a swan. Graceful, delicate, so very lovely.

“We came up with a few new ideas. You’ll see tomorrow,” she said.

Small talk continued, and a wall of politeness once again descended between the two of them. After supper, the duchess suggested that her sister play a few tunes on the pianoforte. Gabriel sat there, riveted by Thea’s lithe lines, her elegant movements. Her music wove a spell over his senses, each note penetrating deeper and deeper through the layers he’d built, excavating artifacts of shame and desire…

The years lying alone in his bed, the closed door of his marriage. The agony of unreciprocated desire, the need that no amount of brandy or frigging could ease. The urge bled into the shadowy rooms of a club, the discreet sanctuary where his darkest pleasures could be unleashed.
I’ve been a naughty slave, milord. Punish me.
Ram me harder, fuck me…

As Miss Kent’s slender hands stroked the keys to a crescendo, the dark yearning in him strained, yanking on its tether. He knew it would need to be satisfied soon, and yet the idea of paying a visit to Corbett’s didn’t seem like much of a solution. Since becoming a widower, he’d gone to the exclusive club on occasion, but he knew from experience that any relief he obtained would be fleeting. There, he would find release but no peace. The depraved games were a mockery of what he truly wanted; in the end, fucking would relieve his lust but leave him cold and empty. The trading of one beast for another.

At the end of the performance, Strathaven suggested withdrawing for port and cigars, and Gabriel accepted with relief. Fleeing was not the most honorable way of dealing with trouble, but at times it was the most prudent. Miss Kent was an unholy temptation. If he wasn’t careful, his dark desires would break free—and lead to consequences that he wasn’t prepared to face.

Chapter Nine

“They weren’t talking about the asparagus, were they?” Emma said as her husband entered her bedchamber from the adjoining door.

Alaric came to the vanity where she was sitting, finishing her evening ablutions. Looking sinfully virile in his black silk robe, he bent and kissed her cheek, his familiar woodsy scent sending a pleasant shiver up her spine. Over a year of marriage and it still amazed her that this gorgeous, dark-haired devil was all hers.

He took the silver brush from her hands. In the looking glass, his pale green eyes were lit with amusement. “I’m afraid the discussion had nothing to do with vegetables, my love.”

“Dash it all, I
knew
it.” Subtlety had never been her strong point, yet even she had sensed the smoldering subtext. “Why can’t Tremont leave Thea alone?”

“Are you certain she wishes to be left alone?”

“After the way he deserted her earlier this Season, I should hope so,” she said indignantly.

“I thought nothing happened between them?”

“According to Thea—but she can be as closed as a clam when she wants to be.” Worry gnawed at Emma as she thought of her gentle, sweet sister being subjected to Tremont’s whims.
Again.
“Something’s afoot. He was apologizing to her—what for, I wonder?”

Alaric ran the brush through her hair, and in spite of her agitation, her neck arched in pleasure. Her husband’s touch was magical. His firm yet gentle strokes soothed and set off tingles at the same time.

“You mustn’t meddle, darling,” he said mildly. “Neither Tremont or your sister is likely to thank you for it.”

Emma hated that he had a point. She didn’t particularly care what Tremont thought, but the last thing she wanted was to upset Thea. That was the dashed difficult thing about family: even when one knew best, sometimes one had to refrain from interfering.

“I don’t know what Thea sees in Tremont anyway. They don’t suit. She’s gentle and lovely, and he’s a cold fish.” She huffed out a breath. “If he wasn’t dealing with an attempted kidnapping and an ill child, I’d give him a piece of my mind for how he has treated her.”

“You’re being very charitable, pet,” her husband said drolly. “As it happens, I agree with you on one thing: Tremont has enough on his plate as it is.”

“Hmm. There’s more going on than meets the eye. Why is he so adamant about refusing the help of Kent and Associates? Suspicious, if you ask me.” Emma narrowed her eyes. “He’s hiding something. And I don’t believe for a second that the governess was only after money.”

“Your feminine intuition at work?”

“My sense of
logic
. If the governess intended to ransom a child, why pick Tremont’s? His fortune may be improving, but he’s no Croesus. There are plenty of richer, more powerful men—you, for instance.”

Alaric’s lips twitched. “Tremont’s ears are probably burning. But you do have a point.” He paused mid-stroke. “Maybe the governess simply assumed Tremont is plump in the pocket.”

“A woman like that isn’t going to assume anything. If I were to go to the trouble of kidnapping a child, I’d make certain it was worth my while.”

“What a mercenary thing you are. Is that why you married me?”

“I don’t give a fig about your money, and you know it. Stop fishing for compliments,” she said, “and tell me what you and Tremont talked about over port.”

Alaric’s eyes gleamed at hers in the mirror. “What is discussed in the study stays in the study. First rule of gentlemen.”

“Surely wives are exempt from that rule,” she protested.

“Wives are the
reason
for that rule. Sorry, love, my lips are sealed.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “You won’t tell me anything?”

He set the brush down on the vanity with undue care. “A lot of time has passed since our Oxford days, and we were cronies for only a short time before he left his studies to work for some wealthy relative abroad. I don’t know what he was up to in all those intervening years, but whatever it was, it changed him. I suspect he has more than a few skeletons rattling in his closet.” Alaric’s lips twisted. “Takes one to know one, I suppose.”

Not wanting her husband to linger in the darkness of his own past, Emma placed her hand atop his. “You rid yourself of your skeletons.”

“With your help, yes.” He lifted her hand to his lips.