The Wife He Always Wanted (4 page)

* * *

G
abe bathed then carried a rickety chair to the bedside and gingerly lowered himself onto the scarred surface. Sarah’s breathing evened in sleep as he watched her in the dim light, trying to forget the image of her thin and naked body cast in firelight.

He felt like a cad for experiencing lust while she grieved. His arrival had opened the wound of her loss, and all he could think about, as he assisted her with her bath, was how her long hair had draped over her breasts, tempting him to look at places on her body where he ought not to look.

Despite a valiant attempt to keep his gaze positioned from the neck up, he’d failed to control his baser thoughts, as men often do when confronted with a flash of creamy bosom. The fact that she’d been fully unclothed had been his downfall.

His wife was painfully thin. The hint of her rib cage showed beneath her skin. He imagined her dying of starvation in that dreadful cottage, and buried without a family to grieve her passing.

Anger burned in him for all she’d suffered.

Yet, despite his misgivings over whether the marriage would work, there was something about her that drew him to her. Perhaps it was the desire to be her savior. Perhaps it was something more primal. When she looked at him with those lovely eyes of hers, something deep inside him tugged at his emotions.

When bathing her, his cock had stirred under the buckskin. For a woman so tightly bound up in prim propriety, who’d not even wanted to remove her gown on their wedding night, he’d realized over the last hour that she had the makings of an innocent temptress, with her white skin and perfect breasts.

If he could get her fed and in decent clothing.

A grin broke through his sober musings. Seeing her in her altogether had changed everything. She was no longer just Albert’s young sister. She was his
wife
.

He’d find a way to shake her free of those years of misfortune and teach her that life was not always grim. That fun could be discovered outside of her overgrown patch of land and her dreadful cottage.

Hell, there were many things he wanted to discover about his wife. Did she have a long-buried sense of humor? Truthfully, he wasn’t entirely convinced she had all the teeth required for a proper smile. He’d only seen a hint of them as she chewed.

Did she dance? Flirt? Have any article of clothing that did not strangle her about the neck?

The first matter to contend with once arriving home would be to burn her wardrobe and give his mother the task of refitting Sarah with gowns that did not offend his eyes when he looked upon them.

It would be a large step forward in breaking through the protective layer surrounding his too-proper bride.

Gabe drew his eyes down her covered form and back up to focus on the hint of exposed skin just above the high lace of her gown, and just below her left ear. She’d likely die of fright if he dared nibble the spot.

Grinning, he decided to forgo a trip down to the tavern below and instead sat in the chair, closed his eyes, and fell asleep with visions of her delightful breasts dancing across his thoughts.

Chapter Three

S
arah awoke with tear-swollen eyes and a defeated disposition. A glance confirmed Gabriel was still sleeping, so she forced herself from the bed, taking the reprieve to right her appearance. She had to look a fright.

Pressing a tepid washcloth to her face, she looked back at the bed. Sometime during the night, her bear of a husband had joined her, dressed in his breeches, on the lumpy mattress.

Her life had taken a downward spiral since the death of her father all those many years ago. With Gabriel’s arrival, her tenuous hold on her emotions had finally broken, and she’d cried for her losses all over his dusty white shirt.

Despite having married, she had no one. Not really. She knew nothing of this man, or his family. He’d told her the Harringtons were wealthy, but it could be the ramblings of a braggart. The family might well be pickpockets or housebreakers. Despite the note, was he truly a friend of her brother, or a stranger taking advantage of her plight? Dressed as he was, it was impossible to tell what sort of man was this Gabriel Harrington.

Uncertainties weighed on this the third day of her marriage that had not been there the day before yesterday when she’d gone willingly off to the parson. Was solving the mystery of her father’s death worth the sacrifice of tying herself forever to this stranger?

Perhaps once she had her answers, he could be convinced to send her back to the cottage, with a small income, enough to let her live comfortably for the rest of her life.

“You will wear down your skin with so much scrubbing,” came Gabriel’s voice from the bed. “Perhaps you should cease before you hit bone.”

Sarah frowned and dropped the cloth in the basin. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“I find sleep less appealing than watching my wife complete her morning toilet.”

A flush warmed her skin. She ignored the comment.

“Hmm.” Despite her concerns about pickpockets and thieves, his voice bore the aristocratic tone of many generations of good breeding. This was a good sign. She’d rather not be married to a thief. “How many hours until we reach London?”

While awaiting his answer, she pulled her second-nicest dress from her valise. She’d done her best to keep her clothing well tended. Still the cloth of this faded blue day dress bordered on threadbare, and she could do nothing about it except hope it did not tear when she bent over.

She prayed Gabriel’s family would not judge her too harshly when she arrived at their door dressed as a peasant.

“Three hours if the roads are decent.” He rolled from the bed and padded over to her, his odd breeches hung low on his hips. His eyes skimmed over the dress. “You need a new wardrobe.”

Jerking her eyes from the thin trail of dark hair that ran from his navel to disappear a short distance below, she scowled.

“I barely had food enough to eat. New gowns were a luxury I could not afford.” She handed him the dress and he helped her pull it down over her head. The intimacy of the act was not lost on her when his fingertips brushed along her skin. This stranger was her husband. Forever and always.

Gabriel laced the gown. “Tending to you will be my first act once I have regained access to my allowance.”

Scanning his face, she wrinkled her nose. “Your first act should be finding a valet with a razor.”

He reached to tug at his beard and smirked. “My own mother won’t recognize me.” He looked down at his clothing. “It’s been years since I was a dandy. I’m no longer certain what’s considered fashionable. Mother will be charged with dressing us both from the skin out.”

A lump formed in her stomach. “What will your mother think of me? You’ve gone off on your adventures and returned with a shabby bride in tow. She certainly will not be happy.”

In her mind, she pictured his mother as a judgmental and sour-faced society matron who would live to make Sarah miserable.

He met her eyes in the mirror. “My mother will be both thrilled to have me home and pleased that I am settled. You could be a Mayan high priestess straight from the jungle of the Amazon and she’d find something about you that she liked.”

“I am not convinced of that.” Sarah stepped away and picked up her brush. She knew that any mother of lofty stature would want a wellborn wife for her son.

“We shall see,” he said.

Gabriel whistled as he cleaned his teeth. In half an hour, they were ready. After a quick breakfast, they climbed into the mail coach and began the last three hours of their journey.

* * *

L
ondon was all Sarah expected . . . and worse. It was dirty and loud and crowded as people hawked their wares from carts parked on the streets, or from baskets hanging from elbows. She leaned for a better look out of the window of the hackney Gabriel had hired to take them from the last coach stop into the city. She watched in horror as a woman dumped the contents of a small chamber pot out a second-story window onto the street below.

She shuddered. “Lord, save me,” she muttered. London was a horrible, horrid place.

Gabriel chuckled. “Before you leap from the coach and race back to your cottage, please note that in Mayfair servants do not dump their chamber pots into the streets.”

“And you expect me to be grateful for that one small consideration?” She glanced at him. “How can you breathe here? There is soot everywhere.”

“We are passing through Whitechapel, love,” he said. “I promise cleaner air the closer we get to my home.”

Gabriel was correct. The last part of the drive changed from dirty air and unwashed everything to tree-lined streets and houses big enough to engulf her tiny cottage.

Sarah watched in awe as they passed a house so large that it had to rival a palace. She gawked. “I have never seen the like,” she said as she leaned forward for a better view. Hope rose for the first time since they began this journey. This neighborhood was much improved from that awful Whitechapel.

“That is Collingwood House, home of the Duke and Duchess of Stanfield.” He peered out his window to admire the huge stone façade. “From my mother’s letters, I understand I am now kin to the duke through a long-lost cousin.”

Dropping back on her seat, Sarah stared aghast. “Please tell me you are jesting.” She ran her hands over her faded skirt. She was a country mouse, married into a family that included a duke. Could her life get any more worrisome?

“I am not. It’s true.” He took her hand. “Breathe, Sarah. You are turning blue.”

Within minutes, the hackney stopped and the driver descended to open the door. He leveled a second disbelieving glance at Gabriel and his odd attire. “The home of Lord and Lady Seymour, sir.”

“Thank you, good man.” Gabriel climbed down and turned to help Sarah alight. Though not as grand as Collingwood House, the property was lovely. Too lovely. If not for Gabriel’s hand on her arm, she might have finally succumbed to her anxiety and fled into hiding.

Gabriel paid the driver and led her toward the door. Her scuffed slippers were lead filled.

“I cannot do this. I cannot,” she said weakly as her throat closed up. Her world tilted in a rush of panic.

* * *

G
abriel squeezed her fingers tightly, enough to cause some discomfort, and her eyes cleared. He hadn’t realized just how intimidated she was about meeting his family until this moment. “I can carry you in, dearest, if you please,” he offered and was rewarded with a frown.

“You will not.” She lifted her chin, righted her bonnet, and squared her shoulders. “I will meet my mother-in-law while standing, thank you.”

For a timid young woman, she did occasionally show a bit of pluck. Pluck that did not extend to the trembling hand clutched tightly to his arm like a vise.

Further comments were left unsaid as the door opened after a single rap. Busby stood in the opening, the butler a bit older and grayer than Gabe remembered. As he looked down his nose, it took just a blink before the servant’s eyes widened when he looked Gabe over.

Gabe kept his face bland as the man raked a bemused gaze over his scruffy face and woodsman’s clothing.

The normally unruffled butler was clearly put off his feet. He stood and stared, appearing unsure of how to proceed when the town house was besieged by a ruffian.

“Deliveries are made in the back.” He pointed in that direction. “You can find your way.”

“I cannot believe you don’t recognize me, Busby. Have I been away that long?”

The butler’s eyes widened further until they nearly popped out of his head. “Master Gabriel?”

“None other.”

The butler let out a funny sound and grabbed Gabe by the shoulders. “I cannot believe it’s true.” Hazel eyes scanned Gabe’s face before the butler pulled him into his arms.

Gabe thumped the older man on the back. “It is grand to be home, Busby. I’ve missed your scowls and scolds.” He released the butler and lifted his eyes to the staircase when the sound of skirts swished from above.

Kathleen Harrington, Lady Seymour, stood at the railing, peering curiously down at the commotion. She was as he remembered. Gabe’s heart danced. Lud, he’d missed his mother. More than he’d imagined possible.

“Busby, call for the footman and chase this vermin off the stoop before he infests our pantry with lice.”

Gabe heard Sarah gasp behind him, but his eyes were on his beautiful mother. She hadn’t aged a day since he saw her last.

“I should have known the beard would not keep you from recognizing me,” he said, grinning.

“A mother knows her son, even when he’s dressed as a savage.” With that, Mother lifted her hem and raced down the stairs. “Gabriel.” She threw herself into his open arms and laughed joyously. “I missed you so, my errant son.” Gabe lifted her up and spun her around.

“I’ve missed you, Mama.”

For the next minute or two, his mother went from happy to exasperated to happy again as she groused over his long absence and thanked the Lord that he was home. It was only when Busby cleared his throat that Gabe remembered Sarah standing quietly in the still-open doorway.

“Mother, there is someone you need to meet.” He took his mother by the hand and led her to Sarah. “Lady Kathleen Seymour, this is Mrs. Sarah Harrington. My wife.”

* * *

A
flicker of surprise crossed Lady Seymour’s lovely—and not at all dour or pinched—face. Still, the woman managed not to shriek out her disbelief, lament her son’s poor judgment, or faint. Instead she calmly took Sarah’s measure with her eyes and then nodded stiffly.

“I see.”

I see? That was all? Sarah wasn’t entirely convinced that she wouldn’t prefer at least a small bit of shrieking from the countess. The calmness portrayed by the Lady was unnerving. She gave no hint of her thoughts. This terrified Sarah more than the railing of an outraged mother would.

Sarah curtsied. “A pleasure, My Lady.”

A second reserved nod followed. Clearly Lady Seymour was in stunned disbelief. There was no other plausible explanation for her lack of emotion.

Gabriel stood silently, offering no help from his quarter, though he did appear amused by the exchange, or lack thereof. Obviously the Lady was dumbstruck by the arrival of both her long-missing son and his tattered new wife.

Sarah watched for signs of a faint in the making, but the Lady did not look like a fainter.

If not for a small frown settled upon her wayward son, she was a stone.

Finally, Lady Seymour reached out a hand. “Welcome, Mrs. Harrington. Come, I will show you to your room.”

With slight hesitation, Sarah took the offered hand and the countess tucked it under her arm. Side by side, Sarah suspected they resembled a queen and a pauper.

Sarah glanced back at Gabriel, silently beseeching him to intervene. Instead, he smiled and said nothing. At that moment, she despised her husband. He’d thrown her under a carriage and would not offer rescue.

“How did you meet my son?” the Lady asked softly. She’d finally found her voice and the inquisition had begun.

“He was a friend of my brother, Albert. They met during their travels, as I believe Gabriel wrote to you in his letters,” Sarah answered honestly. “Albert died in America, and Gabriel felt the need to inform me personally of his passing. The information came a bit late, for I already knew. What I didn’t know was that my brother had betrothed me to Gabriel. His arrival at my cottage with
that
news took me by surprise.”

“When did you wed?” They started up the marble staircase.

“Three days ago.”

“And how long have you known Gabriel?” The Lady turned them right at the top of the stairs.

“Three days.” She briefly explained to the countess about her home, her situation, and their nonexistent courtship.

Lady Seymour’s steps faltered and she stopped. She quickly caught herself and turned to face Sarah. Her eyes were troubled but not unkind. “Do you love my son?”

Sarah had a choice. The truth or a lie. The truth was easier to manage. If Gabriel had wanted her to fib about their grand love affair, he should not have left her alone with his mother. “I do not know your son well enough to form an opinion one way or another.”

This brought a small smile. “You are honest, Sarah. May I call you Sarah? We stand on a shocking lack of formality in this household.”