To Love a Lord (8 page)

As the lady stumbled away from him, Gabriel touched his nose. He winced. By God, too many counts in a ring against Gentleman Jackson himself and never broken, but then with one dangerously wicked right jab, the lady had broken his nose. Belatedly, he registered the sickly warm trickle of blood. Gabriel yanked his kerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his nose glaring at Jane over the rapidly staining fabric. The lady continued retreating, her pallor white. “Bloody hell.” He winced at the pain of his own touch. What companion learned to handle herself in that impressive manner? If he’d not already sworn to have her gone, and then violated the unspoken vow to never dally with those in his employ, he’d have hired her on as a companion if for no other reason than the certainty that Chloe would be well-cared for in her capable, if violent, hands.

*

Jane pressed her hands to her lips. Her well-kissed lips. Oh, bloody hell, she’d hit him. The marquess withdrew a kerchief from his pocket and then snapped open the stark white linen. Horror filled her as a splash of crimson stained that immaculate fabric. “I—” That strangled word caught in her throat, as she recalled the last man she’d hit and the consequences of that violent, but deservedly violent, outburst. She’d been cast out of her employer’s home and scuttled off to Mrs. Belden’s. But this was altogether different. This circumstance, however, was
vastly
different. The marquess had not forced his attentions on her. Instead, she’d pressed herself against him like the shameful harlot her mother had been and eagerly returned that kiss.

From over the rim of his handkerchief, he studied her. The faintest amusement glinted in his emerald green eyes, which was impossible. A powerful, commanding nobleman would not take to being dealt a facer by a member of his staff. And certainly not a woman who was merely a member of his staff because she’d laid siege to his breakfast room and refused to leave until she met and made a plea to his sister.

“A simple no would have sufficed,” he said drolly and experimentally tested the soundness of the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, God, have I broken it?” It would be the very worst shame for that aquiline nose to be forever crooked because of her involuntary reaction.

“I’m merely afforded a ‘my lord’ from the title marquess. I assure you, I’m no god,” he drawled.

How could he affect that droll, dry humor? How, when she’d hit him as she had? She backed into a rose-inlaid side table and the fragile piece of furniture shifted sideways, upending a porcelain shepherdess. The white and pink piece tumbled to the floor and exploded in a spray of splintered glass. She stared blankly down at the mess she’d created and then swung her gaze back to the marquess. “M-my lord. Forgive me,” she said, detesting the hoarseness of her tone; that weak, spiritless quality which had convinced him of her unsuitability for the post as companion to his sister.

He waved his free hand. “It was inappropriate for me to kiss you.” Heat spiraled through her at those uttered words that made the memory of his embrace all the more real. The marquess lowered his handkerchief and she let out a small sigh of relief at the halted blood flow. He gave her a wry smile. “And considering that kiss, I’d venture it is entirely appropriate for you to refer to me by my Christian name.”

She blinked. It would never be appropriate for her to refer to him or any other nobleman by his Christian name. And yet, she angled her head, hopelessly wanting, nay needing, to know the name assigned to a broadly powerful figure such as the marquess.

“Gabriel,” he supplied.

Gabriel. One of those seven archangels, a warrior of the heavenly armies. Strong, powerful. It perfectly suited him. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.” She warmed at that belated, half-hearted protestation.

“No. It would not,
Jane
.” His thick, hooded, black lashes shielded all hint of emotion within his eyes. There was the faintest and yet, she’d venture, deliberate emphasis on that, her name. A statement from a man who, with his aura of power, could command a kingdom, that he’d noted her regard for propriety and gave not a jot.

She fisted her hands. But then, wasn’t that a luxury permitted one of his lofty station? Jane stiffened as he bent down and retrieved something.

He held up her fragile, wire-rimmed spectacles. “Your spectacles?”

Jane touched her naked face and anxiety pounded at her chest as she flew across the room and, in the most undignified manner, plucked them from his fingers. How could she have not recalled dropping them? The hideous and
useless
frames she’d donned after her first post as a companion to an aging countess “Thank you.” The woman’s devoted son, with his wandering hands, had taught Jane her first important lesson on those of the nobility who saw in her, and every other woman of her station, someone there for nothing more than their pleasures. She hurriedly opened them and jammed them on her face. Jane smoothed her palms over the front of her skirts. “I would apologize again for hitting you, my lord.”

“Gabriel.”

“Gabriel,” she amended. After all, when one was pleading for one’s post, it wouldn’t do to argue.

He took a step toward her. “And I’ve already said there is nothing to apologize for.”

“But there is.” Putting one’s hands upon a nobleman, a punishable offense that, at least, merited being turned out immediately. She held her palms up. “I’d ask that you not dismiss me outright, but allow me to remain on so that I might meet your sister.”

The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips. “And you still believe that my sister will agree to you as a companion?” There was a faint trace of humor there that gave her pause. He was so very confident that she should be turned out by his sister, and the experience Jane had working with Mrs. Belden’s students should have very well supported his opinion, and yet something gave her hope.

The long-case clock struck eleven and she started. A slow smile tipped her lips at the corner at that slight, but very obvious, sign. “I do believe you’ll not be rid of me as quickly as you wish, my—Gabriel,” she corrected at his pointed look.

“Is that what you believe?” He arched an eyebrow. “That I am eager to be rid of you?”

“Aren’t you?”

“I’m merely trying to see my sister properly cared for.” The serious set to his face hinted at a sadness to him and gave her pause. She recognized that sadness because she carried that painful sentiment within her and she hated that she’d seen a like emotion from him. For it was far easier to challenge and loathe a man for his high-handedness. It was quite another to confront a gentleman who genuinely cared for his sister and wore a cloak of sadness about him. That made him real in ways that were dangerous to her well-ordered thoughts. “I have to leave.” She winced.
Should
leave. She
should
leave.

He inclined his head, but made no move to stop her. Instead, he stepped aside, opening the path to the doorway. Jane forced her legs to move.

Gabriel called out. “Jane?”

She stopped and cast a glance back at him.

“Have you forgotten something?” Her common sense, her logic and clear thoughts. He motioned to the lone book, startled from her hands a short while ago lying indignantly upon its spine.

Jane rushed over and claimed the forgotten volume and with the black leather book pulled protectively against her chest, she hurried from the room, desperate to put distance between herself and the suddenly very human marquess.

Gabriel.

T
he following morning, Gabriel sipped coffee from his cup. His lips pulled at the familiar but still bitter bite of the black brew. Periodically, he glanced at the empty doorway. Jane, the feisty companion with a powerful right jab, had occupied his thoughts from the moment she’d fled the library. With her parting, he’d sought out his chambers. Alas, sleep had eluded him. Instead, alternating emotions—desire, a hungering to explore her mouth once more, and a nauseating guilt had gripped him. Gabriel didn’t go about kissing those in his employ.

He tightened his grip on the fragile glass in his hand. He’d spent the better part of his life distancing himself from the man the previous marquess had been. He’d dedicated himself to never adopting any part of his father’s ways. Yet, drunk with the scent of lavender and honey, he’d kissed her. Sleep had eventually come and when he’d arisen from that restless slumber haunted by the wide-eyed companion, he’d gone through his morning ablutions resolved to be free of any thoughts of Mrs. Jane Munroe. Her presence here only roused the dark similarity between him and his bastard of a sire who’d taken his pleasures where he would—with ladies of the
ton
and servants in his household.

He stared into the contents of his cup and then took another slow sip. Except—was she a Mrs.? Was the lady, in fact, a young widow dependent upon her own skills to survive in a society that gave few options to those very women? He frowned at the empty doorway and then shifted his cup to his other hand and consulted his timepiece. Jane had broken her fast at this time yesterday morn. At the prospect of seeing the companion, an odd excitement stirred in his chest.

With a groan, he set down his cup and scrubbed his hands over his face. What manner of madness was this, his thinking of the woman with anything less than annoyance? The sooner the tart-mouthed, yet kissable, lady took her leave, the better he’d be. He didn’t require distractions in the form of stiffly proper companions with a veneer of ice and a coating of molten heat underneath. But now that he’d tasted Jane’s fire, God help him if he didn’t burn for her.

The soft tread of footsteps sounded in the hall and he glanced up, a nonsensical eagerness stirred within, and then died a thankfully swift death. His sister stood framed in the entrance. “Oh.”

Chloe softly laughed. “It is lovely to see you as well.”

Gabriel blinked and then registered her presence. “Chloe.” He sprang to his feet and the wooden legs of his chair scraped noisily along the floor. “How are you feeling?” Guilt chafed at his insides. He’d been so fixated on Mrs. Jane Munroe he’d not given proper thought to his sister’s well-being.

Chloe waved a hand about. “I am rested and well,” she said with a smile. As though to prove as much, she moved with energized steps to the sideboard. She favored a nearby servant with one of her patently sincere smiles and proceeded to fill her plate. She carried it over and then claimed the spot beside him, and then froze. “What happened to your face?”

His face. As in his blackened eyes. He’d arisen with the underside of his eyes painted purple and blue for Jane’s efforts. And as he couldn’t very well admit to kissing a stranger fighting for the post as companion and then being dealt an impressive facer for those efforts, he said the first words to form on his lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He winced as soon as the lie left his mouth. His tenacious sister would not release her talons from this juicy morsel.

Chloe leaned up and touched the bruise. He winced. “This. I’m referring to this.” With a moue of displeasure on her lips, she adopted the disapproving tone used by their mother too often. “You do not fight, Gabriel.” No, he disavowed all violent endeavors. Having been the victim of too many fists of fury rained down upon him, he’d vowed to never raise one to another, except if it was to defend himself or his kin.

And so, with his sister staring pointedly at him, he did what any gentleman who’d been kissing his sister’s companion would do. “I was visiting Gentleman Jackson’s.” He lied.

“Oh.” The slight nod indicated she approved of that endeavor. “Well?” she prodded as she sat.

Would she not let the matter rest? “Well, what?” he asked, reclaiming his seat.

Chloe carefully diced a piece of cold ham. “Has she arrived?”

Ah, she spoke of Mrs. Munroe. Gabriel cast another look over at the door. “She has.”

“And?” she popped the breakfast meat into her mouth and chewed.

His mind drew a blank. What was there to say about the woman who was a spitting mad vixen one moment and a quiet-mannered, proper young woman the next?

Chloe pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Do not be deliberately obtuse. Regardless, I must politely reject your plan to tie me to one of Belden’s dragons for the remainder of the Season.”

The floorboards creaked and they swung their gazes to the entrance of the room. The determined Jane Munroe, who should have taken her leave two days ago, stood at the threshold. Hesitant, hovering, and uncertain, she bore traces of the woman who’d first shown up on his doorstep.

He climbed to his feet, a grin on his lips. “Chloe, may I present to you one of Mrs. Belden’s
instructors.
” His sister had the good grace to blush. “This is Mrs. Munroe.” After all, there was little doubt that Jane had, in fact, heard the unfavorable words leveled at her.

His sister stood. “Mrs. Munroe,” she murmured.

Jane executed a flawless curtsy. Her gaze strayed momentarily over to Gabriel and then she swiftly returned her attention to Chloe. “My lady, it is a pleasure.”

Chloe warily eyed her, as though she feared one wrong word and the woman would drag her back for another year of finishing school. Ah, Jane, who’d been so very confident of her persuasion that she’d commandeered his home and boldly rejected his plans of returning her to Mrs. Belden’s. Amusement filled him and Gabriel felt himself grinning as he reclaimed his seat.