Читать книгу Bride For A Night - Rosemary Rogers, Rosemary Rogers - Страница 12

THE GENTLEMEN’S CLUB on St. James’s Street was filled with solid English furnishings and well-worn carpets that extended from the dining room to the discreet gaming rooms. On the white plaster walls were a series of oil paintings dedicated to the aristocracy’s love for hunting, and overhead a heavy chandelier glistened in the early sunlight. The entire building smelled of mahogany, leather and tobacco smoke.

A familiar combination that usually soothed Gabriel.

This morning, however, he was on edge as he sat at a table near the front window of the morning room reading the Times. He was annoyingly aware of the servants in black knee-breeches as they scurried to and fro and the numerous gentlemen who were enjoying hushed conversations behind him.

He should have remained at the townhouse, a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

He had a perfectly lovely breakfast room that offered a view of his rose garden, rather than the narrow London street currently spread beneath him, and a cook eager to prepare whatever he desired. And of course, there was the decided benefit of being alone. The gawking gossips were currently studying him with an avid curiosity that made his teeth clench.

Unfortunately, he had devoted the past month to avoiding society. Unless he wished others to suspect he was cowardly hiding from his supposed friends and acquaintances, he had no choice but to force himself to return to his previous routine.

Which included an hour at his club, followed by a trip to his tailor and then on to Tattersall’s to have a look at the horses to be auctioned.

Even if it meant he was to attract precisely the sort of sordid attention he detested.

He tossed aside the unread paper and smoothed his hand down the simply tied cravat that he had matched with a pale blue jacket and ivory waistcoat, his brooding gaze trained on the tip of his glossy boot.

Was it any wonder he was in a foul mood?

And he knew entirely where to lay the blame.

His aggravating wife.

His jaw tightened. Dammit. He had sent her to Devonshire to ensure she understood that she would never again be allowed to manipulate him. He would be the master of their relationship, and she would learn to be an obedient wife or she would suffer the consequences.

But after waiting day after day for a message from his suitably chastised bride, pleading to be allowed to return to London, he found his temper fraying at her stubborn lack of communication.

What the devil was the matter with the chit?

Surely she must be anxious to return to her precious society so she could flaunt her newfound position as the Countess of Ashcombe? For an ambitious female, being trapped in the country should be a fate worse than death.

And yet, his housekeeper had written several letters revealing that Talia had swiftly become a favorite among both his staff and tenants. Indeed, Mrs. Donaldson had gushed with monotonous enthusiasm for the newest Countess of Ashcombe, assuring him that Talia had settled nicely at the estate and revealed no desire whatsoever to return to London.

Or to her husband.

So the question was—what game was his bride playing now?

The more cynical side of him insisted that Talia was merely biding her time in an effort to lure him into complacency, and yet, he could not entirely believe such a simple explanation. His tenants might not be well educated, but they were keen judges of character. They would have sensed if Talia were merely pretending to care.

And yet, she could not possibly be utterly innocent. Could she?

Tapping a slender finger on the side table situated next to his chair, Gabriel grimly admitted that the only means to discover the truth was to travel to Carrick Park. Beneath his watchful gaze Talia would either reveal that she was truly her father’s daughter or she would prove she was as much a victim as Gabriel was to Silas Dobson’s ambitions.

Yes. His vague notion hardened to determination. He obviously had no choice but to leave London for Devonshire. In fact, there was no reason he could not begin the journey today.

Without warning a savage flare of anticipation clutched his stomach. An anticipation that had nothing to do with discovering the truth and everything to do with returning his beautiful bride to his bed.

Christ, he ached for her.

It was ludicrous. He could have his pick of beautiful, willing women. All of them eager to offer him endless hours of pleasure.

But night after night he had slept alone, plagued by the memories of his dark-haired gypsy.

A prickle on the back of his neck shook Gabriel out of his delectable thoughts of Talia spread across his bed, his hands tangled in her dark hair as he thrust deep into her satin heat.

He turned his head, preparing to flay the unwelcome intruder with a few well-chosen words, only to have them die on his lip.

Damn.

His gaze skimmed over the tall gentleman with a large, muscular body who was currently attired in a cinnamon jacket and tan waistcoat, black breeches and glossy boots. The nobleman’s light brown hair was cut shorter than the current fashion and his features were more forceful than handsome. And while his golden-brown eyes often simmered with amusement, they could also send any preening fop who hoped to garner his acquaintance fleeing in fear.

Hugo, Lord Rothwell.

And one of Gabriel’s few friends.

“Is there a particular reason you are hovering behind me like a vulture, Hugo?” he demanded wryly, knowing it would be a futile effort to try to convince his friend that he preferred to be alone.

Hugo narrowed his golden gaze, absently toying with the signet ring on his little finger.

“I am attempting to decide if I have the nerve so early in the day to beard the lion in his den. Or shall I wait until I am in my cups and therefore impervious to your foul mood?”

Gabriel pointedly turned his attention toward the dunces clustered about the room casting covert glances in his direction.

“My mood would not be foul if I were not surrounded by idiots,” he growled.

“Hmm.” With the ease of a natural sportsman, Hugo lowered his large body into the leather chair opposite Gabriel. “That would not be my first guess as to why you have been snapping and snarling at every unwitting soul who has crossed your path over the past month.”

“At least I have not yet taken to lodging bullets in those who annoy me,” he smoothly pointed out, “although that might change at any moment.”

Hugo smiled at the threat. “You do realize that you cannot keep society at bay forever? Eventually you will have to face their curiosity.”

“Society’s curiosity, or yours?”

“Both,” Hugo admitted. “But considering we have been friends since I bloodied your nose our first day at Eton I surely deserve to be the first to be taken into your confidence?”

Gabriel snorted. “First of all, I was the one to bloody your nose after you attempted to pinch my favorite cricket bat. And I have never known you to take an interest in gossip.”

“That is because the rumors have never before hinted that the proud and notoriously aloof Earl of Ashcombe has secretly wed the daughter of Silas Dobson.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened at the mention of his offensive father-in-law.

“Obviously not so secretively.”

“Is it true?”

There was a moment of silence before Gabriel gave a grudging nod of his head. “Yes.”

“Bloody hell,” Hugo muttered.

“My sentiments exactly.”

Hugo scowled at Gabriel’s dry retort. “I suppose I need not ask how this particular disaster occurred,” he rasped. “Only Harry could force you into such an untenable situation.”

Gabriel shrugged. Hugo had never bothered to hide his disgust for Harry and his reckless extravagances.

“He certainly can take a share of the blame,” he admitted.

“A share?” Hugo shook his head. “It is common knowledge that Harry jilted Miss Dobson after disappearing with her dowry. Typical of him.”

Gabriel ignored the stab of possessive outrage at the mere thought of Talia wed to his brother.

“Quite typical,” he agreed. “Which is why I should have foreseen the looming danger. I was a fool.”

Hugo breathed a low curse. “I will admit you were a fool, but only for allowing your guilt at Harry’s betrayal to trap you into a vile marriage.”

“Guilt?”

“Of course. Why else would you have wed the vulgar wench?”

Gabriel parted his lips to inform his friend that it hadn’t been guilt but rather sordid blackmail that had forced him into matrimony, but he swallowed the revealing words. It was not just embarrassment at having to admit he had been bested by Silas Dobson, but a disturbing suspicion that he was not being entirely honest with himself.

“My reasons do not concern you,” he snapped.

There was a pause before Hugo reluctantly turned the conversation.

“Have you managed to track down your brother?”

Gabriel shook his head. He had sent two of his most trusted footmen in search of Harry the moment he’d realized he was missing, but thus far they had been unable to discover anything more than the rumor his brother was seen heading toward Dover. “Not yet.”

“Bastard,” Hugo hissed.

“He cannot elude me forever.” Gabriel gave a sharp laugh. “Not that it truly matters now.”

“No, the damage has been done.” Hugo studied him for a long moment, seeming to consider his next words. “May I ask where you have stashed your blushing bride?”

Gabriel arched a brow. “Do you fear I’ve locked her in the wine cellar?”

“The rumor is that she has been whisked off to one of your estates, although I hold out hope that you had the good sense to drown her in the Thames.” Hugo’s lips twisted with a cruel humor. “Or at the very least had her transported to the colonies.”

Gabriel’s hand landed on the table with enough force to rattle his coffee cup and create a startled twitter of alarm that rippled through the room.

He ignored the disturbance, his gaze locked on his friend.

“This is my wife we are discussing.”

Hugo frowned, his jaw jutted to a stubborn angle. “Yes, a grasping, overly ambitious harpy who does not even have the decency to possess a hint of grace or beauty.”

Gabriel leaned forward, not giving a damn that his fury was entirely unreasonable.

“Not another word,” he warned.

Glancing toward Gabriel’s tightly clenched expression, Hugo jerkily settled back in his seat.

“Damn, Ashcombe,” he growled. “What is the matter with you?”

It was a question that Gabriel had no answer for, nor did he particularly care at the moment. His only thought was ensuring his friend understood that Talia now belonged to him.

“I will not have anyone insulting the Countess of Ashcombe,” he snarled. “Including you.”

“Even if she forced you into marriage?”

“Talia…” Gabriel faltered, not certain he was prepared to share his doubts. “What?”

“She claims she had no desire to wed either Harry or myself,” he at last confessed.

Hugo waved his hand dismissively. “Of course she would deny trading her soul for a title. What woman would confess such a truth?”

“I am not completely convinced of her guilt.”

His friend hissed, his eyes darkening with shock. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

Gabriel narrowed his gaze. “Take care, Hugo.”

“If she had no desire to wed, then all she had to do was say no. The days of buying and selling women as if they are cattle are long past,” Hugo pressed. “She could not have been forced into marriage.”

It was precisely what Gabriel had told himself, but now he glared at Hugo, barely resisting the urge to punch his closest friend in the nose.

“Have you had the misfortune to meet Silas Dobson?”

Hugo grimaced. “A nasty bit of goods, but a damned shrewd businessman. I have invested in his latest shipping venture.”

“He is an uncouth brute who makes a habit of terrorizing those in his power.”

“That does not mean Miss Dobson…”

“Lady Ashcombe.”

Hugo’s jaw tightened at Gabriel’s interruption. “It does not necessarily follow that your wife is a victim. It is quite likely she was a willing conspirator with her father in plotting to claim the highest available title.”

Gabriel impatiently shook his head. He would soon enough determine the truth for himself.

“Her guilt or innocence no longer matters.”

Hugo’s frustration was replaced by a flare of sympathy. “True enough,” he murmured. “Harry made a deal with the devil and now you must pay.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Have you considered a career on the stage?”

“I…”

Hugo snapped his lips shut as a footman in the familiar blue-and-silver uniform of Ashcombe halted beside Gabriel and handed him a folded note.

“Pardon me, my lord,” he apologized. “This has just arrived from Devonshire. The messenger said it is urgent.”

“Thank you.” Expecting information on his brother, Gabriel was unprepared for his housekeeper’s plea for him to travel as fast as possible to Carrick Park. His blood ran cold as he shoved himself to his feet with enough violence to tumble his chair backward. “Damn. I must go.”

“Go?” Hugo swiftly lifted himself upright. “Go where?”

“Your ill wishes for my wife have come to pass,” he ground out, unfairly striking out at his friend as a fear he did not entirely understand clutched his heart.

Hugo flinched. “What the devil do you mean?”

“My wife has disappeared,” Gabriel turned on his heel, headed for the door. “You had best pray I find her.”

THE FRENCH CASTLE tucked in the countryside south of Paris retained much of its delicate charm despite the obvious ravages of war.

Built in a perfect square to frame the formal inner courtyard, the structure retained two towers from what Talia assumed to be a previous castle and vast wings that were constructed of a golden stone that shimmered in the sunlight. Along one wing a covered terrace was supported by a series of archways that led to the main residence that offered a striking double stone staircase and carved stones set above the large windows.

Among the surrounding gardens many of the statues and marble fountains had been destroyed by rioters, but inside, the endless procession of public chambers, salons and elegant galleries remained remarkably intact. And despite the fact she was being held captive, Talia could not prevent herself from appreciating the exquisite beauty that surrounded her.

Who could remain impervious to the priceless artwork that lined the walls, the massive tapestries, the inlaid wood floors and the breathtaking frescoes that graced the high ceilings?

Standing in one of the long galleries, Talia leaned against a fluted column that bracketed the high, arched window and gazed across the gardens to the distant road beyond.

Not for the first time since arriving at the palace three days ago she considered the possibility of simply walking out the front door and making her escape. She was alone, after all, and she did not doubt that she could travel a considerable distance before she was missed.

Unfortunately, she was not so stupid as to believe that she could actually make her way back to England.

Not only did she not speak French, but she had no money, no legal papers necessary to travel in France and no means to flee the estate beyond her own feet. At best she would be arrested before she reached the nearest village. At worst she would be taken captive by the numerous French soldiers who passed by the palace with unfortunate regularity.

She did not doubt they would be far less gentle toward her than Jack Gerard.

No…not Jack, but Jacques, she silently corrected with a deep sigh.

As furious as she was to have been kidnapped from her home, she could not deny that Jacques had done his best to keep her in comfort.

He had taken her from the church to a small boat kept among the local fishing vessels and had demanded his rough companions row them to a sleek yacht that had been hidden along a remote section of the coast. Thankfully he had sent the brutes back to London, and Talia had been put into the hands of his French crew, who had treated her as if she were a delicate treasure in constant need of coddling.

Once in France, the journey to the palace had been a mere blur as she had been placed alone in a carriage that had traveled for several hours at a bone-rattling speed through the countryside with only brief pauses so she could relieve herself among the bushes.

Since her arrival at the palace, she had been left to explore her surroundings in peace. She had been careful, though, to avoid the large outbuildings that had been given over to a great number of wounded soldiers and a dozen children that she had assumed were orphans.

This morning, however, she had sensed her solitude was about to come to an end. After emerging from her bath, she had discovered the gown she had been wearing since being kidnapped had mysteriously disappeared and was replaced by a lovely satin dress in a warm shade of ocher. There had also been matching slippers and expensive undergarments that had made her blush.

With no choice she had attired herself in the new clothing, although, without a maid, she had chosen to pull her hair into a simple braid that hung down her back. She would not be trapped in her chambers because she was too proud to take the unwanted clothing.

The footsteps she had been expecting for hours at last echoed through the gallery, and, accepting she could not avoid the inevitable, she turned to watch as Jacques Gerard strolled toward her.

A grudging smile tugged at her lips as she caught sight of his elegant charcoal-gray jacket that had been tailored to perfectly fit his lean body. His white cravat was tied in the latest style, and his black pantaloons clung with loving care to his muscular legs.

The humble vicar had been replaced by a gentleman with the sort of natural arrogance that was usually reserved to those born into power. And not for the first time Talia wondered just who this man truly was.

He was far too well-educated for a simple peasant, and yet, his hatred for the aristocracy was unmistakable.

A man of mystery.

Coming to a halt directly in front of her, Jacques reached for her hand, lifting her fingers to his mouth for a lingering kiss even as his gaze stroked with warm appreciation over her slender form.

“Bonsoir, ma petite,” he murmured, his attention lingering on the scooped neckline trimmed with a pretty Brussels lace that lay like a promise against the full curve of her breasts. “I see that the modiste did not disappoint. You look magnificent. Of course, you would appear even more magnificent if only I could coax a smile to those stubborn lips.”

She blushed during his heated scrutiny, unaccustomed to such blatant admiration. But oddly, she did not shrink as was her custom beneath a male’s attention, nor did she find herself plagued by the urge to stammer in embarrassment.

Perhaps it was being away from the constant badgering of her father that had stiffened her backbone. Or her growing confidence since becoming the Countess of Ashcombe.

Or perhaps it was Jacques who had never mocked her as a foolish wallflower but instead had treated her with a dignity and respect that she had never before experienced. At least until he had proven to be a traitor and kidnapped her, she wryly acknowledged.

Whatever the cause, she squarely met his steady gaze with a tilt of her chin.

“You are a fine one to call me stubborn.” She brushed a hand down the exquisite material of her gown. “You know very well I would not have accepted your charity unless you had my own dress taken away.”

He gave her fingers a light squeeze before allowing them to drop. “The clothes are a gift, not charity, and as a Frenchman renowned for his exquisite sense of fashion I had no choice but to rid the world of your tattered rags.”

“Hardly a rag.”

He waved aside her protest, his dark eyes shimmering with a wicked amusement that could tempt a saint.

“Besides, you are my guest. It is my duty, as well as my pleasure, to ensure you are provided with all the comforts you might desire.”

“I am your prisoner, not your guest.”

“Prisoner?” He lifted his brows in a pretense of innocence. “There are no bars on the windows and no shackles holding you against your will.”

“It is beneath you to pretend that I am here of my own free will,” she chastised.

“Come, ma petite,” he coaxed, skimming a finger down her cheek. “It has not been such a terrible adventure, has it?”

She jerked from his touch, her eyes narrowing at his patronizing tone.

“I have been bullied and coerced and manipulated by others my entire life, Monsieur Gerard,” she said between clenched teeth. “I had foolishly hoped I might have found a place where I could control my own destiny, as well as friends who appreciated my independence, when I arrived at Carrick Park.”

A brief flash of regret shot through his eyes before he cupped her chin in his hand and regarded her with a resolute expression.

“Oui, it was a foolish hope. You were never destined to enjoy your independence for long.”

She frowned. “There is no need to mock me.”

“Talia, use that considerable intelligence of yours,” he commanded.

“What do you mean?”

“You could not have remained alone at Carrick Park.”

“I do not comprehend why not,” she protested. “It seemed a satisfactory arrangement.”

His lips twisted. “For you perhaps, but I can assure you that your husband would soon have been joining you in Devonshire. Or demanding that you return to London.”

She stiffened at the mention of Gabriel. She had done her best not to think of her husband since those first hours after her kidnapping when she had ridiculously held on to a hope that he would come charging to her rescue. As if he would bother himself to chase after his unwanted wife even if he had known she was taken hostage. She was such a fool.

“Nonsense.” Her voice held a bitter edge she could not entirely disguise. “He was quite happy to be rid of me.”

Jacques regarded her as if she were impossibly naïve. “No, he wished to punish your father for having dared to threaten him,” he said. “Once he is assured that he has established his dominance over you, and, more important, Silas Dobson, he will be anxious to claim his wife.”

A treacherous memory of how Gabriel had already claimed her in the rumpled sheets of her bed briefly seared through her mind. Then, with a gasp, she hastily thrust aside the unwelcome image. What the devil was the matter with her?

“You know nothing of the situation.” She took an awkward step away from her companion, thankful he could not read her thoughts. “Gabriel is eager to forget we were ever wed.”

His eyes narrowed. “Even if such a ridiculous notion were true, he cannot forget you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are the Countess of Ashcombe, not some commoner’s wife.”

“I am aware of my title,” she said tartly. Her wedding might have been a bleak affair, but she had no doubt that it had been perfectly legal. Had Gabriel not returned for the wedding night just to ensure…

No.

Not again.

“Then you should also be aware that, whatever Lord Ashcombe’s personal opinion of you as his wife, his pride will not allow you to be a source of mockery among his peers.” Jacques thankfully distracted her dangerous thoughts. “When he judges it to be the appropriate moment, he will use his considerable power to launch you into society.”

Talia shuddered at the mere suggestion. She would as soon be left to rot in a French prison as be launched back into society.

“He cannot force them to accept me.”

“Of course he can.” Jacques’s hand shifted to brush a stray curl from her cheek. “They will not dare to do anything but bow at your pretty feet.”

Her humorless laugh floated eerily through the gallery. “Absurd.”

He shrugged aside her disbelief. “Not that taking your place among society is your most important function as the new Countess of Ashcombe.”

“I suppose you intend to tell me what it is?”

He stepped close enough to surround her in his male heat, his hands framing her face.

“I should not have to, no matter how innocent you might be.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Mons…”

“Jacques,” he huskily insisted.

“Jacques,” she impatiently muttered. “Just say what is upon your mind.”

“Very well.” His lips curved in a mocking smile. “The first and foremost duty of the Countess of Ashcombe is to produce the essential heir, ma petite.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, more disturbed by the brutal pang of need that clenched her stomach than by Jacques’s audacity.

She wasn’t stupid. In the days leading up to the wedding, there had lurked the knowledge that Gabriel would need an heir, but she had endured too many disappointments to willingly invite more. How could she have allowed herself to hope for a child when her husband might very well have decided he could not bear to bring himself to share her bed?

Even after their wedding night, she had refused to consider the possibility when it became evident she was not yet pregnant. Gabriel was obviously satisfied with his mistresses in town, leaving her alone in the country. The desperate desire to hold a baby in her arms might very well drive her mad if she allowed it to settle in her heart.

“I…”

Mistaking her unease for embarrassment, Jacques stroked his thumb over her heated cheek.

“You truly are an innocent.”

“Not so innocent as you imagine,” she said dryly.

“I find it charming.” A dangerous emotion flared through his dark eyes. “I find you charming.”

A stab of panic had Talia jerking away from his lingering touch. “I will not discuss this with you.”

Jacques folded his arms over his chest, watching her nervous retreat with a narrowed gaze.

“What will you not discuss?” he asked. “The realization that your husband is not some mythical creature who you can pretend lives in some distant land and that eventually you will have to do your duty as his wife?”

“My relationship with Lord Ashcombe is none of your concern.”

“I am merely attempting to reveal that your idyll would not have lasted beyond a few weeks,” he persisted. “You should thank me for rescuing you from an existence that would never have made you happy.”

“Rescuing me? I was kidnapped,” she sharply reminded him. “And you know nothing of how to make me happy.”

A smile of pure male confidence curled his lips. “I know you intimately, ma petite.”

Heat flared beneath her cheeks at his suggestive words. “Nonsense.”

“I know you prefer to devote your days to helping others and that you would be miserable being forced back to the stifling ballrooms of London.” His dark gaze skimmed over the exposed skin of her bosom. “I also suspect you are not eager to become a broodmare for a husband who has shown you nothing but contempt.”

She abruptly whirled away, unwilling to reveal the awful truth that she would give anything to have a baby. A tiny child to whom she could offer all her love that had been rejected by others.

“Please, do not,” she choked out.

Jacques bent his head to whisper in her ear, his gentle hands resting on her shoulders.

“Your talents would be respected here, ma petite. There is much need and few hands to offer assistance.”

She shook her head. “I am no traitor.”

“Come.” Tightening his grip, Jacques steered her across the floor of the gallery to the arched windows that overlooked the inner courtyard. A reluctant smile curved her lips at the sight of a dozen children ranging in age from five to fifteen darting among the ruins of the statues and fountains, chasing a stray dog. “Do you see them, Talia?” Jacques demanded, his voice low and compelling. “They are not English or French, they are children. And all they know is that war has destroyed their homes and their families. Just think of the difference you could make in their lives.”

Talia could not deny a tug of regret.

Her days in Devonshire had proved she possessed a talent for helping those in need, whether it was making certain a sickly tenant received meals from her kitchen or organizing the village to build a new school for the local children.

How much could she accomplish for those poor orphans?

She heaved a sigh. “You do not fight fair.”

“I fight to win.”

She thrust away his unexpectedly tempting offer and turned to meet his watchful gaze.

“Am I to be held here forever?”

He deliberately lifted his brow, glancing toward the beautiful Rubens’s paintings displayed in gilt frames and the dangling chandeliers made from priceless Venetian glass.

“You disapprove of your lodgings?”

She thinned her lips, battling against his considerable charm.

“I simply wish to know what you intend for my future.”

He reached to straighten the lace at her bosom. “Be at ease, Talia. Once the information I acquired has been used to defeat Wellesley, I will personally escort you back to Devonshire.” He paused. “Although I have hopes that I will have convinced you to remain with me by that time.”

She was far from comforted by his promise. “How can you speak so casually of what you have done? Do you not realize that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of British soldiers might die because of your treachery?”

“And hundreds, perhaps thousands, of French soldiers will be saved,” he readily countered. “It is war, ma petite.”

“A war started by your crazed emperor who will not be satisfied until he has conquered the world.” Her scowl shifted toward the marble bust of Napoleon that had been placed on a teak-wood pedestal. “How can you give your loyalty to such a man?”