Читать книгу Bride For A Night - Rosemary Rogers, Rosemary Rogers - Страница 9

GABRIEL, THE SIXTH Earl of Ashcombe, made no apology for being a cynical bastard.

His cynicism had been hard earned.

After inheriting his father’s title at the tender age of eighteen, he had shouldered the burdens of several vast estates, hundreds of servants and a mother who refused to leave her bed for weeks at a time.

And then there was Harry.

Six years younger than Gabriel, his brother had always been outrageously spoiled by Lady Ashcombe. Gabriel had done what he could to mitigate the damage, but he was often away at school, and when he did return to Carrick Park, his ancestral home in Devonshire, he’d been expected to devote his time to his father, learning the complex duties of being an earl.

As a result, Harry had been allowed to indulge his worst impulses. He’d been sent down from school for cheating on his exams, he’d gambled away his generous allowance, and he had fought at least two duels. All before traveling to London.

Since his arrival in the city, his wild excesses had become even worse. Gambling and whoring and risking his neck on every ludicrous dare that might be uttered in his hearing.

Gabriel had tried to impose a few limitations, only to be constantly undermined by his mother. In desperation he’d at last warned the countess that he would have her beloved Harry banished to Carrick Park if the boy didn’t learn to live within his allowance.

Christ. He had suspected that Harry would plead, lie and even cheat if necessary to avoid being forced from London, but it had never occurred to him that he would become engaged to an upstart female who could only bring shame to the family.

His mother, of course, had taken to her bed with the vapors, demanding that Gabriel do something to rescue her darling son from the clutches of the evil Dobson chit. Gabriel, however, had grimly refused to interfere. If his brother wanted to toss away his future by wedding a female who was a social embarrassment—and worse, related to Silas Dobson—then Gabriel washed his hands of him.

A grim smile touched his lips as he stepped into the private salon. He should have known Harry would find a means of saving his own damned hide while leaving Gabriel to clean up his mess.

Shrouded in the icy composure he had honed over the years, he cast a quick glance around the room, absently noting a plump female with brown hair before turning his attention to the female perched on the window seat.

Miss Talia Dobson.

Gabriel was braced for the frustrated rage that clenched his heart. Any man would be ready to commit murder at having been so neatly trapped. But what he did not expect was the odd sense of recognition that stirred in the pit of his stomach. As if during his rare social appearances he had actually taken notice of Miss Dobson’s silky black hair that was forever slipping from its pins and the eyes that shimmered like emeralds in the afternoon sunlight. That he’d contemplated how soft the ivory skin would feel beneath his fingertips and the precise manner her inviting curves would fit against him.

The mere thought only intensified his anger.

The female might have played the timid wallflower to perfection, but the past hour had proved that she was as greedy and conniving as her boorish father.

“Oh…” The unfamiliar female fluttered in the center of the room that was surprisingly decorated with the simple elegance that he preferred. Unlike the public rooms that had been a garish combination of lacquer furnishings covered in a crimson velvet. “My lord.”

He waved a dismissive hand, not bothering to glance in her direction.

“You may leave us.”

“But…”

“I am not in the habit of repeating myself.”

“Yes, my lord.” He heard her faint gasp swiftly followed by the sound of the plump female hurrying to obey his command.

His gaze never shifted from Miss Dobson regarding him with an expression of frozen shock. Rather like a mouse watching a hungry cat suddenly approach.

Did the wench think he would accept being blackmailed?

If so, she was in for a bitter disappointment.

By the end of this meeting, Miss Talia Dobson would regret ever having dared to force him into this unbearable situation.

As if sensing his dangerous fury, Talia leaned backward, unwittingly pressing open the window behind her.

“If you are considering a tragic leap to bring an end to this farce, I would suggest that you wait until the guests have taken their leave,” he mocked, folding his arms over his blue jacket that he had matched with an ivory waistcoat and buff breeches. He had intended to spend the day at Tattersall’s in the hopes of acquiring a new pair of bays to pull his carriage. A convenient means to avoid his mother’s hysterical ranting at his refusal to prevent Harry’s imminent wedding. When Dobson had so rudely intruded into his townhouse, he had not considered the necessity of changing into more formal attire. “This travesty of a wedding has caused quite enough gossip.”

She blinked, shaking her head. Almost as if hoping that he was an unwelcome vision she could make disappear.

“Lord Ashcombe, why are you here?”

“I believe you are well aware what has brought me here.”

Her brows drew together. “Is there word of your brother? Has there been an accident?”

He narrowed his gaze, not at all amused by her pretense of bewilderment.

“Please don’t play coy with me, Miss Dobson. I have already spoken with your father.” His lip curled in disdain. “A shockingly unpleasant experience, I confess.”

Talia jerked to her feet, her hand pressed to her enticing bosom.

“My father?”

Gabriel clenched his hands at his sides. Could a woman deliberately drain her face of all color?

“I will admit you play the role of wounded martyr quite convincingly,” he said in biting tones. “My jaded heart might be touched if I was not aware that you and your father are shameless charlatans who will use any tactic, no matter how vile, to acquire a place among society.”

“I am aware you disapprove of your brother taking me as his wife.”

His sharp burst of laughter echoed through the room. “Not nearly so much as I disapprove taking you as my own wife.”

“I…” She swayed, and for a moment Gabriel thought she might sink into a predictable swoon. Then, with a visible effort, she sucked in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Your wife?” She shook her head in denial. “Is this a jest?”

“I do not jest about the next Countess of Ashcombe.”

“Dear God.”

“Prayers will not help you now, my dear.”

“Please,” she said softly. “I do not understand.”

Gabriel fiercely told himself he would not be swayed by a pair of wounded emerald eyes.

Damnation. The woman was as great a fraud as her bastard of a father.

Was she not?

“Determined to act the innocent?” he rasped. “Very well. After an hour spent enduring your father’s crass insults and his boorish bullying it has become obvious I have been neatly cornered. I might have admired his cunning if I weren’t the poor sod being coerced into marrying a female who could only hope to force a man down the aisle.”

Long moments passed, the silence broken by the tick of the ormolu clock on the mantel and the distant twitter of lingering guests.

“This makes no sense,” Talia said at last. “I am to wed Harry.”

“In his typical fashion, my brother considered nothing beyond his selfish need to indulge his every desire. And, when it came time to pay the piper, he disappeared, leaving me to take responsibility yet again.”

“But…” She licked her dry lips. “Surely you must have some notion of where he has gone?”

“I have several notions, but it no longer matters where he is hiding, does it?” He didn’t bother to disguise his bitterness.

She wrung her hands, her face tight with unexpected desperation.

“I suppose there is no means to disguise the fact he did not arrive at the church this morning, but if he could be found and compelled to return to London…”

“You would wed him after he abandoned you at the altar?” he snapped, oddly annoyed by her insistence to have Harry as her bridegroom.

Did the female have feelings for his wastrel of a brother?

Or was this just another clever ruse?

Neither explanation gave him pleasure.

“It is what my father desires,” she muttered.

“Perhaps he did before he had the means to capture an earl. Now I can assure you he has no intention of settling on a mere younger son.”

She appeared to struggle to follow his harsh words, a pulse fluttering at the base of her throat like a tiny bird caught in a cage.

Heat pierced through him at the thought of pressing his lips to that tender spot. Would she taste as sweet as she promised? Or was that yet another deception?

Thankfully unaware of his treacherous longings, Talia regarded him with a furrowed brow.

“I am aware that my father has acquired influence among some members of society, but how could he possibly force you to marry me?”

“Sordid blackmail.”

“Blackmail?”

“He has threatened to sue my brother for breach of promise, ensuring that my family name would be kept on the front pages of every scandal rag in England for months, if not years.”

She flinched at his harsh explanation, her ashen face suddenly flooded scarlet.

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” he said, sneering. “Your father is well aware I will pay any price, no matter how obscene, to protect my mother from becoming a public spectacle.”

“I…” She gave a helpless lift of her hands. “I am sorry.”

Barely aware he was moving, Gabriel prowled to stand directly before her, breathing deeply of her warm scent. Lilac, he noted absently, combined with an earthy perfume that was uniquely her own.

“Are you?” he growled.

“Yes.” She shivered beneath his brooding gaze. “I know it is difficult to believe, but I am just as appalled as you by this farce of a marriage.”

“I do not find it difficult, Miss Dobson, I find it impossible,” he countered, assuring himself that his stab of ire was at her continued charade and not at her horror at the thought of marrying him. “I am all too familiar with women like you.”

“Women like me?”

“Vulgar females who are willing to use whatever tactics necessary to acquire a husband.” He deliberately lowered his gaze to take in the soft curves modestly hidden beneath her silver gown. Had she been bold enough to display her charming wares she might have had more success on the marriage mart. “Of course, their tactics are usually more—”

“Attractive?” she said, an unexpected hint of bitterness shimmering in the emerald eyes.

“Polished,” he corrected.

“Forgive me for being a disappointment. It seems to be my lot in life,” she said, her voice so low he could barely catch the words. “But in my defense, I never desired a husband enough to polish my tactics.”

He frowned. So, there was a hint of spirit beneath that mousey demeanor.

“That would be a good deal more convincing if you had not offered my brother an embarrassing sum of money to take you as his bride, even knowing he had no desire to be tied to you.”

“It was my father—” She bit off her words, giving a resigned shake of her head. “What does it matter?”

“It does not.” He grasped her chin, peering deep into the eyes that held such remarkable innocence. “Even if I were idiotic enough to accept you are nothing more than a victim of your father’s machinations, it does not make the thought of having you as my bride any less unpalatable.”

He felt her quiver, her thick tangle of lashes lowering to hide the pain that flared through her eyes. Gabriel gritted his teeth against the sensation that was perilously close to regret tugging at his heart.

Dammit. He had nothing to regret.

“You have made your point, my lord,” she said. “Why are you here?”

“Obviously we must discuss our…” He struggled to force out the word. “Wedding.”

“Why?” She hunched a shoulder. “It is obvious that you and my father are capable of planning my future without bothering to consult me.”

His grasp tightened on her chin. “Do not press my temper, Miss Dobson. Not today.”

Her lips thinned but with a resigned obedience. She pulled free of his grasp and waved a hand toward a nearby chair.

“Will you have a seat?”

“No, this will not take long.”

She gave a slow nod, her face pale but composed. “Very well.”

“On Monday I will request a Special License from the Archbishop of Canterbury. He is a personal friend, so there should be no difficulty.”

Her lips twisted. “Of course not.”

“The ceremony will be held in the private chapel at my townhouse,” he continued. “I will arrange for the rector as well as two servants to serve as witnesses.”

It took her a moment to comprehend the meaning of his words. At last her eyes widened. “My father…”

“Is not invited.” His expression warned he would not compromise. “Nor will you include any other guests.”

“Do you intend to keep our marriage a secret?”

“A futile wish, unfortunately, but I am determined that it will not become a ridiculous farce.” He glanced toward the window where he could view the guests still taking full pleasure in the current scandal. “For the next week you will remain silent and away from society. You may also warn your father that any boasting that he has captured an earl as his son-in-law will greatly displease me.”

Her expression remained suitably chastened, but she couldn’t disguise the pulse that hammered at the base of her throat. Inwardly she was no doubt seething with the urge to slap him.

“And after the ceremony?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Am I to remain hidden from society?”

“Not hidden, but you will be enjoying an extended visit to my estate in Devonshire.”

She blinked at his frigid explanation. “I am to be banished to the country?”

“If my terms of marriage do not suit you, Miss Dobson, then perhaps you should devote the next few days to convincing your father to blackmail some other fool into becoming your husband.”

With an abrupt movement she turned on her heel, staring down at her unwelcome guests with a haunted expression.

“If I had the ability to sway my father I would never have been forced to wed your brother and we would not be in this mess.”

Gabriel stiffened in anger as another twinge of pity threatened to undermine his resolve.

Bloody hell. Was it not hideous enough to be coerced into marrying Silas Dobson’s daughter without offering her the opportunity to play him a fool?

“Then it would seem that we must both resign ourselves to the inevitable,” he bit out, turning on his heel to head toward the door.

“So it would seem,” she whispered behind him.

Halting on the threshold, Gabriel glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh, Miss Dobson.”

“Yes?”

“I would prefer you refrain from smothering yourself in such a gaudy display of jewels.” He flicked a disdainful glance toward the massive diamonds draped around her neck. “The Countess of Ashcombe does not need to make an exhibit of herself.”

His parting shot delivered, Gabriel continued out of the room and down the hall, wondering why the devil he didn’t feel the least satisfied.

TALIA WAS IN the laundry room sorting through the linens that needed to be mended when her father’s butler appeared in the doorway.

As always, she was struck by the sight of the slender, gray-haired servant attired in an immaculate black uniform. He carried himself with a regal dignity that his employer could never hope to emulate.

The irony of the situation was not lost on Silas Dobson, who found it a source of coarse amusement to taunt his prim and proper butler. Anderson, on the other hand, was careful to keep his own opinion hidden behind his facade of frigid efficiency.

Hardly surprising. For all of her father’s faults, he was a shrewd businessman who was willing to pay his employees a generous salary that instilled far more loyalty than any amount of personal charm.

Impatiently brushing a stray curl from her forehead, Talia regarded the servant with a faint frown. It was rare for Anderson to enter what he considered the female domain.

“Yes?”

“The Earl of Ashcombe has called,” Anderson informed her in formal tones. “Shall I say you are receiving?”

The bed sheet slipped from her nerveless fingers as she surged to her feet. Lord Ashcombe? Here?

Despite the fact the man had been her fiancé for nearly a week, Talia’s mind struggled to accept that he had actually come to call upon her. No doubt because she had spent the past days assuring herself that the Earl of Ashcombe had no more intention of making her his bride than his younger brother had.

In truth, she had expected every morning to awaken to the announcement in the London Times that Lord Ashcombe had cancelled the absurd wedding, even if it did mean further scandal for his family.

So why was he here?

Had he come in person to cancel the wedding? And if so, why would he bother? It would surely have been easier for all of them if he had sent a message to avoid this unpleasant encounter.

Acutely aware of the silence that had abruptly filled the laundry room, Talia nervously cleared her throat.

“Did you inform him that my father is not at home?”

Anderson dipped his head. “He specifically requested to speak with you, Miss Dobson.”

“I see.” With no choice, Talia tugged off the apron that covered her sprigged muslin gown. “Please show him to the parlor.”

The butler offered a stiff bow. “Very good.”

The servant was stepping through the door when she realized that she had nearly forgotten her duties as a hostess. Odd, considering that they had been drilled into her by her numerous governesses over the years.

Of course, she rarely had an opportunity to display them, had she?

Who would desire to visit Silas Dobson or his awkward daughter? So far as London was concerned they were blights on civilized society.

“Oh, Anderson.”

“Yes?”

“Could you request Mrs. Knight to prepare a tray of refreshments?”

“Certainly.”

Although the butler’s gaunt face remained impassive, there was a suggestion of approval in his faint nod before he disappeared down the short hall.

Talia paused long enough to wash her hands and straighten the sapphire ribbon that was threaded beneath the empire style bodice. Then, she reluctantly followed in the butler’s path.

Her heart was thundering and her palms sweating by the time she reached the formal parlor, but she did not allow herself to pause as she stepped into the room heavily decorated with lacquer furnishings and crimson velvet. The slightest hesitation would allow her cowardice to take hold, and she would be fleeing to her room in terror.

The idea of flight remained a distinct possibility as her gaze landed on the tall, golden-haired man who always managed to make her heart leap with a dreadful excitement.

This morning he was attired in a pale blue jacket and silver waistcoat that was fitted to his body with flawless lines. Standing confidently near the ornately carved chimneypiece, his elegant style only emphasized the gaudy opulence of the gilded ceiling and massive Chinese vases that were arranged about the carpet.

He stiffened at her entrance, his expression unreadable as his gaze ran an unnervingly intimate inspection over her disheveled appearance.

Talia flushed, acutely aware that the lace of her gown was worn and her simple braid was better fitted for a servant than a lady of breeding. She had no notion that the steam from the laundry room had made the thin gown mold provocatively to her feminine curves. Or that the glossy curls that had strayed from her braid only emphasized her earthy beauty that would tempt any man, particularly one jaded by the frigid perfection of most society ladies.

And she most certainly would never have considered that any man could be imagining her spread on a bed of wildflowers as he ripped away her worn dress to reveal the smooth purity of her ivory skin.

She only knew that his unflinching survey made her feel hot and flustered in a manner she did not understand.

Licking her dry lips, she offered a clumsy curtsy. “My lord, I fear I was not expecting you.”

Almost as if her words had jerked him from an unwelcome spell, Lord Ashcombe stepped from the fireplace, a sardonic expression hardening his handsome features.

“I surely do not need an appointment to call upon my fiancée?” he mocked.

Her flush deepened. “Of course not, but I was not prepared to receive visitors. If you do not mind waiting I will change…”

“But I do mind.” He cut short her babbling. “I am a very busy man, Talia.” His lips twisted in a self-derisive smile. “Besides, we both know I was not driven here by the overwhelming urge to catch a glimpse of my beautiful bride-to-be.”

She flinched, wounded by his scorn despite her determination to remain immune to his taunts.

“There is no need to be insulting,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “If you have come to cancel the wedding, then I would appreciate you completing the task so I can return to my duties.”

“What the devil?” His brows snapped together, shocked by her words. “You believe I have come here to cancel the wedding?”

“Why else?”

Something dangerous glittered in the silver eyes. “Has your father decided to end his threat to sue my brother?”

“I…” She gave a shake of her head. “My father has not discussed his intentions with me.”

“And you have no reason to suspect that he has lost his desire to acquire an earl as his son-in-law?”

She hunched a shoulder. “No.”

The prickling threat that had filled the air eased as Gabriel gave an impatient wave of his hand.

“Then, barring a miracle, it would appear the marriage will take place as scheduled.”

She clasped her hands together as she sought to comprehend his odd mood. What was the matter with him? He seemed almost…angered by her mention of canceling the wedding.

Or perhaps he was simply angry that she had reminded him of the distasteful event.

Yes, that was much more likely.

“May I ask why you have come?”

He gave a shake of his head before reaching for the stack of papers he had left on the mantel. With a sharp motion he shoved them into Talia’s hand.

“These must be signed by your father before our wedding.”

She glanced at the official-looking parchment in bewilderment. “What are they?”

“Legal documents that ensure I am protected.”

“Protected?” She frowned, lifting her head to meet his unwavering gaze. “From me?”

“From you, and more important, from Silas Dobson.”

“What threat could we possibly pose to the Earl of Ashcombe?”

He shrugged. “They are clearly described in the documents.”

She returned her attention to the papers clutched in her fingers, a nasty sense of dread settling in the center of her heart.

Silence filled the stuffy parlor as she attempted to unravel the legal nonsense. It took only a few paragraphs to wish she had not made the effort.

Mortification made her gasp at the cold, methodical dissection of what should be a loving union.

It was not the insistence that her dowry would be under her husband’s control, or that she was offered no more than a small allowance to cover her household expenses. Or even that she was to be given nothing in the event of the dissolution of their marriage. Those she had assumed from the beginning of their devil’s bargain.

But to know that Lord Ashcombe had discussed her most private behavior with a complete stranger made her sick to her stomach.

“You believe I would be unfaithful?” she rasped, raising her head to stab him with an offended glare.

He shrugged with an arrogance that made her long to slap his handsome face.

“I believe your morals are questionable at best and I will not be cuckolded in my own home.”

She clenched her hands. Unfeeling bastard.

“And am I allowed to insist upon a similar pledge of fidelity?”

His smile was without humor. “Of course not.”

“Surely that would only be fair?”

Without warning he strolled forward, his hand cupping her chin in a touch that scalded her sensitive skin.

“I do not intend to be fair, my dear,” he murmured, the silver gaze studying her pale face with an alarming intensity. “I am in the position to dictate the rules of our marriage, not you.”

“And your rules include the right to parade about town with your mistresses while I am expected to remain at home and play the role of the dutiful wife?”

She shivered as the heat of his body easily penetrated her thin gown. Dear heavens, she had so often dreamed of this man holding her in his arms as they danced across a ballroom, but harmless fantasies did not prepare a poor maiden for the reality of his overpowering presence.

“What do you think?” he growled.

She lowered her lashes, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing how painful she found the thought of him with another woman.

“I think you will do whatever possible to humiliate me.”

He lowered his head until she felt the brush of his warm breath on her cheek.

“Would you prefer that I remain at home with you, pretending to be a devoted husband?”

She hastily pulled from his touch, as horrified as she was baffled by the quivering sensations that fluttered through her at the brush of his hard body against her.

“I would never ask the impossible,” she muttered, “but it would be a pleasant change…”

“Pleasant change?” he prompted, as her too-revealing words stumbled to a halt.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, as if they could protect her.

“A pleasant change not to be the source of amusement when I enter a ballroom,” she forced herself to continue.

He studied her broodingly. “Is that why you insist on becoming my bride?” he demanded. “Do you believe your position as the Countess of Ashcombe will offer you approval among society?”

She made a smothered sound of frustration. “I have told you, I have no desire to marry anyone, let alone a gentleman who holds me in such obvious contempt.”

A muscle in his jaw knotted. “Do you blame me?”

Guilt pierced her at his reminder that he was as much a victim to this hideous fate as she.

Perhaps even more so.

What had he done beyond attempting to protect his family? Now he was trapped with a woman whom he would never, ever have chosen as his bride.

“No,” she breathed. “No, I do not hold you to blame.”

He appeared caught off guard by her soft agreement, then his face tightened with annoyance.

“You will see that your father receives the papers?”

“Not until I finish reading the terms of my imprisonment,” she muttered with a grimace.

He frowned. “What did you say?”

“I think I should at least comprehend what is expected of me as a wife,” she said with a shrug. “Otherwise I am likely to be even more of a disappointment.”

The silver eyes narrowed. “You will not be a disappointment, my dear.”

“No?” A humorless smile curved her lips. “How can you be so certain?”

“Quite simply because I will not allow it.”

With his arrogant threat delivered, Lord Ashcombe performed a graceful bow and turned to leave Talia standing alone in the parlor, the hateful papers still clutched in her hand.

LORD ASHCOMBE’S townhouse was as oppressively elegant as Talia had feared.

Built along grand lines in the midst of Grosvenor Square, it was constructed of pale stone and had seven bays with brick archways that led into an alcove hiding the double oak doors. Banks of imposing windows overlooked the street, and alighting from her carriage, Talia had the unnerving sensation that there were dozens of hidden eyes trained upon her.

Her unease was not lessened as she was led through a white tiled foyer and up a sweeping marble staircase to the back of the house where the gothic chapel was located. She might not have been raised as an aristocrat, but she had spent enough hours in the library to recognize the stunning masterpieces that lined the paneled walls of the long gallery and the impressive Italianate ceiling in the formal salon that was painted with miniature scenes from Greek mythology. Certainly she had no difficulty in recognizing the priceless Venetian chandelier that hung just outside the chapel.

It all served to remind her that Lord Ashcombe’s title was not simply a mark of his social standing. It was more important an inheritance that came with overwhelming responsibility. Not only to his vast number of tenants and servants who depended upon him for employment, but to his family and the dignity of his position as the current earl.

For all her father’s wealth, she was unprepared to enter a world where a person was judged on their ancestry and the purity of their bloodlines. Even if she weren’t an awkward wallflower, she would never be capable of bringing pride to her role as Countess of Ashcombe.

These dark thoughts might have made Talia crumble into a ball of terror if she had not still been protected by the numbing sense of shock that had managed to survive their last humiliating encounter.

Certainly she would never have been able to walk down the short aisle to stand beside Lord Ashcombe waiting at the scrolled wooden altar.

As it was she stiffly marched past the worn pews, only briefly glancing at the vaulted ceiling and the exquisite stained-glass window before shifting her attention toward the man who was to become her husband.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of his golden hair shimmering in the light from the silver candelabrum and the arrogant features that were so perfectly carved they did not seem quite real. His lean body was attired in a black jacket that clung with loving care to his broad shoulders and black breeches that seemed more appropriate for a funeral than a wedding. And his silver eyes—

They held the ruthless power of a predator.

He had never appeared more godlike, and despite her layers of protection she shivered in fear.

Gabriel made no move to touch her as she halted at his side. In fact, he did not glance in her direction during the brief ceremony. Not even at its close when they signed the marriage certificate and shared a glass of sherry with the visibly curious rector and the rigidly composed butler, as well as a woman who Talia assumed must be the housekeeper.

Then, with an imperious nod of his head, Ashcombe gestured her to leave the chapel, following behind her with obvious impatience.

Distantly Talia was aware that her entire life had just been irrevocably altered. She was no longer Dowdy Dobson, the painfully shy daughter of a mere merchant. She was the Countess of Ashcombe.

Not that her elevated status offered her any comfort, she ruefully accepted.

How many years had she longed to be rid of her father’s oppressive rule? Even after it had become obvious that she was never going to attract a bevy of eager suitors, she had continued to dream that a kind, decent gentleman would appear to whisk her away. A man who would treat her with dignity and respect.

But now her hopes were forever crushed.

She had just traded one tyrant for another.

As if to ensure she understood her submissive role as his bride, Gabriel cast a dismissive gaze over her demure attire. Her rose gown was threaded with silk ribbons around the high waist, and a single strand of pearls circled her neck.

“Mrs. Manning will show you to your chambers,” he informed her icily, a gesture of his hand bringing forward the plump woman with gray hair tidily knotted at the back of her head. Her black gown was as spotless as the townhouse, and her movements brisk. The housekeeper, just as Talia had suspected. “Let her know if you prefer a dinner tray in your private salon or if you desire to eat in the dining room.”

“You will not be joining me?” The question tumbled from her lips before she could check them.

“I have business I must attend to.”

Acutely aware of the housekeeper’s presence, Talia felt her face flame with color. Was it necessary to shame her by abandoning her before the ink had dried upon their license?

“What of your mother?”

“Her ladyship is visiting her sister in Kent.”

Safely tucked away from her ill-bred daughter-in-law. “I…see.”

The silver eyes briefly darkened as he gazed down at her, but his expression remained aloof.

“You are welcome to explore the house and gardens, but you will not leave the grounds.”

“Am I to be a prisoner here?”

“Only until tomorrow.” A humorless smile curved his lips. “Do not bother to unpack, my dear. You leave for Devonshire at first light.”

Without bothering to wait for her reaction, Gabriel brushed past her and disappeared down a long corridor.

An unexpected stab of misery managed to pierce the protective fog.

She felt…lost in the vast, imposing house. As if she was an imposter who was bound to be humiliated when she was at last exposed.

Which was, no doubt, exactly what her husband desired.

She was thankfully distracted as the housekeeper waved a plump hand toward the nearby stairs.

“This way, my lady.”

My lady. Talia hid a sudden grimace.

She wished to heavens she was back in her father’s library, forgotten among the dusty books.

Instead she forced a sad smile and headed for the stairs. “Thank you, Mrs. Manning.”

She allowed herself to be escorted to a charming suite that was decorated with rich blue satin wallcovers that matched the curtains and upholstery on the rosewood furniture. Along one wall a series of windows overlooked the formal gardens and the distant mews, while through the doorway she could catch sight of an equally luxurious bedroom.

“It is not the largest apartment,” Mrs. Manning said kindly, “but I thought you might prefer a view of the garden.”

“It is lovely,” Talia murmured, her breath catching at the sight of the exquisite bouquets of roses that were set on the carved marble chimneypiece. Turning, she laid a hand on her companion’s arm, well aware that her husband was not responsible for the considerate gesture. “I adore fresh flowers. Thank you.”

The housekeeper cleared her throat, as if embarrassed by Talia’s display of gratitude.

“It seemed appropriate for your wedding day.”

Talia strolled toward the lovely view of the gardens, not surprised by the marble grotto that was larger than her aunt’s cottage in Yorkshire.

“I am certain you are aware that I am not a typical bride. The earl has hardly made an effort to disguise the fact I am an unwanted intruder.”

“It is no fault of your own, my lady,” the servant surprisingly claimed. Was it possible Mrs. Manning felt a measure of sympathy for the earl’s discarded bride? “His lordship is merely disappointed in Master Harry and his behavior toward you.”

Talia was not so easily fooled, but she appreciated the woman’s kind attempt.

“I was under the impression that Lord Ashcombe was equally averse to having me as a sister-in-law. I would have assumed that he was pleased to have me jilted.” She grimaced. “At least until my father coerced him into honoring Mr. Richardson’s promise.”

“As to that, I suppose you shall soon enough discover that his lordship and Master Harry have a…” The housekeeper paused, searching for the appropriate word. “Thorny relationship.”

Despite her earlier promise to treat her husband with the same disdainful lack of interest as he had displayed toward her, Talia couldn’t prevent her curiosity.

“I did suspect as much.” She turned, watching as the servant fussed with the silver teapot set on a pier table. “It would not be easy to be a younger son.”

“A good sight too easy, if you ask me,” the woman muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

For a moment the woman hesitated. Was she debating the wisdom of sharing family gossip? Then, obviously deciding that Talia was destined to discover the Ashcombe secrets, she straightened and squarely met Talia’s curious gaze.

“The previous earl died near ten years ago, leaving his lordship to assume the title, as well as to take responsibility for his grieving mother and younger brother.”

Ten years ago? Talia blinked in astonishment. She had no idea.

“He must have been very young.”

“A week past his eighteenth birthday. Just a lad.”

“Good heavens.”

“Not that his lordship ever complained.” Mrs. Manning heaved a sigh. “He returned from school and shouldered his father’s duties while his mother remained in mourning and Master Harry began to fall into one scrape after another.”

Against her will, Talia felt a stab of sympathy for the arrogant brute.

“There was no one to assist him?”

“The earl is not one to share his responsibility.”

“Not particularly surprising,” Talia said in dry tones.

Even before their farce of a wedding, Talia had sensed Gabriel’s air of isolation.

At the time, she had imagined that his seeming need to distance himself from others had given them something in common. Now, of course, she knew that it was merely an arrogant need to control those around him.

Just like her father.

Mrs. Manning heaved another soulful sigh. “A pity really.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Perhaps if Master Harry had been expected to take his fair share of duties he would not have…”

“Left me at the altar?”

“Yes.” The housekeeper’s plump lips tightened with disapproval. “His lordship did attempt to put a halt to his brother’s excesses, but Lady Ashcombe always was one to indulge him. If the earl refused to pay his brother’s debts, then Master Harry would simply apply to his mother.”

Talia frowned, rather taken back by the servant’s revealing words. Even if she was now a member of the family, it was not often a servant was willing to openly gossip about her employers.

Not when the merest breach of confidence could see her tossed onto the streets.

Then Talia was struck by a sudden realization.

Mrs. Manning was clearly devoted to Gabriel. And while she might sincerely disapprove of his treatment of Talia, it was obvious she felt compelled to excuse his cruel manner.

Perhaps she was even ridiculous enough to hope that a truce between Gabriel and his new bride could eventually be called.

Talia swallowed a sigh.

A futile hope, but Talia did not have the heart to inform the kindly woman that her beloved Gabriel was a coldhearted bastard who believed his wife no better than a rank title-hunter who had used her father to bully him into marriage.

“That must have been frustrating for Lord Ashcombe,” she instead agreed.

“Needless to say.” The older woman frowned. “In fact, six months ago he at last…”

“Yes?”

“He insisted that her ladyship not interfere in his attempt to force Master Harry to live within his allowance.”

“Ah.” Talia’s lips twisted. “That explains why he accepted my father’s offer.”

There was a brief hesitation. “Yes.”

“And why Lord Ashcombe is so angry. He thought to teach his brother a lesson only to once again be the one to suffer the consequences.” Talia pressed a hand to her aching heart. “It is no wonder he hates me.”

Mrs. Manning shook her head. “He is angry for the moment, but once he has accepted that you are to be his countess, I am certain that all will be well.”

Talia swallowed a hysterical urge to laugh. She was quite certain nothing would be well again.

“I wish I possessed your confidence,” she said dryly.

Perhaps sensing Talia’s disbelief, the housekeeper stepped forward, her expression troubled.

“His lordship can be a hard man in many ways,” she admitted. “When he took the title at such a tender age there were any number of unscrupulous individuals who thought to take advantage of his inexperience, including several gentlemen who had claimed to be his friend. He had no choice but to learn how to protect himself and his family from those who would exploit his naïveté. But he has a good heart and he is fiercely loyal to those he considers his responsibility.”

Talia shied from the temptation to pity the boy who had lost his innocence at such a young age. The Earl of Ashcombe was determined to crush what little was left of her spirit. The moment she thought of him as anything but the enemy she would be lost.

“Responsibility?” She latched onto the revealing word. “What of those he loves?”

The housekeeper grimaced. “I fear he has become convinced that such an emotion is a weakness.” She deliberately paused, meeting Talia’s gaze. “A wise woman would remind him of the joy to be found in sharing his heart with another.”