She gazed into his exquisite face, and inanely posed the question she'd previously attempted to raise, but which she'd been too timid to pursue. "Do you ever wish—"
Because of the lump in her throat, she couldn't conclude her query, and after a portentous pause, he asked, "Wish what?”
"That things had ended differently between us?"
"No, I don't. Good-bye."
Well, he'd certainly told her, hadn't he?
He shut the door, the lock clicking loudly as though to vividly inform her that she'd abominably transgressed on his privacy.
She sniffed, hurt, and for a moment or two, she forlornly loafed on his stoop, then she trudged down the street toward her carriage. The coachman assisted her, but she didn't give the signal to drive on.
Pensive, discouraged, she leaned against the squab and peeked out the curtain, absently watching his house as she methodically strove to concoct a wiser strategy, one more likely to guarantee success. She must have hurt him so desperately! His level of pique was much worse than she'd assumed.
"How can I fix this?" she murmured to herself.
A few minutes later, to her surprise, his door opened, and Gabriel emerged. She'd been so wrapped up in her misery that she'd forgotten he was going out, and she straightened so that she could better spy on him.
Luckily, his vehicle was parked in the direction opposite from her own, and he was so intent on his destination that he walked down the block and climbed inside without so much as glancing to where she dawdled and mooned over him.
Long after he'd departed, she chafed and fumed, pondering how to proceed. Currently, he denied any lingering partiality, but his regard had once been authentic, his devotion cogent and abiding. It couldn't have vanished completely. What could she do to revive their connection, to burst through his wall of reserve, so that they could love again?
Eventually, a plan began to form. It was rash, underhanded—she'd even go so far as to call it ill-advised—but in light of her predicament, a bit of deviousness couldn't hurt.
"Poor Gabriel," she fondly remarked. He regularly failed to recollect how determined she could be when she set herself on a goal, but he was about to be reminded.
Chapter Twenty-four
Gabriel closed his eyes, attempting to shut out the noise of London gliding by outside his carriage.
The interview Attorney Thumberton had set up with the Marchioness of Belmont had progressed just as Mary had predicted. He was now a
kept
man, but not in the sense he'd ever been before. The wealthy, influential noblewoman had been enchanted by his paintings, so he'd procured every artist's fantasy: a benefactor.
He'd never wanted a meddling, intrusive patron, had never wanted to become embroiled with those capricious aristocrats who had caused so much havoc for himself and John over the years. Why, next he knew, he'd be taking tea with his uncles! A loathsome idea all around!
Yet Mary had been so insistent, and his decision to honor her request had left her so cheerful, that he hadn't had the heart to disappoint her. She'd initiated the contact, and he'd acquiesced merely to please her, never presuming that her efforts would be so damned successful.
The agreement would bring him a substantial income that was much more than he would ever require to care for John and Mary. Of greater significance was his position to the marchioness and how it would convey infinite extended benefits in the future as he was introduced to the prominent lady's acquaintances. Considering the fickleness of the members of high society, they would all wish to possess some of his work for their own.
With his distinction established by her grant of sponsorship, the value of his paintings would increase, his reputation enhance, and his profits soar, so that he would never again have to deceive or dupe—or defraud—in order to keep food on the table and a roof over John's and Mary's heads.
He was about to be paid, handsomely and regularly, for doing what he loved, so why wasn't he happier? Why wasn't he shouting for joy and dancing in the street?
The coach turned down the lane toward their house, and he peered at the familiar neighborhood, glad he was in London, for he'd hated being away and at odds with his father.
The vehicle rumbled to a halt, but he didn't exit. Tarrying, he stared at the bright blossoms in the window boxes, the vines crawling up the facade. It looked tasteful, unique, picture-perfect. And lonely.
He couldn't tolerate the notion of going in, of sitting by himself in the parlor, sipping on a drink and faking elation.
John and Mary weren't home and wouldn't arrive till late, so there wasn't a soul with whom he could celebrate his good fortune. No one to whom he could brag or boast. No one who would pat him on the back or lift a glass in observance of his windfall.
At loose ends, he wandered out, maneuvered the stairs, and climbed to the front entrance, only to recognize that if he went inside, he'd be standing in the very spot where he had confronted Elizabeth a few hours earlier.
Who could have guessed that she would show up, mere minutes before he was to attend the most important engagement of his life?
He was still rattled.
If he'd had any clue that she'd be audacious enough to stop by after so much time had passed, he would have ensured that he was well hidden. But how was he to know what she would do? The woman was a mystery, and he was frightfully relieved he'd had the fortitude to repulse her preposterous hello. By calling on him, she'd been making a conciliatory gesture, but he couldn't begin to surmise why she would bother.
The past few months, he'd convinced himself that she had meant every word she'd uttered during their hideous controversy. While he'd wallowed in a maelstrom of self-pity and lamentation in Brighton, healing and salving his wounds in the refreshing sea air, her accusations and epithets had whirled repeatedly, and he hadn't discounted them. He'd permitted them to take root and grow.
When he'd returned to town, his studio had been littered with sketches of her, and the sight had been painful. He'd contemplated destroying the pictures, tossing them in the fireplace and adding some tinder, but the artist in him couldn't ravage what he'd created.
Some of it was just too bloody brilliant to be obliterated by a ball of flames, especially the portrait. But other than Elizabeth, he couldn't conceive of a single person who would want any of it, so he'd conveyed it to her, retaining a few favorites for himself. He'd been positive that she'd interpret the delivery as a curt statement as to his opinion of her. Foolishly, he'd assumed she would infer he'd dispatched the items because he couldn't care less about them, that he longed to be shed of them, and that he was merely fulfilling his end of a disastrous, unpalatable business arrangement.
The money had been an afterthought. Initially, when Findley Harcourt had presented him with the marvelous prospect for enrichment, he'd scammed me cash with the intent of handing it over to her, but after her hateful comments, he'd pettily decided to keep it. The hell with her! But as his anger had faded, so had his misguided determination to punish her.
Though he was furious enough at her to spit nails, she desperately needed the funds. He made no excuses for ruining her, and he had no regrets that he had, but she was no longer virginal, could never marry, and therefore could never escape her father's clutches.
Gabriel had heard—from her stories and John's—that the earl was an unmitigated brute, and after meeting him, Gabriel heartily concurred. If Gabriel hadn't intervened, Elizabeth would have been forever trapped in his orbit, unable to protect herself or flee- Despite how enraged Gabriel was, he'd never willingly consign her to such a fate.
Still, her appearance left him so perplexed. Why had she come? What did she want? She'd pleaded so prettily as she'd asked if he ever rued their quarrel. For a brief instant, it had seemed as if she was sincerely sorry, that she wished they could make amends and start over, and his misreading of the moment was pathetic.
They had nothing in common, nothing to say to one another. The best day of his life was the day he'd sent her packing! He wouldn't bemoan his resolution. Not when it had been so accursedly correct.
Nevertheless, he couldn't enter the foyer for he'd end up reliving the entire, odious encounter. He descended from the stoop, and followed the garden path to his cottage where he could find solitude and privacy. Perhaps after he calmed a bit, he might even paint or draw or...
Sleep. That's what he really needed. A good night's sleep. Nowadays, he never relaxed enough to truly rest. His nights were eternal, his dreams erratic and unpredictable— about his mother, Elizabeth, and Mary. They were in danger, and their identities melded until he couldn't discern one from the other. He'd awaken, sweating and miserable, so he'd begun avoiding his bed.
Yes, multitudinous hours of uninterrupted slumber would be a boon for which he'd kill.
Up ahead, his cottage beckoned, and he dawdled in the yard. The place was always magical, but in the summer, with the flowers in bloom, it was particularly delightful. He relished the view, then proceeded in, but the second he spun the knob, he could tell something wasn't right.
An intruder was on the premises.
It wasn't the maid; she'd have sneaked in and effectuated her tasks the minute he'd departed for his appointment.
So who? Who would have had the nerve?
Angry, he forcefully pushed the door so that it opened all the way and smacked against the wall.
On the fainting couch, in the middle of the room, Elizabeth Harcourt reclined.
He couldn't believe his eyes. Thinking her a hallucination, he blinked, then blinked again, but she was still there.
Shockingly, she was barely dressed, as though she was prepared to bask in an afternoon of pleasure such as the ones they'd enjoyed on numerous prior occasions. Her ensemble was inviting, designed to arouse: a flimsy robe, mules, lacy stockings tied at the knee with frilly garters. She sipped on a glass of wine and, as she spun toward him, their gazes locked, and she impishly licked across her bottom lip.
"Hello, Gabriel. I'd about given up on you."
"What are you doing in here?"
Disconcerted, he stomped over to her, which was a mistake. He could smell the heat and musk of her skin, could almost see her breasts and pussy, but her most enticing areas were temptingly concealed as though she'd carefully planned her pose with seducement in mind.
In a reflexive, defensive move, he took two steps back.
"I've missed you," she said.
"Well, I haven't missed you."
"Nonsense," she pouted. Stretching and purring like a contented cat, her torrid attention dropped, settling on his loins where an embarrassing bulge had formed. "You won't deny me a chance to ... apologize, will you?"
"I no longer dabble in frivolous affairs," he loftily intoned, and he sounded like a self-righteous prig.
"Really?" Her brow furrowed. "What about your widow?"
"My widow?"
"Surely you remember your
widow.
You claimed that you had to be free of me so you could swindle her out of her money."
"Swindle
her?" He nearly choked. How was it that she'd ceaselessly had such astute insights into his wicked character? And if she harbored such a low—but accurate— estimation of his disposition, why had she returned?
"You couldn't wait to commence with your seduction of the poor woman. Your farewell letter said so."
"Oh,
that
widow."
That dratted good-bye note! Norwich had been in such a godawful hurry that Gabriel hadn't had sufficient latitude to write the blasted thing with any amount of circumspection. What exactly had he said? He could scarcely recall. "She is ... I was ..." Too frustrated to make up a clever prevarication, he marched to the door and held it wide. "You're not welcome here. Please go."
She ignored him as readily as if he'd pronounced the command in a foreign language. "Well, I don't care about your widow friend," she mused. "Do you?"
"Absolutely," he lied.
"Madly?"
"Yes."
"Passionately?"
"Without question."
"Pity." She shrugged and stretched again. "I guess there's no purpose in continuing."
"In continuing what?"
"I'm trying to proposition you, but I'm not sure how a lady makes such an overture to a man."
"A
lady
doesn't."
"And here I was so certain you'd oblige me." She arched her back, thrusting her magnificent breasts up and out. "You wouldn't force me to humiliate myself by asking
someone else, would you? Obviously, I'm terrible at this.”
Was she now bold enough to approach another? He saw red!
These past months, his worst torture had been conjecturing as to what sort of gentleman would next tickle her fancy. She had a recklessly erotic nature and, as she'd been exposed to the sins of the flesh, she'd never remain celibate.
So ... she was contemplating carnal indiscretion, was she? Other lovers and promiscuity? How dare she flaunt her licentious propensities! With each beat of his heart, he grieved for what might have been. How could she so idly discount what had happened between them!
He slammed the door, then huffed to her side once more. "You'll not go pandering yourself about town like an experienced harlot!"
"I won't?" She winked impertinently. "Who's to say I can't?"
"What's come over you?" He motioned up and down across her flagrantly exhibited torso. "You're acting like a whore!"
"I am not. I'm merely indulging my lustful whims, as you so diligently taught me." Like me most skilled coquette, she stroked a hand across her breast, her stomach, to where it lay, languid and arresting, on her lap. "I learned from the master, and now—when I'd like to use my skills to personal advantage—you almost seem... jealous. Are you?"
"No," he jeered, refusing to let her witness a hint of his true attitude.
"Well, good, because I can't imagine why you would be."
She was rubbing in small circles across her abdomen, and he tracked the tantalizing trail. He couldn't look away, her conduct making him vividly recollect when they'd made love at their last rendezvous.
How sweet it had been!
His body had no trouble reliving every detail of that glorious episode of sensual bliss. It had been so spectacular that he hadn't since allowed himself to luxuriate in a woman's physical company. Not that he hadn't had abundant opportunity.
Women constantly offered themselves—perhaps it was his being part-Italian or that he was an artist—and his trip to the shore had been no exception. He'd generated plenty of female curiosity, but he hadn't reciprocated any sexual interest. Whenever he'd pondered a dalliance, Elizabeth Harcourt's image had irritatingly imposed itself, leaving him with the absurd feeling that he would be cuckolding her if he'd acceded.
Her hand dipped lower still, her fingers lingering over the section of robe that covered her pussy, and with a sudden need for her that bordered on madness, he grew hard as stone, the placard of his trousers swelling further. Lest she discern the effect she had on him, he whirled away, but too slowly. She'd noticed and, relishing the powerful hold she managed to wield, she chuckled at his discomfort.
Blast his unruly cravings! He pushed at his pants, striving to find some ease, but none was to be had. The bewitching enchantress had incessantly inspired uncontrollable appetites, and apparently, separation had not dimmed her prurient abilities.