Authors: Kathleen Brooks
She colored, but raised her chin. “How do you know I am not married still?”
Explaining his knowledge would reveal his identity, which seemed precipitate and imprudent, of a sudden. Perhaps he should wait a bit, at least until he regained his bearings and got a better grasp on the situation.
God’s teeth, he wished honor were not at stake here, much as he wanted the delightful but surprising package before him, in the strictly carnal sense, of course.
Since hunger for food also gnawed at him, Gideon cut a piece of cheese as he considered his answer.
“Widow’s weeds,” he said, after chewing thoughtfully, indicating her black bombazine gown. “If I do not mistake the matter.”
Sabrina rolled a mound of dough from a tawny clay bowl and nodded. “You do not. I am eight months a widow. Perceptive of you.”
Not perceptive enough, by damn.
So much for his wedding night.
Gideon tore a piece of warm bread from the loaf.
Good God, he was in danger of becoming a husband and father in one sweep. Not
that children
, in themselves, frightened him, but the notion of becoming immediately and directly responsible for one, certainly did.
No wonder her brother had begged, as he lay dying, for Gideon to wed and protect her. How well he remembered that plea for her protection. But what Gideon’s erstwhile friend had not said was that, without his protection, Sabrina Whitcomb might be forced to a life on the streets.
Even without that knowledge, with the haze of smoke and the stench of death all about them, and
Grandmama’s
letter in his pocket, Gideon had grasped
Hawksworth’s
plea like a ticket to life.
Fulfilling his friend’s dying wish became a call to honor, while caring for his sister would give Gideon purpose in a, heretofore, meaningless existence. Having suffered enough ennui and regret, Gideon had, in that moment stared his own mortality in its bony eye sockets and yearned of a sudden for an heir, someone to carry on his name.
A small someone, who might fill the emptiness and accept him without condition.
He had simply not expected the tiny package to arrive quite so soon.
Since the begetting of heirs fell into line with his favorite and most accomplished sport—he had practiced diligently for years—the offer of a fresh and virginal bride upon whom to get his heir had seemed a gift from above, though hell—and Bonaparte—had needed to be faced first.
Hawksworth
had breathed a great sigh with Gideon’s final promise and all but expired in his arms. Then Gideon was forced to rejoin his regiment in the thick of battle.
By the time he returned, his friend’s body had been taken away.
Weeks after Napoleon had been routed, Gideon had finally been able to send letters offering Sabrina Whitcomb his hand and arranging to have her brought to
Stanthorpe
Place. After weeks aboard the
Bellerophon
in
Torbay
Harbor, guarding the conquered Frenchman, he had then sailed on the Northumberland to St. Helena to stand guard there till his tour of duty ended.
Not until Dover’s Cliffs finally came into sight did Gideon have the time and freedom to worry in earnest about the pitfalls in his promise, namely, the bride, herself.
He had reasoned then that a poor and homely spinster should be particularly grateful for his name and protection, and therefore amenable and easy to the bit. But the bemused goddess watching him could, in no way, even in her interesting condition, be compared to any creature he might master. Nor, he suspected, would she ever be easy—to the bit or anything else. And yet, something about her answered a need in him, a longing he could not even name.
Gideon scoffed inwardly at his idiocy.
While
Grandmama
had dubbed the alliance romantic, and destined, he had called it daft and wondered if he was not sickening from something. Not that he had any choice in the matter. Honor dictated that he not deny the friend whose blood thinned the mud beneath them. No more than he could deny this remarkable woman who called forth in him a bizarre and unexplained need to care for and protect.
Moreover, it was entirely possible that, despite her temporary indisposition, Sabrina Whitcomb, with her gull-winged brows and sable-thick hair, might actually make him an acceptable wife.
And
who
was he trying to fool? He was eager for her. He had heard it said that expectant women glowed with vitality, but he had never witnessed the like.
Until today.
What he should do, Gideon thought with derision, was take himself off to Bedlam to get fitted for a straightjacket. Never mind that this challenging mix of seductress and virgin, child and woman, could be said to fulfill every male fantasy. Never mind that his long-time mistress, svelte and skilled, awaited his arrival even now.
“Are you unwell?” his intended asked, her brows knit with sincere concern.
“Unquestionably,” Gideon replied in bad humor. “Positively dotty. I must say, you do not seem particularly overcome with grief at your husband’s passing.”
Sabrina’s eyes darkened to liquid amethyst and Gideon regretfully expected her to shrink before him. Instead a tigress emerged, all bright fire and unsheathed claws. “I suppose your bad manners are understandable,” she snapped, “begging at the back doors of your betters, as you are, but you might at least pretend a degree of polite gratitude.”
Claws that could draw blood, he must remember. Gideon suppressed an unnatural and frightening urge to break into a smile. And did he resemble a derelict so much that she did not realize who he must be?
His bride raised her stubborn chin a fraction. “For your information, not that you merit any, my husband was...less than a good man, but I do grieve for a dear friend.
Gideon heard the truth of it in her voice, read sincerity in her eyes, and was shamed. “Please,” he said. “Accept my apology. You have had a bad time of it and did not deserve a show of temper. I do thank you for the meal.” He began to eat in earnest. “Tell me about your friend.”
The tigress nodded, claws instantly sheathed, seeming surprised at his humble reaction to her scold. “The friend for whom I mourn was the Duke of
Hawksworth
,” she said, love and sadness etching her features. “And I do not know how I shall go on without him.”
Friend? Something dark, possessive, and ponderous rose up in Gideon. The liar had called her, sister. Why would a man lie about his relationship with a woman, unless
—
Good God, had
Hawksworth
been looking to give his bastard a name?
No, and again, no.
It was true that he,
Hawksworth
, and several others, had been friends for no more than a matter of months, their alliance forged by circumstance, camaraderie, and shared patriotism. The rogues’ whimsical club formed in a tent, in time of war, so life-stories had been dispensed with. So Gideon knew little of
Hawksworth’s
family, less of his taste in women.
Nevertheless, his friend had been, without doubt, a man of honor. That and some strong but nameless instinct about the woman before him, made Gideon believe he must be wrong. And yet....
Less than twenty-four hours remained until his wedding and would have to suffice as time enough to learn what he must. If his groundless suspicions proved true and he found the prospect of marriage to this woman insupportable, he would call off the wedding and she would never know
Stanthorpe
had been here.
For now, however, since he obviously appeared as much a derelict as he felt, he had best get himself upstairs to wash. Blast and damnation, how the devil would he manage that without revealing his name?
Feeling caged of a sudden, Gideon rose to stare out the window, as if an answer could be found upon the sudden summer gale.
“Sir, I do not know your name.”
Gideon turned, read her bewilderment, and resigned himself to revealing his identity. “You may call me Gideon.”
When she made no sign of recognition, he began to hope for a reprieve. He bowed. “Gideon St. Goddard, at your service.”
“Mr. St. Goddard.” She curtseyed, inasmuch as she could, and bestowed upon him a genuine smile of delight. When the deepest dimples that ever felled man tugged at his cold rogue’s heart, Gideon feared there would be no reprieve for him. None.
“Ah Mrs.
Chalmer
,” Sabrina said as they turned as one to the woman who had just entered the kitchen. “Mr. St. Goddard, here, will be staying with us for a while. Please have your husband put him in with the others.”
The others?
Mrs.
Chalmer’s
brows arched. But when Gideon shook his head, imperceptibly, her way, his wizened old cook set her mouth, narrowed her eyes, and led him wordlessly up the stairs.
* * *
Sabrina Whitcomb had never felt more gauche or nonplussed in her four and twenty years of life. Never had she come face to face with such a vital and disarming specimen of manhood.
True, his dark shadow of a beard, his intense emerald eyes, gave a first stark impression. True, he regarded her like a hawk sighting prey.
Yes, that thick hair flowing away from his face, like waves in a midnight wind, had only served to enhance the image, and he had frightened her.
But despite all that,
she had also been fascinated by his every unexpected facet
. His demeanor had seemed at differing moments to shift from beggar to baron; scamp to sorcerer; champion to charmer.
Here was a man who might protect her from all comers, even from the likes of the vile creature, she was afraid still searched for her. Not that Homer
Lowick
would ever find her in as safe and unlikely a location as
Stanthorpe
Place, a blessing for which she had
Hawksworth
to thank.
But Gideon St. Goddard was another matter entirely. Good Lord, that such a bold, capable one should arrive at her door the day before her wedding to another. Which made no account, because the man was penniless, she must remember, a situation she could no longer tolerate, for herself or her children.
Hawksworth
had kept his promise with his last breath. For that reason, first, if not for her vow to herself, she must remain true to
Stanthorpe
. Forget that his assessing regard turned her to
pudding, that
his verdant eyes made him appear, almost, to smile, even when he did not. Never mind a mouth shaped to reveal an inborn cheerfulness that inevitably tugged at
her own
smile.
And when St. Goddard had finally bestowed his first true smile upon her, full and deadly, before following Mrs.
Chalmer
up the stairs, the sculpted grooves in his cheeks had deepened, revealing a rogue undeniable, handsome as sin and rife with promise.
Well, Sabrina thought, kneading her dough to India
Rubber
, palpitations over a charming rogue did not belong in the breast of a woman engaged to another.
Especially not one past the blush of youth and due to give birth at any moment.
The doddering old Duke of
Stanthorpe
would do very well for her, thank you very much. With his money, he would be as able to protect her as well as any broad-shouldered pauper.
Tonight, after dinner, tomorrow at the latest, she would tell the handsome St. Goddard that he must leave
Stanthorpe
Place at once.
She had no room in her life for a seductive lady-killer.
More’s the pity.
A
New York Times
Bestselling author for Penguin Books, Annette Blair left her job as a Development Director and Journalism Advisor at a private New England prep school to become a full time writer. At forty books and counting, she added cozy mysteries and bewitching romantic comedies to her award-winning Historical Romances. She also stepped into the amazing world of self-publishing and she’s enjoying the ride.
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