Gift-Wrapped Governess (24 page)

He turned away and headed for the door. She stood, frozen to the spot, her heart pounding. ‘Wait!'

He paused.

‘Gabriel, I…' Regan swallowed. It could not be wrong, not when she loved him so. He did not love anyone else. He had not yet pledged himself to another. It was her last chance. Her only opportunity to snatch some happiness, however fleeting. She took a deep breath and picked up the sprig of mistletoe. ‘Gabriel, I would rather not starve either.'

He turned. ‘Regan, I could not ask such a thing of you.'

‘I know.' She smiled, more confident now at the rightness of what she was about to do. ‘I know very well you would not, Gabriel, but I can give to you what you cannot ask for. To you and only you.' Her hands shaking, she allowed the cloak to slip from her shoulders, spilling around her on the floor. She was flushed, she was acutely nervous, but she was absolutely certain. Tossing back her hair, she looked at him unwaveringly, and held out her hand towards him. ‘It can be my gift, to both of us.'

Gabriel caught his breath, humbled by the generosity of such a gesture, stunned by the sensual beauty of her, the proud, clear gaze, the regal way she held herself, though he could see the effort she was making not to shake. He strode towards her, and gathered her in his arms. ‘I could not. I would not, no matter how much I want to. I will not let you. It is too much.'

She wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘I want to, Gabriel. I know what I'm doing. I want to.'

He caught her face between his hands. ‘Are you truly certain?'

‘You will be—careful?' she asked, blushing.

‘I promise.'

‘Then I am truly sure.'

Her smile twisted at his guts. She had no idea about that smile of hers, so innocently sensual. Gabriel pulled her roughly to him and kissed her.

Passion ripped through them as soon as their lips touched. They drank deep of each other, drawing flames, licking heat, a wild, roaring heat that threatened to engulf them. Breathing raggedly, Gabriel drew back. If this was to be their one time, he wanted to make it last as long as possible. Stroking her hair, her cheeks, he fluttered little kisses over her brow, her lids. Casting off his coat, he pulled her down onto the fur lining of the cloak. He kissed her throat, his mouth lingering at the pulse behind her ear, at the delicate hollow of her throat. Murmuring her name, he kissed his way down the creamy skin of her arm, the crease at her elbow, the pale blue veins at her wrist, finding every pulse, roused by the taste of her skin, the way each kiss made her pulse flutter more erratically. As he showered kisses over the swell of her breasts above her stays, he felt himself swelling, hardening. He tugged off his neckcloth and cast his waistcoat aside. He loosened the strings of her stays to free her breasts and feasted his eyes on her beauty, before his mouth captured one perfect pink nipple and he sucked greedily.

Regan moaned with pleasure. Liquid pleasure, trickling like warm honey, from her breasts, down to her belly, down. She felt as if she would melt, as if she was on fire, as if she was being coiled tight, all at once. She had not thought, not dreamed, never, ever, ever, that it would be like this. Her fingers trailed through the silk of his hair, under the open collar
of his shirt to find skin. Warm, male skin. Such a breadth to his shoulders. The muscles rippled under her fingers. He licked his way round the soft underside of her breast and over to the other nipple. Her pleasure became a burning need. She wanted, desperately wanted, more.

Skin. His skin against hers. She plucked at his shirt. He pulled it over his head and it was her turn to gaze transfixed at the rise and fall of his chest, the soft smattering of hair that led her eyes down, to the dip in his stomach, down. Tentatively, she touched him. His breath became jagged. She touched him again, tracing the shape of him, memorising him as a blind person would.

Kissing again, their mouths clashing, lips hungry, hungrier. Her chemise gone. His mouth on her stomach. The pulse at her ankle, the back of her knee, the inside of her thighs. She was so hot. She was so very hot. Urgently hot. Inside her, a coiling tighter and tighter, shivering heat, and then his mouth fastened on the source of the heat and she gasped, arched up under him, felt herself thrown, spiralling, thrumming, pulsing into the air, into the heavens, into a sparkling diamond place where she flew and flew. Just when she thought she would fall, he kissed her mouth again, whispering her name again, and she opened her eyes, and he was there, covering her body with his, asking her if she was sure.

She clutched at his shoulders. Pressed kisses to his throat, his chin, his mouth. Colour slashed Gabriel's cheeks. His eyes were dark. His skin seemed tight-drawn, stark. ‘I could not be more sure,' Regan whispered, her heart so full of love that she was certain it must be etched upon her face. ‘I want you, Gabriel,' she said, because she could not say ‘I love you.'

He had never wanted anyone so much. He ached with wanting and ached with wanting to please. He did not want it to end, but he could no longer postpone its ending. Carefully, he eased himself into her, kissing her, stroking her, murmuring her name, slowly, pushing achingly slowly past the last bar
rier and into the glorious, delightful, delicious centre of her. It was almost too much. He paused, breathing heavily. Then carefully, his gaze fixed on hers, he began to move, waiting for her to find their rhythm, watching her eyes widen when she did, tightening unbearably as she began to move with him. So sweet, so perfect, so incredibly intense. At her urging he thrust harder, higher, deeper, thrust again as she moaned her pleasure, digging her nails into his back, his buttocks, bucking under him as his climax seized him and hers caught her up in a second wave, removing himself just in time, though he wanted, as he had never wanted, to spend himself inside her, because it felt right, as it had never felt right before.

Afterwards, Gabriel's kiss was softer, more tender, on her swollen lips. She kissed him back, pouring her love into him, holding him to her, knowing utterly, completely, that this was right, as utterly certain that when it was over, her heart would break. She wanted to close her eyes and to float for ever in this blissful cloud their lovemaking had created. But she could not. Regan opened her eyes. ‘I need you to promise me you won't regret this,' she said softly.

Gabriel smoothed the heavy fall of Titian hair from her cheek. ‘Never. Unless you do?'

‘Never.' She kissed him, willing the tears not to fall. ‘It's best if you go now.'

‘Regan…'

‘Hush, Gabriel. Don't spoil it. There is no more to be said.'

There was something he had not asked. Something he should know, but he could not think what. He wanted to stay locked in this turret, making love with her. But tomorrow was Christmas Eve. The self-imposed deadline he must meet. He dragged himself to his feet and quickly dressed. One last look at her, hair streaming out, body flushed with passion, eyes gazing up at him, then, quickly, before he could change his mind, he left.

‘I love you, Gabriel,' Regan whispered to the closed door.
She lay on the cloak, slowly reliving every second of their lovemaking, until she began to shiver with cold. Outside, dusk had fallen. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. Tomorrow, Gabriel would promise himself to another. But for tonight, for this one night, he had been hers.

R
egan greeted the dawn of Christmas Eve morning with mixed feelings. The rosy glow of what she had shared with Gabriel lingered still, but its residual heat was tempered by the knowledge that today would see the announcement of his betrothal. She was resigned to the fact that he was set on a marriage of convenience, but had no appetite for witnessing the deed first-hand. Her instinct was to flee, but how could she, since she would be depriving the children of the highlight of the festivities? She had no option but to keep her own counsel and suffer in silence.

Portia, Land and Jack were out gathering wood for the huge bonfire that would be lit at midnight. In the banqueting hall, the Duchess was supervising the setting up of the tables for the feast. Lady Sarah accompanied her, clutching the table layout showing who would be sitting where.

‘You will be seated with the children at this table here,' she said to Regan, pointing to a spot halfway down one of the long tables that ran at right angles to the top table.

‘At the steward's table,' the Duchess said, smiling her usual frosty smile. ‘I felt it the most appropriate location.'

Though her barbed remarks had in the past made Regan
curl her nails into her palms, today she felt only pity for the woman, whose status was about to be usurped. The Duchess's reign at Blairmore Hall was soon to be over, and though she might delude herself into thinking that Lady Sarah would welcome her continued residence and Lady Lucinda could be browbeaten into agreeing the same, Lady Olivia would likely not tolerate her interference and, more importantly, nor would Gabriel. So Regan bobbed a curtsy. ‘Thank you, your Grace, it will be an honour.'

‘Our other guests will, of course, be seated at the high table,' the Duchess said.

‘Most fitting,' Regan responded sweetly.

The Duchess's eyes narrowed. She resorted to her quizzing glass. ‘There is something about you, Miss Stuart, that I cannot warm to. I tolerated your friendship with my son only because my husband placed such faith in your father, but even all those years ago there was about you something of the upstart. Do not think I am oblivious to the way you have been flaunting yourself at Gabriel these past weeks.' The Duchess let the quizzing glass fall. ‘If I had my way, Miss Stuart, you and those noisy, ill-mannered brats would be on the stagecoach to Yorkshire as we speak. My son, unfortunately, does not share my view and his sense of loyalty towards you would be touching were it not misplaced. But be assured—whatever hopes you are cherishing in that Jezebel bosom of yours are about to be dashed for ever.'

Regan paled. ‘I cherish no hopes, your Grace, I assure you. I want—have only ever wanted—Gabriel to be happy. Which is more than you ever did,' she could not resist adding.

‘Gabriel is the Duke of Blairmore,' the Duchess said haughtily, ‘I fail to see how he can be anything but happy.'

‘I know,' Regan replied with a withering smile, ‘and that is exactly my point. Gabriel is your son. The fact that he is also the Duke of Blairmore should be entirely irrelevant.'

Her Grace's face seemed to sharpen. ‘You are impertinent.'

‘No, I am simply truthful. I'll tell you another truth, your Grace. If you treat Gabriel's children with the same indifference as you treated him, you will find yourself unwelcome at Blairmore. You made his childhood miserable. That is one tradition he intends to put a stop to.'

She did not wait on the Duchess's reply, but turned on her heel and left the room.

 

Gabriel was sitting in the estate office with his steward, being regaled with the seemingly endless list of preparations that were still to be completed before the night's festivities could begin. He was only listening with half an ear, however, his mind occupied by a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Since he was usually the most attentive of employers, anxious to understand every last detail, his steward eventually asked him if his Grace was feeling quite well.

Assuring him that he was in perfect health, Gabriel abruptly pushed back his chair, muttered something about fresh air and strode off out into the gardens. The snow came up to the tops of his short boots in places. He had neither hat, gloves nor topcoat, but did not notice the cold. Brow furrowed, head down, he took the path that led to the graveyard. Leaning over the bridge, it came to him, the question that had been niggling since he left Regan in the turret room. Why?

Why had she made love to him? A gift, she'd called it. One she said she could only give to him, and him alone. Why? He scooped up a handful of snow and formed it into a ball, which he aimed at the overhanging branches of a tree by the river's edge. As the snowball burst against the bare branches and showered down on to the ground, Gabriel realised there was another question he should be asking himself. Why was it still so damned difficult to make up his mind? Three perfect candidates, yet he could prefer none. Three women who fitted every single one of his criteria—though perhaps Lady Sarah
had not the maternal qualities he sought? As he pondered this question, Gabriel realised something else. For all his intention had been to observe how they behaved towards the children, when he tried to recall the many occasions when they had all been together, he could form no clear opinion, conjure no specific instances.

Regan. All he could recall was Regan. Which led him to pose another question. Why, when he knew and was utterly sure that the logic which had led him into this situation in the first place was inescapable, did his mind refuse to come to any logical conclusion? And another question. Why did he feel sick in his heart when he tried to force the issue? So many questions, so few answers.

Gabriel formed another snowball. The biggest question of all burst into his mind as the snowball splattered on the boulder at which he had aimed. Not why, but what. What was the name for this feeling, this passion, this need, urge, compulsion?

There was only one name. Only one answer. Love.

Regan would never have given herself to him unless she loved him. It was not simple carnal passion that motivated her, as he had claimed. It was love. She was in love with him. And heaven help him, but he was in love with her.

Gabriel braced his hands on the snow-covered parapet of the bridge, his head drooping. Illogical, irrational and completely impossible as it was, it was also irrefutable. He was in love with Regan. Wanting-to-be-with-her, unable-to-contemplate-life-without-her love, just as she had once described. The very notion he had once scorned. There was nothing ephemeral about it and nothing transient, either. He was in love. Would always be in love. How he knew it he knew not, but he knew it now for a certainty. Regan completed him. He loved her.

‘Dear God, what on earth am I going to do?' Gazing out at the river, he threw back his head and laughed, a deep, wild,
slightly crazy laugh, because the situation was beyond absurd. He, who didn't believe in love, was in love. He actually loved. He could actually love. Only love would make him happy. He could not be happy without love. He loved. He loved. He was in love. And was loved in return. Of that, he also had no doubt whatsoever.

His laughter faded as he contemplated the tangled web of the situation he found himself in. The Three Graces. The three children. His mother. The family name. Regan had no dowry, no connections—none who acknowledged her—she was hardly the biddable, tractable female he had sought. She was in every way the antithesis of the wife he should be taking. She had nothing that in the eyes of the world would make her eligible.

Except that he loved her. And she loved him. And the existence of their love changed everything. It would be a sin not to claim the happiness that they could share. As Regan said, it was a gift. The most precious of gifts. To be cherished.

Gabriel threw another snowball, and then another, arcing them up into the air without aiming at anything in particular. They flew, soared, as he felt his heart was soaring. A wonderful lightness of spirit imbued him, seemed to cast a glow around him. Despite all the difficulties, the single fact of Regan, his love for Regan, her love for him, made the world a very bright, wonderful place. To hell with the difficulties. He would overcome them. He had to see her. He had to be with her. Now and always.

Gabriel set off back across the bridge as if the devil were at his heels. He arrived back at the Hall breathless and agitated. His steward, his mother and his butler awaited him. Lady Olivia, Lady Sarah and Lady Lucinda awaited him. Portia, Land and Jack called out their greetings. Everyone except the one person he sought was gathered. Various pairs of eyes looked at him expectantly. He bowed. ‘Later,' he said, with an airy wave of his hand and promptly left the room.

He found Regan eventually, thanks to Mrs McGlone, in the stillroom. ‘I've got something important to say to you,' he said, grabbing her hand.

‘Your mother is looking for you, and your steward, and the children want to know—'

‘Never mind that,' Gabriel said, dragging Regan out of the room and up the nearby backstairs, ‘I am the Duke, after all, and one of the benefits is that they must all wait on me. Not a privilege I often exercise, mind you, but I am
in extremis
and needs must.'

He was walking so quickly she had to run to keep up. There was a gleam in his eye that made her heart bump. She couldn't help but smile when he looked at her like that. He looked different. Younger. Reckless. As he used to look when about to embark upon something outrageous. His mood was infectious. ‘Gabriel, where on earth are we going?'

He pulled her to him roughly and planted a brief kiss on her mouth. ‘You, too, must wait, but just for a moment. All will become clear directly.'

Along the long corridor that ran across both courtyards. Past the kitchens to the turret. Up the stairs. Through the connecting chambers to the one containing the clothes. He pulled her in, pushed shut the door and threw open several chests before he found what he wanted.

The red-velvet cloak was draped around her shoulders. ‘Now you look the part,' he said.

‘What part? Gabriel, what—?'

‘Regan. Regan, Regan, Regan.' He took her hand and pressed a kiss to the palm. ‘I've never done this before. I never want to do it again, so be sure of your line,' he whispered. ‘My line?'

‘I will ask you a question and you will answer, and the answer you must give is yes.'

‘Gabriel?' Hope, wild, improbable, fantastical hope fluttered and soared like a flock of starlings in her stomach. She
couldn't breathe She daren't think. He dropped to his knees before her. Blue-grey eyes looking up at her, suddenly very serious, glittering with intent. Her heart stopped. The air stilled.

‘Regan, I love you. I've fallen head over heels in love with you. I'm in love, just as you said it would be. I want to be with you always. I need you to be with me always. I love you deeply, passionately and completely. I love you with all my heart and soul. Be my Duchess, Regan. Be there for me first thing in the morning and last thing at night and all the hours in between. Be my lover, Regan. Be my wife.'

‘Oh, Gabriel.'

‘That's not your line,' he said, trying to smile, though he was quite terrified for a horrible moment, wondering if he had misjudged the situation.

‘Do you mean it?'

‘Dear God. Truly. Utterly. Your line, Regan,' Gabriel said, a little desperately.

‘Yes.' She dropped to her knees and threw her arms around him so violently that they toppled over. ‘Yes. Oh, Gabriel, yes. But, Gabriel, you can't. What about—?'

He laughed and kissed her. ‘I don't care about anything else. At least I do, but only if you'll be my wife. If you won't, nothing will have any meaning. If you will, anything is possible. Am I making any sense at all?'

‘Perfect sense. I love you so much, Gabriel. I can't believe it.'

‘Say it again.'

She was crying and laughing at the same time. ‘I love you. I'll be your wife. I'll be your Duchess. I'll be your lover. I'll be anything you want me to be.'

‘Just be Regan. My Regan,' he said, kissing her.

‘My Gabriel,' she said, kissing him.

‘My love, my very own love,' he said, pulling her hungrily into his arms.

 

It was over an hour before they could disentangle themselves. ‘We must now go and face the music. Which is likely to be very loud and dissonant music, I'm afraid,' Gabriel said with a rueful smile as he watched his future Duchess struggle to pin her hair back up. ‘But you know, I don't see why I should justify my actions to anyone. I love you. I will never love anyone else. I want to announce to the world that I love you, but I don't owe the world an explanation.'

‘After all,' Regan said with a smile, ‘you are the Duke.'

‘Precisely,' Gabriel said. ‘And you are going to be my Duchess, and no one will dare say a word against it, or they will answer to me.'

‘Yes, but in all seriousness, Gabriel, I'm hardly the stuff that suitable matches are made of.'

‘Listen to me, Regan,' he said sternly, ‘that is the last time I will tolerate such comments, even from you. I know I've been the one pontificating about breeding and lineage and whatever else was on that damn-fool list of mine, but I was wrong, just as I was wrong to think that I could not love, that love did not exist. I was wrong about it all. What matters is that I love you and you love me, and that makes us a perfect match. Now that is an end of it, do you hear me?'

‘Yes, your Grace.'

‘We will be a family, Regan. You and me. And Portia and Land and Jack. A ready-made family. I need you to know—I want them to be my family because I have come to love them for themselves, not just because of you. But I also need you to know that it is you, and will always be you, who holds first place in my heart. Now what have I said to make you cry?'

‘Nothing, everything. I'm not crying. I'm just so happy,' Regan said and promptly burst into tears.