hadn’t always been the case. Like Miles Bennet, Simon Vanbrugh hoped for the day when the old Nathaniel would emerge from this cold, distant carapace. He’d had the faintest hope that Gabby might have some effect. Few people could come within her orbit and remain unaffected by her personality or her outlookon life. But it seemed he’d been indulging himself in wishful thinking.
Upstairs, Gabrielle embalmed her weary muscles in hot water before a blazing fire in her bedchamber and told Georgie the details of her day with Lord Praed.
Her cousin was too worldly to be shocked at the picture of two near strangers locked in an ardent embrace in a deserted orchard. She did, however, somewhat tentatively question Gabrielle’s taste.
“I thought you didn’t like him. You said his eyes were like stones at the bottom of a pond.”
“So they are sometimes.” Gabrielle raised one leg and soaped it languidly. “But they can also be warm and merry … and
very
passionate,” she added with deliberation, switching legs.
“And you’re in the market for passion?” Georgie took a sip from her sherry glass, watching her friend closely.
“In the market and in the mood,” Gabrielle said calmly. “Fve played the grieving widow long enough.”
“Gabby!” This did shock Georgie. “You were desolated after your husband’s death.”
“No, I wasn’t,” Gabrielle said. “Roland was a deeply unpleasant man who managed to hide it until our wedding night. When he died, I was not desolated in the least. It seemed to me I’d suffer a lot fewer bruises as his widow than as his wife.”
“Oh.” Georgie was silent, absorbing this new light on her cousin’s past. “But your letters were so depressed … so listless.”
Gabrielle sat up and picked up her own glass of sherry from the carpet beside the hip bath. Frowning slightly, she traced a pattern in the condensation on the glass. “I was depressed, not at Roland’s death, but at the thought that I’d allowed myself to be treated as badly as he treated me. I’d misread him, fallen for the facade. I felt a fool … and worse.” She sipped and put the glass down again. “It’s humiliating to be ill-treated,Georgie. Not the kind of thing you want people to know about. You begin to think you deserved it in some way.”
“Oh, Gabby, I wish you’d said something ….” Georgie stumbled in inarticulate sympathy. Such situations were not uncommon, but that didn’t make them any less horrifying.
Gabrielle looked up and gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s over and done with, and I’m my old self now. And I find the prospect of a little dalliance with Lord Praed very enticing … or do I mean challenging?” Her damp shoulders rose in a light shrug. “Either way, I want to go into dinner with him, if you can arrange it.”
Georgie laughed, only too glad to let go of the disturbing image of her strong and self-determining cousin suffering beneath the thumb of a violent husband. “Of course I can. But I must say, I don’t see what you see in him.”
“But you don’t like rocky roads,” her cousin pointed out. “Whereas I’ve always chosen them over the smooth path.”
And loving Guillaume was the rockiest road she could ever have chosen. Rocky, wonderful, desperate—no middle ground ever. He was either in her bed or facing death and danger somewhere. There was either love or fear. No chance for the contentment of ordinary happiness, the possibility of boredom, no time to learn the irritating little habits as well as the glorious
.
“That’s true, I suppose.” Georgie stood up. “Simon’s a very smooth path. I’d better go down to the drawing room. Lady Alsop always appears well before the other guests and feels very slighted if I’m not there to look after her and see she’s immediately ensconced by the fire, protected from the blaze by a screen, with a glass of ratafia beside her.”
“I don’t know why you let yourself be bullied by the old
Upstairs, Gabrielle embalmed her weary muscles in hot water before a blazing fire in her bedchamber and told Georgie the details of her day with Lord Praed.
Her cousin was too worldly to be shocked at the picture of two near strangers locked in an ardent embrace in a deserted orchard. She did, however, somewhat tentatively question Gabrielle’s taste.
“I thought you didn’t like him. You said his eyes were like stones at the bottom of a pond.”
“So they are sometimes.” Gabrielle raised one leg and soaped it languidly. “But they can also be warm and merry … and
very
passionate,” she added with deliberation, switching legs.
“And you’re in the market for passion?” Georgie took a sip from her sherry glass, watching her friend closely.
“In the market and in the mood,” Gabrielle said calmly. “Fve played the grieving widow long enough.”
“Gabby!” This did shock Georgie. “You were desolated after your husband’s death.”
“No, I wasn’t,” Gabrielle said. “Roland was a deeply unpleasant man who managed to hide it until our wedding night. When he died, I was not desolated in the least. It seemed to me I’d suffer a lot fewer bruises as his widow than as his wife.”
“Oh.” Georgie was silent, absorbing this new light on her cousin’s past. “But your letters were so depressed … so listless.”
Gabrielle sat up and picked up her own glass of sherry from the carpet beside the hip bath. Frowning slightly, she traced a pattern in the condensation on the glass. “I was depressed, not at Roland’s death, but at the thought that I’d allowed myself to be treated as badly as he treated me. I’d misread him, fallen for the facade. I felt a fool … and worse.” She sipped and put the glass down again. “It’s humiliating to be ill-treated,Georgie. Not the kind of thing you want people to know about. You begin to think you deserved it in some way.”
“Oh, Gabby, I wish you’d said something ….” Georgie stumbled in inarticulate sympathy. Such situations were not uncommon, but that didn’t make them any less horrifying.
Gabrielle looked up and gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s over and done with, and I’m my old self now. And I find the prospect of a little dalliance with Lord Praed very enticing … or do I mean challenging?” Her damp shoulders rose in a light shrug. “Either way, I want to go into dinner with him, if you can arrange it.”
Georgie laughed, only too glad to let go of the disturbing image of her strong and self-determining cousin suffering beneath the thumb of a violent husband. “Of course I can. But I must say, I don’t see what you see in him.”
“But you don’t like rocky roads,” her cousin pointed out. “Whereas I’ve always chosen them over the smooth path.”
And loving Guillaume was the rockiest road she could ever have chosen. Rocky, wonderful, desperate—no middle ground ever. He was either in her bed or facing death and danger somewhere. There was either love or fear. No chance for the contentment of ordinary happiness, the possibility of boredom, no time to learn the irritating little habits as well as the glorious
.
“That’s true, I suppose.” Georgie stood up. “Simon’s a very smooth path. I’d better go down to the drawing room. Lady Alsop always appears well before the other guests and feels very slighted if I’m not there to look after her and see she’s immediately ensconced by the fire, protected from the blaze by a screen, with a glass of ratafia beside her.”
“I don’t know why you let yourself be bullied by the old
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