besom,” Gabrielle said irreverently.
Georgie shook her head “She’s Simon’s great-aunt And anyway, I don’t mind.”
No, of course you don’t, Gabrielle thought affectionately as the door closed on her friend Georgie had the sweetest nature.
It was decidedly unpleasant to deceive her friends, Gabrielle reflected, but the cause was too important to let personal scruple get in the way. She’d had to produce some credible reason for her willingness to jump into a liaison when she was officially supposed to be a grieving widow. Georgie would tell Simon the
real
reason for Gabrielle’s apparent depression and neither of them would question subsequent events.
Subsequent events. She stood up, dripping, and wrapped herself in the towel. First she had to maneuver herself into Nathaniel Praed’s bed. Guillaume would understand, she knew. He’d approve of the reasons behind her actions; they belonged to the world of dark secrets that he’d made his own. But how would he feel about the other thing, about the sexual current between herself and the man who’d ordered his death? She thought he’d understand it. He was a man of such passions himself and he knew her own. But Gabrielle wished with all her heart that she felt only revulsion for Nathaniel Praed. To go willingly—no, not just willingly, eagerly and filled with excitement—to his bed was a betrayal of Guillaume, however pure the motives.
But Guillaume was dead. She was twenty-five and the years ahead stretched into a bleak wasteland.
She reached for the bellrope and rang for Maisie to help her dress.
Nathaniel was waiting for her to enter the drawing room. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t, but his eyes were constantly on the door. When his vigil was rewarded, he was again breathless at the bold statement of her appearance. Black velvet fell open over a flame satin underdress. Her hair was piled high on her head, held by a diamond-studded comb. A diamond pendantnestled in the deep cleavage of her gown. They were her only adornment.
She walked directly across the room to his side as if she saw no one else, as he saw no one but her. Heads turned, but Gabrielle appeared unaware.
“Good evening,” she said softly, reaching him.
“Good evening.” He smiled at her and brushed a fingertip over her cheek where the faintest scratch marred the pale translucence. “The tree branch scratched you.”
“Yes,” she said. “Battle scars.”
They were alone in the crowded room, oblivious of the startled looks, the whispers, the nudges.
“We have to do something,” Georgie whispered urgently to Simon, who, having heard the details of Gabrielle’s bath-time confession, was watching the encounter with amused fascination. “Everyone’s staring at them.”
She crossed the room swiftly, her husband at her heels. “So what do you think of our hunt country, Lord Praed?”
Her voice broke the charmed circle, but Nathaniel’s eyes were glazed for a split second as he turned to respond. “Rough on occasion, Lady Vanbrugh,” he said, recovering smoothly.
“Georgie doesn’t hunt,” Gabrielle said, recovering her own senses as swiftly and smoothly. “So when she talks about hunting, you have to realize that she’s only being polite. She trots out the terms but doesn’t have the faintest idea what they mean.”
“Oh, unjust,” Georgie said, laughing. “I’ve listened to you and Simon most of my life. Of course I know what they mean, don’t I, Simon?”
Her husband smiled down at her. “It doesn’t matter, my love, one way or the other. Why should you need to know what they mean?”
“Well, I own I dislike hunting excessively,” Georgie agreed. “I feel so sorry for the fox.”
“There is that,” Gabrielle agreed.
“Oh, come now, countess,” Nathaniel put in. “You made absolutely certain you were in at the kill, and I’ll swear you didn’t flinch.”
“I’m not squeamish,” Gabrielle said. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t
Georgie shook her head “She’s Simon’s great-aunt And anyway, I don’t mind.”
No, of course you don’t, Gabrielle thought affectionately as the door closed on her friend Georgie had the sweetest nature.
It was decidedly unpleasant to deceive her friends, Gabrielle reflected, but the cause was too important to let personal scruple get in the way. She’d had to produce some credible reason for her willingness to jump into a liaison when she was officially supposed to be a grieving widow. Georgie would tell Simon the
real
reason for Gabrielle’s apparent depression and neither of them would question subsequent events.
Subsequent events. She stood up, dripping, and wrapped herself in the towel. First she had to maneuver herself into Nathaniel Praed’s bed. Guillaume would understand, she knew. He’d approve of the reasons behind her actions; they belonged to the world of dark secrets that he’d made his own. But how would he feel about the other thing, about the sexual current between herself and the man who’d ordered his death? She thought he’d understand it. He was a man of such passions himself and he knew her own. But Gabrielle wished with all her heart that she felt only revulsion for Nathaniel Praed. To go willingly—no, not just willingly, eagerly and filled with excitement—to his bed was a betrayal of Guillaume, however pure the motives.
But Guillaume was dead. She was twenty-five and the years ahead stretched into a bleak wasteland.
She reached for the bellrope and rang for Maisie to help her dress.
Nathaniel was waiting for her to enter the drawing room. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t, but his eyes were constantly on the door. When his vigil was rewarded, he was again breathless at the bold statement of her appearance. Black velvet fell open over a flame satin underdress. Her hair was piled high on her head, held by a diamond-studded comb. A diamond pendantnestled in the deep cleavage of her gown. They were her only adornment.
She walked directly across the room to his side as if she saw no one else, as he saw no one but her. Heads turned, but Gabrielle appeared unaware.
“Good evening,” she said softly, reaching him.
“Good evening.” He smiled at her and brushed a fingertip over her cheek where the faintest scratch marred the pale translucence. “The tree branch scratched you.”
“Yes,” she said. “Battle scars.”
They were alone in the crowded room, oblivious of the startled looks, the whispers, the nudges.
“We have to do something,” Georgie whispered urgently to Simon, who, having heard the details of Gabrielle’s bath-time confession, was watching the encounter with amused fascination. “Everyone’s staring at them.”
She crossed the room swiftly, her husband at her heels. “So what do you think of our hunt country, Lord Praed?”
Her voice broke the charmed circle, but Nathaniel’s eyes were glazed for a split second as he turned to respond. “Rough on occasion, Lady Vanbrugh,” he said, recovering smoothly.
“Georgie doesn’t hunt,” Gabrielle said, recovering her own senses as swiftly and smoothly. “So when she talks about hunting, you have to realize that she’s only being polite. She trots out the terms but doesn’t have the faintest idea what they mean.”
“Oh, unjust,” Georgie said, laughing. “I’ve listened to you and Simon most of my life. Of course I know what they mean, don’t I, Simon?”
Her husband smiled down at her. “It doesn’t matter, my love, one way or the other. Why should you need to know what they mean?”
“Well, I own I dislike hunting excessively,” Georgie agreed. “I feel so sorry for the fox.”
“There is that,” Gabrielle agreed.
“Oh, come now, countess,” Nathaniel put in. “You made absolutely certain you were in at the kill, and I’ll swear you didn’t flinch.”
“I’m not squeamish,” Gabrielle said. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t
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