A Night with the Bride(14)

Nicholas claimed a spot beside his sister, and as far from Gabriella as possible, which nettled. He could sit wherever he wished, of course, but after what had just transpired, she’d hoped he would sit next to her.

As he sat, several of the unmarried ladies of the party circled him like stalking tigresses, poised to pounce. Three of them plopped down next to him, while the less brave lingered nearby.

His side of the blanket appeared rather cramped, and he didn’t look pleased about it. Lips pressed into a firm line, he attempted—and failed—to avoid the fluttering women around him.

Gabriella piled her own plate with bread, cheese, more cheese and grapes. And perhaps one more sliver of cheese, just for good measure. It was her favorite, and she figured she’d grab some before she went absolutely feral. She’d almost taken her aunt’s finger off once. Served her aunt right, though, for coming between Gabriella and her favorite cheese. She didn’t do that again.

Plopping a cube of said cheese into her mouth, she watched Somerset with interest. His natural scowl had deepened into something far more ferocious, which was saying a great deal. He always had a dark, broody look about him. Now he simply looked miserable, and the slightest bit angry.

Perhaps she should rescue him. And she would have had he possessed the good sense to sit next to her. He hadn’t, so he was stuck listening to Sarah flutter on about how well her newest bonnet accentuated her neck.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Your Grace?” She twisted her head this way and that, allowing him to see her neck from every conceivable angle—as though one angle wasn’t enough. Gabriella rolled her eyes.

Nicholas grunted something in response. A noncommittal fine, no doubt.

Sarah shoved a plate at him. He tried to politely refuse, and Gabriella knew it had nothing to do with hunger. Food was piled onto the plate haphazardly, in no particular order. She remembered how painfully precise his breakfast had been separated and arranged on his plate, in careful triangles.

He stared at the food with a mixture of disgust and suspicion, as though the cheese would spontaneously sprout three heads at any moment.

The more vehemently he refused, the more aggressively Sarah insisted he eat something. It was a battle of the wills, in the strictest sense. An extremely polite battle of the wills, but Gabriella could see the tension in Nicholas’s shoulders, the tick pulsing in his jaw.

Oh, dear Lord, she couldn’t watch him suffer.

Setting her plate aside, Gabriella rose to her feet abruptly. “I’m going for a walk.” She turned her gaze on Nicholas and lifted a brow. “Would you care to join me, Your Grace?”

He rose to his feet, a look of profound relief on his face. “It would be my honor, Miss Weatherfield.”

Sarah and Beth stood in unison, practically toppling over each other in their eagerness. “We will join you as well,” they said.

Gabriella should have seen that coming. The idea was to get away from the ladies, not draw them into more intimate surroundings! Well, she supposed it could not be helped.

With a wry grin, Nicholas offered his arm. “Shall we?”

They walked in silence, the two ladies giggling behind them. They followed Gabriella and Nicholas for a long while until they finally lost them in the blackberry bushes somewhere between the waterfall and the small pond.

“You are quite cunning, Miss Weatherfield,” Nicholas said.

“What?” She grinned up at him. “I could have sworn the path veered sharply to the right, through that thicket of blackberry bushes.” She glanced down at her gown. “It’s a miracle my skirt wasn’t torn, though. I don’t know what I would have done if it had been.”

Nicholas stepped toward her, dried leaves crunching beneath his boots. His chin was lowered, his eyes intense, as though he wanted to snatch her up right there and devour her. “I would have stripped it off you.”

He took another step toward her, then another. Her heart thundered in her chest. They were alone now, concealed by dense underbrush, but Sarah and Beth could still stumble upon them at any moment.

“Miss Weatherfield!” a voiced called somewhere in the distance. “Lord Somerset?”

Gabriella grabbed Nicholas by the lapels and attempted to yank him down into a squat, behind a large fern. Instead, she toppled backward, pulling him on top of her. His strong, muscular frame was now sprawled across her body, pinning her down.

He lifted himself onto his elbows, taking the burden of his weight off her. She drew in a hearty breath and he gazed down at her. “And what, may I ask, was your plan precisely?”

“To conceal us, of course,” she said in an it-should-be-obvious tone.