A Night with the Bride(6)

Bored with the conversation, Gabriella scanned the room for any possible mode of escape. She savored a good scandal like any woman, but the memory of Somerset’s tongue on her breast, teasing her nipple, drove her to distraction.

Her eyes came to rest on the man himself. Standing apart from the rest of the guests—as usual—he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest. Confidence and power cloaked him. And if she had to guess, she’d have said he was obeyed in all things, always.

Well, she refused to obey his rudely delivered decree. If he thought her a simpering maiden who’d run at the first sign of danger, then he had quite another think coming. She narrowed her eyes.

Gabriella muttered her excuses to the ladies in her circle and backed away. Bolstering her courage, she stalked toward Somerset with renewed purpose.

She stopped directly in front of him. “I am telling you no.” Hands on her hips, she lifted her chin a notch or two. “How do you like that?”

His heated gaze raked up the length of her body, a delicious smile playing on the edges of his lips. “I thought I warned you to stay away.”

“You did, indeed.” She smiled. “I decided to ignore your warning.”

His pale blue eyes raked over her once more, catching on her bodice. An unreadable expression passed over his face as he stepped forward.

Reaching out…he touched a finger lightly to one of the delicate lace flowers on her bodice.

“Your Grace,” she said. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

No response. His gaze was fixed on her bodice, his lips moving quickly, counting, as though he were in a trance.

“Your Grace,” she said more firmly. “Are you quite all right?”

He didn’t respond. Indeed, he seemed to be counting the tiny white lace flowers scattered across her bodice. She had a mind to be offended, if not for the fact that he seemed completely absorbed with his odd task.

What in God’s name was he about? If he thought he could ignore her, then he would learn quickly enough that Gabriella Weatherfield was never ignored.

One arm crossed over her chest, blocking his view, she motioned to her face with the other in a wide, circular gesture. “My eyes are up here.”

Men! They simply could not be relied upon.

At length, his eyes snapped up and collided with hers. His scrumptious lips were pulled into a firm, unrelenting line, his pale blue eyes narrowed. “Move your arm.”

“No.”

She was going to accustom him to the word if it killed her. And it might do just that.

“Move your arm, Miss Weatherfield.” She jumped at his loud, abrasive tone. Barely contained anger glinted in his eyes. “Please.”

She had a mind to bite something back, but he was close to the edge; she could see it in his posture, in the way he clenched his hands into fists at his sides. He wanted to continue whatever it was he’d been doing, and she had the feeling he’d remove her physically, if need be. The man was made of muscle, and God knew he could do it easily enough.

The entire room fell silent, as all eyes shifted to the door where Gabriella stood, mortified. Somerset stared at her, waiting for her to comply. Gone was the easy, flirtatious man she’d encountered just moments earlier out on the terrace. In his place was a man tormented—by what, she hadn’t any clue, but whatever it was, it had shifted his mood drastically.

Perhaps he had been toying with her out on the terrace, or had decided she wasn’t worth his time, after all.

Pressing her lips together, she turned on her heel and walked stiffly out the door.





              Chapter Three



By the time Gabriella woke and dressed the next morning, the breakfast room was all but empty. James sat alone at the far end of the table, reading his newspaper, sipping a cup of coffee.

Gabriella blinked. She had not expected to see him breakfasting so late in the morning, but then, James was rather unpredictable about such things. She’d known him for as long as she could remember. Their families had been neighbors since she was small, until he’d married and purchased a home of his own. He was practically family.

She moved to the sideboard, filled her plate with eggs and toast, and slipped into the empty seat across from James.

“Old man,” she said by way of greeting. Now that they were alone, there was no need to stand on ceremony.

He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving the paper. “Insipid harpy.”

“I need to speak to you about something.” When he didn’t lower the paper, she added, “It’s important.”

“What is it?” he said, his tone only half-interested.