Now there was irony for you.
And so here he was, engaged to Miss Livia Stuart.
As neatly snared as a rabbit in a trap.
And speaking of irony, wouldn’t dear old Lady Washbourne appreciate the situation?
“Look at her,” his grandmother said gloomily. “A provincial nobody. And that red hair! There hasn’t been such a common shade in the line since Sir Everard Penhallow married into the Yorks three centuries ago.” She sniffed derisively. “A bad lot, those Yorks. I would have told him to stay away! Well, girl, let me see your teeth.”
Gabriel watched as Miss Stuart turned uncomprehendingly toward Grandmama. “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“Your teeth,” said Grandmama impatiently. “The Penhallows are famed for the superiority of their teeth. Ours don’t fall out! If yours are deficient they’ll have to be corrected.”
Miss Stuart clamped her lips together, opening them only wide enough to say in a grim mutter, “I am not a horse.”
“Well, you’re certainly as stubborn as a mule.” Grandmama sighed heavily. “I don’t suppose you’re related to the royal Stuarts?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What is your education? What has your governess taught you?”
“I had no governess. I’m sure my uncle would have thought it a waste of his money.”
“No education, then. No French, no Italian, no use of the globes. Is it too much to hope that you have any accomplishments? Singing, dancing, drawing? A musical instrument?”
“I can sew, a little.”
Grandmama glowered at her. “I daresay that garishly immodest gown is your own creation.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Put it directly into the fire the moment you return home. Well, Gabriel, it’s been quite an evening’s work. All my hopes are dashed, and now we’re to bring this ignorant little nonentity into the family. Tomorrow morning you shall call on that vulgar uncle of hers and discuss the details. Never let it be said that a Penhallow failed to perform a necessary act, no matter how distasteful. And now I shall sleep on chicken feathers for yet another night, as we can’t possibly depart in the morning, and be forced to breathe in a most peculiar odor emanating from my mattress. My maid will have to unpack everything, and send orders to the kitchen for a special tisane, for drink that execrable beverage they call tea here one more time I shall not. Perhaps an egg, carefully boiled, but who can say? Miss Cott will have to convey my particular receipt directly to the cook. Take Miss Stuart to her uncle, if you please. I’ve had quite enough of her.”
Gabriel bowed to his grandmother, then turned to Livia Stuart and with cool courtesy offered her his arm. She ignored it. “I’m quite capable of finding my own way, thank you.” She began walking toward the house and with one long step he caught up with her and matched his stride to hers.
“How unseemly of you, my dear,” he said mockingly, “to go unescorted. Remember that it’s my privilege, and pleasure, to accompany you henceforth.”
Miss Stuart stopped short. Green eyes blazed up at him, and he had to remind himself that blue eyes were better than green, and it was a foolish, regrettable kiss that had stolen from him his safe and predictable future. If she hadn’t been so tempting, everything would be perfect right now.
“If you really think I’m going to marry you, you’re wrong!” she said with a distinct snarl in her voice. “I’d rather be a scullery maid in the nearest inn!” Then she whirled and ran into the house, the hem of her white dress—which, stubbornly, he thought rather pretty, no matter what his grandmother might say—fluttering behind her.
He watched her go.
It was rash and unladylike to run, of course, but still, he couldn’t help but admire her defiant little gesture in the face of the inevitable.
Livia paced the floor of her room, still wearing the white gown. Throw it in the fire? Why, that rude, high-handed old lady—and as for her grandson, he was even more arrogant and detestable. Treating her like a thing. Calling her my dear in that insufferable way!
After she’d left him in the garden, she’d gone back into the house where she had, without surprise, found Uncle Charles on a sofa in the card room, a drink in his hand and being vociferously congratulated on his niece’s most fortunate betrothal. (On the way she had caught a glimpse of Tom Orr, seated under—yes—a potted palm and peacefully eating the most enormous dish of ices she’d ever seen, and how she’d wished she could hide there with him, even if it meant having to listen to him talk about snuff.)