You May Kiss the Bride(21)

Perusing the shelves in peaceful solitude, he saw that their contents seemed mostly to date to previous centuries, an impression which aligned completely with his assessment of the current Lord Glanville’s intellectual attainment.

Some hours later Gabriel was sitting in a leather armchair, deep into a volume of Francis Bacon’s Novum Organicum, when there came the sound of tapping on the door, followed by a servant girl cautiously entering, dipping a curtsy, and handing him a folded note.

It was a curt missive from Charles Stuart informing him that his niece was nowhere to be found and that not a soul on the place could remember seeing her that day. Had the servants searching every nook and cranny and all the fuss is going to make my dinner late. Well, she’s your burden now! the note concluded. You needn’t think you can back out now, for I’ve had your word on it as a gentleman.

Gabriel crumpled the note and softly uttered an oath, his mind racing.

“Sir?” the servant girl said timidly. “Is there a reply?”

He stood and tossed the book aside. “Where is the inn nearest here?”

She goggled at him confusedly. “Sir?”

“The nearest inn. Where is it?”

“Why—why, ’tis the Spotted Hare, sir, but ’tis ever so far away! I had to walk there once to retrieve a package for the master, and it took me nigh on the whole day! Master was that angry with me and I did quake in my shoes, sir, for fear he’d let me go. But Cook said, ‘Oh, never mind about him, young Jenny, ’tis the mistress ye’ve got to steer clear of, and that Miss Cecily, who’d as soon claw yer eyes out than say a pleasant word to the staff!’ ’Tis true, sir, for last Michaelmas poor Mavis dropped the ash-pan in Miss Cecily’s room—’twas an accident, sir, poor Mavis swore upon her mam’s grave it was!—and she said to poor Mavis—”

“That is enough, thank you.” Gabriel held on to his temper with an effort, despite being forced to recall all over again how impertinently Miss Stuart had deceived him with her flawless impersonation of a country maid’s accent. He would get directions from the butler, and tell him to lay one less setting for the evening meal, for clearly, he was going to be elsewhere.

Within half an hour he was riding rapidly along a muddy lane, Miss Stuart’s hostile retort from last night echoing in his head: If you really think I’m going to marry you, you’re wrong! I’d rather be a scullery maid in the nearest inn!

Had he been angry with her before? It was as nothing compared to the icy rage he now felt. The little fool! Did she really believe she could outmaneuver him? Involuntarily his fingers tightened on the reins and his horse Primus danced nervously. He soothed him with a word and rode on.



Livia pushed a damp hank of hair off her face and plunged another food-encrusted pot into the massive pan of scalding water set in front of her. Her hands were red and raw, and it seemed that for every item she cleaned, three more dirty ones were plopped down. Was this even mathematically possible?

It had been mere minutes following her reckless decision to make good her threat of becoming a scullery maid that she’d packed a small bag, crept from the house, and begun walking. For quite a long time she was gleefully buoyed at how she’d trounced Gabriel Penhallow. How she enjoyed picturing the look of dismay on that smug, handsome face when he realized she’d slipped from his grasp! And it hadn’t been difficult to persuade the flustered proprietor of the Spotted Hare to take her on, for he had just lost his kitchen helper to—strangely enough—a runaway marriage.

Nonetheless, it had been a rather long day. She was tired and sleep-deprived, her back and her feet and her hands hurt, and she was hungry, too. Her initial euphoria had long since faded, and she’d had plenty of time to think as she washed dish after dish. Had plenty of time to uneasily contemplate the fact that she’d never known she was capable of this much hotheaded impulsiveness. This went way beyond angrily grinding coins under one’s boot. She thought she knew herself fairly well, but she’d really astonished herself this time. What other rash things might she do?

She scrubbed the pot, her mind busy.

She thought more about that sense of uneasiness.

It felt a bit like she’d somehow upset the delicate balance of the universe.

In some odd way, it could all be traced back to the intersection of her life with that of the Orrs. If Tom Orr hadn’t asked her to dance . . .

If she hadn’t wanted to upset Lady Glanville by disappearing into the garden with Tom . . .

If Cecily hadn’t been so nasty toward her all these years, she might never have made the fatal remark to taunt her: It was only a kiss.