Notorious (Rebels of the Ton #1) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,10

orchestrate such a thing, but Gabriel—for all his wild ways with widows and actresses—was the very image of propriety around maidens.

Still, Drusilla could imagine them embracing, his powerful shoulders sheltering the Kitten’s delicate frame, his hands, elegant and strong, one splayed on the small of her back, the other cradling her head like a priceless and fragile object. His lush, sensual lips—lips that were almost as expressive as his brilliant, flashing eyes—pressed against the Kitten’s perfectly bow-shaped mouth.

The horrifying image shifted in her mind’s eye, and Drusilla smiled dreamily at the new picture: her in Gabriel’s muscular arms.

She let her body relax on the unforgiving marble bench and enjoyed the mental image. What a rebel she was, sprawled on a bench in a conservatory during a ball. Alone. She was wicked and her aunt would scold her if she found out.

She sighed, telling herself to get up—to go back and join the bouquet of wallflowers—but her eyelids were so heavy . . . so heavy. And it was so peaceful . . . so . . .

“What have we here?”

The low voice penetrated her dozy state at the same time that something warm touched her cheek.

“A sleeping beauty,” the same voice murmured. “Not the one I was looking for but you will have to—”

Drusilla’s brain awoke from its slumber, and her eyes flew open to find a face looming over her. She shrieked and jerked into an upright position—or at least tried to—slamming her forehead into his nose.

“Oww, dammit, that bloody hurt!” Her assailant staggered back

Drusilla tried to sit up, but her legs had somehow become tangled in her skirts and she began to slide off the bench, her fingers scrabbling to grip the smooth stone, her other hand stupidly clutching her reticule rather than participating in her rescue.

Powerful hands clamped on to her shoulders. “Quit your bloody squirming or you’ll land on your head.”

Moonlight slanted across his face, and Drusilla gasped and jerked away. It was Lord Godric Visel—a handsome, sneering libertine who’d never had a second to spare for her in the past.

“Unhand me,” Drusilla demanded, jerking away and then sliding off the back side of the bench in the process.

“Bloody hell.” He caught her up in his arms before she could fall, lifted her, and then dropped her onto her bottom with an undignified thump. “There.” His hands steadied her. “Will you quit already, Miss Clare? I’m only trying to—”

And then, suddenly, he was gone.

Chapter 3

Even when he’d been at war with his brother Assad, Gabriel had not felt such hot, unadulterated rage. He’d often heard the saying “to see red” but hadn’t believed it until now. Not only was he seeing red, he was feeling it. He was swelteringly, brain-cracklingly hot.

The suppressed emotions of the past months boiled over, the memories of untold slights and jabs he’d silently endured from Visel without capitulating to his desires to either plant the man a facer or meet him at dawn.

“What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?” He forced the words through his clenched jaws. “Well?” he demanded, and then realized he was gripping Visel’s neck far too tightly and loosened his hold.

The earl’s mouth was moving, but Gabriel could not hear the words. He leaned closer.

“I thought it was your mad sister stretched out on that bench and I was going to—” The words were hardly a croak, but they acted like fuel on an already raging fire.

Gabriel banged the man’s head against the thickly leaded panes, setting the rectangles of glass chattering like hundreds of teeth.

“You bloody bounder,” he snarled.

Visel’s mouth stretched into a leer, his eyes bulging, his nostrils flaring—and he laughed; the bastard laughed.

Gabriel was vaguely aware of a hand on his shoulder.

“Mr. Marlington? Please! Gabriel, you must stop.”

He glanced from the hand to its owner. Miss Clare was not her usual neat-as-a-pin self. Her hair had come down in several places and silky brown spirals framed her usually supercilious face. Her gray eyes were round and her pale cheeks had bloodred slashes of color that made her appear lively and quite pretty.

Gabriel shook off the bizarre observation.

“Are you all right?” he asked, only slightly loosening his grip on Visel, who was trying to break free, snorting and snuffling like a pig hunting truffles.

“Yes! Yes, I’m fine. Please, he didn’t hurt me. You must let him go before you kill him.”

Gabriel looked from her to his captive, who stared at him with fury-filled eyes. Why did this man hate him so very