Notorious (Rebels of the Ton #1) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,27
incident itself was not so horrific, Theo. I am made of sterner stuff. I refuse to allow a—” A shadow passed in front of the bow window and stopped. Small hairs on the back of her neck—which she’d never really noticed before—stood on end.
Theo turned toward the window as the shadow persisted. “I say, what’s this nosy bloke all about?”
Drusilla knew before she looked who it would be.
* * *
Gabriel felt like rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, or perhaps closing them and then opening them again, hoping the bizarre vision would be gone.
He leaned closer to the window and stared. No, it was not a hallucination; it was real—she was still there. It really was his betrothed holding another man’s hand. And that man was glaring at Gabriel as if he were some sort of street rubbish.
Gabriel looked at Drusilla and met her haughty stare. She was looking at him as if he were street rubbish, as well.
He pivoted on his heel, strode to the shop door, and almost tore it off the hinges. The clatter of bells filled the little room with shrill, almost hysterical ringing. He felt, rather than saw, dozens of eyes upon him as he closed the short distance between the door and his fiancée.
The man had released her hand but was now standing, half hovering in front of Drusilla as if to protect her. From him, Gabriel could only assume.
“Miss Clare. What a surprise. I would have assumed you were busy today.” His mouth twisted into a mocking smile and his gaze settled on her hand, gloveless and limp and now alone on the table. “But I suppose you are busy, just not with wedding preparations.”
Her companion took a step toward him. “And just who—”
She laid a hand on the other man’s forearm, her gaze still on Gabriel. The casual gesture—that easy touching of another man—sent fury thundering through him like a herd of stampeding horses. His hands clenched so tightly that the pain brought him back to himself: thrashing this man here and now would not be wise for about a dozen reasons. Besides, he had no wish to air such private feelings in public. He would have time enough to deal with this—and her—later. For the remainder of his life, as a matter of fact.
“This is Mr. Marlington, my fiancé. Gabriel, this is Mr. Rowland, a . . . a friend of mine.”
“Fiancé!” Rowland shouted.
Drusilla, Gabriel, and every other patron in the shop stared at the man, who appeared as though he was already regretting his outburst if his dark, ugly red flush was anything to go by.
Drusilla frowned at her companion. “Yes, Theo, I told you I was getting married.”
The man—Theo—shook his head. “But I thought it was to Visel—”
Drusilla shuddered, her face a mask of distaste. “Never.”
Gabriel almost smiled; at least there was somebody she found more repellent than him.
“But I asked you about the duke and you said—”
“Mr. Marlington’s grandfather is the Duke of Carlisle,” she said flatly.
“Oh,” the other man mumbled, looking a bit wild around the eyes.
Gabriel stared down at him, his brain not obeying his orders to focus; instead dozens of thoughts were zinging through his head. Most frequent were graphic suggestions as to what he should do to the man across from him for having the audacity to sit with his betrothed in public and fondle her hand.
Mr. Rowland was a slender man, and Gabriel knew he could break him in half without effort. The aggressive way he was eyeballing Gabriel demonstrated more clearly than words that while Drusilla might consider them merely friends, he had other ideas.
She gestured to one of the empty chairs around the table with an unsteady hand. “Won’t you sit with us?” Her face was as emotionless as ever, and Gabriel felt a sudden sense of heaviness, of... depression as he looked into eyes that left him feeling chilled. He would spend his life with a woman who had no emotion, no passion, and certainly no liking for him. On the contrary, here she sat the day before her wedding, holding hands with another man.
He almost laughed out loud: he would marry a woman in love with another and live out his days in a country where his face and name would forever make him an outcast.
Some part of his mind pointed out that he was behaving in a dramatic, self-pitying manner, and he shook himself and forced an appropriate expression onto his face.