Notorious (Rebels of the Ton #1) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,68

of will was Drusilla able to lift her eyebrows and give him a cool smile, once again saved by a break in the dance from having to respond.

Just what was the man up to? Whatever it was, Drusilla knew it involved mischief.

Chapter 13

Gabriel had hoped to sit with Eva and Visel at their supper table, but there were no places available when he and Drusilla made their way through the crowd into the area set aside for dining.

Instead, unfortunately, Lucinda Kittridge saw them looking about for seats and sent her companion over to fetch them. He wanted to groan. He had already engaged in one heated interaction with her this evening—in the middle of the bloody dance floor. Tonight seemed the night for that. She’d taunted him about Drusilla so relentlessly that he’d finally been forced to point out how unbecoming her jealousy was.

That had made her beautiful, jewel-like eyes fly open. “Jealous? Of—of her?”

Gabriel had bristled at the scorn in her voice. “Have a care, Miss Kittridge. That is my wife you are speaking of.”

The remainder of the dance had passed in false laughter and smiles.

“Lucy would like you both to join us,” Lord Deveril said, his soft, peach fuzz–covered cheeks flushing as he extended the invitation. Gabriel could just bet she did. No doubt her plans would be unpleasant.

Still, what else could he do but say, “We would be honored,” and nod at the younger man, whom he’d played cards with on several occasions. Deveril was a shy, spindly, and pockmarked young fellow, but he would inherit an earldom one day: no doubt the reason he was Lucy’s partner for the supper dance.

Gabriel felt Drusilla stiffen beside him at the invitation and looked down as he followed Deveril. Her face had the set, superior expression he had always associated with her in the past—not the sweet, soft, almost affectionate look she’d given him in the garden. A sudden insight struck: this was her mask—for those times she felt insecure, it must be. How had he been so foolish not to notice? She was far cleverer and more interesting than the kittenish Miss Kittridge—even if her tongue was also sharper—but the other woman was, undoubtedly, far more physically beautiful, so it must be insecurity about her appearance. But then she was best friends with Eva, a woman even more lovely than Lucy. Perhaps it was something else?

Gabriel drew her arm closer, feeling an overwhelming urge to protect her wash over him. It surprised him—and surprised her, if her quick glance was anything to go by.

Lucy and another couple—people whose names Gabriel could not recall—were already seated when they arrived.

“Mr. and Mrs. Marlington,” Lucy gushed, her remarkable blue eyes flickering from Drusilla to Gabriel. “I told Deveril that I absolutely must have the ton’s newest couple at my table.”

Gabriel waited until Drusilla was seated before taking Lucy’s hand and bowing over it, ignoring the almost painful squeezing of his fingers such a delicate hand could inflict. “What a dark horse you are, Gabe. I was just telling Deveril that I had no idea you and Drusilla were such fast . . . friends.”

Gabriel ignored the unconcealed dig. Instead, he smiled. “I think I speak for both myself and my wife when I say thank you, Miss Kittridge.”

Her laugh—a sound that was truly heavenly, even though he now knew it held nothing but thwarted anger—filled the air like chamber music. “Oh please, we were Gabriel and Lucy before—I do hope that won’t change now that you are married?” She cut Drusilla an arch look.

Drusilla returned her look with a slight, almost contemptuous twist of her lips. “Indeed no, Miss Kittridge. Rest assured that Gabriel’s name remains the same; only my surname has changed.”

Gabriel bit back a smile.

“How you must dislike that, Mrs. Marlington.” Lucy was looking at Drusilla with a notch of concern between her luminous eyes.

Drusilla blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Changing your name—isn’t that something your heroine, Mary Wollstonecraft, advocated? That women should not have to take their husband’s names?”

“No thank you,” Drusilla said to the footman who’d arrived to pour her a glass of wine. She turned back to Lucy. “I must say I am pleased, Miss Kittridge. I did not know you’d read Miss Wollstonecraft’s books.”

Lucy frowned, the expression a petulant moue. “But I haven’t.”

“Ahh.” Drusilla’s features were arranged in an expression of patient understanding.

Gabriel’s face ached from suppressing a grin. His wife was a mistress of subtle but oh-so-effective snubs—who should know that better than he? Even