Notorious (Rebels of the Ton #1) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,89
shoved back his chair so hard it skittered across the smooth marble and clattered against the sideboard. She sprang to her feet, her mouth hanging open.
“What did you think, tell me? You thought I wished to make something of this marriage? Whatever gave you that idea? A single evening of sex? A pot of tea in your bedchamber?”
Drusilla’s head spun. Had it only been yesterday when he’d been so kind to her?
“Yes, only yesterday,” he said, making her realize she’d spoken out loud. His lips became thin, his expression one of barely repressed fury. “Before I saw Rowland leaving through our garden gate last night.”
Drusilla grabbed the back of the chair to steady herself.
“Ah, yes. Now I believe you understand.”
“It is not what you think, Gabriel.” Even to her ears, the words sounded weak.
He strode toward her, not stopping until he loomed over her. “You know what I think?”
She could imagine. “No,” she whispered.
“I think you could have come to me last night and told me of his visit—or even this morning. Or perhaps you could have sent him away in the first place, told him you refused to see him at any time, but most especially at two o’clock in the morning. You wouldn’t even need to speak to him to tell him that—we keep servants for that purpose. But what did I see?” He did not wait for an answer. “The moment I am out of the house, the two of you come rushing to each other—lurking together in the dead of night. Two conspirators—two lovers—meeting in the dark.” He leaned even closer, until she could clearly see the shards of green and gold, his pupils mere pinpricks.
Drusilla saw no trace of the man she’d flirted with at the Renwick ball, the man who’d defended her against the sharp claws of Lucinda Kittridge, the man who’d said such lovely words and done such intimate things to her.
The knowledge that much of this was her fault came crashing down on her. She had rejected his kindness yesterday and last night had met a man he believed to be her lover in his garden. That at least she could straighten out.
She laid a hand on his arm, which was as hard as steel beneath the fine wool of his coat. “Please, Gabriel.”
His lips tightened, but he did not snatch his arm away.
“I am not—”
“I had hoped we could make something of our lives together. I had hoped we might build something out of the mess Visel created for us. But now I see I was just a fool.” His eyes brimmed with disgust, disappointment, and something else—regret?
“I will not be made a cuckold, Drusilla. I will kill Rowland before I allow that to happen.” He turned from her and strode toward the door.
Drusilla could only stare in mute horror as he swung open the door and slammed it shut behind him. Leaving her alone with the mess she had made.
* * *
Gabriel kept seeing her white, shocked face. Her huge, terror-stricken eyes.
“So what?” he said aloud, although there was only himself to answer. He turned to the grimy hack window and stared out onto the street, trying to block the image from his mind. He’d only done and said what she deserved. He felt like a fool for having tried to make an effort to salvage their faux marriage. He had ended his relationship with two women he liked very much; he had forgiven her incessant slights; he’d swallowed his regret at being forced into a lifelong union with a woman not of his choosing and had entered into their marriage with an open mind even after she picked at him and picked at him and looked at him as if he were lower than the dirt on her shoes. Even when he had caught her holding hands with her lover after they were betrothed.
And this was what he received in return: his wife meeting with a man who clearly held intentions toward her—in his very own garden!
He’d gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. The hackney slowed and then stopped. A glance out the window told him he was nowhere near Rowland’s lodgings. The vent opened.
“Sorry, gov, but there’s a bleedin’ mess in the road.”
Gabriel opened the door and looked ahead. A wagon filled with barrels appeared to have collided with a mail coach.
Gabriel hopped out and flipped a coin up to the driver. “I shall walk.”
“Aye,” the bent old man muttered, “I might join ye.”