Page 6 of A Winter Scandal

He glanced at her, the same expression of mingled surprise and amusement in his eyes that she had seen there several times since Lady Fenstone had introduced them. “It was warm in the ballroom. I thought the fresh air might be nice.” He stopped, half turning to her. “Would you rather return?”

Thea thought about going back to the chair beside her mother. “No.”

He smiled faintly. “Good. Neither would I.”

They continued past the steps down into the garden and stopped finally at the stone balustrade beyond. Thea looked out across the garden, very aware of Gabriel’s presence beside her. She played with her fan, not quite sure what to do with her hands. She was certain she should say something. Veronica would doubtless know what to say, but the only things that came to Thea’s mind were inane comments on the beauty of the garden or the refreshing quality of the evening breeze.

After a moment, she glanced over at Gabriel. He was leaning back against the balustrade, watching her. The muted light from inside the house slanted across his lower face, leaving his eyes in shadow, unreadable, and illuminating his chin and mouth. Her eyes flickered to the shallow dent in his chin, so curiously appealing, then moved up to the firm lips, which were, she had to admit, even more appealing. She should not be having such thoughts, she knew. She was not the sort, like Veronica, to daydream about husbands or wax rhapsodic over the handsome face of this man or the broad shoulders of that one. Veronica was a feminine girl, all ribbons and lace and smiles, like their mother. But Thea had always been more like their father, studious and well-read, a person who valued thought above emotion. A person’s brain was what interested her most, not the curve of a man’s lip.

She turned away, hoping the dim light hid the blush that she could feel flooding her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?” He straightened and moved a bit closer, sounding honestly puzzled.

“I am not much of a conversationalist, I’m afraid. I am not used to”—she made a vague gesture toward the rest of the terrace and house—”to any of this. You must find this terribly …”

“Terribly what?” he asked when she did not go on.

“Boring.” She faced him squarely then, for she refused to shy away from difficulties.

He let out a short bark of laughter. “Boring? My dear Miss Bainbridge, boring is definitely something you are not.”

“I don’t know how you can say that,” she retorted somewhat crossly. “There is really no need for you to be polite. I haven’t said any of the things I should. I have been blunt and no doubt impolite. I have never danced before with any man I haven’t known since I could toddle. And now I cannot even come up with the most commonplace remark.”

His chuckle was low and warm and made something curl deliciously deep within her abdomen. “It may surprise you to learn that I am happy not to hear the most commonplace remark.”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” Really, the man was maddening. “You shouldn’t laugh at someone who is admitting their grievous social ineptitude.”

“What else should I do?” His teeth glinted in the darkness. “Let me assure you that I have danced with a great many girls whom I have not known since childhood. And I have heard a great many commonplace remarks. It is, quite frankly, a relief to enjoy the quiet and cool of the garden without hearing that the weather is quite nice this evening or that the breeze is most refreshing or that the party is so enjoyable.”

“I thought of saying all those things, but I could not bring myself to do it.”

“And for that, I thank you.” He leaned forward, surprising her by taking her chin between his thumb and fingers. “How old are you, Miss Bainbridge? I daresay you haven’t made your come-out yet.”

“No.” Thea could barely get out the word. His movement was startling and, at the same time, thrilling. She was certain that this was not the sort of thing she should be doing, but she was not about to pull away. “I am seventeen.”

He smiled. “I think the bachelors of London are in for a surprise.”

It occurred to her that his statement could be taken in a way that was less than complimentary, but then all thought flew from her head as he bent and kissed her.

His kiss was neither long nor deep, but it was the only kiss she had ever received from a man, and Thea felt it all through her. Her lips tingled, and her heart thumped against her ribs. His mouth was soft and warm; his scent filled her nostrils. Thea was shocked to feel a sudden, strong desire to throw her arms around his neck and press her body up against his.

Gabriel raised his head and stepped back. Sketching a bow, he offered Thea his arm to lead her back to her mother. Thea could do nothing but accept. She had not seen Gabriel Morecombe since.

Until tonight—when he had not remembered her.

Thea reached up and realized for the first time that tears had trickled down her cheeks. Annoyed, she dashed them away with gloved fingers. Really, she told herself, it was beyond enough to be mooning about here in the dark, feeling sorry for herself because some rake from London thought her beneath his notice. A saving anger began to rise in Thea, pushing back the hurt that dwelled like a rock in her chest. She was clearly guilty of the sin of pride in thinking that Lord Morecombe would remember her from their meeting so long ago. But Gabriel Morecombe had been rude and arrogant. It was not just that he had not remembered her or that he had not even bothered to call her by the correct name a few seconds after Mrs. Cliffe introduced her. It was that he obviously found the people here quite beneath his touch. The man’s eyes had been glazed with boredom, his expression etched in lines of condescension. Clearly he wished himself somewhere else—no doubt off at the tavern drinking! Simply because he was an aristocrat, he thought that he was superior to the good, honest people of Chesley. It was no wonder Lord Morecombe had forgotten her; he had probably considered her not worth his interest even when he met her.

Thea straightened in her chair and smoothed down the front of her skirt. She ought to return to the great hall. She was not the sort to hide in a dark room, licking her wounds. However, she could not bring herself to go back and watch Lord Morecombe dance with Damaris and the Cliffe girls. Worse, what if Mrs. Cliffe decided to press him into dancing with the wallflowers, such as Thea? Thea was not about to risk that embarrassment.

She found a candelabra and lit it, illuminating the room with a soft glow. She was pleased to find a bookshelf on the wall behind the door, and soon she was settled down in a comfortable chair out of sight of the open doorway, engrossed in a book. A few minutes later, there were steps in the hallway, and Thea looked up to see her brother peering cautiously around the door. His expression brightened.

“Ah, Thea! So you stole away, too? Too noisy by half in there, I thought.” Daniel came farther into the room. “You found a book?” She pointed toward the bookshelf, and he turned. “Ah, excellent.”

He examined the shelves and chose a tome, then sat down on the chair closest to Thea, the candelabra burning on the table between them. The two of them remained there through the rest of the ball, reading in companionable silence, as they so often did of an evening. Thea glanced over at her brother and smiled fondly. She had a good life, she reminded herself. It was foolish to grow downcast because one arrogant rake had not recognized her. Her life was orderly and unhurried and had purpose. She did not want for anything, and she had friends and family. She could do as she pleased—within the bounds of propriety, of course. There was no reason to be discontented or sad over the behavior of Gabriel Morecombe, whom she would probably never see again, anyway. She would simply forget about him.

“Lord, what a bore!” Alan Carmichael declared as he and Lord Morecombe entered the drawing room of the Priory, followed closely by Sir Myles. Gabriel went straight to the decanters of liquor on the sideboard, and Alan flung himself into one of the armchairs flanking the fireplace, letting out a dramatic groan. “I should have listened to you, Ian, and stayed here.”

Ian, Lord Wofford, who was stretched out in the other chair, his feet propped on the hassock and a snifter of brandy in one hand, merely lifted an elegant eyebrow. “Told you.”