Page 12 of Unmask Me My Love

“I was fond of your mother, make no mistake about that. I am fond of your stepmother as well. But I have never allowed my feelings to have any weight when it came to choosing my duchess.” His father’s eyes bored into him. “I suggest you do the same, Halford. You look at the lady’s breeding, her family connections, and what financial incentives she can bring to the marriage. Those are the only things you need concern yourself with.” Father leaned forward, unblinking. “Perhaps I need to take a hand in arranging your marriage myself.”

Hal’s stomach dropped as though he’d jumped from the cliffs of Dover. Not only were his father’s ideas on marriage diametrically opposed to his own, but the idea that he’d actually arrange a marriage for him without giving him any say in the matter at all was appalling beyond belief. This was a devil of a predicament from which he needed to extricate himself immediately. “I don’t think that’s necessary at this time, Father. The Season is just begun, and there are many young ladies who should meet your standards.”

“Who is out this year?” Father leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink. “Perhaps I can arrange some introductions if you’re being squeamish about it. I cannot think any father would be anything but thrilled to have his daughter marry you.” He shook his head. “I should have spoken to Ivor sooner. That would have solved all our problems.”

Hal suppressed a shudder. The thought of being married to Celinda would have been palatable a mere twenty-four hours ago. Now, however, with his desire for Gabriella raging, he couldn’t imagine having any other woman in his bed. How unfortunate Gabriella had no proper lineage. Of course, he didn’t know that for certain. She could have come from French nobility who’d lost everything a generation ago during the Terror. He’d not had a chance to ask her.

“Now I think of it, there is one young lady who might suit me down to the ground. She hasn’t got notions about love, as far as I can tell. At least, she’s not looking all doe-eyed. Very straightforward and sensible, I’d say.” That was the truth about Gabriella as he saw it.

The duke leaned forward. “But you haven’t proposed to her?”

“No. We only met last evening, at Lady Hamilton’s ball. I wasn’t going to mention it because there is the possibility of a small impediment.”

“Spit it out, Halford. Stop this infernal shillyshallying.” He banged his fist on the desk like a gavel.

“She’s…French.” Hal blew out the breath he’d been holding.

“French! God in heaven.” The duke sank back in his chair and reached for his glass, only to find it empty. “All the best English ladies to choose from and you take a fancy to a French girl? Who is her family?”

“D’Aventure.” Hal closed his eyes and prayed. His father’s interest in anything French, other than spirits, wouldn’t fill a thimble. If luck was with him, the name would mean nothing.

Fingers laced together, the duke ruminated, his brows wiggling up and down, his lips pursed. Finally, he shook his head. “D’Aventure? I cannot place it. Was her father a soldier promoted by Boney? That was all the rage ten years ago.” He leaned back in his chair. “Of course, there could always be land involved with the settlements. Who is her father?”

“I don’t exactly know, Your Grace. I scarcely had time to talk to her. We spoke of other things than families.” Speaking had been the least of it.

“I take that to mean you spent the time you should have been gathering her particulars making love to her instead.” His father poured them another libation. “First things first, my boy.”

“If you mean courting her, Father, then yes. I thought making a good impression with her the best way to begin. I could hardly blurt out, ‘Who is your father and what is his rank?’” Hal tossed down his drink. It was a decent enough question, however. If Gabriella had sufficient lineage that the leap from maid to marchioness wouldn’t be a strenuous one, he’d be more than happy to make her his bride. “This is why I wished to have more time, to find out more about her family, her lineage.” He gave his father a long look. “Her financial situation. So, if you have no objection…?” He let the question linger in the air. Let his father take the bait.

“Oh, I’m positive I will have objections of some sort. But if the lady is gently born, we may see our way clear to an agreement.” The duke held the decanter out to Hal.

“No, thank you, Father.” He rose and donned his hat. “I must find Miss d’Aventure, or, more specifically, her father. I will keep you apprised of my progress.” With a bow, he turned and walked sedately from the interview, although jumping with wild glee on the inside. If he could persuade his father to allow him to marry Gabriella, he’d be the happiest of men. Not only would he have done his duty to his father and his family, but he’d also have assuaged his own desires in a very satisfactory way.

Tomorrow night’s appointment with Gabriella would be even more crucial now. Not only must he arrange her meeting with the duke, he must ferret out her father while making her none the wiser. A tall order for a man not particularly given to intrigues. He hoped for his sake he was up to the challenge.

Chapter 5

The clock in Lady Atherton’s servants’ hall ticked at an annoyingly loud, steady rate. Gabriella had been staring at it for the past hour while the Atherton servants ran to and fro in a frenzy of activity. Platters of savories, trays crowded with champagne glasses, pots of tea and coffee were whisked up and down the stairs by more footmen than she could count. After she’d inadvertently almost tripped one carrying a towering bowl of sherry trifle, she’d been relegated—by a very angry housekeeper—to the cramped chamber where the shoes were shined and the silver polished.

When the pungent smells of lampblack and Bath brick became intolerable, she crept to the doorway seeking fresher air. The kitchen was steamy, the stove blazing as Cook turned out batch after batch of gooseberry tarts and meringues destined for the supper room. Gabriella’s stomach growled. There’d been no time for dinner after working for three hours on Lady Chalgrove’s toilette—her coiffure hadn’t wanted to cooperate, taking twice as long as usual. She’d even needed to start over once. Gabriella looked longingly at the parade of dishes headed upstairs and prayed there would be something left over.

Stephen, the young footman she’d almost tripped, appeared from upstairs, a plate of crumbs and two tarts with broken crusts in his hands. Gabriella eyed the flaky pastry, her mouth watering, then sent him a soulful look. The gawky boy must’ve caught it, for he turned his back to her, deftly juggling the plate until it came to rest behind him, right in front of her and shielded from the remaining staff. She grabbed the tarts, thankful she’d learned to flirt at a very early age, whispered, “Merci, mon ami,” and sprinted out the rear door.

The cool night breeze refreshed her after the close atmosphere of the kitchen, and she settled onto a stone bench in what appeared to be a small kitchen garden. The first bite exploded in her mouth, the tart gooseberries tempered by the sweetness of the sugar and cinnamon. Cook certainly had a light hand with pastry. She’d not tasted anything this good since she left Paris. The first tart disappeared with alarming speed. Best savor the other one. She broke it in two and nibbled the flaky crust, licked some of the sweet filling, and sighed. A good sauterne would complement it nicely. She missed Papa’s wine shop so much. Bien sûr, she must be in England if she was to continue her quest for the duke. She licked one sticky finger after another, determined not to waste a drop.

“Mademoiselle d’Aventure.”

She spun around, almost dropping the other half of the tart.

Monsieur Carpenter, once more in shirtsleeves, beckoned to her from behind the bush enclosing the garden. His face lay in shadows, the faint light of the half-moon doing nothing to dispel them.

Excitement coiled within her.

“What are you doing here?” She wiped her fingers on the hem of her petticoat and got to her feet.

“I told you I’d meet you here.” He grinned, showing very white teeth in the dark, as he stalked toward her like a lynx. “I am a man of my word.”

“I see you are.” She could not hold back a smile. Why was she so pleased to see him? Much as she wanted to believe it was merely for the introduction she hoped he’d arranged, the rush of her heart said differently. That didn’t bear thinking about. She needed no distractions to deter her from her quest. And Monsieur Carpenter might prove a dangerous one.