Page 19 of Unmask Me My Love

Hal nodded and clasped both her hands in his. Yes, he knew that passion well.

“That night, the daughter went to the comte’s bed, and every night for the week that he lingered there. In the darkness of his room, they shared many things. One night he told her he was in truth an English marquess and would one day become the Duke of Rother. When she asked how he had come to be in Angouleme, he spoke of his travels, how he had been mad to take his Grand Tour, even though wars raged on the continent. Still, he had journeyed to Italy, Egypt, and Greece. When he wished to return to England, he decided to go through France.”

“But in 1800, England and France were at war.” Hal had to point this out, despite how engrossed he’d become in the tale.

Gabriella shrugged. “The war had lasted long, and the marquess was an impatient man. He disguised himself and began his passage home.”

Hal had to admit it certainly sounded like Rother, bold as brass. He’d known the man for years, although they didn’t run in the same circles. Still, this particular story had never surfaced in the ton.

“The marquess also told her he was betrothed to an English lady, daughter of another marquess, and therefore could not marry her, though now he wished it with all his heart.” She laughed softly. “She told me she smiled to herself when he said that, for she knew he would not have married the daughter of a French wine merchant in any case. Still, it was noble of him to say this. When he left at the end of the week, on a boat heading for Bordeaux, she cried, but swore she regretted nothing.” Gabriella stopped and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

Hal slipped his arm around her shoulders. Rother had indeed married the daughter of a marquess in the early years of the century. Uncanny how the stories matched, although he assumed the tale was not yet done. “There is one more piece to the story, I suspect?”

“Oui. One more.” She leaned back against his shoulder. “Soon after her lover left, she realized she was with child, as she had hoped. She had wanted to keep something of the man she had fallen in love with, and what better than his child? Her father had expected as much and arranged a marriage for her with another wine merchant in Paris, one of his good friends, Maurice d’Aventure.” Gabriella shrugged. “He was a good man, who knew everything from the beginning. He was very kind to my mother, and after I was born, he raised me as his own daughter, especially when there were no children to follow me. He indulged us in anything, even when my mother insisted I learn to sew well enough to become a modiste and support myself without the necessity of marriage.”

“Why did you not become a dressmaker, then?”

“Oh, I did, for a time. That is how I met Lady Chalgrove. But I do not like sewing,” she said, grimacing at the word. “As we sewed in our rooms above the wine shop, my mother would tell me stories. One of them was of the marquess and her precious time with him. I vowed to myself that I would find him one day, tell him who I was and see to it he remembered my mother.” Gabriella ducked her head. “She said if he agreed to acknowledge me, I could become one of the ladies at the English court.”

Hal peered at her, heart racing. “Is that what you desire, my dear? To become a lady such as your mistress?”

She raised her head, eyes bright with tears. “Non, not exactly. I thought I would spend time with my real father, come to know him as my mother had described him. And that, eventually, he might arrange for me to meet a fine gentleman who would marry me, either here in England or in France. But now…”

“But now?” He forced himself to remain calm, even though he longed to seize her in his arms and tell her everything.

“I have met you.” She brushed at a tear as it trickled down her cheek. “I still wish to meet my father, but if he acknowledges me, we can never be together. A duke would never allow his daughter to marry so far beneath his station.” She gripped his hand, her brows lifting. “I could instead simply meet him, tell him I am his daughter but ask for no more.” Her face filled with excitement. “Then we could be together, Horace.”

Inwardly, Hal groaned. They must persuade the duke to acknowledge her or his own father would never allow them to marry. Would it be better to tell her his identity now, or wait until the duke recognized her as his child? If His Grace refused, his ruse would come to light when he explained why they could not wed. If the duke agreed, the revelation of Hal’s subterfuge might make her hate him so much she would never accept him. What a devilish muddle.

“Horace?” Her wide-eyed alarm brought him back to the present.

He opened his mouth to tell her the truth. “I…uh, of course, Gabriella,” he said, automatically rubbing her hand. God, but he was a coward. He simply couldn’t bear to tell her. Not yet. Not until he knew what Rother would do. So how could they convince him? A wild hope sprang up that somehow there’d been a secret wedding, or that somewhere there were letters between the duke and her mother in which the duke admitted that Gabriella must be his daughter. “Did your mother have any proof of this story? Papers of some sort?”

She frowned and pulled her hand from his. “Papers? What papers? You think my mother would have stolen the duke’s papers?”

Hal groaned and scrubbed his hand down his face. “No, Gabriella, darling, I didn’t mean that. I just wondered if it was written somewhere that your mother had this affair with Rother. Did he ever write to her, either as the marquess or later, when he became the duke?”

Gabriella rose from the bench like an avenging angel, lacking only a fiery sword to smite him. “You think my mother has lied to me all these years? How dare you suggest such a thing? She is an honorable woman, who has loved me since before I was born. She would never lie to me!”

“No, of course not, Gabriella.” He scrambled up, his gaze darting around to be sure no one was near enough to hear them. “I didn’t mean—”

“I am Mademoiselle d’Aventure to you, monsieur. Or better yet, do not address me at all if you think so ill of my mother and of me.” She straightened and drew her hand back.

The crack of skin on skin sounded appallingly loud in the quiet night air. He rubbed at the sting on his cheek then moved his jaw to assure himself it still worked.

“Brûle en enfer!” With that incomprehensible phrase, she whirled around, skirts flying, and stomped away.

“Damn.” Hal dropped back onto the bench, massaging his still-smarting face.

His hopes for a straightforward courtship with Gabriella lay dashed on the cold ground. If Rother turned out to be her father, and if he agreed to acknowledge her, Hal might be a step closer to making her his marchioness. Once acknowledged, she might be considered an eligible parti even by his conservative parent.

If she turned out not to be the duke’s by-blow—despite the plausible tale, it could very well be a tempest in a teapot—or if the duke was not moved to admit his past indiscretion in light of his current search for a wife, Hal was in an even worse position regarding his father’s decree. Asking to marry the illegitimate granddaughter of a French wine merchant might make a ballet dancer seem respectable in his father’s estimation.

Of course, if Gabriella wouldn’t forgive him his doubts, there would be no problem to solve other than where to store the pieces of his broken heart.

Chapter 8

The Earl of Ivor’s butler showed Hal into a small receiving room, decorated fancifully in a pink, yellow, and green color scheme to resemble a garden filled with flowers that seemed to leap from the walls. Celinda’s mother’s handiwork, he must assume. Assuredly that was where his cousin got her eccentric streak. Hal meandered over to look more closely at the jonquils that made one wish to reach out and touch them.