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Appleby watched him, eyes narrowed through the smoke. “You don’t resemble me, boy, although you’ve a look of my mother’s family.”
Gabriel held his temper with difficulty.
“Sir Adam cast you out without a penny, has he?” Appleby continued, still smiling. “Never mind. You can get a job, a real job. I have plenty of mills you can graft in.” His black gaze slid over Gabriel with scorn. “That’s real work.”
“I don’t need a lecture, just give me back what belongs to me.”
Appleby took a puff on his cigar. “No.”
“You have no right—”
“And you do? Because of an accident of birth? No, you can’t have your inheritance back. I have plans for it. Now you’ve had your answer, get out of my house before I throw you out.”
“I’m not your son.”
“No? If you’re not you should be. Your mother was a good bedmate, always ready to give as good as she got. I’d be very surprised if I didn’t impregnate her.”
Gabriel hit him, plumb on the nose.
After that everything turned to madness. Appleby started roaring, calling for his servants, blood spilling onto his expensive clothes. Again the door was flung open, the guests crowding in behind the officious footman. And Gabriel took off.
“Come back, you damned pup!” Appleby shouted. “I’ll ruin you. You can be sure of that. I’ll see you ruined!”
Gabriel supposed he was already ruined. A man like Appleby would have powerful friends, and he’d use them. As he ran into the rain outside he wondered where he could go. Not to his father, that was certain, and he no longer had the manor house in Devon.
But there was one place he’d always felt welcome, despite the identity of the woman who owned it and the relationship she’d once had with Sir Adam. And, he remembered belatedly, she had also lost something she loved. Besides, when he was a callow seventeen-year-old, in the throes of his first love, she had offered him good advice. Advice for which he was still grateful.
Gabriel set off for London’s most infamous brothel: Aphrodite’s Club.
The chiming of a clock brought him back from the past. Gabriel was sitting in the darkness, staring at nothing, but in his mind the image of Appleby and the woman in his arms lingered.
He hadn’t realized it at the time but now he did. That sweet curve of throat and bosom, the dancing brown curls—they belonged to Antoinette Dupre. Any doubts he might have had that she was Appleby’s mistress evaporated.
Chapter 7
Antoinette propped her chin on her hand and stared into the night, her long hair tumbling over her back and shoulders, her bare feet curling on the threadbare carpet. Her body was alive and on fire, full of sensations she’d never imagined, let alone experienced before. The stranger had done this to her, and she didn’t know whether to give herself over to it wholeheartedly, or fight like hell.
It didn’t help that she was alone and confused. Without Cecilia and her househ
old around her—the only family she had—she felt truly abandoned.
And of course that was what Lord Appleby wanted.
To bring her to her knees. To tear her reputation to shreds so that he could do as he liked and no one would believe a word against him. That was why he had lured her to London, to his Mayfair house, to ask her to marry him, and, when she refused, to arrange to have them seen together in a position so compromising, it was impossible to dispute it.
She still shuddered at the memory.
The heavy weight of his fingers on her shoulders, his wet mouth on her throat, as he bent her backward over his arm. Unable to move, she’d been his prisoner. At first her mind was frozen, too shocked to know what was happening. And then the door opened, and the guests crowded toward her, their faces…The memory made her queasy. Running away was her only option. Even if she’d been brave enough to stay, they would never have believed her.
After a sleepless night she had been ready to confront him.
“Never mind,” he’d replied mildly, “you’ll enjoy being my wife, Antoinette. I am very generous to those who please me well.”
The look in his eyes, the curl of his mouth…Antoinette was sickened by what he was suggesting. Not that she was a prude, she had never been that, but this man had stolen her reputation and was set on taking her fortune. And now it seemed he wanted her body, too, if she let him.
“It’s my money you covet, isn’t it? That’s why you want to force me to marry you.”
“‘Force’ is such an ugly word, Antoinette, but, yes, you will marry me. If you don’t, I’ll turn my attentions to your sister.”
