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‘...ninety-nine, one hundred...’ She had talked herself into going to London, Gaby realised as she put down the brush.
Which left the small matter of that kiss. If she announced that she was, after all she had said, planning to travel to London with him, then Gray—and any man with an ounce of self-preservation—would run a mile. Or assume he had been skilfully entrapped. As it was he had made the point of stating that he was not intending to marry again. Oh, dear. There was nothing for it but some very plain speaking. Thank heavens Jane was such a late riser...
* * *
‘Baltasar, will you please go over to the Gentlemen’s House and ask Lord Leybourne if he would join me for breakfast?’
Gaby poured coffee, spread apricot jam on one of Maria’s pastries, warm from the oven, and practised looking businesslike. She had dressed with great care, exactly as she did every morning, had her hair in a simple braid and did not think she could look any less like a woman attempting to exercise her seductive wiles on a man. What Gray would think was another matter.
Baltasar opened the door to him, produced another place setting and went out.
‘Good morning, Gabrielle.’ Gray sat down, held out his cup for coffee and took two pastries. He looked faintly wary.
‘Good morning.’ This was beginning to feel awkward. Gaby cleared her throat. ‘You must be wondering why I asked you over for breakfast.’
‘I am a trifle curious, I confess.’
‘You must not think that what I am about to say means that I am asking you to—Oh, thank you, Baltasar. Cheese flan. Lovely. No, I do not think there is anything else just at the moment.’
Gray waited until the door closed behind the major-domo. ‘Ask me? Or not ask me?’
‘Yes. I mean, no.’ The pastry chose that moment to disintegrate, showering her bodice in a shower of flakes. ‘Oh, blast.’ She stood up and brushed them off. Gray silently handed her the platter and she took another. ‘Thank you.’
He helped himself to a slice of the flan and began to eat. Perfectly composed, the irritating man.
‘Yes. That is, I am not asking you to marry me.’
Gray dropped his fork.
Not so composed, after all, she thought with fleeting, short-lived satisfaction. ‘What I mean is—’
‘That I am not to assume you have expectations because of one kiss in a carriage?’ He sounded very dry indeed and not remotely amused.
‘If you will just allow me to finish?’ Don’t snap. It won’t help. ‘What I mean is that I have decided to return to London with you. With your escort, that is. Not with you.’ And stop twittering. ‘What I do not want is for you to assume that I have read far too much into a simple moment of...desire and have set my cap at you.’ Now he was looking amused, damn him. ‘I had thought that if I simply announced my change of mind, my intention to travel with you, you might feel uncertain of my motives and that would be awkward. I decided that frankness was the best option—and do not dare laugh at me!’
‘I am not. I am delighted to encounter such a very straightforward and frank approach. It is exceedingly refreshing after the hints and sighs and manoeuvrings of most of the unmarried ladies I encounter.’
‘You have a high opinion of your desirability on the Marriage Mart,’ she said coldly, still not too sure he was taking her seriously.
‘I am an earl, single, under forty, with all my own teeth. I am not in debt, not flaunting mistresses and not given to wearing corsets,’ Gray pointed out. ‘One learns to be very nimble on one’s feet.’
‘Do you not want to remarry?’ Gaby asked, startled into open curiosity.
‘No. Why should I? I have my heir.’
‘I would have thought there were other benefits to marriage.’ He raised one eyebrow. ‘Not that. Well, as well as that. A domestic life, a hostess, a mother to your children...’
‘My mother acts as my hostess, raises my children.’
‘And will not, if you will forgive me, be able to do that for ever.’
‘Wives do not live for ever, either.’ Gray was not smiling now.
‘I beg your pardon. Of course, that was thoughtless of me. You are still mourning your wife—’ Of all the insensitive, thoughtless things to have said.
‘I am not still mourning. Portia died five years ago.’
Well, yes, but if you loved her, it would still hurt in fifty years. Gaby swallowed a gulp of coffee in the hope of drowning the queasy sense that she had blundered. I don’t know. I can’t guess and I shouldn’t try.
