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‘I am so sorry.’ Henry got up, walked to the sitting area, his back to her, presumably out of tact.
‘It was years ago and not relevant to this discussion except that you need not have concerns on that score.’ She got up, too, pushed the door closed and went to him. ‘You are right. Let us kiss and see.’
There was nothing alarming about kissing Henry. He was gentle and respectful but not hesitant. He has obviously done this before, Gaby thought, reaching for humour to calm her nerves. He gathered her in against his body and she was aware of solidity and strength and a pleasant scent of cologne and warm man.
She closed her eyes, tipped up her face and his lips covered hers confidently. She tasted wine and the sweetness of the pudding he had just eaten and... He is really quite good at this. She tried to relax, to kiss back. It was not so very difficult. There was comfort in being held in his arms, and some pleasure, although no surge of excitement or desire.
Henry’s tongue slid along her lips and she opened to him, responded. I can do this and he seems to be enjoying it.
Then Henry gathered her in closer and she realised that he was, indeed, finding pleasure in the embrace and that when he had said he could foresee no problem, then, as far as his responses were concerned, that was the truth. The thought, the pressure of his arousal against her, carried her deeper than she had intended going. This had been only a kiss. Just a kiss. A tiny, harmless experiment.
She felt his hand lift from her waist, come to rest on her right breast, his fingertips stroking gently at the swell of bare flesh exposed by the low lacy neckline of her evening gown. He gave a soft growl, deep in his throat.
With the sound she was suddenly sure. This was wrong. She could not do this, not with this man. And she knew why. He was not Gray and she was in love with Gray. She couldn’t have him, she knew that, but she loved him and to make love with any other man would be a betrayal she would never recover from.
Gaby jerked back, shocked by the realisation, shocked at herself for enjoying, however mildly, Henry’s kiss. She twisted sharply away from his embrace and he released her instantly but his fingers caught in the lace as she turned. There was a ripping sound, a sudden coolness on her skin and she looked down to see the bodice torn away on one side, exposing her breast above the tight edge of her corset.
‘Hell, I’m sorry, Gabrielle.’
‘Accident,’ Gaby stammered. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Henry. I’m sorry, I can’t. It isn’t you, honestly.’ She was backing towards the door, not frightened of him as he stood there, making no attempt to touch her again, but of her own feelings.
‘I know it isn’t,’ he said, his expression rueful. ‘It’s him. It is Gray. I should have thought.’
He knows. It is that obvious?
‘Don’t be sorry. You were trying to help. This is my fault. I must go.’ Her back touched the panels and she reached for the handle.
‘Gabrielle, your gown—’
‘I will fix it, I’ve pins in my reticule.’ The handle kept slipping as she tugged at it.
He did move then, to pick up her reticule, hand it to her, open the door. ‘There are spare bedchambers along there. Go and pin it, recover a little, then I will ring for the carriage for you.’
‘No. I’ll go down myself and tell the butler that I have suddenly remembered something. I’ll be all right, Henry, honestly. Please, just leave me to myself.’
He must have recognised the desperation in her voice, the need to be alone, because she saw on his face the struggle to overcome his instincts and step back. ‘Very well. Call me if you need me.’
She fled. There was no other word for it, she realised. Not flight from Henry, dear, harmless, gentlemanly Henry, but from her thoughts and desires, as though she did not carry them in her head, in her heart. Inescapable.
The turn in the passageway was in front of her and Gaby tried to slow to a walk. There were bedchamber doors just beyond, she recalled. If she could just go into one for a few moments, pin up her bodice, straighten her hair and compose herself, everything would be perfectly all right. Any appearance of distress in her demeanour could be explained by her being flustered over forgetting that she had to meet Jane. She would dither and twitter to Fredericks about it and he would dismiss her as an empty-headed peahen, but that did not matter.
She was still half running when she rounded the blind corner and her speed sent her thudding into a large, firm, male body. For a second she thought it must be a footman. I must pretend the collision tore my gown... Then arms came around her in a supporting embrace and every sense told her that this was Gray.
‘Gabrielle? What on earth are you doing here? What is wrong?’ He held her away from him to look at her.
Gray had just turned from opening one of the bedchamber doors, she realised as she glimpsed the mahogany gleam of a half-tester bed, rich dark green hangings and the glow of lamplight. He looked tired and travel worn. There were shadows under this eyes, his neckcloth was crumpled and he had not shaved recently.
‘Gray?’ She found that her hand was cupped against his cheek, the prickles of a day-old beard on her palm, but it dropped as his gaze slid from her face to her bosom and back to her lips. She touched them and found them sensitive, swollen from Henry’s kisses.
His expression changed from puzzled to something horribly like a sneer. ‘Foolish of me to ask. I left the field very clear for you. Henry makes an ideal candidate for your stud, of course. And he needs money. How much are you paying him to get you with child?’
‘Nothing! And we haven’t.’ Gaby stopped, took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly, not like a hysterical woman fleeing from her lover’s embrace. ‘We are not lovers. We talked about it. Discussed the possibility, the practicalities.’
‘I can see that, although the talking does not appear to have involved words and the practicalities appear to have included practice.’ Gray reached out and ran the pad of his thumb slowly along her lower lip, then dropped his hand to flip at the torn bodice. ‘What stopped you? Did you hear my arrival? Really, my dear, you should have simply stayed in Henry’s bedchambe
r. Who am I to chaperone you?’ he asked, his fingers still toying with the ripped lace.
Oh, yes, that is a sneer.
