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Gaby suppressed a snort of unladylike amusement as George puffed out his own not-very-impressive chest. ‘I do not think that gentlemen should reveal so much flesh, do you, Aunt?’
‘Certainly not. You may appear the most magnificent pasha while remaining decently clad, George.’ He subsided sulkily. ‘Naturally I have procured an invitation for you, Gabrielle. You can partner George. I will co-ordinate the costumes.’
‘It is most thoughtful of you, Aunt, but if Gray is attending then I would not want to appear to be the partner of another gentleman.’
‘If he is there. I have scarcely seen him and he hardly seems very attentive, given that the pair of you maintain you have an attachment.’
‘We do have an attachment, as you put it, Aunt. And surely George will attend with Miss Henderson?’
‘Blasted poet,’ George muttered. ‘Long-haired prancing ninny.’
‘Language, George. The ungrateful chit has got herself betrothed to Lucian Fairweather. You must have seen him—blond curls worn too long, a languishing manner, a perfect profile—of which he is well aware—and far too much money for his own good.’
‘Which he spends on calfskin editions of his blo—confounded poems,’ George snapped. ‘He certainly does not need her dowry.’
‘I am so sorry, George,’ Gaby said, biting the inside of her cheek to keep her expression suitably serious. ‘I do hope your affections were not deeply engaged.’
‘She was never the right bride for him,’ her aunt said when George glowered sulkily. ‘If only you were not involved with Gray, my dear.’
Well, that is frank speaking at last!
‘I thought you were fond of your godson?’
‘I am, of course I am. But—’ Aunt Henrietta fixed an expression of deep concern on her face. ‘There is no getting around the fact that he would be a most unsatisfactory husband, fond as I am of him. His poor wife.’ She sighed.
‘I know all about Portia.’
‘You do? But he never speaks of her.’
‘I am his betrothed,’ Gaby pointed out.
‘Oh. And he has been single again for so long—he is a terrible rake, you know.’
‘I have seen nothing of such behaviour.’
Except that a man does not learn to kiss, to make love, like that from having one unsympathetic wife and a lot of book study. Not that I have to worry about his habits for much longer...
‘Naturally a maiden lady would not know about it and he is intelligent enough to pull the wool over your eyes.’
Gaby ran a range of retorts over in her mind. Poppycock seemed the most restrained. ‘I am not a virgin and I have been his lover’ was the frankest and most likely to send Aunt into strong hysterics. It had best be poppycock.
‘Lord Leybourne, my lady,’ the butler announced before she could say anything.
‘Good afternoon, Godmama. George. Gabrielle, my love. I thought you might be here.’
My love. She smiled up as him as he bent over and dropped a kiss on her cheek. She only had to move her head a trifle and his lips would meet hers. Gabrielle stayed quite still and breathed in the heady scent of lemon verbena, starched linen and warm Gray.
‘Love you,’ he murmured.
‘No,’ she whispered back. ‘Stop play-acting.’ He had moved so that his back was to the others, giving them a moment of precarious privacy.
Don’t do this to me, not when I have to face people.
Gray straightened, his eyes still intent on hers with a message she could not read. Dared not read. Warning to maintain the pretence or a plea for belief?
‘No, you do not,’ she said again.
Please don’t love me. Please don’t make this any harder.
