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“It’s not a matter of what you or I want.” The duke’s eyes flash. “This is duty. Without an heir, our title and lands will be dissolved. Our line will die.”
“So let it die. It’s just a piece of paper with a nice parking space on Downing Street. Let them bulldoze this monstrous effigy to empire and build an eco-housing estate in its place, for all I care.”
“This is not up for discussion.” He snaps his fingers, and a figure glides into the room. I refused to break my father’s gaze to look at her, but I’m aware of Claudia stiffening beside me, her nails digging into my palm. “You will marry this summer, or so help me, son, I will make you wish you’d never been born.”
Too late, old man. “Did you forget that you publicly disowned me? The Sun quoted you as saying you’d rather have a pig for a son than me. So why not let the pig at this sow you’ve sourced for me? You had plenty to say about Dylan’s death, too, even though it turns out it’s not even my fault. Oooh, I bet that’s what this is really about. The police have been sniffing around about Dylan so you thought you’d drag me back here with marriage threats to silence me—”
“Gabriel,” Claudia snaps. “Look at your bride.”
Shit. I’d better look.
I don’t want to give my father the satisfaction of turning away from him, but the urgency in Claudia’s voice has me reeling. I spin on my heel and face the woman who stands with cat-like readiness by the door, her sheath dress hugging every curve of her body. She unclasps her hands and holds them out to me, palms up, in what might pass for a welcoming gesture if she wasn’t a demoness here to do my father’s bidding.
But that’s not the most surprising thing about my new bride-to-be.
I recognize her.
It’s Cleo St. James.
Cleo glides across the room to me. Her fingers wrap around my forearms, and I’m too shocked to shake them loose. She digs red-tipped talons into my skin, her feline eyes eating me up like I’m a delicious salmon dinner. “Hello, my beautiful betrothed. I’m going to make you so very happy.”
Claudia
I burst out laughing. This has got to be someone’s idea of a prank. Cleo St. James here in England, dolled up like a duchess and angling for Gabriel to put a ring on it?
Gabriel’s body stiffens. He moves his lips, but no words come out. His eyes meet mine, wide and darting with panic. Five seconds ago he’d been standing up to his father in a way he never had before, and now…
This isn’t a joke.
I debate drawing my knife from my sleeve and skewering Cleo. As much as I enjoy the vision, I think it’ll cause more problems than it solves. All Daddy’s lessons never prepared me for this.
Except… maybe he did.
I narrow my eyes at Duke Blackwich, trying to get a read on him. He must’ve been handsome once, like Gabriel with his wavy dark hair and sharp cheekbones. He might be handsome still, to certain women – he has a dignity of bearing, a commanding presence that makes everyone in the room defer to him. His skin sags around his eyes, and his hair – still dark, probably dyed – falls luxuriously over one eye, but there’s none of Gabriel’s pagan warmth in his eyes, only cold cruelty.
He disowned Gabriel publicly, which means he’s demanding this marriage out of some kind of desperation. And desperate people have weaknesses that can be exploited. So what’s his weakness?
Gabriel’s been disowned, which means he’s not expecting to inherit. He has no siblings, so the duke’s line will die with him. And I bet for a man like the duke, this is unacceptable. But Gabriel’s also only eighteen, and the duchess is young enough to be able to have more children. There’s time for them to sort out a solution. There’s no reason for this desperate need to reconnect with their son… unless there’s a ticking clock on this we don’t know about.
Why now? And why Cleo?
That question is plaguing Gabriel too, because he manages to choke out the words. “Why her? She’s not exactly being written up in Debrett’s.”
“Ms. St. James brings other assets to this marriage. Her blood is pure enough for our heir.”
Other assets? At first, I think he’s talking about Cleo’s ample cleavage, which proudly launches itself into the discussion thanks to the corsetry in her dress. I’m about to call him a filthy pervert when I reconsider. The duke and Cleo exchange a look – not one of lust, but of cold, calculating understanding. They have plans for Gabe they’re not revealing now.
I remember something Noah said to me at the after-party. Cleo’s a seventeen-year-old living her life on the internet and she has no idea which version of herself is the real one.
I think the real Cleo stands in this room, once again trying to snare Gabriel in her trap.
That’s why Duke Blackwich wants her – he needs someone to control Gabe. He knows my fallen angel won’t play nice and live in his castle and go to high teas and bow and scrape and shove a gold-plated stick up his ass (sorry, arse). He’s seen Cleo attack Gabe in the media after homecoming. She failed, but only just. If this marriage goes ahead, Cleo gets what she wants – the hot trainwreck boyfriend with the title who’ll make her infamous – and the duke has someone who will do whatever it takes to tighten his chain around Gabriel’s pretty neck.
This is not happening.
Noah and Eli appear beside us, creating a wall around Gabriel. “You don’t have to listen to this, Gabe.” Noah’s dark eyes scald the duke. I can see he walks the edge of losing control, and I don’t blame him one bit – I’m already there. “We should leave now.”
“Don’t leave, Gabriel,” Cleo coos. “We’ve got so much to talk about. I’ve started planning the wedding, and I’ve made an appointment to have you fitted for a tux and an STI check since you’ve been fucking that whore—”
