A Winter Scandal (8 page)

Gabriel pulled away from her finally, raising his head and staring down into her face with something like shock in his eyes—mirroring, she suspected, the astonishment in her own face. His hands fell away, and he took a step back, turning aside. Thea’s mind was a jumble of thoughts, chaotic and vivid—no, not even thoughts; they were too illusory and tumbling to be called that, only sensations and emotions. She yanked up her hood, hiding her face in the shadows of it. Picking up the candle, she mumbled, “I must—the baby …”

Throwing open the door, she rushed out into the evening, not looking back to see if he followed her. The candle blew out as she hurried along, but Thea needed little light to walk the familiar path. She did not spare a thought for whether Gabriel could find his way without it—the man was the devil himself and sure to see perfectly in the dark.

She flung open the door to the kitchen and swept inside, stopping short as she took in the familiar sight of Mrs. Brewster drying a pot.

“Ah, there you are,” Mrs. Brewster greeted her cheerfully. “Did you find what you were looking for? Where did you go, now, the church?”

“Yes, um, that’s it, exactly.” Thea turned jerkily away and hung up her cloak. She took her time, wondering guiltily if her lips looked as if they had been kissed. They felt swollen and tender, and it seemed to her that surely they must be reddened and bruised as well. What if Mrs. Brewster guessed what she had been doing? The housekeeper’s eyes had always been sharp as a hawk’s. Thea pressed her chilled fingers against her lips; she could feel the trembling in them, the same trembling that vibrated all through her body.

The door opened behind her and Lord Morecombe stepped in. Thea could not even glance at him; she was sure her face would give her away.

“No, we didn’t find anything,” she said to the housekeeper. “I must, I must look a mess—there was such a wind.”

Thea slipped out of the room, not looking back at either of the other occupants. She heard Gabriel greet Mrs. Brewster, his voice smooth, with none of the nerves or strain that afflicted her. Of course,
he
would not feel anything. Stealing kisses in the church vestibule was doubtless commonplace to him—well, perhaps not commonplace in the church vestibule, but the kisses, yes, the kisses themselves were something he was most familiar with. No one could kiss like that without a great deal of practice. She felt sure Gabriel did not experience this weakness of the knees or the heat that burst low in her abdomen or that odd ache flowering between her legs.

Thea ground her teeth; she had to stop thinking about this. She faced the mirror in the front hall. She hardly recognized herself. Bright color stained her cheeks, and her lips were a deep red and fuller, softer, than usual. Her eyes seemed huge and dark, vivid. And her hair—oh, sweet heavens, her hair was almost entirely down, tumbling around her shoulders and curling wildly. She looked like a mad thing. Hastily, she skinned it back, combing through the tangles as best she could with her fingers, and began to braid it into one fat braid.

“Ah, Thea, there you are.” Her brother came toward her down the hall, a book in his hand. “I missed you at supper. Mrs. Brewster couldn’t remember where you had gone. To see Mrs. Howard, I imagine, eh?”

Thea nodded dumbly. Was it a lie if she did not deny the untruth he assumed? Her life, it seemed, had suddenly become a veritable cornucopia of sins—lies and lust and who knew what else springing up like weeds in a garden.

“I—” Her voice cracked, and she had to clear her throat. “I hope you were not bored by yourself.”

“Oh, no, you know me.” He smiled and waggled the book at her. “As long as I have a book, I am never bored.”

“Of course not.”

“I am going on up to my room. Read a bit before I go to bed.” He glanced vaguely in the direction of the grandfather clock. “Early yet, I suppose, but on winter nights, it seems I get sleepy early.”

“Of course. Good night, Daniel.” Thank goodness he was retiring. The last thing she wanted was for him to go into the kitchen and see Morecombe. Even Daniel would want an explanation for the man’s presence in the house, and she simply did not feel up to that at the moment.

As he climbed the stairs, she turned back to the mirror, winding her braid into a quick knot at the base of her neck and pinning it with the few hairpins she had managed to retrieve from the tumbled mess of her hair. It was still a wreck, of course, with a number of stray hairs around her face still slipping free and curling. But at least it was a more organized wreck.

The same could not be said for her dress, which was still in the ragged state the baby had left it. She tugged and tucked at the fichu, working it back into its proper place so that it modestly covered most of her chest above the neckline of the dress. Satisfied that she looked vaguely presentable and that her lips and cheeks had lost at least some of their deep color, she returned to the kitchen.

There she found Lord Morecombe, his coat off, seated at the end of the old, scarred kitchen table, a bowl of stew in front of him and a slab of bread, spread with pale, creamy butter, in his hand. A second bowl rested on the table in the place at his right, a slice of bread beside it.

“Well, I see you are staying to eat,” Thea said crisply. She was pleased that she was able to speak without her voice trembling, though she could still not quite meet his eyes.

“Yes, Mrs. Brewster took pity on me. She doubtless saw how I was eyeing that bowl she’d left out for you.”

Mrs. Brewster smiled benignly at Lord Morecombe, and Thea thought sourly that it should come as no surprise he had worked his wiles on her housekeeper. The man was obviously a menace to womankind. Just to prove that she herself was unaffected by him, Thea sat down next to him and began to butter her slice of bread.

“Mrs. Brewster, you are a superb cook. If I was not certain that Miss Bainbridge would stab me through the heart for it, I would steal you away to cook for us at the Priory,” Morecombe went on, earning an almost girlish giggle from the middle-aged housekeeper.

Thea rolled her eyes and stabbed a piece of potato with her spoon, cutting it in two. “I should warn you that Mrs. Brewster is immune to flattery.”

“Ah, but ’tisn’t flattery when it’s true, now, is it?” Gabriel countered, his eyes dancing.

Thea could not keep her lips from twitching into a half smile. “You are far too skilled at cutting a wheedle, you know. It implies regrettable things about your character.”

“Only implies?”

Thea took a bite of the stew to cover her chuckle. It seemed most unfair that the man should be not only as handsome as he was but also possessed of charm; it made it terribly hard to dislike him.

“Well, miss, I’ll just be on my way.” Mrs. Brewster set the big black pot back on the stove, ready for the next day, and reached behind her to untie her apron. “The mister’ll be wondering where I am. I made a bit of beef broth for the babe. Just mash up some of the potatoes in that.”

“I will. Say hello to Mr. Brewster,” Thea told her.

“Aye, I will.” The housekeeper put on her jacket and knitted cap, then wrapped her bright scarlet scarf around her neck.

“Good night, Mrs. Brewster. And thank you for the stew.” Gabriel stood and nodded to her politely.

Mrs. Brewster was actually blushing, Thea thought in astonishment, as the housekeeper sketched a little curtsy back at him before hurrying out into the night.

“Must you instantly win over
every
female you meet?” Thea asked sourly as he sat back down.

He gave her a droll look. “Obviously I have not succeeded with you.” He pulled a chunk from his slice of bread and leaned back, taking a thoughtful bite. “I wouldn’t say that I must win over anyone, really, but I find life is pleasanter that way. What is your preferred manner of getting through life—charging in and taking the bull by the horns?”

“I don’t believe in ignoring wrongs, no.” Thea lifted her chin.

“And those wrongs include bachelors living too … freely?”

“If living ‘freely’ means fathering children indiscriminately and leaving them about the countryside like old shoes, then yes.”

He smiled. “I have tried never to leave even my old shoes about the countryside, let alone babies.”

“You may laugh at me all you want, but that doesn’t mean I am not right.”

“Never.” He reached out and ran a lightly caressing hand down her arm. “Never would I laugh at you, my dear Miss Bainbridge. But I confess that I find you … interesting.”

Well, that was certainly damning with faint praise, she thought, and her cheeks warmed as she kept her gaze on her bowl. She ate mechanically, very aware that he continued to watch her, and her stomach tightened with nerves. She hated that he could make her uneasy simply by staring at her. She hated even more that she could not help but wonder what he thought when he looked at her.

Thea made herself raise her eyes. She was not one to hide from reality. Gabriel was studying her, absently twirling the crust left over from his bread. Thea shifted under his gaze and cleared her throat. She had to fight an urge to make sure her hair was all in place.

“Have I sprung a third eye, Lord Morecombe?”

“No, not that I see, Miss Bainbridge,” he responded evenly. “Is there a danger of that?”

“I meant that you are staring.”

“Am I?” A faint smile touched his lips, mysterious and warm. “Do you expect me to apologize?”

“I do not expect anything from you.” Thea kept her voice tart and refrained from shifting again in her seat. His smile did peculiar things to her insides, things that were both delightful and vaguely terrifying. He made her feel not quite herself, and Thea was not sure whether she liked that. She had the suspicion that she should not. “However, I fail to see what can be of such interest about my face, which you have been staring at since I sat down.”

“’Tis your hair, actually, that I am watching.” The smile turned into a grin, quick and flashing, lighting his eyes. “I am wondering exactly how long it will be before your braid tumbles free.”

“My braid?” Instinctively, Thea’s hand went to her head, feeling for the coil of hair secured by only a few hairpins. It was, indeed, loose, the weight of it dragging the coil down the nape of her neck, and when she touched it, the braid slipped completely free, draping down over her shoulder.

Thea grimaced and started to re-pin it, but Gabriel reached out to stay her hand, saying, “No, leave it.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Thea’s voice came out more shakily than she intended. “’Twill come undone. It’s inappropriate.”

“No more inappropriate than sitting alone in the kitchen with a man.”

“Then no doubt you had better leave.”

He shrugged. “I have little affinity for propriety.” He paused, then added quietly, “I like the way your hair looks down.”

He raised his hand and tugged the end of her braid. She had not tied it, only slipped the end into the center of the coil, and at the little pull, the braid began to unravel, the curls slipping free.

“I’ll look like a savage,” Thea muttered, but she did not move to braid it back up.

“I
do
have an affinity for savages.” The faint smile came again, touching his eyes more than his lips. “Your curls are beautiful.”

Thea was painfully aware of how close Gabriel was, his hand resting on the table only inches from hers. She thought of the way he had kissed her earlier. Surely he would not do so again. Would he? Her breath hitched in her throat. She knew she ought to say something, do something. She should pull back from him. Yet she could not make herself move.

A little hiccuping cry broke the silence.

“The baby!” Thea jumped up and hurried over to the makeshift bed in the basket, not sure whether relief or disappointment was uppermost in her feelings.

She bent over the basket. Matthew’s feet and hands were moving restlessly, and he rubbed his head against the pillow beneath him, his mouth twisting up and his face turning red. Quickly she bent and picked him up, and his face cleared a little. But then he jammed his fist in his mouth and closed his eyes, his face screwing up once more, and he began to cry. Thea bounced him a little and patted him on his back, but he opened his mouth and let out a wail.

“Good God!” Morecombe shot to his feet. “What’s the matter with him? Is he all right?”

“I think he’s hungry. Here, hold him, and I’ll get his food.”

“Me?” Gabriel’s dark brows vaulted upward. “But I don’t know what to do with him.”

“It isn’t as if I am an expert.”

“You are a woman.”

“An unmarried, childless woman,” Thea retorted. “Of course, I could hold him if you would prefer to prepare his broth.”

Morecombe looked askance at the fireplace. “The devil. Here, give him to me.”

He extended his hands and Thea thrust the baby into them. Gabriel took the child, holding him out and looking at him warily.

“He won’t bite you.” Thea didn’t bother to hide the amusement in her voice.

“Are you entirely certain?” He sighed and settled the baby into the crook of his arm, holding Matthew up against him.

To their amazement, Matthew’s cries ceased immediately and he stared up at Gabriel, his eyes wide. It was, Thea thought, entirely vexing; apparently the man’s charm worked on infants as well. She went to the fire and picked up the small iron pot that sat near the embers. She dipped a ladle of the thin broth into a small bowl. As she turned back to the table, the baby left off his fascinated study of Gabriel’s face and began to cry again, his little sobs building. Thea could not deny that she was small enough to feel some satisfaction at the event.

“Hurry.” Gabriel cut his eyes toward Thea as he began to jiggle and pat the baby. “I think he’s working up to something worse.”

Thea forked a couple of pieces of potato from her bowl into Matthew’s broth and quickly began to mash it up. She stirred it and tested a spoonful with her finger.

“I’m not sure it’s cool enough.”

“Put some blasted milk in it, then.”

She tried that, testing it again, then nodded. No sooner had she done so than Gabriel handed her a squirming, red-faced Matthew. Thea set him on her lap, as she had seen Mrs. Brewster do, but the baby kept squirming and arching his back, his cries increasing, making it difficult to keep him in place. Thea wrapped her arm more tightly around him and dipped up a spoonful of the potato mixture with the other hand. As she held it toward his mouth, the baby’s waving arms crashed into the spoon and sent its contents flying upward and outward, splatting against Gabriel’s spotless white neckcloth.