Absolute Pleasure (33 page)

"Dead on target."

At Findley's response, John threw up his arms in defeat and fell into a chair. "How will such an agreement benefit Lady Elizabeth? She's the one who's been harmed, yet neither of you is contemplating her welfare."

"I'm thinking
only
of her," Findley contended. "I want her removed from his dastardly clutches. Today!"

He retrieved the satchel he'd brought, extracted some papers, and spread them on the table in front of Gabriel. It was a contract. Gabriel picked it up and carefully perused the terms, then he glanced up at Findley, flashing a wicked smile that made John panic.

"Is that all her reputation is worth to you?" Gabriel raised a brow. "Why ... it's a mere pittance."

"I won't give you a single farthing more."

Gabriel tossed the papers down. "Then I'm about to become your son-in-law." Suddenly pensive, he tapped a finger against his lips. "You realize, of course, that with hardly any effort, I could persuade her to marry me. Since she and I have no funds, you'd have to support us. We'd likely have to move into the Norwich town house." He chuckled spitefully. "My painting supplies are hideously expensive. Just ask John; he keeps my books. My steady upkeep would be a huge
drain
on your resources."

"You wouldn't dare!" Findley choked out.

"Wouldn't I?"

"A hundred more."

"I'd best be going." Gabriel stood. "I've an appointment with my tailor so I can be measured for my wedding clothes."

"Five hundred."

Gabriel strolled toward the door.

"A thousand!"

Calculating, Gabriel assessed him. 'Ten thousand more. I won't settle for a pound less."

"And you'll disappear?"

"Forever."

"No midnight trysts? No messages passed through her maid? No clandestine love letters to keep her pining away? No persisting contact of any sort?"

"None."

"Swear it."

"I swear." He held up his right hand, as though taking an oath.

"As if you'd honor your vow!" Findley sneered. "You must deem me a fool! You'll sign an amended agreement*'

"Naturally." Gabriel pointed to the document that lay condemningly on the table. "Add on ten thousand, and no one in your family will ever hear from me again."

"Absolutely not!" John exclaimed, leaping to his feet "That's an outrageous amount! I won't allow it!" But both men ignored him.

"As of this afternoon?" Findley asked of Gabriel.

"I'll pack my bags as soon as we're finished."

"Money well spent" Findley groused.

"Gabriel," John entreated, trying to inject sanity into the debate. "Don't do this. Not to yourself, and most assuredly not to Lady Elizabeth. You'll be eternally sorry."

"I doubt it."

"Listen to you!" John was shocked by his son's callousness. While Gabriel could act the charlatan, deep down he had a benevolent heart. He understood the difference between right and wrong. What had come over him?

He tried another tactic. "There are worse things than marrying someone who cares about you."

"I can't conceive of any."

"Don't accept his blood money."

"Why shouldn't I? It's a fortune. More than I could earn painting in several lifetimes. I'd be an idiot to pass it up."

"Good boy," Findley patronizingly intoned.

"Do be silent, Findley." John was frantic to dissuade Gabriel, and he struggled for a rationalization that would pierce through his hardened demeanor. "What if Lady Elizabeth finds out what you've done? She'll be terribly hurt."

"She won't ever learn of it, will she, Norwich?"

"Over my dead body."

"But what if she does?" John pressed. "Her last memories of you will be of this betrayal! I thought you liked her. At least a little."

"It was just the sex, Father. You're aware that I consort with them solely for the riches that can accrue, and she doesn't have any fiscal assets, so I took the only other item she had to contribute that was of value. But now that I'm to be remunerated for my troubles—"

"Your troubles…?”
 
John gasped, appalled.

"—there's no reason to persevere."

"I don't know who you are anymore." John was sick, depressed over the entire, repulsive episode. How would he ever explain this to Mary?

"There you have it, Preston." Findley preened, quashing John's efforts to alter their course. "The deal is executed to our mutual satisfaction."

Findley scanned the room, locating an inkwell and pen on a writing desk in the corner, and he sped over to them. Hastily, he modified the original draft, endorsed it at the bottom, then held out the pen to Gabriel so that he could validate it, too.

Gabriel inspected the accuracy of the revisions, then inscribed his signature with a flourish. Findley regained the pen, affixed a blank line, then extended the pen to John. "Sign as a witness."

"I won't," John reproved. "You two are mad."

"Even if you won't ratify our transaction, I retain my right to call you as a witness. Your son swore to the terms, I’ll never let either of you deny it."

"As if I would take part in this... this infamy."

"We'll see." He pulled an empty sheet out of his satchel, and commanded of Gabriel, “Compose a note to her."

"Specifying what?'

"Good-bye. What do you suppose?"

John watched in astonishment as Gabriel did precisely as he'd been bid. He went to the writing desk where, for just a second, he tarried, organizing his justifications in his head before committing them to parchment With a few scrawls, he'd sealed his fate. And Elizabeth's.

He sanded the message, then began to fold it, when Findley stomped over.

"I don't trust you. Let me read it"

"Will this suffice?” Gabriel proffered it as Findley dissected his
adieu.

“Succinct Concise. This will do nicely." He slid it into the satchel.

John's incredulity ratcheted up another notch. "You won't show her that insensitive piece of rubbish?"

"Only if I'm forced to."

"Aren't you concerned about Elizabeth's feelings?"

"I
am
thinking of Elizabeth," Findley maintained. "Of her and her alone."

"What if there's a babe?' he prodded.

"There isn't," Gabriel guaranteed, but with much less confidence than John would have liked, and his heart constricted. The possibility that Gabriel could sire a child, but that they would never see it grow, was unimaginable.

He turned to Findley, beseeching. "If there is a child, promise me that you'll bring it here, so Mary and I can raise it. I realize that you don't care for me, but you once felt some affection for her. Please say you'll do it as a favor to Mary."

Findley flinched, as if the appeal had stabbed at his very core, but he swiftly recovered. "If the worst happens, and there is a babe, I would drop it on the church's doorstep before I'd deliver it to you."

John was stunned. A babe would be his and Findley's lone grandchild! Could he so easily discard it? "You can't mean that!"

“Oh, but I do," he said, sweeping away John's complaints with a flutter of his hand. "I'm rapidly losing my stomach for the details. Let's get this finished."

He then removed another item from his pouch. It was a bank draft—made out in advance to Gabriel. Findley had been so confident of Gabriel's base tendencies!

Findley filled in the appropriate amount, men displayed it to Gabriel who studied the numbers with much more enjoyment than the deplorable moment warranted.

Outcome achieved, Findley smugly stuffed his contemptible papers into his portfolio, then readied to leave. 'This afternoon, Cristofore?"

"As soon as I have the cash."

"Go to my banker immediately. He has orders to accommodate you."

"Marvelous. I'm looking forward to it."

"I'll show myself out. Don't bother getting up," he said to John. With that, he departed.

John scowled at his intractable, incomprehensible son, and a deafening silence ensued as they listened to Findley securing his belongings. As he exited, he was whistling with delight over how successfully the event had transpired.

With the click of the door, John's temper boiled over. "Are you proud of yourself?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, I can go you one better: I'm thoroughly ashamed of you."

"I did what I thought was best"

"Really?" John snorted derisively. "I'll be sure to tell that to Lady Elizabeth next time I run into her."

Feeling much older than his years, he retired before Gabriel could respond with any lame excuses. Despondent and despairing, he climbed the stairs, intensely glad that Mary would be waiting for him.

Elizabeth rushed down the stairs, the skirts of her pink dress rippling behind, her hat dangling by its ribbons from her fingers. Gabriel's locket swayed from a chain around her neck, a simple, pretty complement to her gay attire. Absently, she rubbed across it, liking how its presence made her feel closer to him.

Three days! Three long, miserable, unending days since she'd visited! Their prior tryst on Friday seemed to have ensued eons ago, and now, with their Monday appointment rapidly approaching, she could barely stand the suspense.

The waiting was over! Shortly, she'd be in Gabriel's studio, in his arms, in his bed, and she quivered with delight.

Why did the bounder mean so much to her? He'd become the sun and the moon, the stars in the heavens, air and water and life itself. What a foolish, foolish woman she was to have succumbed to his charm and manipulations. With every fiber in her being, she conceded her folly, yet she couldn't desist.

Having to endure a single hour—a single minute!— without him was torment. He had given her purpose and direction, had compelled her to evaluate her present and her future. She'd been so doleful and disconsolate, then he'd burst into her staid world, like a blazing comet shooting across the sky, and nothing had been the same since.

The trivial worries about Charlotte, the irrelevant fretting over her loss of status, her boredom and listless-ness, none of it mattered. There was only one certitude that carried any weight: She loved Gabriel! With her whole soul! Peripheral factors were naught but petty distraction. What did they signify in the face of the grand passion she harbored for the audacious scoundrel?

On light feet, she fairly skipped along, thinking about how glorious their preceding rendezvous had been. They'd made love over and over. Rough and crude, slow and gentle, and every fashion in between, he'd shown her how much he desired her, but he had displayed an abundant quantity of devotion for her, as well. With soft professions and tender ministrations, he'd amply proved that his heart was fully engaged—though he continued to pretend no permanent affection.

After their fond farewell, she would never again believe his assertions that they had no destiny. She'd stood at his door, not wanting to ever leave. Born of them had been rumpled and sated, and he'd kissed her lingeringly in good-bye, incapable of stopping until the clock had chimed, signaling the conclusion of their assignation. She'd fled, like Cinderella at the ball, but not before he'd held her tight, whispering in Italian, then he'd touched her hair, her face, as though committing them to memory because it would be his final opportunity.

"Not if I have anything to say about it!" she vowed to herself.

He might claim that their liaison was about to end, but she wouldn't give up on them so easily. There had to be a way by which she could persuade him that they belonged together.

She couldn't remember precisely when the obvious solution had emerged, but it had formulated, and she couldn't set it aside because it seemed so absolutely right: she wanted Gabriel as her husband, and she would settle for nothing less.

On several occasions, they'd skirted the topic. Once, Gabriel had even intentionally attempted to scare her off. Frostily, he'd asked her if she was prepared to weather the storm that would arise if they wed.

Ashamed as she was to admit it, his ploy had worked. He had temporarily frightened her into lamenting over all she'd be surrendering if they proceeded, so she'd slinked away, too timid to broach the prospect again.

But since then, she'd critically pondered the morrow, had ruminated over the pitfalls and perils if she persisted with him, and it had dawned on her that, through matrimony, she'd be relinquishing naught that was important to her.

What did she cafe if others scorned her for her selection of a spouse? Why concern herself with others' opinions? If she forged ahead, what would she truly be renouncing? A few friends who'd never been close. A father who'd never been interested in her happiness. A dreadful domestic situation that consistently deteriorated and wasn't about to improve.

When the alternative was a life and family with Gabriel, the choice was so elemental, so perfect.

Yes, he'd done things in the past of which she wasn't proud. He'd had a difficult childhood. As an adult, he'd earned his income through dubious enterprise. Some might refer to him as a swindler, a cheat or a charlatan, and she was definitely cognizant of his tendencies as a libertine, but she couldn't move beyond the impression that he'd be willing to change—just for her.

They'd had many intimate discussions, and she was convinced that he was lonely, weary of his precarious existence, and eager to start over. Notwithstanding his history or his former inclinations, he was sincere, kind, and reliable, and she was confident that she could make no better decision as to whom she would marry.

Now, if she could just get the obstinate oaf to agree!

As she reached the foyer, she grinned, imagining the devious, naughty ways she could wear him down. She knew exactly how to achieve her goal, too. The man couldn't resist sexual play and, as she'd detected early on, when he was physically aroused, he was putty in her hands. This was love; this was war, and she intended to win every battle.

If it took every ounce of her carnal proficiency, utilization of every lewd technique he'd taught her, he would ultimately acquiesce. She was determined to succeed, and she laughed merrily, incapable of preventing a bit of her exultation from bubbling over.

Gabriel Cristofore had never witnessed this side of her! She'd have the knave standing at the altar before he grasped what she was about!

A maid appeared with her wrap, and as she threw it over her shoulders, she glanced outside, assuring herself that the carriage was ready. She turned to go when, to her consternation, Charlotte strutted down the hall, and she groaned inwardly. She didn't have the patience to suffer through another bizarre conversation with the wretched girl!

Elizabeth couldn't figure out what had befallen Charlotte. She'd always been difficult, but now, she was acting downright strange, constantly lurking and making odd innuendos.

She seemed to be jealous or resentful of Elizabeth's newfound distractions, suspicious and watchful as to Elizabeth's conduct, though Elizabeth couldn't fathom why. Charlotte was so self-centered that she scarcely heeded those events or people who didn't directly affect her. Previously, Elizabeth’s exploits had hardly registered.

"Going out?" she snidely inquired.

"Yes," Elizabeth said, offering no details.

She assessed Elizabeth's dress. "Off to visit your...
artist?”

"Do you have some problem with my having my portrait painted?"

"Me?" She looked so ingenuous, so deadly. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"You're terribly bothered by my activities." Elizabeth drew on her gloves, conferring a fierce tug for emphasis. "If there's something on your mind, spill it and be done with it."

"I have nothing to say to you, although"—she had a peculiar gleam in her eye and a feral smile on her lips— "the earl has arrived, and he might have a
word
or two he'd like to impart."

Marvelous! Just what she needed! An interview with the earl! She hadn't seen her father in days. He'd been notably absent, not even making it home for supper as he regularly did, and now that he'd deigned to surface, she couldn't be pestered with whatever trivial quandary ailed him.

Let Charlotte handle it! That's why he'd married her!

"Well, he'll have to catch up with me. I'm off."

Unfortunately, her father took that moment to approach from the rear of the house, and she bristled with frustration; she'd never escape!

"Elizabeth, I must speak with you."

"I can't, Father. I have an engagement." Hoping to avoid a conflict, she walked to the door, boldly behaving as though he'd granted his permission for her to depart.

With a pained grimace, he studied her outfit. "Are you bound for a portraiture sitting?"

"Yes." He generally paid no heed to her plans, so she was amazed that he recollected.

"You won't be able to attend."

Charlotte chuckled meanly, and Elizabeth ignored her. "But I'm expected."

"You'll have to cancel. I'm afraid this can't wait."

"Told you," Charlotte childishly chimed in.

As if he'd just noticed his wife, the earl scowled, and Elizabeth billowed with annoyance. Why, oh why, had the
foolhardy man married her when—seven months later— she was all but invisible to him?

"Go to your room, Charlotte," the earl ordered.

"But I—"

"Go!" he said so forcefully that she spun away without argument and began to climb the stairs.

Before she disappeared, she smugly peered at Elizabeth over the railing. "Enjoy your
chat."

The earl dawdled until her footsteps faded men, without comment, he left, too, and Elizabeth trudged after him, when it occurred to her that he had aged recently. He looked haggard and less forceful, having lost some of his imposing disposition, and she was overcome by the sudden conviction that he might be ill. The concept distressed her, for he'd invariably been such a powerful, compelling figure that she pictured him as being invincible.

They plodded on to his library, and he entered and went to his desk. "'Please close the door."

She complied, men walked across the room and pulled up a chair. He toyed with some papers, abstractedly shuffling through them, unable to commence. She decided to ease him into what was apparently a laborious revelation. "Are you unwell, Father?"

"I'm fine." He frowned, uncharacteristically unsure of himself. "Actually, I'm not fine. I need to discuss a particular issue with you that's extremely delicate, though vital, and I'm not certain how to begin."

"You can tell me anything; you know that."

He scrutinized her in a manner that was unsettling and puzzling. "We've always been honest with one another, haven't we?"

"Yes." Anxiety escalated her pulse. Was he dying? "What is it?"

"I received a note over the weekend. It was mistakenly directed to me, and I opened it without realizing it was for you."

"A note?" Frantically, her mind whirled. Who would have written? And what subject could have reduced him to such a state?

"Yes. I'm sorry I read it. I didn't mean to.”

He retrieved the mysterious letter from a drawer, and he passed it to her, but she simply stared at it She was frightened to touch it, which was silly, but she was discomfited by the overwhelming impression that by perusing it, her life would be forever altered.

Shaking off the absurd perception, she lifted it, and instantly, her bream hitched in her chest Gabriel's ornate handwriting leapt off the page, and with a speed that bordered on madness, she scanned the concise content.

"This can't be..." She trailed off, the room dwindled to black, and she was no longer conscious of her father or her surroundings.

Gabriel never wanted to see her again! He had another paramour! He claimed that he'd met a widow with extensive funds, so he couldn't pass up the chance to become better acquainted. Brutally, he explained that she daren't drop in on him, because mere was no telling what she might stumble upon, and he didn't wish her to be hurt.

Could he be so cruel? So ruthless? Had she meant so little to him?

While she'd been viewing them as star-crossed lovers who needed time to reconcile their differences, he'd been out scouring the theater lobbies, questing after more booty to plunder from some other unsuspecting female!

How could she have been so wrong about him?

As the insulting question rang out, she wrenched herself back to reality. Gabriel loved her! He did! No ridiculous letter would ever cause her to mistrust him. The inexplicable correspondence made no sense. The entire incident-—the letter, his hasty
adieu
—had developed suspiciously, had left her dazed, prompting her to impugn his veracity and integrity.

Well, she wouldn't credit his disavowal! Yet at the same juncture, a disturbing voice kept goading her: What did she really know about Gabriel? Could he have forsaken her so clumsily? If his farewell was genuine, where did that leave her?

"I did some checking, Elizabeth"-—her father poked through her despair, yanking her back to the discourse he was bent on pursuing—"and I learned all about Mr. Cristofore and his licentious propensities, so I must ask you—"

"What?" She blinked as though she'd just stepped from a pitch-dark room into the bright sunlight.

"Have you been having a sexual affair with him?" When she refused to grace him with a response, he gently prodded, "I would hear it from your own lips, daughter."

Insolently, she stared him down. She couldn't discuss her remarkable romance. Not because she was abashed or embarrassed, but because the meetings at Gabriel's cottage were among her few precious memories, and she wasn't about to share them with anyone.

Seizing the offensive, she shot back, "How did you find out?"

"So you admit it, then?"

'Tell me how you discovered it!"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to me." They glared at one another, and it dawned on her that she already knew how it had come about. "Charlotte, was it? Did you urge her to sneak about after me, or did she take the initiative on her own?"