Absolute Pleasure (35 page)

She was wearing the pink dress, and his mother's locket hung between her pretty breasts. The skirts floated and swirled around her legs, her hair was down. Evidently, she'd been attired for their appointment, just when Norwich would have told her she couldn't attend.

She'd been crying, her nose was red, and tears splotched her cheeks. His heart lurched at the sight, but he hardened his stance.

He would get through this!

"Elizabeth!" her father shouted from down the block, but she paid him no heed. Her sharp gaze was on Gabriel, on the tote sitting at his feet, on the open boot and the other bags within.

"You're really leaving," she said.

"S
ì
."

"I didn't believe him." She swallowed. "How could you go like this?"

"Is there some reason I should have tarried?" The question was harsh, and brutally posed, but he didn't know how else to comport himself.

The eatf reined in his horse and alighted, just as Mary noted the brewing tempest and chose to intervene. She and the earl both approached Elizabeth, and Norwich clasped her arm.

"Come with me, Elizabeth," her father said rigidly but compassionately.

Shaking off his grasp, she stubbornly refused to budge. Staring Gabriel down, she demanded, "Tell me one thing.”

"If I'm able." Gabriel pressed his hands behind his back, clamping his fingers together so that he could not reach out to her or push Norwich away.

"Did you ever feel anything for me besides lust?"

His ire peaked. How could she dispute his affection? Especially in front of her father! He couldn't abide the prig!

"You're a fine woman."

"That's the best you can do?"

Resentment swamped him. "What do you want from me?"

"The truth."

Ah... the truth. An interesting, fluid concept. "What
truth
would that be?"

"My father admits that he propositioned you... That he insisted you break off with me."

"We discussed it."

"He maintains that he offered to pay you."

"Yes, he did."

"But he swears that
you
negotiated the price. That you were eager."

Clearly, she'd embraced whatever story the earl had woven, and he wasn't about to dissuade her. "I was."

"He contends that your affair with me was nothing but a swindle to the very end. That you never cared a whit for me."

He raised a brow, but provided no rejoinder. She had so little faith in him! In his level of fondness or devotion! Her lack of confidence galled.

Mary interceded, sidling nearer, and indicating, "People on the street are watching. Let's go inside, shall we?"

Elizabeth didn't so much as glance in her direction. "Father wasn't lying, was he?"

"No."

"It was all feigned on your part. Every bit of it." Derisively, she shook her head, her chagrin profound. "What a fool you must think me to be."

No, no,
he yearned to shout. But he said nothing. He did nothing.

"And your
widow
... Were you searching for her while you were seducing me?" When he didn't reply, she added, "Of course you were. How stupid of me to inquire."

Her scorn jabbed like a knife, at his vulnerabilities, at his pride, and he couldn't stop himself from saying, "A fellow has to earn a living."

"Bastard!" she cursed, wounding him with the epithet and the vehemence with which it was uttered.

"Elizabeth!" Mary and the earl both hissed, as shocked as Gabriel by her fervor.

Though he recognized that her temper was simmering as fiercely as his own, and she meant it in the general— not literal—sense, it was not a designation he casually indulged. If she'd been a man, he'd have beaten her to a pulp, then and there, or perhaps called her out As it was, he couldn't see how he would ever forgive her for expressing the sentiment

"Some of us were born to base tendencies," he said impassively, declining to let her perceive how terribly the slur had cut "We can't help ourselves."

"Out of all the women in the world, why did you pick me?"

Petty as it was, he wanted to hurt her as much as she'd just hurt him. To belittle and offend and desolate. He shrugged and said, "Because you were lonely. And you were easy."

Mary gasped at the ugly remark. Elizabeth's reaction was a tad more vicious. She slapped him as hard as she could, her palm ringing with the ferocious contact. His head whipped to the side, but other than that involuntary bodily recoil, he didn't move, permitting her the opportunity to vent her indignity.

Snatching at the delicate chain that held his mother's locket, she yanked it from her neck and threw it at him. He didn't grab for it, and it bounced off his chest and slithered to the sidewalk.

Then, she whirled around and stormed to her coach. The footman who'd observed from a polite distance lifted her in, slammed the door, and the driver whisked her away.

An odd tableau, he lingered with Mary and the earl, a paralyzed trio that didn't stir until her carriage disappeared around the corner. Norwich jolted them to consciousness, turning to Gabriel.

"My apologies," he said, clearing his throat and adjusting his skewed cravat. "That was unpleasant."

Gabriel wasn't about to converse with the ass whom he held responsible for the entire sordid incident. "In the future, sir, I would suggest that you exercise some control over your daughter. See to it that I am not bothered again— by her or by you."

He spun away, but Norwich clenched at his arm, impeding retreat. Gabriel frowned at the spot where Norwich touched him, then impaled him with such a virulent look that the earl immediately dropped his hand.

"You’ll stick to our agreement, won't you?" Norwich asked. "You'll take the money and go. Despite this ... this unfortunate circumstance?"

"Findley!" Mary chided. "For pity's sake!"

"He can't back out now," Norwich complained. "I won't let him."

"Don't worry about our precious
agreement,"
Gabriel
assured him, sickened by the whole bloody affair. "I'm on my way to your banker even as we speak. Now"—he stepped away, needing to put ample space between himself and the despicable swine—"get the hell out of my yard."

Norwich harrumphed. Embarrassed and disconcerted, he awkwardly bowed to Mary, stomped to his horse, and rode off.

As he faded from view, Gabriel deflated as if the air had left his body. His limbs were liquid, his legs powerless to support his weight. The detestable spectacle had been inordinately trying. He was overwrought, weary, spent, his cheek smarting from Elizabeth's blow, his self-esteem and confidence shattered.

In his tenuous condition, he craved solitude while he recovered some of his aplomb and poise, but Mary dawdled, studying him, her shrewd regard absorbing every nuance of his distressed disposition. He abhorred that she could discern so much, that she could perceive how his heart was breaking.

There was no viable interpretation he could give for Elizabeth's hate-filled statements or his own. The lone explication was that he loved her, his ardor so intense that it pushed him beyond reason or sense.

Without a word, he stooped and picked up the damaged pendant, then hurled his bag into the carnage. Clutching at the strap, he was ready to hoist himself in, when she advanced from behind. Comfortingly, she rested her hand on the small of his back and stroked in soothing circles, and he flinched, lest he relax into her gentle caress.

"Come into the house."

"No, thank you."

"You can't leave when you're in such a state. I won't allow it."

"Did you forget?" He stared straight ahead, not wanting to look at her over his shoulder. "I have to visit Norwich's banker so I can retrieve my damned money."

"Blast the money! You don't care about it."

"No, I don't"

He sighed, fatigued, worn down and out by the abominable events. If only he could set the clock forward so that he could leap beyond this loathsome day, this vile experience! After an extensive period, his rancor and bitterness over the foul disaster would wane, but for now, he could only ruminate, chafe—and flee.

"Please don't go," she tried again. "Not like this."

"Let it be, Mary." Spurning her sympathy, he climbed inside, shutting the door in her face so that he was cloistered alone in the dark, and he quietly repeated, "Just let it be."

The carriage rocked and jingled, and he was finally away. He leaned against the squab and stared out at the busy street, seeing nothing as he passed.

Chapter Twenty-two

Elizabeth strolled along the winding path, blindly staring at the extensive gardens. The month of June was always beautiful at Norwich, the flowers in full bloom, the hedges and shrubbery meticulously trimmed, but in light of her persisting melancholia, she failed to notice.

She rounded the corner, and before she had opportunity to reflect, she was standing next to the gazebo, which vividly reminded her of why she never strolled in the yard at the rear of the manor. For lengthy periods, she could forget that it was situated as the focal point of the garden's design, then she'd go walking, as now, and stumble upon it On each occasion, its presence sneaked up on her, taking her unawares.

For once, she didn't scurry away. She faced it, studying it dispassionately, and her ability to do so was comforting, for it implied that her condition was improving.

Since that dreadful March afternoon in London, when she'd confronted Gabriel, she'd been in a state. Any retrospection had produced such despondency that she hadn't been able to review the event, but for the past week or two, she'd mended to where she could recall the episode without the exhaustive despair that typically accompanied any reminiscence.

As a result, she'd thoroughly analyzed the incident, and she was consistently surprised that every nuance was so distinct.

She'd said some absolutely horrid things to Gabriel,
comments she wished she could retract, so of course, he'd expressed some perfectly hideous remarks, too.

Time and distance made her grasp that he couldn't have meant any of them. He'd simply been as distressed and angry as she. She knew her father, and she was forced to admit that, before her precipitous arrival, Gabriel had likely received some fairly abominable treatment from Findley Harcourt, then she'd come charging in, demonstrating some abundantly offensive conduct of her own.

Try as she might to justify her actions, there was no defense she could make. She'd been so hurt by what he'd done—and hadn't done. Her sense of outrage and betrayal seemed to have driven her to temporary lunacy.

Why... she'd been so distraught that she'd actually struck him! Gabriel! Whom she'd loved beyond imagining! As she'd never previously lashed out physically at another, she'd had no idea that she harbored such passionate, violent tendencies.

Lamentably, she could recollect every aspect of that appalling instant when her hand had connected with his cheek, when his head had snapped to the side. She'd been so furious that if she'd been holding a pistol, she might have shot the knave right in the middle of his black heart

Even now, all these months later, she could feel the sensation as though she'd just delivered the blow. Her fingers would tingle and sting, and she had to resist the urge to massage her palm.

What a monstrous deed!

Sporadically, she wondered if he had any concept of how sorry she was, of the guilt and remorse that weighed her down. Though perhaps he never thought of her, that she'd been such an irritating, irksome detail in an otherwise full life that he could no longer conjure her name or bring her identity into clear focus.

The pavilion loomed menacingly, and she neared, refusing to take the path that skirted around the decorative building.

Braver recently, she boldly walked up to it and steadied a foot on the bottom step. An inanimate object, wood and paint, it had no power to cause permanent emotional injury, but it definitely had the ability to stir memories.

Of a pink party dress. A pretty straw hat with a curling ribbon. A winsome, happy woman who'd been smiling and laughing as an artist had portrayed her beside a rose trellis.

Sometimes, when she was being exceptionally morbid, she speculated as to what had ever happened to that painting. Had Gabriel finished it? Or rather, after her ignominious scene, had he stomped to the cottage and burned it— piece by tiny piece—in the stove?

If she was really bent on torturing herself, she'd postulate how, in the distant future, she might blunder across it hanging in a gallery. He'd be famous, the old portrait displayed as a sample of his early style.

What would be its title?
Woman in a Pink Dress. Woman in the Garden.
Or perchance
The Gazebo,
with no reference to herself as being in the picture.

More often, she ruminated about the dozens and dozens of sketches he'd completed, some innocuous, some suggestive, and some blatantly erotic.

Her sensual adventure had been tantalizing, and she'd relished being reckless enough to engage in such rash behavior, but now that her carnal escapade had been exposed and terminated, she couldn't help obsessing over those drawings.

What had Gabriel done with them? She didn't believe he'd ever show them to anybody or—heaven forbid!—sell them, but she'd rest easier if she knew where they were. They weren't the sort of thing one would want floating about.

Disdainfully, she thought of her father. Wouldn't he die of mortification if he was apprised of their existence!

She'd never discussed them with him, just as she'd never talked about Gabriel. Gabriel had been too dear, and her father too despicable. He didn't deserve explanations and she remained so vexed over his conduct that she was tempted to divulge the sketches just so she could witness how intense his affront would grow to be.

Humored and haunted by her fractious musings, she turned away and rambled to the verandah, when it struck her that she was bored with the country. Her elevated ennui was a valuable indication that she was vastly recovered, though recuperation wasn't necessarily a blessing.

If she began to feel more like her old self, what would she do? The notion of traveling to London, of sharing a house with Charlotte and her father, was so abhorrent that she couldn't contemplate it

So far, she'd been spared the indignity of having to contend with either one of them. When she'd returned from the pitiful exhibition at Gabriel's, Charlotte had been markedly absent—perhaps the earl had locked her in her room— but they'd all been fortunate the shrew hadn't been waiting to gloat and criticize.

If she had been, Elizabeth was quite sure she'd now be on trial for murder. After having hit Gabriel, her vicious propensities were firmly established, so she'd have had no qualms about strangling Charlotte. In view of Elizabeth's mental plight during those fateful hours, she wouldn't have suffered any guilt over the crime, convinced that she was doing the world a favor.

As to her father, she was still so irate over his duplicity that civil conversation was inconceivable. Although they'd eventually reach a juncture at which they could courteously parley, she wasn't anywhere close.

Fortuitously, since she'd left town, she hadn't had to speak with him again. He hadn't had the nerve to visit Norwich, though he'd written a few letters. His invasive inquests were answered with terse notes that insinuated she was fine, which was a lie.

Once it had been verified that there was no babe, his insincere correspondence had thankfully dwindled to zero.

Apparently, with scandal averted, he couldn't be bothered with asking after her health.

The staff had been the only method by which such furtive information could have been transmitted to him, so a servant had to have been passing on intimate reports, but Elizabeth hadn't cared how he learned the news. Her agitation had been such that nothing had troubled her, nothing had mattered, not even the certitude that retainers whom she'd known since childhood had been spying on her, eavesdropping, or opening her mail.

The sole eventuality that induced a stir was the fact that pregnancy had not occurred. The loss had disturbed her immensely.

Her maid had clarified the situation on a quiet afternoon when she had brought clean pads for Elizabeth's monthly use. After their private chat, Elizabeth had been uncommonly, inexplicably morose.

If she had been increasing, she'd have been gifted with a part of Gabriel that could have always been hers! A babe. A little girl with his blue eyes and artistic talent. Or a little boy with his flamboyant, charismatic personality. When she shut her eyes, she could see a child so clearly.

She had nothing of Gabriel's to call her own. Not a baby, and certainly nothing less remarkable. No special mementos, no tokens of his affection. In the midst of their affair, she'd been too timid to carry anything home, lest any trinket be discovered and give her away. So she'd kept no souvenirs. Not even the locket containing the portrait of his mother.

It had been the lone object of his in her custody, yet in her fit of pique, she'd ripped it off and thrown it away. Oh, but to have it back! A keepsake of that magic time!

As it was, she had only her recollections, and they were fading. What would she recall in six months? In a year? In ten?

She looked down the road and was terrified that she might start to question whether any of it had really transpired. That there might be a day when she wasn't positive. If she'd had the foresight to retain some concrete trinket as proof, she'd never have any doubts.

On a sigh, she wandered into the house. It was stuffy inside, the atmosphere oppressive—she hadn't previously noticed—and she tarried at the entrance. Should she exit again so that she could persist with her aimless strolling? Or should she proceed to her bedchamber where she would lounge in the window seat while she rued and moped?

What dismal choices!

Was this to be how the rest of her life was to play out? Would she forever roam about at Norwich, a mere shadow of her former self? She couldn't return to her father's residence. She had no funds whereby she could purchase her own accommodation. Her only other viable recourse was to request that her father find her a husband, which she would never do.

What was left to her, then?

Was she to loiter in the country, to laze and idle away until she was aged and senile?

She could hear it now, the tsking of the neighbors.
How sad,
they would say.
How tragic.

A laughingstock, a topic of gossip in London drawing rooms, she'd be whispered about, and incessantly slandered, as Norwich's demented, barely functional adult daughter, who'd been sent down and never permitted out in society again.

Mad as a hatter,
people would claim.
Unstable, heedless, temperamental.

She wanted so much more for herself than to be denounced as the earl's slightly delirious daughter. Where once, a subdued, peaceful existence had suited her, now the prospect of abiding as a forlorn old maid was the most dreary, discouraging contingency she could conjure.

Churlishly, she sauntered down the hall, just as the butler hurried up with the unexpected announcement that she had a visitor. The message set her heart to pounding. Who could it be?

Gabriel!
The caprice rattled through her mind before she could stop it.
He'd finally come!
Had he forgiven her? Did he love her after all? Would he give her another chance?

The frantic thoughts raged, making her dizzy, so that when the retainer proffered her guest's card, she had to scan the inscription over and over before she could decipher the ornate printing.

"Dudley Thumberton." The name was unfamiliar, and she pronounced it aloud as if—verbalized—his identity would be clear. "Attorney-at-law and ... Solicitor of the High Court of Chancery?"

She cited his impressive mode of employment as a question, and the butler shrugged, his concession that he had no clue as to why the illustrious man had arrived.

Why would a solicitor call on her? She couldn't think of a single reason. What could he want? Surely nothing good!

Wary, she struggled for composure as she thanked the butler and hastened down the hall. In spite of his dismissal, she couldn't shake him, though, and he dogged her heels, then butted in front of her so he could make a grand proclamation of her entrance into the salon.

Mr. Thumberton rose and bowed graciously over her hand. He was a stout, older fellow, in his sixties, with a rotund belly, balding pate, huge sideburns, and incredibly kind eyes.

"Sit, sir, please," she urged. On meeting him, she wasn't nearly as nervous as she'd deemed she would be. He looked harmless, more like a jolly elf than a stern officer of the court.

While she was terribly intrigued and without patience, she hid her restlessness, assuming her role as hostess, but he declined her offers of refreshment—for which she was extremely grateful. She couldn't bear to dally over inanities when such an odd dialogue was about to ensue. After all, how many times would she have the opportunity to secretly palaver with a solicitor?

"I'm sure you're curious as to why I'm here," he commenced and, with his straightforward introduction, she almost collapsed with relief.

"To put it mildly."

"I've been retained by a gentleman in London. I believe you're acquainted with him." In a dreadful state of anticipation, she held her breath as he retrieved some papers from a portfolio and laid them on the table. "My client is Mr. Gabriel Cristofore Preston."

"Gabriel—" she murmured audibly, relishing the sound. Since she'd fled town in disgrace, she hadn't uttered his name to another soul. It was beginning to seem as if he wasn't a genuine human being, but someone she'd created in an absurd flight of fancy.

Peculiarly, he queried, "So you know to whom I refer?"