Sweet Madness: A Veiled Seduction Novel (6 page)

An ache tugged at her chest, and she realized why this was so much harder than it had been with others she’d helped. With strangers, she had nothing more invested than simple human kindness. With Gabriel . . . they had
been friends.

Coconspirators, even. He’d been in the market for a wife then, and many a female acquaintance had pestered her for an introduction to her handsome new cousin. She’d had great fun playing Cupid.

She’d had great fun with him in general, truthfully. She had also been grateful for Gabriel’s company. Not long into her marriage, it had become clear that Michael had too much energy even for her. Her husband’s exuberance was charming, but it also exhausted her. Some evenings, she found herself content to let Michael go gadding about the ballrooms, and he was just as content to leave her in the escort of his cousin.

But all that had ended with Michael’s death. In her grief, she’d cut everyone—including Gabriel—from her life and turned inward. She had not considered that she might have hurt him. She’d been unable to consider anything but her own pain.

She should have been a better friend.

Well, she couldn’t change the past, but she would do her best to be the friend he needed now. Penelope reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. “Nothing I’ve seen or heard has made me think any less of you, Gabriel.”

His lips twisted in a wry smile, even as he pulled his hand from beneath hers. “Then you must have had a very low opinion of me, indeed.”

Her heart twinged. Nothing could be further from the truth. But she doubted Gabriel would believe her if she said as much. No, the best way to convince him would be to rebuild the easy relationship they once had.

She cocked a brow at him. “Only in your whist playing skills,” she said archly. “You were a deplorable partner, you know. Cost me more pin money than I care to remember.”

His eyes widened. Then he barked a laugh, precisely as she’d hoped. She smiled back and felt the tension ease a bit between them.

“I
was
awful,” he admitted with a shake of his head. But a smile played at his lips. “I always wondered why you continued to partner me.”

“Someone had to,” she said, laughing. “Michael flatly refused, and I couldn’t very well let you sit across from any of the eligible ladies. If you’d have lost
their
pin money, they would have been quite vexed with you. Not the wisest wooing strategy, I’m afraid.”

He snorted. “Ah. Well, thank you for sacrificing for the cause.”

“You’re welcome,” she said pertly. “By the way, you owe me five hundred seventy-eight pounds and nine shilling. Interest, you know.”

And with that, conversation came more easily between them. As they ate, they talked of everything and yet nothing at all. She was careful not to mention much of the past two years, and so was he. It was like a conversation out of time, but such a pleasant one. They laughed quite a bit. And Gabriel visibly relaxed, which lightened her heart.

By the time they’d polished off a delectable walnut cake stuffed with raisins and almonds, Penelope’s cheeks ached from smiling, and her hopes were high that they’d made significant progress. Tomorrow would be even better.

But it was becoming difficult to keep her eyes open, thanks to the combination of her satiated appetite and the sleepless night before.

“Thank you for the superb company,” she said, rising from the table. “However, it is a good half-hour ride back to my rooms at the White Horse, so I must be going. But I shall return promptly in the morning. Shall we say right after breakfast?”

Gabriel rose as well, but his smile faded, to be replaced by the guarded expression of earlier in the evening. Penelope’s good humor seeped away as he came around to stand before her.

He reached out and took her hand. His skin was warm against hers and his grip tight. He brought it to his lips, closing his eyes as he pressed a firm kiss just above her knuckles. A long kiss. A kiss that rang of finality.

Her breath caught.

“Thank you, Pen, for your graciousness,” he said fiercely as he released her. “You’ve given me more tonight than you can know. But I meant what I said. I don’t want you to come back.”

She watched in stunned silence as he turned on his heel and retreated toward his bedchamber.

“Gabriel, wait!” she cried. “Please,” she implored more loudly when he did not slow. “There is something else you should know.”

He stopped and turned back. She hated how tightly he held himself, as if it pained him to look at her. She hated more that she was about to add to his distress, but he had to know what was at stake.

She licked her lips, trying to think how to soften the news. In the end, all she could do was say it outright. “Your family is preparing to swear an affidavit to the Lord Chancellor to have you declared
non compos
.”

The blood drained from his face, but other than that, he gave no sign that he even heard her. Did he know precisely what that meant?

“Once an affidavit is sworn, a petition will be made and a public commission appointed to determine your sanity. On the testimony of the staff of Vickering Place alone—”

“They will most assuredly find me a lunatic,” he finished, no emotion in his voice. “They will judge me incapable of conducting my own affairs and strip me of the responsibilities of my title and estates.”

She nodded, trying very diligently not to let her own emotions show on her face.

His fists clenched at his sides, which was the only warning she had before he exploded. “Even of my own
person
. Christ! And they sent
you
with this news?” He raked a hand through his closely shorn locks. “My own damned family, and they couldn’t tell me this themselves?” He began to pace in an agitated swath.

“I convinced them to stay the affidavit.”

He stopped midstride and turned to pin her with his gaze. “You did what?”

“At least until after I’d had the chance to see you,” she hurried to explain as she crossed to where he stood. “I told them that if your lunacy is related to your time in the wars, there was a good chance you could be cured.”

Gabriel huffed, even as he pinched the bridge of his nose. After a long moment, he dropped his hand to his side. “And after what you’ve seen, Penelope? Do you
really
think I can be cured?”

“I don’t know,” she was forced to admit.

He lowered his head. “And if I do not cooperate?”

“Then they intend to visit the Master extraordinary next week,” she had to tell him.

The air between them crackled with frustration. His. Hers. He refused to look at her. She knew he hated this—maybe even hated her for bringing such ill tidings. She knew his pride was in tatters.

She also knew she was his last hope.

She studied him in the silence. He was leaner than he had been two years ago, and there were strands of gray near his temples that had not been there before. His brown eyes had always been shuttered, but they were stonier now. Still, he was the same man. Troubled, certainly, but the same.

Penelope reached out and curved her fingers under his chin, lifting his face to hers. “I want you to listen to me,” she said, and her pulse shot up as his eyes locked with hers. She released him now that she had his full attention. “From the day we first met, I’d always thought you to be an exemplary man. In fact, I would not have believed my opinion of you could rise any higher.”

He broke eye contact, clearly disbelieving her. She was losing him.

So she reached down and snatched his hands, squeezing them. “But I would have been wrong, Gabriel,” she insisted.

His gaze snapped back to hers.

“I cannot imagine anything more terrifying than what you are living through. And yet you haven’t given up. You are a fighter. I can see it in your eyes.”

And she could. Anger lurked in their golden brown depths, as did fear and sorrow. But so did determination. It lit them from within.

“I cannot know what it is like to suffer as you do. I cannot know if we’ll meet success. But I do know that as long as you are still fighting, I won’t give up either. I swear it,” she vowed.

They stood there, holding hands, locked in a silent communication that she doubted either of them consciously understood. But she sensed his resistance crumbling.

“It’s not polite for ladies to swear,” he said softly.

“Dash politeness.”

One corner of his mouth turned up. “Indeed.” He extracted his hands from her grip. “And dash my family and the Lord Chancellor, as well, I suppose.”

“Double dash them,” she agreed.

He nodded. “All right, Pen. You win.”

Not an overly optimistic agreement, but she would take it. Because for some absurd reason, enough hope soared in her chest for the both of them.

She only prayed those hopes weren’t what ended up dashed.

T
he click of a key echoed loudly in the room, followed by the metallic churning of tumblers giving way and the muffled clang of bars swinging open just outside his door. Gabriel came to his feet as his eyes fixed on the rectangle of paneled wood, the last barrier that separated his “parlor” from the rest of Vickering Place.

His heart kicked in his chest in what could only be anticipation. He’d spent half the night alternately praying for Penelope to come to her senses and not show this morning and the other half willing her to keep her vow. Now he would find out which contrary wish had been granted.

She sailed through the opening door and Gabriel’s shoulders relaxed as he released a breath. She’d come. Foolish chit. And yet Penelope smiled so widely that even he couldn’t help but feel optimistic in the glow of it.

“Good morning, Gabriel.” She stopped a scant two feet in front of him, the hem of her dark cloak swirling slightly around her legs. The crisp scent of a winter morning reached his nose, carried in on her fur-collared manteau. He breathed in automatically, as if his senses craved the sharp contrast from the stuffy staleness of his rooms.

She peered around his shoulder to the table where he’d been sitting. “Oh, good. I see you’ve breakfasted.”

He blinked at her, and the stirrings of a smile tickled his mouth. “Ah, yes.” Then a thought arrested the grin before it could form. “Why? Are you planning some horrid treatment for which I’ll need fortification?”

The corners of her eyes turned down, and her nose scrunched up in a sympathetic wince. “I’m afraid so.”

“In that case, I wish I hadn’t eaten that second helping of sausages,” he grumbled as said extra serving turned over in his stomach.

“Never fear, my lord,” she murmured softly. “’Twill be over in a trice.”

Gabriel’s breath caught. Did Penelope know those were the very same words she said to settle him before their first dance so long ago?

Or was her phrasing simply meant to mollify, as she would a child before requiring him to down a particularly revolting remedy?

Either way, he had to trust that she would treat him with as much concern and sensitivity down this path as she had that wedding dance.

“If it is any consolation, what I have in mind does come with certain benefits,” she promised.

A wholly inappropriate thrill charged through him. He tamped it down. She hadn’t meant anything close to what his body heard. Still, he couldn’t resist asking, “Such as?”

“Freedom.” Pen flashed him a grin that turned a bit wry at the edges as she tipped her head back and to her left to indicate an unhappy-looking Carter. “Or at least the illusion thereof. Mr. Allen insists I bring
him
along.” Pen made a moue of distaste. “I explained that it would not be necessary, but he refused to allow us out of doors otherwise.”

The attendant stood in the corner, bundled up in a greatcoat and scarf and sporting a fierce scowl—clearly not relishing his role as outdoor watchdog any more than Penelope did.

“Go on.” She flicked her fingers toward Gabriel in a backward wave. “Don warm boots and a coat. It’s chilly today.”

Enthusiasm buzzed through him at the very idea of a day spent outside. And yet it was February. He glanced toward the window. The day loomed gray, and forbidding clouds blotted out the sky, threatening to wring sheets of rain down upon them.

He looked back at Penelope. Her cheeks appeared chafed and the tip of her nose had a pink tint to it. While it rarely got overly cold in this part of the country, the wind and moist air could quite chill one to the bone. “Perhaps we should wait for a sunnier day. I wouldn’t risk your health.”

Penelope waved a dismissive hand. “Pish. You knew me only as a London society wife, but I was raised on a country estate. My only playmate was my cousin Liliana, and she abhorred being cooped up indoors where my mother might hound her into some feminine pursuit. If I didn’t wish to be lonely, I had to keep up with her.”

Gabriel frowned, unconvinced.

“Did I mention her favorite places to play were muddy swamps and bogs?” Pen wrinkled her nose. “Believe me, I am far from fragile.”

Hard to imagine her, who he’d once heard a group of ladies grousing always looked as if she’d stepped off of a fashion plate, traipsing around after her cousin through the marshes, her clothes covered in mire.

Still . . . “I’ve seen many an able-bodied soldier fall prey to the elements,” he argued. “One doesn’t have to be fragile to catch one’s death.”

“No, I suppose one doesn’t. However, I must insist.” She cocked a challenging brow. “Unless
you
are not feeling up to it, of course.”

Gabriel hastened to fetch his winter garments.

Minutes later, he stepped past a frowning Allen into the outside air for the first time in weeks. Penelope stayed close to his side, while Carter followed behind after grumbling something indiscernible to the director.

As they reached the bottom stair, Gabriel paused and simply breathed it all in. Damned if he didn’t have to force himself not to throw out his arms, turn his face up to the dreary sky and turn in circles as he would have in his nursery days.

He caught Penelope’s knowing smile out of the corner of his eye just before she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head.

She turned to him, looking very much like Red Riding Hood would have were the girl dressed in black rather than crimson. “Mr. Allen tells me there is a path through the gardens that leads into the wood. Shall we venture there?”

She might look like Red Riding Hood, but she sounded very like the Big Bad Wolf . . . a little too innocent to be safe. He had a feeling this was where whatever horrid treatment she had in mind began. Still, he nodded. “Lead on.”

Penelope set a brisk pace. They walked in silence for some time, the only sound being their boots crushing leaves and dead grass beneath them, echoed by Carter’s heavier footfalls from behind.

Blood hummed in Gabriel’s veins. It could simply be dread over what she might have planned for him today. Or it could be that Penelope was by his side. But either way, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this invigorated.

Or this much his old self.

With every breath of fresh air that pumped through his lungs, that feeling grew.

“Did you know that emotion can be directly tied to motion?” Penelope asked after a time. Her voice had a breathy quality to it from the exertion. “If you observe someone who is lost in their melancholy, for example, you notice that often their shoulders are slumped and their movements are sluggish. Their breathing is shallow and slow. Have you ever noticed that?”

He glanced sideways at her. “Not particularly, no. While I’ve experienced some melancholy since the wars,
my
madness is more of the raving sort, wouldn’t you say?” he returned dryly.

His big bad she-wolf gave him a decidedly sheepish look. Still, she persisted. “Define ‘some melancholy’ for me. Do you mean occasional sadness? Or do you ever experience periods of extended despair?”

He heaved a sigh. “So, you brought me outside to interrogate me.”

“Yes.”

He stuffed his gloved hands into the pockets of his coat. “Takes some of the joy out of the morning, I’d say.”

“I
am
sorry.”

He let her apology linger in the air for a few steps. “Wouldn’t it have been simpler to talk in my rooms? Warmer, at least.” He glanced back at the sullen attendant, shuffling along some paces back. “Carter would have thanked you for it.”

“I imagine he would,” she agreed. “However, I care naught for Carter.”

Implying she did care for
him
? Suddenly Gabriel no longer felt quite so surly about the whole thing.

“As to bringing you out here, my reasons are many. First, the emotion-to-motion connection I mentioned earlier seems to work both ways. On one hand, the melancholic’s despair depresses their body systems, hence the sluggishness and shallow breathing. However, if that person were to
consciously
choose to stand straighter, take deep breaths or engage in some vigorous activity, oftentimes their mood is improved just by those simple physical motions. I’m not certain why it works, but that has been my observation.”

“Hmmm,” he said, just to let her know he didn’t disagree. He did feel quite the thing after only a quarter hour’s walk.

“Second, the soldiers I know are men of action and they are most comfortable on the move. I thought you might feel more yourself out here.”

As he had from the moment they met, Gabriel marveled at Penelope’s gentle intuitiveness. “You were right,” he confirmed, breathing the crisp air through his nose.

“Most soldiers I’ve treated spent the majority of their time out in the elements. Days and nights, for months—sometimes years—at a stretch. Assuming your military experience was anything like theirs, it is only natural that you would be most at home outside.”

It seemed Penelope’s natural instincts were now borne out by her experiences helping other soldiers. He was still getting his mind around that.

His eyes scanned the rugged winter landscape that comprised Vickering Place’s grounds, but in his mind’s eye he saw the colorful autumn foliage of his home as it had been when he’d last been there. “My servants complained that they couldn’t catch me indoors,” he admitted. “Sometimes I had legitimate reasons to remain out. Surveying the fields, visiting tenants. But other times, I just couldn’t bring myself to stay inside.” Those days had been when he’d felt his best. Even before his current madness, being outside and active had done more to keep his wartime nightmares away than anything else had.

Yet, since these more frightening bouts of mania had taken hold, he’d imprisoned himself indoors . . . hidden himself away long before his family decided to finish the job and send him to Vickering Place. Had he compounded his illness by his choice? It made sense. His attitude and perspective had deteriorated every day—which, at the very least, hadn’t made him feel any better. He’d been a fool not to have realized it.

But Penelope had, and because of her insight, he felt more alive in the past hours than he had during months of hellish treatments on the advice of more educated, esteemed doctors. If she had been in his life at the time the mania started, would he have gone this far afield?

He cut his eyes to her. Penelope had said she’d helped other ex-soldiers. She had no reason to be untruthful about that. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t think she could do the same for him.

Perhaps he should open up to her, just a bit, and see where it led.

He glanced back over his shoulder to see how closely Carter followed. The attendant had fallen back several yards and was sullenly kicking his feet at the occasional rock that littered the path. Good. He might have to show weakness to Penelope, but he’d be damned if he’d do so in the hearing of the other man.

Satisfied that their conversation would be private, he said, “For the first several months, I had to force myself to sleep in my rooms. I felt so”—Gabriel searched for the word—“confined. I’d spent so many nights out under the stars that lying beneath a ceiling, surrounded by walls, seemed more like a tomb than a bedchamber.”

“Hmmm,” was all she said. She fell quiet, leaving him with an odd urge to fill the silence.

He reached a hand behind his neck to massage away a sudden tension instead. Just confessing this one innocuous thought made his muscles tighten just as badly as being cooped up indoors at night once had.

“But a marquess can’t just pitch a tent on the heath without setting the gossips to wagging,” he said lightly, hoping to end the exchange. “So . . .” He tossed in a shrug to make it seem as if the whole matter were of no consequence.

“So you suffered night after night at the expense of your own comfort.”

He huffed. He should have known she wouldn’t let the matter drop. “My comfort should be of no consequence to you.”

“But it is,” she insisted. Then she added carefully, “To a point.”

He glanced askew at her.

“Gabriel, you must know that in order for me to help you, we are going to have to discuss some very
un
comfortable things.”

He’d known she was going to say that. He turned his face away, focusing on the stripped trees they passed, every craggy bend and every knotty blemish on the wood bared to the eye by winter’s harshness. Is that how he would look to Penelope if he let her in? Scarred and ugly inside?

“But we needn’t start there. We can ease into our conversation with more pleasant things,” she suggested.

A single fat drop of rain chose that moment to splatter against his cheekbone. “That leaves out the weather as a topic, then,” he drawled, wiping the moisture from his cheek. “Speaking of, it is looking ominous.” He glanced up at the colorless sky. All right, so perhaps that was stretching the truth a bit. No more drops were forthcoming. But the clouds were clearly fat with it. That should be enough to win him a reprieve from her questioning. “We should return.”

Penelope glanced up as well before shooting him a look better suited on a governess—one who was well accustomed to her charges trying to get out of their lessons.

“I’ll hardly melt,” she intoned, “and neither will you.”

“Carter might,” he grumbled.

She let that pass without comment and continued trekking ahead.

Damn. He could turn on his heel and walk back himself. Carter, he knew, would follow gladly. But he also knew Penelope would just pester him there. The only way to avoid her questions would be to demand that Allen bar her from Vickering Place.

But without her help, he’d end up in a local tavern, put on display by the commission for lunacy in a public trial that would be gossiped about for years to come. His chest clenched at the mere thought.

“To hell with pleasantness, then,” he growled, his voice sounding uncharitable even to his own ears. But he cared not. She would have to take what she could get. “Ask me what you need to know to cure me.”

She stopped and turned toward him. He stopped as well, standing very still as Penelope eyed him. “You understand that there is a real chance that no matter what we do, you won’t wholly recover.”