Yours Until Dawn (17 page)

For a long moment, there was no sound at all. When Samantha finally did speak, there was a breathless quality to her voice that made Gabriel want to grin. “Certainly no one can accuse you of lacking imagination, my lord. Or a rather shocking familiarity with women’s garments.”

He lifted one shoulder in a sheepish shrug. “A consequence of spending too much of my youth attempting to remove them.”

Her swallow was audible. “Perhaps we’d best eat before you feel compelled to describe my imaginary undergarments.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he replied in a tone as smooth as silk. “You’re not wearing any.”

Samantha’s sharp intake of breath and the violent clink of silver against china warned him that she had filled her mouth to keep from having to endure any more of his impertinence.

Wishing he could do the same, Gabriel made another stab at his plate. He managed to spear a slab of the meat, but he could tell by its weight that it was still far too large to bring to his lips without earning a reprimand. Gritting his teeth, he sighed. The turkey could have been no more elusive if it had been running up and down the table, squawking and flapping its wings. If he didn’t wish to starve before morning, it seemed he would have no choice but to engage the services of his knife.

He groped to the right of his plate, but before he could locate the knife’s handle, its blade sliced neatly into the pad of his thumb.

“Damn it all!” he swore, tucking the throbbing appendage between his lips.

“Oh, dear!” Samantha cried in genuine dismay. “Are you hurt?” He heard the scrape of her chair as she rose.

“Don’t!” he snapped, brandishing the fork in her direction as if it were a saber. “I don’t need your sympathy. What I need is some food in my stomach, because if I get any hungrier I just might eat you.”

He heard her sink back into her chair. “I wasn’t thinking,” she said softly. “Won’t you at least allow me to cut up your meat?”

“No, thank you. Unless you’re planning on following me around for the rest of my life, cutting up my meat and wiping my chin, I’d best learn to do it myself.”

Tossing down the fork, Gabriel reached for his goblet, hoping a generous mouthful of wine might dull his embarrassment at being such a clumsy lout. But his awkward swipe only succeeded in overturning the goblet. He didn’t need his sight, only Samantha’s startled gasp, to know that the wine had gone spilling over the snowy white tablecloth and into her lap.

He surged to his feet, shame, hunger, and frustration finally getting the best of him. “This is madness! I’d be better off begging on some street corner than pretending I still have a hope in hell of passing myself off as a gentleman!” He slammed one fist down on the table, rattling the china. “Did you know that ladies used to compete for the privilege of sitting next to me at supper? That they would vie for my attentions as if they were some rare and delectable sweetmeat? What woman is going to want my company now? She’d have nothing to look forward to but a few surly growls and a lapful of claret. That is, if I didn’t inadvertently set her curls on fire before supper was even served!”

Fisting his hands in the tablecloth, he gave it a hard yank, sending all of the china, all of the crystal, all of Samantha’s fine efforts tumbling to the floor with a resounding crash.

Gabriel felt a draft at his back as someone came rushing in.

“It’s all right, Beckwith,” Samantha said quietly. The butler must have hesitated, for she added in a voice that brooked no argument, “I’ll see to it.”

Then Beckwith and the draft were gone, leaving them alone again. Gabriel stood there at the head of the table, flushed and breathing hard. He wanted Samantha to rage at him, to tell him what a monster he’d become. He wanted her to tell him that there was no help for him, no hope. Maybe then he could stop trying, stop fighting…

Instead, he felt her shoulder brush his thigh as she knelt at his feet. “Once I get these things cleared away,” she said softly over the muted clinking of broken glass and shattered china, “I’ll send for a fresh plate.”

Her sedate calm, her refusal to let him ruffle her composure, only made him angrier. Groping for her wrist, Gabriel snatched her up and against his heaving chest. “You seem quite capable of working yourself into a fine temper when you’re defending the naïve fools who serve your king and country, yet you won’t defend yourself. Have you no heart?” he bit off. “No feelings at all?”

“Oh, I have feelings!” she shot back. “I feel every barbed lash of your tongue, every cutting remark. If I had no feelings, I certainly wouldn’t have wasted my entire day trying to make supper a pleasant experience for you. I wouldn’t have risen at dawn to quiz your cook about your favorite dishes. I wouldn’t have spent all morning combing the woods for some particularly succulent mushrooms. And I certainly wouldn’t have spent half the afternoon trying to decide which china should grace your table—the Worcester or the Wedgwood.” Gabriel could feel her slender body trembling with emotion. “Yes, I have feelings. And I have a heart as well, my lord. I just have no intention of letting you break it!”

As she jerked out of his grip, something hot and wet splashed on Gabriel’s hand. He heard her fleeing footsteps crunch across the broken glass, then the slam of a door.

Knowing he was well and truly alone, Gabriel touched his tongue to the back of his hand, tasting salt.

Sinking heavily into his chair, he buried his head in his hands. “She was right about one thing, you stupid oaf,” he muttered to himself. “You could certainly use a lesson in civilized discourse at the supper table.”

It was a long time before Gabriel felt a warm hand settle on his shoulder. “My lord? May I help you?” Beckwith’s voice quavered slightly, as if he were already steeling himself for a brusque rejection.

Gabriel slowly lifted his head. “You know, Beckwith,” he said, reaching around to pat the devoted manservant’s hand, “I believe you just might.”

My darling Cecily,

I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you claim to admire boldness in a man…

S
amantha was sulking.

She wasn’t particularly adept at it. Even as a small child, she’d rarely had to resort to petulance to win her way. Usually a sweet smile and a logical argument was all it took to wheedle what she wanted from her mama and papa. But now she had no hope of ever getting what she wanted.

For three days she barely left her bedchamber unless it was to dine with the servants in their basement hall. She carried a book with her at all times. If anyone even looked as if they were thinking of approaching her, she would bury her nose in it until they went away, taking their side-long glances and worried sighs with them.

She knew that she was being childish, that by not fulfilling her duties she was giving Gabriel ample cause to have Beckwith send a message to his father and have her dismissed. But she could no longer bring herself to care.

It didn’t improve her mood to realize he was avoiding her just as studiously as she was avoiding him. Apparently, the mere thought of encountering her by chance was so repugnant to him that he’d ordered that the drawing room doors be kept closed and locked whenever he sought refuge there. Samantha would march right past the doors, determined to ignore the succession of odd thumps and the occasional excited bark that drifted to her ears.

Beckwith and Mrs. Philpot seemed equally indifferent to her misery. Twice, she found them huddled in some secluded corner, muttering to each other in a most distracted manner. The minute they spotted her, they would snap their mouths shut with a guilty start and go rushing off, mumbling about some pressing task such as polishing the soup ladle or making sure Meg put adequate starch in the table linens. Samantha assumed they were discussing the kindest way to inform her that she should start looking for another position.

She found sleep to be as elusive as peace. On the third night after her quarrel with Gabriel, she was lying in bed, scowling up at the ceiling, when her stomach began to growl. Since she’d already wasted half the night flinging herself this way and that beneath the bedclothes, she decided to creep downstairs and pilfer a cold pasty pie from the deserted kitchens.

She was passing by the drawing room when a muffled strain of song drifted to her ears. Thinking how odd it was that the doors would be closed when it was well after midnight, she pressed an ear to one of their gilded panels.

She wasn’t losing her wits. The sound she’d heard
had
been music. Of a sort. Aman was humming while a woman accompanied him in a warbling soprano.

Before she could identify the words of the song, the man began to chant a staccato, “One, two, three, four…one, two, three, four…”

A tremendous crash sounded. After a lengthy and mysterious silence, brisk footsteps hastened toward the door.

Samantha darted across the foyer, barely managing to duck behind a life-sized marble statue of Apollo before one of the doors came swinging open.

Beckwith emerged from the darkened room, huffing slightly, his sparse strands of hair ruffled as if by a woman’s fingers. Samantha’s mouth fell open in shock as Mrs. Philpot followed, smoothing her apron and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

The housekeeper tilted her patrician nose in the air. “Goodnight, Mr. Beckwith.”

“Sleep well, Mrs. Philpot,” he replied, sketching her a formal bow.

As they went marching off in separate directions, Samantha emerged from behind the statue, her mouth still hanging open. She wouldn’t have been surprised had Elsie and Phillip come spilling out of the drawing room, flushed and giggling, but she never would have suspected the staid butler and stern housekeeper of indulging in a midnight rendezvous. It seemed the senior domestic staff of Fairchild Park was luckier in love than she was. Shaking her head, she went creeping back up the stairs, her appetite spoiled.

By the next afternoon, Samantha’s morose mood was beginning to wear on her own nerves. Snatching up her shawl, she decided to go for a long walk on the grounds of the park, hoping the chasing clouds and blustery April wind would drive all thoughts of Gabriel from her head.

She returned to find a large rectangular wooden box resting on her bed.

Tossing her shawl over the nearest chair, she approached the box warily. Perhaps Beckwith had ordered it sent up to help hold her belongings when she was turned out on her ear.

She gingerly eased the lid off the box. A gasp rose unbidden to her lips. Nestled within its sandalwood-scented confines was a lady’s gown, the delicate muslin a rich buttercream hue. Unable to resist the temptation, Samantha lifted the dress and smoothed it against her chest.

She hadn’t seen anything so exquisite in a
very
long time. The gown’s short puffed sleeves were trimmed with a piping of blond lace, while a broad satin ribbon gathered the fabric just below the softness of her breasts. The square bodice was cut just low enough to entice a man’s eye. Because the fabric was so light as to be nearly sheer, only the most delicate and feminine of undergarments could be worn beneath its classically draped skirt.

From its gauzy shoulders to the graceful train flowing from its scalloped hemline, the gown couldn’t have fit Samantha more perfectly had it been tailored especially for her by one of the most fashionable modistes in Paris.

I believe you’re wearing something in the scandalous new French style.

As Gabriel’s smoky baritone caressed her senses, she spotted the vellum card that had been dislodged from the gown’s folds.

Still hugging the dress, she plucked the card from the box, recognizing Beckwith’s precise script. “ ‘Lord Sheffield requests the pleasure of your company for supper tonight at eight o’clock,’ ” she murmured.

As the card fluttered from her fingers, she slowly lowered the dress to the bed, realizing how ridiculous it must look against her sensible brown worsted.

She had no choice but to decline Gabriel’s gift and his invitation. She wasn’t one of his former mistresses, to be coaxed out of her sulk with expensive gifts and honeyed words. Her wistful gaze was drawn back to the box. She’d been so besotted with the dress that she hadn’t finished unearthing its treasures.

She reached back into the box, only to find her fingertips caressing…

…a cashmere stole as soft as angel’s wings draped right above that deliciously kissable dimple in the crook of your elbow.

Samantha snatched back her hand. How could a blind man know about that dimple? Because every woman had one, she reminded herself sternly. Gabriel had probably kissed an abundance of them before losing his sight.

She swept up the lid, determined to secure this particular Pandora’s box before another, even more beguiling temptation could fly up into her face.

On your feet, you’re wearing a pair of pink silk slippers, utterly frivolous, unsuited for anything but sashaying into a ballroom and dancing the night away.

“Not the shoes,” Samantha whispered, her fingers curling around the lid of the box. “Surely he wouldn’t be so diabolical.”

Lowering the lid to the bed, she cautiously nudged the stole aside. A helpless moan escaped her lips. The slippers tucked into the bottom of the box were the soft rose of a woman’s blush, so lovely and ethereal they appeared more suited to fairy feet than mortal.