Page 22 of A Bride By Morning
She had precisely five minutes to summon an excuse for being alone with Gabriel in that room. Five minutes to enjoy what remained of her relatively immaculate—if staid—reputation. Even Mrs. Calloway and Lady Forsyth couldn’t resist the allure of gossiping about a spinster who spent time alone in a room with a gentleman and garnered no marriage proposal.
Cornwall. She had Cornwall to look forward to. A place on the edge of her small world, where she would go and attempt to forget him again.
But Gabriel didn’t nod. Instead, his features hardened. This was the shrewd assassin in the body of a rogue. “Tell her we’re to marry.”
Her head snapped back. “I—sorry?”
“Marriage,” he said, his lip curling. “Tell her I offered.”
A renewed fury ignited through Lydia’s veins. Of course, he would think nothing of her reputation. To a man, a woman’s standing was mutable; it accounted for so little.
For a woman, it meant everything. Entire lives. Entire futures. They depended on it.
“So we pretend to be engaged, and then what?” she snapped. “Say you find this Boris Medvedev, and we break the ruse. How shall I account for it to my Aunt Francis? You’ve already drawn her ire after jilting me. And society? I suppose my reputation means nothing to you. How keen you are to save my life only to demolish it again.”
Did he think so poorly of her? Was she just another person for him to destroy? He may not end her life with a blade, but he sliced it apart all the same. And here he was, offering to do it again—survival at the cost of ruin.
His look was harsh. “You misunderstood me. Wewillmarry. The only falsehood I require is that you imply to your aunt that we anticipated our vows. I’ve already obtained a special license.”
A breath exploded out of her. He’d already obtained . . . ?
So that’s where he had been for days—making legal arrangements without consulting her. Ten years ago, the prospect of marrying Gabriel St. Clair would have thrilled her. Now it left Lydia uncertain. It didn’t help that his regard was as unyielding as steel; suddenly, that kiss three nights ago seemed entirely in her imagination—the desire of a girl who still missed him.
“No.” Her voice could be steel, too.
Gabriel made an impatient noise. “You spoke so passionately of your reputation before. Here I am offering to spare it.”
Lydia curled her fingers into her palm. “I’ve no wish to marry a man offering out of obligation. You don’t want me.”
Something flickered in his gaze—an intensity as hot as molten metal.
Then his lips came against hers. Lydia gasped in surprise as he kissed her, her hands seeking purchase on his shoulders for balance. Then he made a noise in his throat that changed her.
It was a growl of raw need.
Her own desire blazed to life. But before she could return the kiss, he pulled back with a rough sound, his lips at her ear. “I want you, Lydia Cecil. I’ve wanted you every fucking day of my life.”
A breath shuddered out of her as she tried to find her balance. “But you don’t want to marry me.”
His body was rigid beneath her touch. He was silent a moment. Then: “No. I’m offering you my protection and my name. If you wish it.”
The clock chimed past the quarter-hour. She had to give him her answer now or suffer the consequences of refusal. She valued her life. And with him, she would learn to guard her heart.
She pulled away, forcing her breathing to slow. “Very well. Then I’ll marry you.”
He studied her intently for a moment, but then he nodded once. “Three days hence.” Then he stepped away from her, his countenance as rigid as a statue. “Our marriage will be legal, and before all of society, we’ll act as besotted newlyweds. But it won’t be real, Lydia. I can’t be a husband to you. Comprehend me?”
Sadness pricked her. She mourned for the boy he’d been. For the man he had become.
“I understand,” she murmured.
In truth, her future husband would be a stranger.
9
Gabriel’s future was tumbling from his grasp.
Command over his life was all he’d had after Moscow. In place of his emotions, Gabriel carefully planned every hour and society appearance down to their most insignificant details. That was how he dealt with nightmares of his past in espionage: preparation—and indifference. His barricades of ice were defenses against his memories.
