Page 27 of A Bride By Morning
Because now she wanted to understand everything about him. She spent so long consumed with fury over his abandonment that she had managed to convince herself that she didn’t give a damn what happened to him when he left Kabul. Her unanswered letters, after all, were the same as a rejection—the silent refusal of either a coward, or a man who didn’t care enough to send even a single note in consideration of their former friendship.
But things were different now. His facade as Lord Montgomery had crumbled, and she witnessed the man who hid in the gloom and moved like smoke. That man had killed in front of her. Had kissed her.
Had married her to protect her.
“Because I sent you over three hundred letters after Kabul,” she said, swallowing when her voice threatened to tremble. She could not reveal how much it pained her. “I dispatched them to the Home Office direct and any consulate I could find an address for—including your old offices in Vienna, Paris, and Zürich—hoping to findanyonewho could forward it to your place of residence. And I didn’t know what became of you until the day your butler shut the door in my face three years ago.”
A part of her wished she could see his expression as he continued his quiet study of her. She wondered if he thought her a fool for continuing to write him even after he had made it abundantly clear that he’d had no wish to hear from her. But perhaps she ought to have been grateful for the shadows—she did not have to bear the weight of his conclusion. The darkness made it easier.
A whisper of material sounded as Gabriel shifted in his seat. The dim moonlight that filtered through the carriage window permitted Lydia a glimpse of his profile; he’d turned away from her. “I was assigned to infiltrate the Syndicate in Moscow,” he said tightly. “And I became a different man than the one you wrote letters to.” Before she could respond, he moved again. “We’re here.”
Lydia was surprised by the passing of time. Sure enough, when she peered out the carriage window, she noticed the familiar silhouette of Meadowcroft. She’d always thought it looked like something out of a fairytale, with its yellow coloring and generous windows. In late spring, extensive blooms of fragrant wisteria and honeysuckle shrouded the front facade, a lovely complement to its cheerful exterior.
But somehow, at that moment, Meadowcroft seemed to loom in the mist. Or perhaps it was the dense rainclouds that suited Lydia’s mood, her nervousness at being in that vast house with only her new husband and his staff for company.
“Welcome home,” she said to him softly.
She felt his gaze fall on her. There was an almost animal intensity to him that rendered her breathless, uncertain of the direction of his thoughts. She could no longer read him. The only time she’d trusted his honesty had been . . .
An image of Gabriel’s kiss came to Lydia, unbidden. He’d pressed against her in the Blue Room as if he were ravenous. As if he craved her touch like oxygen. The ragged, animal noise from him flared her desire for a reason: it was the first sincere thing she’d heard from him in years.
I want you, Lydia Cecil. I’ve wanted you every fucking day of my life.
The carriage halted, and the footman opened the door, sparing Lydia from her thoughts. Her husband stepped out and gently helped her down.
The drive was lined with servants carrying lanterns who had been sent word of their master’s belated arrival.
“I’ll introduce you to the servants you haven’t met later,” he said. “You must be tired. I’ll have a meal sent to your room if you’d like.”
Lydia wasn’t tired; she was uneasy. She didn’t think she could sleep. But perhaps he was eager to part with her company. “Very well,” she said.
“Mrs. Marshall,” he called. A woman bustled from the front of the line in a jingle of keys. The lantern light revealed the craggy features of an older woman with kind eyes that Lydia had not seen since her youth. “Mrs. Marshall, perhaps you remember Miss Lydia Cecil?”
“Lady Montgomery now,” Mrs. Marshall said with a delighted grin. “I’m so pleased to have you with us again.”
If Lydia hadn’t been studying Gabriel in the dim lantern glow, she might not have noticed how his lips tightened at the woman’s use of her new title.
But then he forced a winsome smile and leaned forward to buss a kiss against the older woman’s cheek. “And any word for me, or have you already forgotten me in favor of my new wife?”
Mrs. Marshall waved a hand. “Oh, stop. Of course, I missed you, dear boy.” She grasped Lydia’s hand. “But you must wish to rest from your trip. Come with me, and I’ll have you all set in your rooms.”
“Goodnight, Lady Montgomery,” Gabriel said as Lydia was led away.
11
Gabriel reclined in the library’s overstuffed chair before the fire. A snifter of whiskey hung loosely from his fingers, his third in the last hour alone.
Earlier, he had wandered the vast halls of Meadowcroft, orienting himself once more with the residence of his youth. While the Montgomery seat was far beyond Surrey—located in the remote parts of Devon—Gabriel’s father had preferred the bright outer facade and lighting Meadowcroft provided after the death of his countess. Gabriel recalled dashing through the halls with Lydia, eating scones with clotted cream on rainy days. Those memories were perforated in the walls of Meadowcroft, down to its very foundations.
He’d taken to drink once his efforts at rest failed; the agricultural tome intended to induce sleep had long since been discarded on the table beside him.
Instead, he stared into the blazing fire that crackled in the hearth as his thoughts raced. There was little he could do to distract from fantasies of Lydia under his roof.
They would spend extended time alone together for the first time in years.
And now she was married to him.
It’s not a real marriage,he reminded himself.It requires no consummation or intimacy.
