Page 31 of A Bride By Morning
“My men are paid to protect you,” he said tightly, “but this property is vast enough that Medvedev would take you easily if he found you wandering alone. So I’m asking you to stay within the house for your safety. At least when I’m not with you.”
In the distance, one of Gabriel’s hired bodyguards stood sentry on the path. He looked away from them, but his body was alert. Still, she had no wish to cause him or any of the other men trouble.
“Then walk with me,” Lydia said, her attention falling on Gabriel once more. “I grow restless if I’m indoors for too long. Remember?”
Memories flickered across his features. Lydia wondered what he thought about. Her restlessness, after all, had been the cause of their many adventures—even the governess hired by Lady Derby could hardly keep Lydia indoors. She had a habit of escaping between her lessons to meet Gabriel at the stables.
But then his face shuttered, and he might as well have been on the other side of the world. “I can’t. I’ve business in London today.”
Her fingernails pressed further into her gloves. He was avoiding her. “I see. With Mr. Wentworth, yes?”
“That’s one item of business,” he confirmed. She wondered if the other was to travel as far away from her as possible. “I would prefer I leave here today knowing you’re safe.”
“And when do you plan to return?”
“I’m not certain. Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“Very well.” She straightened her shoulders and went to sweep past him. “Then good day to you.”
But he stopped her with a hand to her arm. “Lydia. Promise me you’ll stay in the house until I return.”
She stared down at his hand, marveling at how she wanted that hand to touch her everywhere. Even now. But there were so many impediments between them—garments that were as much an obstacle as their pasts.
“I’m an obligation to you, aren’t I?” she whispered, raising her gaze to his. “You wouldn’t have married me, and now we’re stuck together as if we’ve been floated out to sea.” He said nothing; he only drew in a soft breath, but one that said more than words ever could. Lydia turned away. “I will stay in the house. And see you when you return from London.”
She pulled out of his grip and left for the vast, empty house.
13
Gabriel rode to London as if the hounds of hell were licking at his heels.
He had woken that morning with every molecule of his body on fire for Lydia. Like he was crawling out of his skin. The lack of command over his desire alarmed him; was he safe for her? Would he lose control, or would his mind go blank like back in Moscow, when he was ordered to do terrible deeds to maintain his cover?
For a house as vast as Meadowcroft, he was acutely aware of her presence in every room. He couldn’t avoid her. Nor could he escape his thoughts of two nights before in the library.
He had set his mouth to her. He hadtastedher.
God, but he desperately wanted to do it again.
Shutting himself in his study and pouring over his estate ledgers did little to soothe his mind, nor did roaming Meadowcroft’s grounds for any sign of Medvedev. He almost wished that bastardwouldattack. Violence, after all, was an ideal distraction from lust.
But Medvedev proved elusive—and Gabriel’s passion became a painful barb that kept him too preoccupied.
Last night, Gabriel reduced himself to listening for Lydia’s activities in the adjoining room. He’d paused near the door, and the notes of her soft melody as she prepared for bed curled at his ear like a beckoning finger. Clothing rustled. He couldn’t help but imagine the nightgown she wore in the library: white, the fabric as insubstantial as gossamer.
So easy to tear until he had her stripped naked.
A fissure of electricity went through him. The soft sigh that touched his ears through the door threatened his composure. He’d retreated to his study, drank until his thoughts swam, and dozed in his leather chair. When Gabriel saw Lydia again that morning—outside amid the flowers like Persephone before Hades took her—his control dangled by an unraveling thread.
If Gabriel couldn’t fuck her, and Medvedev remained in hiding, then he would use another diversion.
Night had already fallen by the time he reached London. He let himself into his townhouse in Mayfair and greeted the bewildered servants with a smile. One mention of seeking a gift for his new bride explained any potential rumors of his visit beyond the walls of his residence. Not even the most talkative of maids would think to doubt a husband so plainly besotted.
After the house settled for the evening, Gabriel intentionally chose his finest coat, boots, and gloves. Then he left Mayfair with a spring in his step. Every part of his deception was assembled for a purpose—with a distinct destination in mind.
The East End served Gabriel’s disposition. He’d tried to abandon brutality after Moscow; seeking distraction in a willing woman was a more satisfactory solution to his disturbed sleep. A quick fuck reminded him that he was still capable of emotions other than wrath—that the barest spark of a soul still existed beneath the frigidity of his foundations. Those nights, he was like a ghost roaming the world, attempting to find a way back to his old existence before everything went to shite. Back to the person he was ten years before.
Back to the man Lydia fell in love with.
