Page 7 of A Bride By Morning
But that idea was quickly dashed as he searched through the earl’s papers. Lydia went still, tilting her head. He hadn’t yet seen her, despite the divan being in full view of the desk—and that moment’s reprieve was a blessing. It allowed her to watch him, unguarded, in this private moment as he thumbed through the papers with gentle precision.
His countenance was one of such intense, diligent concentration—undoubtedly why he hadn’t noticed her sitting such a short distance away. There was a severity about it, such a marked contrast to the charming gentleman he played in the ballroom. His forehead was pinched as he gently pushed documents aside and then stacked them in their precise place.
Was helookingfor something?
He opened one of the drawers, skimming his hand across the underside of the wood. Then, with a deliberate nudge, he popped open a false bottom. As he pulled out a few papers, his expression became grim. He slid a small book and pencil out of his jacket pocket and jotted down a note. Then, with utter care, he replaced the documents in the false drawer and slid it back in place. He arranged the drawers and the desk in their exact location until everything appeared untouched. Then Gabriel straightened and turned to leave.
And he spotted her.
3
All of Gabriel’s years in espionage failed him. His mind was slow to process Lydia’s proximity in Lord Coningsby’s study.
It wasn’t her presence, no. It seemed almost natural, after all, that Gabriel’s thoughts would conjure her there. He had long since become accustomed to this particular habit: envisioning Lydia during these quiet moments, wondering what she would think of him if she discovered the truth about his years abroad.
Rather, it was the circumstance: it was unusual for his mind to summon her when he was merely collecting intelligence; it only pictured Lydia when Gabriel was ordered to assassinate someone.
It seemed strange that she would be there in Coningsby’s study, so long after the last time he had ended a man’s life for queen and country. But perhaps her presence had a purpose. The information in the false drawer involved a man Gabriel believed dead—someone he had killed three years before at the behest of his superiors at the Home Office. That was his final assassination before returning to England’s shores.
Boris Medvedev. The leader of the Syndicate, an international crime ring that Gabriel had spent years infiltrating. Three years ago, Gabriel had shoved a blade through Medvedev’s skull.
And now, evidently, Medvedev lived. And Lydia was there in that study, a subtle reminder of the life Gabriel had sacrificed before becoming Her Majesty’s best spy.
But—no. The vision of Lydia in his mind had always been disapproving; like a singular member of a Greek chorus, she cataloged his every sin.
In contrast, the Lydia sitting behind the divan in Lord Coningsby’s study observed him with bewilderment. And that meant she was avery realwoman who had just witnessed Gabriel rifle through his host’s desk and uncover a hidden compartment filled with correspondence between Coningsby and Russian criminals.
Gabriel’s training was the only thing that kept him calm as he smiled at Lydia with amusement he absolutely did not fucking feel.
“Miss Lydia Cecil,” he said smoothly, returning his small notebook and pencil to the inner pocket of his jacket.
Her notice snagged on the movement, eyes narrowing on that small book with a regard that was all too perceptive. This was why he stayed the hell away from her. One moment, he thought he had the circumstance under control, and the next, his thoughts were a litany ofshit, bugger, cunting fuck.
She was too clever for her own good.
Lydia’s attention returned to his face. “Lord Montgomery.”
Gabriel’s smile tightened imperceptibly as he recalled the words he said to her at the Duchess of Hastings’ house party:Now I’m Gabriel to no one.
You wouldn’t want me as I am now,Gabriel thought to Lydia.That boy you knew doesn’t even exist anymore. You would hate the man I’ve become.
Gabriel leaned his hip against the desk. “Do you intend to keep sitting there, or shall I offer you assistance?”
Lydia sniffed. “No. I don’t want your assistance.”
Though his expression remained cordial, Gabriel took in every aspect of her features down to their minuscule details. Pale freckles that had faded as she aged into adulthood, a full lower lip begging to be nipped between kisses. God, but he’d imagined teasing that lower lip for years.
All images of kissing her fled when he noticed the slight mottling of her skin. Had she been crying?
Gabriel wondered at the cause, if it had been him or someone else. He almost hoped it was another man he could threaten. Gabriel snapped bones with brutal efficiency, after all. He had an aptitude for violence. But mending a woman’s heart was not a talent he possessed.
He only knew how to break things.
“Very well,” he said, with that forced politeness he’d mastered. “Then I’ll leave you alone. Good evening, Miss Cecil.”
But when he reached the door, Lydia’s voice rang out behind him: “Do you make a habit of peeking through your host’s personal documents, or am I witness to a new hobby of yours?”
Gabriel paused, his hand contracting on the doorknob. He schooled his features into a pleasant mask before turning to face her—and he nearly lost his composure. She had risen to her feet like a valkyrie, a war goddess. She would not have been out of place on a battlefield, wearing gleaming armor and carrying a blood-soaked sword. Miss Lydia Cecil’s eyes were weapons; that was the only way to describe the way they pierced through his every performance like a goddamn blade.
