Page 8 of A Bride By Morning
“You shouldn’t throw about wild accusations, Miss Cecil,” he said, a touch reproachfully. He needed to get out of that fucking room before he did something idiotic, like kiss her. “Coningsby is occupied with his guests and asked that I review the details of a business transaction we plan to discuss.”
Lydia edged around the divan, her movements almost languid now. Gabriel couldn’t help but stare. Where the hell had she learned to walk like that? If she were the Valkyrie, she would be staring at him across a field of bodies with a victorious grin. This was a creature designed to tempt a damaged man like him.
“Strange,” she murmured, trailing her fingertip across the divan’s upholstery. Gabriel found himself riveted by the movement, by the thought of her soft hands hidden beneath those silk gloves. He wished they’d touched him everywhere back in Surrey. Now he only had memories of longing. “To discuss business in the middle of a ball when an appointment would have suited better. Are you lying to me,Lord Montgomery?”
Gabriel dropped his hand from the doorknob as surprise flared through him. Perhaps Wentworth was right: maybe he was going soft in his failing retirement, losing his skill. That irritated him. If Medvedev really were still alive, Gabriel would need every talent he possessed. “I wasn’t aware you were an expert in trade, Miss Cecil,” he said impatiently. “If you’re so eager to participate in investments, you ought to say so. I’ll let Coningsby know.”
“I’m not an expert in trade, no,” she said, coming closer. Like a tide licking at his boots, her movements were slow and inexorable. And he, for some ludicrous, incomprehensible reason, was rooted to the floor. “I am, however, very well acquainted with liars.”
Yes, she was a current dragging him into dark water, confusing his every thought. He’d believed himself so skilled before, so utterly confident in his ability to charm. He ought to have recalled that Lydia Cecil did not excel at social niceties; her reputation for iciness was, in truth, a particular brand of honesty his peers neglected to give the respect it deserved. Gabriel missed it during his years away.
Now she wielded that candor like a pistol. But Gabriel had learned that lies were his weapon. They were evenly matched: her honesty and his falsehoods. “Is it that you’re very well acquainted with liars,” he said, gentling his voice, “or that you have a particular interest in hating me, specifically?”
Her expression contracted, and an echoing ache stirred in Gabriel’s chest: that guilt he’d tried to bury with the same depth as a grave. Over the years, killing had taken so many emotions out of him; he’d need to fight or fuck to feel alive again. But that guilt? That was his one constant. Lydia was Gabriel's burden—a curse of a girl, the responsibility of what he did to her infesting him like rot.
Lydia’s eyes met his, and that piercing stare threatened his calm. She had irises the dark gold of aged whiskey, like the shadowed flicker of flames in the darkness.
“I don’t hate you,” she said. And then she stepped closer and surprised Gabriel by setting her palm to his chest. Then, she repeated in a whisper, “I don’t hate you.”
A spark flared inside him at the barest touch of her hand. He marveled at the gentle pressure, how it created hairline fractures through the solid wall of ice within his bloodstream. When he came home to England, the memories of his missions had taken up violent residence in his mind. And the only thing he did to forget—to melt the ice, to feel something,anything—was to either seek out a fight or find a woman willing to let him fuck her in the way of an animal seeking release. He’d finish, and the barricades of ice would freeze over again all too soon. They would construct themselves stronger than ever.
And all Lydia had done was lay one hand on him—covered over between layers of clothing—and every part of him went motionless. Gabriel had some wild urge to tear off her glove. Press her warmth to his face. Breathe in the scent of her. Let her fracture more of the lacuna of ice that had taken up so much space that there was no room left inside him for a soul.
But then her hand moved. Before Gabriel could judge her intentions, her fingers slipped inside his coat, grasped his little notebook, and plucked it out. She held it up. “And if I look in this book, what will I find?”
Gabriel’s jaw clenched. “I don’t recall you being this brazen.”
“I don’t recall you being such a cad, so I suppose we’re both disappointed.” Lydia opened the cover.
“Lydia,” he said in a warning tone.
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “So I amLydianow, am I?”
“Better I call you by your name than all the other words I’m thinking,” he muttered. He extended his hand. “Give it over.”
“No.” Then she flipped the pages and read. Her brow creased in puzzlement as she skimmed a few sentences and then snapped the book shut. She leaned forward and pressed the item into his hand. As her fingers brushed against his, her dark whiskey eyes rose. “Business notes for a casual discussion do not need to be written in code, I should think. But as you said, I’m not an expert in trade. Only in lies.” She released the book and reached past him for the doorknob. “And yours have occupied my mind for years.”
She left the study.
And the wall of ice within Gabriel’s body retained every small fracture she’d torn loose.
4
Lydia’s visit with Caroline Stafford, the Duchess of Hastings, was a reprieve from the turmoil of the previous evening. She’d spent the entire day rolling what happened in Lord Coningsby’s study over in her mind.
Lady Derby had remarked on Lydia’s distraction at breakfast and peppered her with questions. Lydia replied that she was unwell, an excuse as effective as using whiskey to douse a fire. Lady Derby fretted over Lydia’s temperature and pale skin, suggesting the need to summon a doctor. Lydia managed to escape the house by insisting that she had an appointment she couldn’t postpone.
On the way to Caroline’s, Lydia puzzled over the symbols she’d seen in Gabriel’s book. His brusque handwriting was challenging enough to read, but without a cipher, its message remained lost to Lydia. Was Lord Coningsby involved, somehow, in Gabriel’s work for the diplomatic service? And if so, then why had Gabriel covertly gone through his belongings?
So many questions rattled around in Lydia’s thoughts. Worse: Gabriel’s proximity in that study had dislodged far too many memories and feelings she had sought to bury. All those nights spent crying into her pillow slammed into her with the intensity of a tidal wave. The grief and longing had not dulled with time; they pricked at her like a thousand tiny thorns.
There was a certain stupidity in feelings; they were not ruled by logic. If they were, Lydia wouldn’t permit Gabriel to occupy another moment of her day.
She would never allow herself to miss him.
“You’re quiet this afternoon,” Caroline said, jarring Lydia from her reverie. “Is something the matter?”
Lydia shook her head. She felt compelled to explain, no matter how flimsy the justification. “I’m just out of sorts.”
