Page 12 of His Forgotten Bride
“My apologies, Mrs. Hotchkiss,” he said at last, his voice tinged with weariness and annoyance. “I would remind you, however, that I prefer to be left alone while in the grip of a migraine.”
Claire shoved herself out of her chair. “Forgive me for being concerned for your well-being,” she snapped. “You may be certain that I won’t bother in the future.”
“Wait,” he sighed, shoving himself upright as she stalked toward the door. “I beg your pardon. That was unforgivably rude of me.”
“Yes,” she said crisply. “It was.” She was still stinging with embarrassment, with shame. She didn’t requirehiscensure as well as her own.
“Idoapologize,” he said. “I was…dreaming. I’m afraid I mistook you for someone else.” He blinked in the scant moonlight that trickled in through the window. “It seems to have grown quite late,” he said inanely. “How long have I been out?”
“Nearly seven hours,” she said.
“Seven hours?” he inquired. “Then it must be—”
“It’s nearing midnight.”
“Christ.” He dragged his hands through his hair. “And you—have you been at my bedside all this time?”
She hesitated. “Your staff believes that such a collapse is a normal occurrence. I’m afraid I am unaccustomed to it.” She took a step nearer the door. “I suggested we call for a doctor.”
“No doctors.” It was a flat, unemotional command. “I’ve had enough of them to last a lifetime.” He cast off the bedcovers, then seemed to realize that he was dressed only in his small clothes, and as she averted her eyes, he drew the counterpane once more over his lap in deference to her presence. “Mrs. Cartwrighthasinstructed you on the necessity of discretion, has she not?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am not a gossip, sir.” She paused, uncertain. “Shall I—will you be wanting something to eat?”
He scrubbed his hands over his face, looking as though he hadn’t slept in weeks, despite the fact that he’d just woken from what amounted to a full night’s sleep. “Yes,” he said. “Tea. And gingerbread.”
“Gingerbread?” She heard her voice tremble over the word, half-horrified.
“Gingerbread,” he said firmly, resolutely, and there was some hidden meaning in the word known only to himself.
Chapter Seven
“If you eat that,” Westwood said, nodding to indicate the freshly-baked loaf of gingerbread that had been delivered by one of the maids, “will I have to pry you off the floor again?”
Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Doubtful,” he said. “It’s been three weeks, and I haven’t—” He snapped his mouth closed, wondering what it was about Westwood that induced him to speak of things he’d rather not. He didn’t evenlikethe man.
“Haven’t what?” Westwood inquired. “Had another episode?”
Gabriel sipped his whisky in silence.
“Do you know what I think?” Westwood asked.
“I’m sure I don’t care, and I’m equally sure you’ll tell me anyway,” Gabriel drawled.
“I think,” Westwood said, heedless of Gabriel’s insult, “that the reason you keep admitting me is because you don’t have any other friends.”
“I have friends,” Gabriel said, and it had, at one point, been true.
“You don’t,” Westwood said, filching a bit of gingerbread from the plate. “Youusedto,” he said. “I’ve asked around about it, and there’s no one willing to claim you. Seems you underwent a rapid change some years ago and became”—he gestured with his hand, indicating Gabriel—“this. Leighton, the unrepentant arse.”
Gabriel pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, exhaling. The worst part of Westwood’s supposition was that he was notwrong. Hehadbecome an arse. Most days he could barely tolerate people at all. For so long he’d felt like half a person, and he’d by turns envied and loathed thewholenessof his contemporaries. Westwood, especially, had borne the brunt of his unkindness. He’d couched his dislike for the man in contempt for his profligate, feckless tendencies, in the way society forgave him his foibles, but that had been only half-true. Westwood had led a remarkably charmed life—even when he’d been forced into marriage with a nobody of a woman, the man had come out the other side of it deeply in love with his wife and happier for it. Gabriel especially envied him that happiness. He could not recall a time when he had felt it himself.
“I didn’tinviteyou,” Gabriel said at last. “You’re free to leave if you find my company so objectionable.”
Westwood laughed. “I didn’t say I found you objectionable,” he said. “Only that you’re an arse. Poppy calls me an arse at least twice a week, so I suppose you’re in good company there. This gingerbread is actually quite good,” he added absently, snatching up another slice.
“If it will get you to leave sooner, I’ll have my kitchen staff provide yours with the recipe,” Gabriel snapped.
Westwood chuckled again, as if Gabriel had told a great joke. “No,” he said. “I’m happy to stop by for some every once in a while. Perhaps I’ll bring my wife one of these days.”
