A Regency Gentleman's Passion: Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy / A Not So Respectable Gentleman?. Diane GastonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Lord Tranville would certainly foil any chances Gabe possessed.
Gabe approached the door of the dining room. The Stephen’s Hotel was a popular place to dine and almost like a club for officers who could not gain admittance to White’s or Brooks’s.
No sooner had Gabe entered the dining room than he was hailed by the three officers who accosted Emmaline. They waved him over to sit with them. Gabe shrugged. They’d done her no real harm, nothing any man with a little drink would not have done when encountering a beautiful, unaccompanied woman. Besides, it would be advantageous for him not to be alone with his own thoughts.
“We are making a wager,” Irishman said, “with Webberly’s timepiece—how many minutes until the fried soles are served? Are you in?”
“I never wager.” Gabe lowered himself into a chair.
Hanson immediately poured Gabe a glass of wine. “There’s the pity of it. We could have a game of whist after dinner if you were a gambling man.”
Gabe scanned the room. “I trust someone here would accept.”
Irishman drummed his fingers on the table. “We sat down not more than ten minutes ago, and the servant brought the wine immediately—”
“And thereby earned my eternal gratitude,” interrupted Webberly.
Irishman went on. “So, I estimate it should be another ten minutes at least,”
“I wagered another twenty minutes,” Hanson said.
Webberly lifted a finger. “And I, fifteen.”
Unimaginative lot, thought Gabe. They all bet in equal segments. Likely the food would come on some other point of the clock, like eight minutes or thirteen.
At that moment the soup arrived and they fell silent, except for some audible slurping. No sooner were they done with the soup than the fried sole was served.
Irishman jostled Webberly. “How much time? What does your timepiece say?”
Webberly picked up the gold watch from the table and pressed the button to open it. “What time did the wager start?”
His two friends looked at him blankly and all three burst into laughter.
Irishman lifted his glass of wine. ‘“The better the gambler, the worse the man!”’ A quotation by Publius Syrus, Gabe recalled from his school days.
“Then we are the best of men.” Webberly took a gulp from his wine glass.
Their dinner conversation drifted into more serious matters, such as who among their acquaintance had found commissions, who was still looking, and who might become desperate enough to accept a place in the West Indies.
The conversation was not enough to keep Gabe from being haunted by the memory of Emmaline’s desolate expression when he sent her away. He pushed around slices of scalloped potatoes and finally jabbed at his fried sole.
There was only one way to exorcise himself of her image. Do as she wished. Find Edwin, warn him, and be done with it.
In the morning he’d visit the Home Office, perform this one more service for her, and maybe purge her from his mind for ever after.
The next morning Gabe set out early, planning to walk the distance to the Home Office because the weather was so fine and the exercise would calm him.
He turned on to Bond Street. And saw Emmaline.
She walked towards him with a determined, yet graceful step, and he disliked that her mere appearance affected him so strongly. This day she wore pale lavender and the mere hue of her clothing brought back to him the lavender scent from the lace shop, the scent that always wafted around her.
She, too, caught sight of him. As she drew nearer, her pace remained carefully even.
“Good morning, Gabriel,” she murmured when they were in earshot. She looked directly into his eyes.
“I am surprised to see you, Emmaline.” She appeared to be walking back to Stephen’s Hotel to seek him out again.
Gabe had not expected or intended to lay eyes on her again. After warning Edwin, he’d planned to write her a letter and have it delivered to her hotel.
“I still have hopes to convince you to help me.” She lowered her gaze. “May I have a moment of your time to speak to you?” She spoke so carefully, so hesitantly.
He paused. “Walk with me.”
They walked in silence, crossing Piccadilly and making their way towards Green Park.
“I have a new proposal to present to you,” she said to him, breathless from keeping up with his long strides. “Could we not stop so I may tell you of it?”
What would she offer now? More money? Or merely play upon his obvious regard for her? He did not wish to hear more from her.
Still, he seemed unable to refuse. “We will stop in the Park.”
They could cross through Green Park to reach the Home Office. There would be benches there where they might sit, where she could catch her breath and spill out this new proposal he had no wish to hear.
The Park was fragrant with blooming flowers and the scent of leafy trees and sprouting grass. Warm breezes whispered through the shrubbery, and Gabe for a moment was transported back to the Parc de Brussels where he and Emmaline had strolled in happier days.
They came upon a bench and he gestured for her to sit. “Say what you need to say.”
She lowered herself on to the bench and looked disconcerted when he remained standing. Her hand fluttered to her face. “How to begin …”
Gabe gazed through the trees, his insides seared by memories and false hopes.
She fingered the front of her dress. “You once seemed to have a regard for me, is that not so, Gabriel?”
“Once.” He refused to admit more.
“We did well together, non?” She smiled, but her lips trembled.
He merely stared at her.
“You proposed marriage to me, non?”
He still did not speak, not knowing where she was leading, surmising it would cause him pain.
She took a breath. “I will marry you now, Gabriel.” She waved a hand. “If—if you help me find Claude and stop him from doing this terrible act, I will marry you and go wherever you wish and do whatever you say.” She made a quick, decisive nod, as if convincing herself that she could indeed perform such a distasteful task.
Gabe gaped at her. “Marry me? What of Claude, then? Will he cease to despise me if I stop him from what he wishes to do?”
A great sadness filled her eyes, but her chin lifted in determination. “He will probably hate you the more for it, but that cannot be as important as him being alive. It is better for Claude to live and have a chance for happiness, even if he chooses to exclude me from his life.”
Her son’s life. To save it, she’d agree to anything. Even to marry Gabe.
It felt as if she had now twisted the knife she’d plunged into his chest two years before. Did she think he wanted her to give up the most important part of her life for him?
When he’d proposed to her in Brussels, he’d meant their marriage to be a pledge of love and fidelity between them, not a contest between him and Claude. You win, Gabriel. I’ll marry you. That had not been what Gabe meant about wanting to win her hand. Possession of her company was not the prize, winning her away from her son was not victory. Spending his days and nights with her, sharing their dreams together, that was the prize, much more valuable. Gabe wanted to grow old with Emmaline, but not at the expense of her attachment to her son. What kind of man did she think he was?
She