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Draining his third glass of ale, Gabriel shoved away from the small table set in the middle of the private parlor and strolled to glance out the window overlooking the stable yard. He barely noted the grooms bustling about their business or the stray dogs who skulked among the shadows, lured by the scents drifting from the kitchen. Instead his mind was filled with a pair of emerald green eyes and a tender, rosebud mouth.
Dammit.
He was in this godforsaken inn to forget the deceitful witch, not to be haunted by the vulnerability he had briefly glimpsed in her eyes or to dwell on the temptation of her lush curves. In a few hours she would be whisked off to Devonshire, and he could pretend that the wedding was nothing more than a horrid nightmare.
Draining yet another mug of ale, Gabriel found himself recalling precisely how the rose silk of Talia’s gown had skimmed her curves and the way her string of pearls had gleamed against her ivory skin.
Was she seated in the formal dining room, savoring her new position as Countess of Ashcombe in isolated glory? Or was she hidden in her rooms, already regretting the choice to force him down the aisle?
Either image should have disgusted him.
Instead his blood heated at the thought of removing her soft rose gown and devoting the entire night to exploring the satin skin beneath.
And why should he not?
The question teased at his crumbling resolve.
It was his wedding night, was it not?
And since it was increasingly obvious that he couldn’t rid her from his mind, why should he be driven from his home and forced to endure the dubious comforts of this damnable inn? He should be in his own chambers, enjoying his own fire and fine brandy. And when he decided the time was ripe, he would enjoy the pleasure of his warm, delectable wife.
After all, he would be a fool not to take advantage of the one and only benefit of their unholy union.
And besides, the voice of the devil whispered in his ear, they weren’t truly married until they consummated their vows.
He would not put it past the nasty Dobson to insist on proof his daughter had been stripped of her innocence.
Watching the sun slide slowly toward the distant horizon, Gabriel at last slammed his empty mug on the table and headed for the nearby door.
Enough, by God.
Talia would soon be on her way to Devonshire. Until she was gone, there was no reason he should not sate the unwelcome desire she had stirred to life.
Refusing to consider the knowledge that for the first time since taking on the heavy duties of Earl of Ashcombe he was tossing aside his commonsense on a mere whim, Gabriel left the posting inn and headed back to London with fervid speed.
For all his haste, however, night had fully descended by the time he reached the city. He cursed at the elegant carriages that jammed the cobblestone streets and the hordes of drunken bucks who spilled along the walkways. It seemed that all of society had descended upon Mayfair, making it all but impossible to reach his townhouse.
At last he entered the alley that led to his private mews and, leaving his horse in the care of a uniformed groom, Gabriel used the back entrance to enter his house and make his way to the upper chambers.
He moved with a silence that ensured he would not disturb the servants. He had no desire to announce his return. These few hours of madness would be forgotten the moment dawn arrived.
Reaching his rooms, he wrestled out of his clothing without the assistance of his valet and pulled on a richly embroidered robe over his already aroused body. Then, ignoring the fact he was behaving more like a common thief than the Earl of Ashcombe, he snuffed out the candles and glided through the dark corridors to the blue chambers.
Silently he pressed open Talia’s door, a smile of anticipation curving his lips at the knowledge she hadn’t turned the lock.
Resignation or invitation?
There was only one way to discover.
Stepping over the threshold, Gabriel closed the door and leaned against the wooden panels, covertly turning the key. At the same moment his gaze skimmed over the pretty rosewood furnishings, his heart slamming against his ribs as a slender form slowly rose from the window seat across the room.
He should have been amused. Or perhaps horrified.
At some point in the evening she had removed the wedding dress and replaced it with a ghastly monstrosity that he assumed was a nightgown. Christ. For a gentleman accustomed to females who understood a man enjoyed being teased and tantalized in the boudoir, he had never seen anything that resembled the yards and yards of white linen that swathed Talia from her chin to her toes. It looked like a funeral shroud. And to make matters worse, there were bows and ruffles and what looked to be a hundred buttons that ran from top to bottom.
How the devil any woman could sleep in the ridiculous garment defied his imagination.
But far from repulsed by her appearance, Gabriel’s fingers twitched with the urge to slowly untangle her from the mounds of linen, slowly unveiling her voluptuous body.
What could be more enticing than unwrapping her as if she were a long-awaited gift?
He would lay her on the bed and explore every inch of her satin skin. First with his hands and then with his lips. And only when she was begging for release would he enter her and quench his aching need.
As if sensing his lecherous thoughts, Talia pressed a trembling hand to her throat. Her dark curls tumbled about her shoulders, and her emerald eyes were wide with shock.
Gabriel felt a momentary hesitation.
Hell, she looked so damned innocent.
“My lord,” she breathed.
Annoyed by the brief stab of conscience, Gabriel grimly reminded himself that this female had been willing to become a sacrificial virgin to the highest title. He had held up his side of the bargain, it was time that she do the same.
A sardonic smile curved his lips as he pushed from the door and glided forward.
“Ah, my obedient bride.”
Talia licked her lips. “What are you doing here?”
“Surely you cannot be surprised?” He circled around her stiff form, his hunter instinct fully aroused. “This is our wedding night.”
“Yes, but…” She trembled as his fingers brushed her cheek. “I did not expect you.”
“Obviously.” He stopped directly before her and lowered his hand to tug at the ribbon of her hideous robe. “Or did you choose this garment in the hopes it would send me fleeing in terror?”
“There is nothing wrong with my robe.” Her husky voice brushed over his skin like a caress. “It is perfectly respectable.”
Untangling the last of the ribbons, Gabriel turned his attention to the endless row of buttons.
“It at least answers one of my questions.”
The sound of her jagged breath was the only indication that she was aware he was disrobing her, and Gabriel couldn’t halt a renegade flare of admiration as she faced him with a fragile dignity. “What question?”
His heart missed a beat as his fingers brushed the soft mound of her breast.
“Whether or not you are a virgin,” he said, his voice oddly thick. “No female of experience would wear a garment that resembles a funeral shroud rather than a gown that enhances her natural…assets.”
Her eyes flashed. “If you have come here to insult me…”
“You know why I am here.”
Her brief display of temper faltered at his stark words. He felt her quiver beneath his hands, her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
“But you do not want me as your wife,” she said huskily.
He swallowed his sharp laugh. She truly was naïve if she thought this night had anything to do with wanting her as a wife.
A biting need raced through him, and with a sharp motion he grasped the fabric of her robe and yanked it apart. He heard her gasp of shock as the remaining buttons scattered in a shower of impatience.
“And yet, here you are in my home, the Countess of Ashcombe,” he rasped, his arousal heavy with desire as he parted the torn fabric to at last reveal the soft ivory curves.
Bloody hell. She was as perfect as he had imagined.
He tugged off the offensive robe, his hands lightly skimming over her narrow shoulders and down the delicate line of her collarbone. His blood sizzled as his gaze slid over the breasts that were full and tipped with nipples the color of ripe berries begging for his lips. Slowly, his attention lowered to her narrow waist that flared to feminine hips. Then, as his gaze reached the dark thatch of hair cradled between her legs, his fragile control snapped.
With a growl, he scooped her off her feet and headed across the room to the shadowed bedroom beyond.
“My lord,” she breathed, her eyes wide with a combination of fear and an excitement she could not entirely disguise. “Why are you doing this?”
Gabriel felt a flare of triumph in the knowledge he was not alone in this ruthless awareness. Lowering his head, he claimed her mouth in a possessive kiss.
“I have no choice,” he muttered against her lips.
She shivered beneath his touch, her hands grasping the lapels of his robe. “Have you been drinking?”
“Dutch courage.”
She hissed, as if he’d slapped her. “If I am so repulsive that you need to become drunk to approach me, then why are you doing this?”
Repulsive? He was damn well enchanted.
His gut twisted as he lowered her on the bed. He was arrested by the sight of Talia stretched across the satin cover. In the silvery moonlight she appeared a creature of mist and magic. An elusive wood sprite that had strayed into London and might disappear in a puff of smoke.
He growled low in his throat, his savage hunger nearly overwhelming.
Not that he was about to admit as much to the woman. The thought of her holding power over him was enough to make his teeth clench.
“Because I will not be accused of not having consummated this absurd union,” he growled. “No doubt Silas Dobson intends to arrive on my doorstep in the morning demanding to be shown proof of your deflowering.”
She frowned in wary confusion. “Proof? I…” A sudden heat flooded her cheeks as she realized he was speaking of the ancient tradition of checking the marriage sheets for the spilled blood of her virginity. “Oh.”
The bewildered innocence was all that was needed to complete her sensual spell, and with a muttered curse, Gabriel shrugged out of his robe and joined Talia on the bed, wrapping an arm around her shivering body before she could escape.
“Maidenly blushes,” he whispered, his fingers stroking over her cheek. “Astonishing.”
Her dark curls spread across the blue and ivory cover like a spill of ebony silk, her eyes shimmering like emeralds in the moonlight.
“I assure you that my father is satisfied we are wed,” she said in a breathless rush, her hands fluttering to land against his chest. “He will not be demanding proof.”
Gabriel buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing deeply of her sweet scent. She smelled of soap and starch and purity.
A wondrously erotic combination.
“You expect me to take your word?” he demanded. “The word of a Dobson?”
“I am no longer a Dobson.”
He jerked back, his commonsense telling him that he should be infuriated by her words, not… Satisfied.
Crushing the disturbing sensation, Gabriel regarded his wife with a brooding intensity. His fingers outlined the trembling softness of her lips.
“It requires more than a signature on a piece of paper to become an Ashcombe.”
Her breath rasped through the room. “My lord.”
“Gabriel.”
She blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“You will call me Gabriel, not my lord,” he commanded, uncertain why he was determined to hear his name on her lips.
“Gabriel,” she murmured, her eyes wide. “I am not certain this is a sound notion.”
With a groan he lowered his head to stroke his lips over her wide brow before trailing down the line of her delicate nose.
“Neither am I, but I will admit it grows more appealing by the moment.”
She quivered. “Dear heavens.”
“Talia.” He used his thumb to part her lips, allowing himself a too-brief taste of her innocence. “An unusual name. Surely not your father’s choice?”
Her nails dug into the bare skin of his chest but not in protest. Gabriel could feel the race of her heart and catch the scent of her arousal.
She might be inexperienced, but her body was already softening against him in silent invitation.
“I was named for my mother’s mother,” she said, the words distracted as his lips trailed over her cheek, pausing to nuzzle the corner of her mouth.
“A gypsy?”
She tensed at the question. “Does it matter?”
“Not at the moment.” He allowed his hands to explore the smooth curve of her neck before at last moving to cup the glorious weight of one berry-tipped breast. He moaned deep in his throat. Hell, he was on the point of explosion from the mere feel of her. “You are so lush and yet so delicate. Like a Dresden figurine.”
“I am…” Her words trailed away as he gently rolled the tip of her nipple between his fingers.
“Yes?” he prompted, kissing a path down her throat.
“I am uncertain what to do,” she at last managed to confess.
