Rosemary Rogers - Bride For A Night

And yet, his housekeeper had written several letters revealing that Talia had swiftly become a favorite among both his staff and tenants. Indeed, Mrs. Donaldson had gushed with monotonous enthusiasm for the newest Countess of Ashcombe, assuring him that Talia had settled nicely at the estate and revealed no desire whatsoever to return to London.

Or to her husband.

So the question was—what game was his bride playing now?

The more cynical side of him insisted that Talia was merely biding her time in an effort to lure him into complacency, and yet, he could not entirely believe such a simple explanation. His tenants might not be well educated, but they were keen judges of character. They would have sensed if Talia were merely pretending to care.

And yet, she could not possibly be utterly innocent. Could she?

Tapping a slender finger on the side table situated next to his chair, Gabriel grimly admitted that the only means to discover the truth was to travel to Carrick Park. Beneath his watchful gaze Talia would either reveal that she was truly her father’s daughter or she would prove she was as much a victim as Gabriel was to Silas Dobson’s ambitions.

Yes. His vague notion hardened to determination. He obviously had no choice but to leave London for Devonshire. In fact, there was no reason he could not begin the journey today.

Without warning a savage flare of anticipation clutched his stomach. An anticipation that had nothing to do with discovering the truth and everything to do with returning his beautiful bride to his bed.

Christ, he ached for her.

It was ludicrous. He could have his pick of beautiful, willing women. All of them eager to offer him endless hours of pleasure.

But night after night he had slept alone, plagued by the memories of his dark-haired gypsy.

A prickle on the back of his neck shook Gabriel out of his delectable thoughts of Talia spread across his bed, his hands tangled in her dark hair as he thrust deep into her satin heat.

He turned his head, preparing to flay the unwelcome intruder with a few well-chosen words, only to have them die on his lip.

Damn.

His gaze skimmed over the tall gentleman with a large, muscular body who was currently attired in a cinnamon jacket and tan waistcoat, black breeches and glossy boots. The nobleman’s light brown hair was cut shorter than the current fashion and his features were more forceful than handsome. And while his golden-brown eyes often simmered with amusement, they could also send any preening fop who hoped to garner his acquaintance fleeing in fear.

Hugo, Lord Rothwell.

And one of Gabriel’s few friends.

“Is there a particular reason you are hovering behind me like a vulture, Hugo?” he demanded wryly, knowing it would be a futile effort to try to convince his friend that he preferred to be alone.

Hugo narrowed his golden gaze, absently toying with the signet ring on his little finger.

“I am attempting to decide if I have the nerve so early in the day to beard the lion in his den. Or shall I wait until I am in my cups and therefore impervious to your foul mood?”

Gabriel pointedly turned his attention toward the dunces clustered about the room casting covert glances in his direction.

“My mood would not be foul if I were not surrounded by idiots,” he growled.

“Hmm.” With the ease of a natural sportsman, Hugo lowered his large body into the leather chair opposite Gabriel. “That would not be my first guess as to why you have been snapping and snarling at every unwitting soul who has crossed your path over the past month.”

“At least I have not yet taken to lodging bullets in those who annoy me,” he smoothly pointed out, “although that might change at any moment.”

Hugo smiled at the threat. “You do realize that you cannot keep society at bay forever? Eventually you will have to face their curiosity.”

“Society’s curiosity, or yours?”

“Both,” Hugo admitted. “But considering we have been friends since I bloodied your nose our first day at Eton I surely deserve to be the first to be taken into your confidence?”

Gabriel snorted. “First of all, I was the one to bloody your nose after you attempted to pinch my favorite cricket bat. And I have never known you to take an interest in gossip.”

“That is because the rumors have never before hinted that the proud and notoriously aloof Earl of Ashcombe has secretly wed the daughter of Silas Dobson.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened at the mention of his offensive father-in-law.

“Obviously not so secretively.”

“Is it true?”

There was a moment of silence before Gabriel gave a grudging nod of his head. “Yes.”

“Bloody hell,” Hugo muttered.

“My sentiments exactly.”

Hugo scowled at Gabriel’s dry retort. “I suppose I need not ask how this particular disaster occurred,” he rasped. “Only Harry could force you into such an untenable situation.”

Gabriel shrugged. Hugo had never bothered to hide his disgust for Harry and his reckless extravagances.

“He certainly can take a share of the blame,” he admitted.

“A share?” Hugo shook his head. “It is common knowledge that Harry jilted Miss Dobson after disappearing with her dowry. Typical of him.”

Gabriel ignored the stab of possessive outrage at the mere thought of Talia wed to his brother.

“Quite typical,” he agreed. “Which is why I should have foreseen the looming danger. I was a fool.”

Hugo breathed a low curse. “I will admit you were a fool, but only for allowing your guilt at Harry’s betrayal to trap you into a vile marriage.”

“Guilt?”

“Of course. Why else would you have wed the vulgar wench?”

Gabriel parted his lips to inform his friend that it hadn’t been guilt but rather sordid blackmail that had forced him into matrimony, but he swallowed the revealing words. It was not just embarrassment at having to admit he had been bested by Silas Dobson, but a disturbing suspicion that he was not being entirely honest with himself.

“My reasons do not concern you,” he snapped.

There was a pause before Hugo reluctantly turned the conversation.

“Have you managed to track down your brother?”

Gabriel shook his head. He had sent two of his most trusted footmen in search of Harry the moment he’d realized he was missing, but thus far they had been unable to discover anything more than the rumor his brother was seen heading toward Dover. “Not yet.”

“Bastard,” Hugo hissed.

“He cannot elude me forever.” Gabriel gave a sharp laugh. “Not that it truly matters now.”

“No, the damage has been done.” Hugo studied him for a long moment, seeming to consider his next words. “May I ask where you have stashed your blushing bride?”

Gabriel arched a brow. “Do you fear I’ve locked her in the wine cellar?”

“The rumor is that she has been whisked off to one of your estates, although I hold out hope that you had the good sense to drown her in the Thames.” Hugo’s lips twisted with a cruel humor. “Or at the very least had her transported to the colonies.”

Gabriel’s hand landed on the table with enough force to rattle his coffee cup and create a startled twitter of alarm that rippled through the room.

He ignored the disturbance, his gaze locked on his friend.

“This is my wife we are discussing.”

Hugo frowned, his jaw jutted to a stubborn angle. “Yes, a grasping, overly ambitious harpy who does not even have the decency to possess a hint of grace or beauty.”

Gabriel leaned forward, not giving a damn that his fury was entirely unreasonable.

“Not another word,” he warned.

Glancing toward Gabriel’s tightly clenched expression, Hugo jerkily settled back in his seat.