"Wear a gown that's had the bodice cut back," he requested. "Choose one that you might don for a garden party. Something flowing and casual. Your most feminine side needs to shine through."
"As you wish."
She'd never paid much attention to color or chic attire, and fancy gala dresses had never been her style, but her mind was already awhirl with thoughts of what she might find in her dressing room that would be suitable.
Furtively, she peeked down at her conservative brown day dress. It sheathed her from neck to wrist to toes, and what she'd long classified as functional now seemed dowdy and old-maidish. Perhaps a new wardrobe was in order.
"Until Friday, then," he said as if they were polite strangers.
"Until Friday," she echoed.
"Let me escort you to the house."
"No. I'll see myself out. I know the way."
He was about to argue, so she walked to the door, opened it, and briskly stepped through, pulling it shut behind. She wanted her departing reminiscence to be that of him sheltered in the midst of his sensual retreat.
On the stoop, having abandoned the hot, muggy air, and the sultry, foreign surroundings, she shivered. A cold, fat raindrop plopped on her forehead.
"Ah, reality returns," she groused, realizing that she muttered the phrase constantly,
reality
having become so untenable. Abruptly freezing, she sped across the yard and into the town house.
Even now, she was counting the minutes, counting the hours, until Friday afternoon.
Chapter Five
John Preston walked toward the receiving parlor where Mary Smith waited for Lady Elizabeth.
No doubt, Miss Smith was growing apprehensive about what precisely was transpiring between her friend and Gabriel. She'd been extremely reluctant to leave the lady to her own devices, and John had had to summon all his charm—a substantial amount—in order to ease her concerns as to her friend's decision to remain.
John was amazed, himself, by how freely the exalted noblewoman had agreed to privacy for her initial session. Despite his son's renowned way with women; Gabriel usually had to suffer through several appointments before his potential paramours were comfortable enough to meet
sans
a chaperone.
Surprisingly, Lady Elizabeth had seemed downright eager for solitude, but John wouldn't try to deduce what her early acquiescence might portend. He'd never comprehended women, their thinking or their motives, which meant that females had been the constant impetus for many of the snarls in which he'd become enmeshed.
A true gallant in the old-fashioned sense of the word, he was habitually plagued by their troubles, sucked into the middle of their trials and tribulations, and thus, he was perpetually besieged by the need to offer his services.
Women were the ultimate mystery which, of course, made them all the more fascinating. He'd rarely met one whom he didn't find to be incredibly appealing, except for that horse-faced shrew his father had demanded he marry when he'd been a mere boy of eighteen. Her nasty disposition, and her jarring nature, had grated ferociously.
Advanced age brought on reminiscence and, at the oddest times, he thought about that girl, and about the depressing episode that had followed his flippant renunciation of his planned betrothal.
His repudiation of his father's choice had been the supreme embarrassment to his family, the final straw, causing an irreparable rift that had left him penniless, adrift, and separated from all that was familiar and cherished.
After being threatened with poverty, then disinherited, he'd cut a swath through society that still had some elder members of the quality clucking their hypocritical, puritanical tongues over his antics: the liaisons he'd instigated, the duels he'd fought, the money he'd won and lost through gambling and vice.
Eventually, he'd fled to the Continent, chased out of England by creditors, the law, and a few irate husbands. As one of the scores of destitute, expatriated boys of the British aristocracy who traipsed around Europe with nothing to do and no visible means of support, he'd withstood hardship and disaster.
Yet, if he'd never traveled to Italy, he'd never have met Selena, Gabriel's mother. He'd never have fallen madly in love, would never have risked all to be with her, would never have sired his charismatic, gifted, dynamic son.
Life was a series of trade-offs. His misfortunes had led him to Selena, so he wasn't sorry for any of what had happened, though he did worry about the lingering effect events had had on Gabriel.
His son was the product of two noble houses—one in Italy, one in England—yet neither would claim him due to the fact that John could never have wed Selena. She'd already been married to another.
No relative from either family had ever met Gabriel, which was exactly how John wanted it, a petty revenge he wasn't beyond inflicting. As far as he was aware, none of the patriarchal men of his generation—on either side—had begotten an heir. His three older brothers were in their fifties and sixties, their wives childless. Selena's brothers' wives were proving equally infertile. Gabriel was the only boy birthed to any of them, yet he was a shameful love child, conceived in the worst possible scandal, the appalling circumstances of his procreation ensuring that any genealogical relationship had to be hastily and permanently denied.
Which meant that they could all go hang. They viewed Gabriel—his marvelous, talented, extraordinary boy—as merely a further example of how John's bad judgment and unrestrained comportment had ruined his life, when he didn't feel that his life had been
ruined
at all.
He'd known love and bliss to an extent few ever encountered, he'd endured turbulent, buffeting trauma, he'd survived Selena's heinous death—a depraved murder by her villainous male relatives—and had managed to carry on. Just himself and Gabriel against the world. He had no regrets, though he wouldn't have objected to having more money for the journey. A notable infusion of cash would have smoothed the ups and downs considerably. His affairs would have been easier to arrange, and Gabriel wouldn't be so set on increasing their finances through any disreputable method.
While Gabriel contended that he persisted in his devious schemes simply because he relished a good swindle, his conduct was more complicated man that His cunning son practiced his treacherous techniques on lonely, gullible women, working to gain what he believed was fiscal reparation owed to John as compensation for what he'd been through.
Gabriel was well versed in every squalid detail of John's infamous slide to perdition, and he perceived every former slight as a wrong that needed to be righted.
As a young man, John's foes had painted him with a sordid brush, and their memories were protracted and vicious. Some of the scorn that had been heaped upon him was deserved. Some not He now lived peacefully, out of the public eye, and he did naught to alter those sporadic opinions that surfaced since his unobtrusive return to England two years earlier.
The convictions of others no longer mattered to him, but the snubs and censure continued to vex Gabriel. Gabriel couldn't let it go, but then he'd been refused much— wealth, status, material comforts—that might have legitimately been his but for his notorious parentage, so perhaps he had reason to be bitter.
Yet his rancor was misplaced. He was bound and determined to exact recompense for the affronts that had been visited upon John, even though John bluntly proclaimed that he'd provoked much of his own adversity. In defiance of how John insisted that he didn't require such dubious assistance, Gabriel persevered, and John ended up helping him in his various intrigues, the one currently in progress being an excellent example.
He stepped to the parlor door and unobtrusively peeked at his guest. She was nervous, furtively glancing at her timepiece, patently fretting over Lady Elizabeth's whereabouts.
His job, if one could call it that, was to entertain her, to take her mind off her companion. It wouldn't do to have her scurrying home, telling tales. Especially not when the current mark was Elizabeth Harcourt, daughter of his old nemesis, Findley Harcourt, Earl of Norwich.
Norwich was an ass, a selfish prig, an arrogant, pompous stuffed shirt, who had seriously mistreated his first wife—Lady Elizabeth's mother, Pamela. John had stood as her friend, and on one propitious occasion had even given Findley a sound thrashing for the egregious sins he'd committed against her.
Findley hadn't changed; evidence his failure to find Elizabeth a husband. For Findley's own purposes, she'd been exploited and used, so she could only benefit from an acquaintance with Gabriel, but they couldn't have Mary Smith spoiling the ruse before it had a chance to get off the ground.
He had honed his ability for flirtation and dalliance at the grandest courts of Europe, and he was a master at distraction. Gracefully, he waltzed into the room, tugging at his cuffs. He'd oft been told that he could charm the bark off a tree, which was near to the truth.
"Miss Smith," he gushed, "welcome back."
"Hello, Mr. Preston." She started to stand, but he waved her down.
"Don't you dare rise, my dear." He crossed to her, then he bowed attentively, kissing her hand, holding on to it much longer than was proper. "How enchanting to see you again so soon."
"And you, as well."
Momentarily, he paused to bestow a close-up, winning smile, designed to disarm and appease, but as his gaze locked with hers, he was the one caught off guard.
His breathing arrested, his heartbeat accelerated, and it dawned on him that he was feeling sexual desire. For pleasant, striking Mary Smith! A woman with whom he'd only been acquainted for three hours!
It had been so long since a woman had physically bewitched him that he barely remembered what attraction felt like. How incredible!
With that silvered blond hair, and that rounded, voluptuous figure, she really was stunning. Clearly, she'd once been a beauty, and she still was; an uncommon woman who had matured well and who wore her age with refinement and dignity.
She had the most exceptional blue eyes, a deep azure that was positively mesmerizing, and they evinced a perception that seemed ancient and wise. They were eyes that had seen the best and worst in life, and for the briefest instant, he imagined that he'd miraculously blundered onto a kindred spirit, someone who'd suffered and grieved, but who'd kept on, just as he had done.
Which was nonsense. After the tragedy his recklessness had launched with Selena, he never permitted himself to indulge in any fantasies involving romantic drivel. Such rubbish eventually led to heartache and disaster.
"Forgive me for staring." He gauchely stumbled over himself, still clutching her hand, and he forced himself to drop it, then eased himself into the chair that was positioned directly across from her.
"That's quite all right." She politely covered his lapse of manners, but she was assessing him much as he was scrutinizing her. Apparently, she'd felt some of the same odd sensation that had just swept over him.
Desire, too? Could it be? She appeared perplexed and confused by the prospect.
"I'm early," she mentioned.
"So we have the perfect opportunity to chat."
"Actually, Mr. Preston—"
"John, please." He interrupted her, absurdly overcome by the necessity of hearing his name on her lips.
She hesitated, not overly comfortable with the ramifications of familiarity, but then she courteously tipped her head. "As you wish ... John."
When she didn't suggest reciprocal informality, he couldn't stop himself from requesting, "May I call you Mary?"
Once again, she studied him, but as there was nothing untoward in his entreaty, she acquiesced. "I guess that would be acceptable."
"Good, good," he inanely replied.
What was it about the woman? Her presence had him thoroughly tongue-tied!
An awkward silence ensued, as they gawked and evaluated each other. Finally, Mary broke the bumbling contact. "Do you think Lady Elizabeth will be long?"
"No, I'm sure they're almost done." Shifting on his seat, he was dazed to recognize that his trousers were unaccountably tight. He was becoming aroused! Just by being near her! He exhaled very slowly. "For all of Mr. Cristofore's eccentric proclivities, he does keep to his schedule. I harp at him about it."
"So the session should conclude on time?"
"Right at four," he promised, which was likely a lie. "Would you care to see how they're coming along?" He extended the invitation even though he had no intention of letting her anywhere near the studio.
Although it was only Lady Elizabeth's initial consultation, there was no telling what one might stumble across in the sensually appointed cottage. After all, she was a beautiful, enchanting woman, and Gabriel a handsome, virile man. They'd been sequestered for almost three hours; anything could have occurred.
He wouldn't allow Mary Smith within rock-throwing distance.
On cue, the maid entered, bearing a tea tray. She set it down on a table, then departed, shutting the door.
"It's such a dreary afternoon," he noted. "Let's warm up first, shall we?" Prudently evading his prior allusion that he would squire her outside, he proceeded to prepare a cup of tea to Mary's specifications.
As he extended it, their fingers touched, their gazes linked, once more, and he was visually trapped, held fast by her astute appraisal. The fire crackled in the grate, an icy rain pinged at the window, and he could have lingered forever in the cozy salon, watching her, and having her keen regard flit over him.
She broke off the connection, settling herself further onto the sofa, and sipping the hot beverage. Confounding him, she quietly said, "Is there some reason you don't want me to visit Mr. Cristofore's studio?"
He jerked upright. '*Why wouldn't I?"
"You tell me."
"If you're worried about Mr. Cristofore's intentions toward Lady Elizabeth, I can assure you that—"
"He's your son, isn't he?" she interposed. "Why do the two of you pretend no relation?"
How did she fathom so blasted much?
He stammered and stuttered but couldn't respond coherently. There was no simplistic explanation for his and Gabriel's sustaining affection for Selena, or for Gabriel’s need to honor her memory. They both held themselves responsible for her untimely demise. John, because he'd whisked her away from a desperate predicament, thus enraging her volatile male family members. Gabriel, because he'd been born, his very existence the precipitating cause of her slaying.
Mary scowled, the elemental gesture spurring him to silence.
"Your paternity is so blatant," she said. "Don't insult my intelligence by disputing it."
As she stared him down, he felt stupid. There was no point in defending the undefendable. The woman was no fool.