Yours Until Dawn (16 page)

“Oh, nothing,” Samantha replied hastily. “It’s just Peter going on about some nonsense.”

“It’s not Peter, it’s Phillip,” Gabriel pointed out.

“How can you tell?” She sounded genuinely amazed that he could distinguish one twin from the other.

“Peter favors only a touch of rose water in his daily toilette while Phillip douses himself in the stuff in the hopes that young Elsie will take notice of him. And I don’t need my sight to tell me he’s probably as pink as a peony right now. What have you got there, lad?” he asked, addressing the boy directly.

“Nothing of any concern to you, my lord,” Samantha assured him. “Just a particularly lovely… carrot. Why don’t you carry it off to the kitchens, Phillip, and tell Étienne to start a nice stew for supper?”

The footman’s confusion was evident in his voice. “Looks more like somebody’s old boot to me. Wonder how it got all chewed up and buried in the garden.”

Remembering how beautifully the Corinthian leather had hugged his calves, Gabriel barely resisted the urge to groan.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft and carefully controlled. “I’m going to make this very simple for you, Miss Wickersham. Either the dog goes”—he leaned close enough to smell the mint-flavored warmth of her breath—“or you do.”

She sniffed. “Well, if you’re going to put it that way. Phillip, would you please escort Sam out to the garden?”

“Certainly, miss. But what am I do with this?”

“We must return it to its rightful owner.”

Before Gabriel realized what she was going to do, the muddy, drool-encrusted boot smacked him in the chest.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly, removing it to arm’s length.

Sweeping the walking stick ahead of him, he turned and strode back toward the stairs. But his dignified exit was spoiled when he reached their foot a step sooner than he anticipated. He froze, realizing with a sinking sensation that his right stocking was now as wet as his left.

Feeling Miss Wickersham’s amused gaze on his back, he went marching up the stairs, squelching all the way.

Gabriel dragged his pillow over his ears, but not even the luxuriant layers of down could muffle the despondent howling that came drifting up through the window of his bedchamber. It had started the moment his head had hit the pillow and showed no sign of stopping before dawn. The dog sounded as if his little heart had been broken clean in two.

Throwing himself to his back, Gabriel hurled the pillow in the direction of the window. A reproachful silence hung over the rest of the house. Miss Wickersham was probably curled up in her bed, sleeping the blissful sleep of the virtuous. He could almost see her there, the silky strands of her unbound hair spilling across the pillow, those petal-soft lips of her parted by each breath. But even in his imagination, shadows veiled her delicate features.

She had probably washed the lemon verbena from her skin while preparing for bed, leaving only the essential sweetness of her scent. It was richer and more intoxicating than any bought fragrance could ever be, promising a garden of earthly delights no man could resist.

Gabriel groaned, his body aching with frustration and longing. If the dog didn’t settle down soon, he’d be howling right along with it.

Tossing back the quilt, he rose and padded toward the window. He fumbled with the latch, then jerked up the sash, earning a splinter in his thumb for his efforts.

“Hush!” he hissed down into the void beneath his window. “
For pity’s sake, can’t you please just hush!
”

The dog’s howling abruptly ceased. There was a hopeful whimper, then silence. Breathing a sigh of relief, Gabriel turned back toward the bed.

The howling resumed, twice as heart-wrenching as before.

Gabriel slammed down the window, then strode back to the bed and groped for the dressing gown draped over the bedpost. He charged out of the room without even bothering to retrieve his walking stick.

“Serve them all right if I took a tumble down the stairs and broke my neck,” he muttered as he felt his way down the steps, creeping along an inch at a time. “Instead of crying over my grave, the dog would probably take a piss on it. Ought to order the gamekeeper to shoot the damn thing.”

After stumbling over an ottoman and barking his shins on the clawed foot of a bombé chest, he managed to get one of the French windows in the library unlatched.

As he swung open the window, the cool night air caressed his skin. He hesitated, reluctant to expose his ravaged face to the dispassionate light of the moon.

But that mournful howling continued, calling to something deep inside of him. For all he knew, there was no moon.

He picked his way across the flagstone terrace, the loose stones jabbing the soles of his bare feet, then stepped into the dew-soaked grass, following the sound. He was almost on top of it when the night went quiet. So quiet he could hear the distant croak of a pond toad and the ragged whisper of his own breathing.

Dropping to his knees, he patted the ground around him with both hands. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, where are you, you little mongrel? If I didn’t want to find you, you’d be slobbering all over me.”

A nearby bush rustled and a solid bundle of fur came shooting into his arms as if it had been launched from a cannon. Whimpering joyfully, the little collie stood up on his hind legs and began to bathe Gabriel’s face in warm, wet kisses.

“There, there,” he murmured, gathering the trembling animal into his arms. “There’s no need to go all sentimental on me. All I want is a decent night’s rest.”

Still holding the dog, Gabriel staggered to his feet and began to make the long trek back to his chamber. He had to admit that with that small, warm body tucked beneath his chin, the night didn’t seem quite so dark or the trek so long.

Not even Samantha dared comment the next morning when Gabriel made his way downstairs with Sam trotting cheerfully at his heels. Although he still grumbled about the dog being constantly underfoot, whenever he thought no one was looking, she would catch him stroking the pup’s silky ears or dropping a particularly choice morsel of meat beneath the table.

By the end of that week, Gabriel was able to negotiate the maze of furniture without gouging any of the table legs or sending a single marble goddess or china shepherdess toppling to her doom. Pleased with his progress, Samantha decided it was time for their next lesson.

That evening Gabriel found himself pacing back and forth in front of the dining room doors, his growling belly making him feel more like a caged animal with each step. He had arrived at his customary supper hour, only to be informed by a stammering Beckwith that dinner would be delayed and he was to wait outside the doors until he was summoned.

Gripping his walking stick, Gabriel pressed one ear to the door, intrigued by the mysterious rustling and clinking coming from within. Both his curiosity and his foreboding increased when he recognized his nurse’s soft, yet commanding, murmur.

Gabriel was so intent on trying to make out her words that he didn’t hear Beckwith approach the door. When the butler swept it open, he nearly fell headfirst into the room.

“Good evening, my lord,” Samantha said from somewhere to his left, amusement ripe in her voice. “I hope you’ll forgive the delay. I appreciate your patience.”

Scowling, Gabriel planted the tip of the walking stick on the floor, struggling to regain both his footing and his dignity. “I was beginning to wonder if this was going to be a midnight supper. Or perhaps an early breakfast.” He cocked his head, but didn’t hear the familiar panting that usually accompanied his every meal. “Just what have you done with Sam? Is it too much to hope that he’s dressed out on a silver platter with an apple in his mouth?”

“Sam will be dining in the servants’ hall tonight. But don’t fret on his behalf. Peter and Phillip have promised to drop an ample amount of food beneath their chairs. I hope you’ll forgive me for banishing him, but I thought it was time you grew accustomed to being surrounded by the trappings of civilization again.” A smile warmed her voice. “So to that end, the table is draped with a cloth of snowy white linen. There are three branched silver candlesticks along its length, each holding four slender wax tapers and casting a hospitable glow over the finest china, crystal, and silver plate Mrs. Philpot could provide.”

It didn’t require much imagination for Gabriel to envision the charming picture Samantha painted. There was only one problem. Even with his walking stick in hand, he was afraid to take so much as a single step toward the table for fear of bumbling over something breakable or catching himself on fire.

Sensing his hesitation, Samantha gently claimed his elbow. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll escort you to your chair. I took the liberty of seating you at the head of the table where you belong.”

“Does that mean you’ll be dining in the servants’ hall where
you
belong?” he asked as she guided him around the table.

She patted his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of my company.”

At her urging, he slid into his chair. As he heard her take a seat to his immediate right, he awkwardly folded his hands in his lap. He’d forgotten what he was supposed to do with them when they weren’t snatching for food. They suddenly seemed too large and awkward for his wrists.

To his keen relief, one of the servants immediately arrived with the first course.

“Roast turkey breast with wild mushrooms,” Samantha offered as the footman ladled a portion onto his plate.

The succulent aroma drifted to Gabriel’s nose, making his mouth water. He waited until he heard the footman leave before reaching for his plate. Samantha cleared her throat sharply.

He jerked his hand back, duly chastened.

“Your fork is to your left, my lord. Your knife to the right.”

Sighing, Gabriel patted the tablecloth next to his plate until he located his fork. Its weight felt foreign and clumsy in his hand. On his first stab toward the plate, he missed the food entirely. The silver clinked loudly against the fine bone china, making him wince. It took three more tries to locate a lone mushroom. After chasing the vexatious thing around the plate for nearly a minute, he finally managed to skewer it with the fork and bring it to his mouth.

Savoring its musky flavor, he asked, “What are you wearing, Miss Wickersham?”

“Pardon?” she asked, plainly taken aback by the question.

“You described everything else in the dining room. Why not yourself? For all I know, you could be sitting there in your chemise and stockings.” Spearing another mushroom, Gabriel ducked his head to hide a smile at the deliciously wicked image.

“I hardly think my attire is pertinent to the enjoyment of our meal,” Samantha replied, her voice dripping frost. “Perhaps we should have begun our evening with a lesson in civilized discourse.”

Gabriel would have preferred to swipe the dishes off the table and give her a lesson in uncivilized inter—

He swallowed the mushroom, halting that dangerous line of thought. “Humor me, why don’t you? How am I to engage in civilized discourse with a lady when I can’t even picture her in my mind?”

“Very well,” she said stiffly. “Tonight I happen to be wearing a dinner gown fashioned from black bombazine. It has a rather high ruff in the Elizabethan style and a woolen shawl to shield me from any drafts.”

He shuddered. “Sounds like something one’s maiden aunt might wear to a burial. Especially her own. Have you always favored such grim colors?”

“Not always,” Samantha replied softly.

“What about your hair?”

“If you must know,” she replied, exasperation evident in her voice, “I have it wound into a knot and tucked into a black lace net at my nape. It’s a style I find to be quite serviceable.”

Gabriel spent a moment in thought before shaking his head. “I’m sorry. That simply won’t do at all.”

“
I beg your pardon?
”

“I can’t bear to picture you draped in widow’s weeds. It’s spoiling my appetite. At least I was spared a description of your shoes, which I’m sure are the very height of sensibility.”

He heard a faint rustling, as if Samantha had lifted the tablecloth to peer underneath it, but she offered no defense.

He leaned back in his chair, stroking the stubble on his chin. “I believe you’re wearing something in the scandalous new French style—a cream muslin, perhaps, with a high waist and a low, square-cut bodice, its fabric designed to gently embrace the feminine form in all of its glory.” He narrowed his eyes. “And I don’t see you wearing a shawl, but a cashmere stole as soft as angel’s wings draped right above that deliciously kissable dimple in the crook of your elbow. Your hem grazes your ankles, just high enough to offer a teasing glimpse of a blush-colored silk stocking with every step you take.”

He expected her to interrupt his shocking recitation with an outraged protest, but it was almost as if she’d been hypnotized by the smoky timbre of his voice.

“On your feet, you’re wearing a pair of pink silk slippers, utterly frivolous, unsuited for anything but sashaying into a ballroom and dancing the night away. A matching ribbon has been twined through your topknot of artfully disheveled curls, a few of which have been allowed to tumble around your cheeks, almost as if you had just emerged from your bath.”