Bride for a Night (5 page)

It all served to remind her that Lord Ashcombe’s title was not simply a mark of his social standing. It was more important an inheritance that came with overwhelming responsibility. Not only to his vast number of tenants and servants who depended upon him for employment, but to his family and the dignity of his position as the current earl.

For all her father’s wealth, she was unprepared to enter a world where a person was judged on their ancestry and the purity of their bloodlines. Even if she weren’t an awkward wallflower, she would never be capable of bringing pride to her role as Countess of Ashcombe.

These dark thoughts might have made Talia crumble into a ball of terror if she had not still been protected by
the numbing sense of shock that had managed to survive their last humiliating encounter.

Certainly she would never have been able to walk down the short aisle to stand beside Lord Ashcombe waiting at the scrolled wooden altar.

As it was she stiffly marched past the worn pews, only briefly glancing at the vaulted ceiling and the exquisite stained-glass window before shifting her attention toward the man who was to become her husband.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of his golden hair shimmering in the light from the silver candelabrum and the arrogant features that were so perfectly carved they did not seem quite real. His lean body was attired in a black jacket that clung with loving care to his broad shoulders and black breeches that seemed more appropriate for a funeral than a wedding. And his silver eyes—

They held the ruthless power of a predator.

He had never appeared more godlike, and despite her layers of protection she shivered in fear.

Gabriel made no move to touch her as she halted at his side. In fact, he did not glance in her direction during the brief ceremony. Not even at its close when they signed the marriage certificate and shared a glass of sherry with the visibly curious rector and the rigidly composed butler, as well as a woman who Talia assumed must be the housekeeper.

Then, with an imperious nod of his head, Ashcombe gestured her to leave the chapel, following behind her with obvious impatience.

Distantly Talia was aware that her entire life had just been irrevocably altered. She was no longer Dowdy Dobson, the painfully shy daughter of a mere merchant. She was the Countess of Ashcombe.

Not that her elevated status offered her any comfort, she ruefully accepted.

How many years had she longed to be rid of her father’s oppressive rule? Even after it had become obvious that she was never going to attract a bevy of eager suitors, she had continued to dream that a kind, decent gentleman would appear to whisk her away. A man who would treat her with dignity and respect.

But now her hopes were forever crushed.

She had just traded one tyrant for another.

As if to ensure she understood her submissive role as his bride, Gabriel cast a dismissive gaze over her demure attire. Her rose gown was threaded with silk ribbons around the high waist, and a single strand of pearls circled her neck.

“Mrs. Manning will show you to your chambers,” he informed her icily, a gesture of his hand bringing forward the plump woman with gray hair tidily knotted at the back of her head. Her black gown was as spotless as the townhouse, and her movements brisk. The housekeeper, just as Talia had suspected. “Let her know if you prefer a dinner tray in your private salon or if you desire to eat in the dining room.”

“You will not be joining me?” The question tumbled from her lips before she could check them.

“I have business I must attend to.”

Acutely aware of the housekeeper’s presence, Talia felt her face flame with color. Was it necessary to shame her by abandoning her before the ink had dried upon their license?

“What of your mother?”

“Her ladyship is visiting her sister in Kent.”

Safely tucked away from her ill-bred daughter-in-law.
“I…see.”

The silver eyes briefly darkened as he gazed down at her, but his expression remained aloof.

“You are welcome to explore the house and gardens, but you will not leave the grounds.”

“Am I to be a prisoner here?”

“Only until tomorrow.” A humorless smile curved his lips. “Do not bother to unpack, my dear. You leave for Devonshire at first light.”

Without bothering to wait for her reaction, Gabriel brushed past her and disappeared down a long corridor.

An unexpected stab of misery managed to pierce the protective fog.

She felt…lost in the vast, imposing house. As if she was an imposter who was bound to be humiliated when she was at last exposed.

Which was, no doubt, exactly what her husband desired.

She was thankfully distracted as the housekeeper waved a plump hand toward the nearby stairs.

“This way, my lady.”

My lady.
Talia hid a sudden grimace.

She wished to heavens she was back in her father’s library, forgotten among the dusty books.

Instead she forced a sad smile and headed for the stairs. “Thank you, Mrs. Manning.”

She allowed herself to be escorted to a charming suite that was decorated with rich blue satin wallcovers that matched the curtains and upholstery on the rosewood furniture. Along one wall a series of windows overlooked the formal gardens and the distant mews, while through the doorway she could catch sight of an equally luxurious bedroom.

“It is not the largest apartment,” Mrs. Manning said
kindly, “but I thought you might prefer a view of the garden.”

“It is lovely,” Talia murmured, her breath catching at the sight of the exquisite bouquets of roses that were set on the carved marble chimneypiece. Turning, she laid a hand on her companion’s arm, well aware that her husband was not responsible for the considerate gesture. “I adore fresh flowers. Thank you.”

The housekeeper cleared her throat, as if embarrassed by Talia’s display of gratitude.

“It seemed appropriate for your wedding day.”

Talia strolled toward the lovely view of the gardens, not surprised by the marble grotto that was larger than her aunt’s cottage in Yorkshire.

“I am certain you are aware that I am not a typical bride. The earl has hardly made an effort to disguise the fact I am an unwanted intruder.”

“It is no fault of your own, my lady,” the servant surprisingly claimed. Was it possible Mrs. Manning felt a measure of sympathy for the earl’s discarded bride? “His lordship is merely disappointed in Master Harry and his behavior toward you.”

Talia was not so easily fooled, but she appreciated the woman’s kind attempt.

“I was under the impression that Lord Ashcombe was equally averse to having me as a sister-in-law. I would have assumed that he was pleased to have me jilted.” She grimaced. “At least until my father coerced him into honoring Mr. Richardson’s promise.”

“As to that, I suppose you shall soon enough discover that his lordship and Master Harry have a…” The housekeeper paused, searching for the appropriate word. “Thorny relationship.”

Despite her earlier promise to treat her husband with
the same disdainful lack of interest as he had displayed toward her, Talia couldn’t prevent her curiosity.

“I did suspect as much.” She turned, watching as the servant fussed with the silver teapot set on a pier table. “It would not be easy to be a younger son.”

“A good sight too easy, if you ask me,” the woman muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

For a moment the woman hesitated. Was she debating the wisdom of sharing family gossip? Then, obviously deciding that Talia was destined to discover the Ashcombe secrets, she straightened and squarely met Talia’s curious gaze.

“The previous earl died near ten years ago, leaving his lordship to assume the title, as well as to take responsibility for his grieving mother and younger brother.”

Ten
years ago? Talia blinked in astonishment. She had no idea.

“He must have been very young.”

“A week past his eighteenth birthday. Just a lad.”

“Good heavens.”

“Not that his lordship ever complained.” Mrs. Manning heaved a sigh. “He returned from school and shouldered his father’s duties while his mother remained in mourning and Master Harry began to fall into one scrape after another.”

Against her will, Talia felt a stab of sympathy for the arrogant brute.

“There was no one to assist him?”

“The earl is not one to share his responsibility.”

“Not particularly surprising,” Talia said in dry tones.

Even before their farce of a wedding, Talia had sensed Gabriel’s air of isolation.

At the time, she had imagined that his seeming need
to distance himself from others had given them something in common. Now, of course, she knew that it was merely an arrogant need to control those around him.

Just like her father.

Mrs. Manning heaved another soulful sigh. “A pity really.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Perhaps if Master Harry had been expected to take his fair share of duties he would not have…”

“Left me at the altar?”

“Yes.” The housekeeper’s plump lips tightened with disapproval. “His lordship did attempt to put a halt to his brother’s excesses, but Lady Ashcombe always was one to indulge him. If the earl refused to pay his brother’s debts, then Master Harry would simply apply to his mother.”

Talia frowned, rather taken back by the servant’s revealing words. Even if she was now a member of the family, it was not often a servant was willing to openly gossip about her employers.

Not when the merest breach of confidence could see her tossed onto the streets.

Then Talia was struck by a sudden realization.

Mrs. Manning was clearly devoted to Gabriel. And while she might sincerely disapprove of his treatment of Talia, it was obvious she felt compelled to excuse his cruel manner.

Perhaps she was even ridiculous enough to hope that a truce between Gabriel and his new bride could eventually be called.

Talia swallowed a sigh.

A futile hope, but Talia did not have the heart to inform the kindly woman that her beloved Gabriel was a coldhearted bastard who believed his wife no better than
a rank title-hunter who had used her father to bully him into marriage.

“That must have been frustrating for Lord Ashcombe,” she instead agreed.

“Needless to say.” The older woman frowned. “In fact, six months ago he at last…”

“Yes?”

“He insisted that her ladyship not interfere in his attempt to force Master Harry to live within his allowance.”

“Ah.” Talia’s lips twisted. “That explains why he accepted my father’s offer.”

There was a brief hesitation. “Yes.”

“And why Lord Ashcombe is so angry. He thought to teach his brother a lesson only to once again be the one to suffer the consequences.” Talia pressed a hand to her aching heart. “It is no wonder he hates me.”

Mrs. Manning shook her head. “He is angry for the moment, but once he has accepted that you are to be his countess, I am certain that all will be well.”

Talia swallowed a hysterical urge to laugh. She was quite certain nothing would be well again.

“I wish I possessed your confidence,” she said dryly.

Perhaps sensing Talia’s disbelief, the housekeeper stepped forward, her expression troubled.

“His lordship can be a hard man in many ways,” she admitted. “When he took the title at such a tender age there were any number of unscrupulous individuals who thought to take advantage of his inexperience, including several gentlemen who had claimed to be his friend. He had no choice but to learn how to protect himself and his family from those who would exploit his naïveté. But he has a good heart and he is fiercely loyal to those he considers his responsibility.”

Talia shied from the temptation to pity the boy who
had lost his innocence at such a young age. The Earl of Ashcombe was determined to crush what little was left of her spirit. The moment she thought of him as anything but the enemy she would be lost.

“Responsibility?” She latched onto the revealing word. “What of those he loves?”

The housekeeper grimaced. “I fear he has become convinced that such an emotion is a weakness.” She deliberately paused, meeting Talia’s gaze. “A wise woman would remind him of the joy to be found in sharing his heart with another.”

G
ABRIEL HAD NO
formal plans for his wedding day. Nothing beyond ensuring that his new bride understood she was an unwelcome intruder in his home.

Something he had achieved with admirable results if her stricken expression at his abrupt departure had been anything to go by.

But once away from his townhouse, he discovered himself turning his restless horse toward the outskirts of London, refusing to admit he was disturbed by the lingering image of Talia’s pale face and wounded eyes.

What did it matter if she had looked like a forlorn waif as he had walked away from her? Or that she was spending her wedding day alone in an unfamiliar house? She was the one who had been willing to trade her soul for a title. She could damned well learn just how empty her victory was doomed to be.

Determined to dismiss Talia and the travesty of a wedding from his mind, he traveled through narrow lanes and at last into the countryside. He paused to watch a brilliantly painted wagon pass that was loaded with a bear locked in a cage and allowed himself to be distracted by the sight of two burly men wrestling in the middle of a village green.

But as he stopped in a small posting inn to slake his hunger with a simple meal of venison stew and freshly baked bread, his thoughts returned to his neglected bride.

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, en
joying 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.”