Candice Hern (27 page)

"You know I care for you," he said, "and I think you must care for me a little."

She lifted a hand to his face. "You are very dear to me, Gabriel. You have brought a great deal of joy into my life. But I am not the wife for you. You are sweet to offer, but you cannot truly want to marry me."

"Yes, I can. I do."

"Gabriel, my dear, you are meant to marry some young virgin bride of good family who will provide you with an heir and a spare. Not a woman who has already been married, has children, and will be thirty-six on her next birthday."

"You worry too much about your age. It has never mattered to me. You know that."

"It may not bother you now, but I guarantee you it would make a difference over time. I will age faster. I will lose my looks and my hair will turn silver while you are still in your prime. A man like you doesn't marry a woman like me. You marry one of those pretty young girls on the marriage mart. You need someone younger, my dear. Young enough to have your children. I am too old for you."

His dark brows drew together in a frown. "I have some degree of mathematic ability, Beatrice. I can count. I am twenty-nine. You are thirty-five. I believe that means a mere six years separates us. Not such a vast number. And not too old for children. My mother had my youngest sister when she was forty. Besides, I have discovered that I prefer a woman six years older than one six years younger, who hasn't two thoughts to rub together and doesn't yet know her own mind. I don't want a girl. I want a woman. I want
you
. Marry me."

"Oh, Gabriel."

She rolled onto her back and sat up, propping pillows behind her. Gabriel followed suit, and they sat side by side in awkward silence while Beatrice pondered how best to respond to such an extraordinary proposal, to make him understand how impossible it was.

"I want to be with you in the light of day, Beatrice. Legitimately, openly, and not in dark corners and secret assignations. You deserve better than that. We both do. I know you care for me." He stroked a finger up and down her arm. "You are not indifferent to me."

"No, of course I am not. You are very special to me, Gabriel. I ... I adore you, I really do." She more than adored him, in fact. "But I thought you understood."

"Understood what?"

"That I do not
want
to marry again. When we first began this, you were not offering matrimony and I wasn't looking for it."

"I changed my mind."

"Why?"

"Because you have become more than a lover to me. You have become a friend. I've told you more about my years in India than anyone else since my return. You're the only one who has seen and appreciated my sculptures, the only one who truly understands the changes I am making to Loughton House. I sometimes feel that you see right into my soul." He picked up her hand and kissed the tip of each finger. "You have become more dear to me than I could ever have imagined. I want you for more than a lover, and for longer than a few months. I want you forever, as my wife."

Such a speech! And from such a man. It was almost heartbreaking. Oh, to be younger, when he might have swept her off her feet with such words. "Oh, Gabriel, that is such a lovely thing to say. And you have become dear to me, too. I am overwhelmed that you should make me so splendid an offer. But I have had my marriage and my family. I am not looking for that again. I have only ever wanted ... this. A love affair. A lover. Physical passion. I am too young to give up that aspect of my life, but too old to be a proper wife for you. You should find a nice young woman who will give you an heir, a biddable young woman willing to be dominated by her grand husband. I am not that woman. I will not do that again."

"What do you fear about marriage?"

"Fear?"

"Why are you so dead set against it? What do you fear?"

Beatrice uttered a little huff of exasperation. "Where to begin?" She got out of bed and retrieved the nightgown that had been tossed on the floor, then pulled it over her head and let it skim over her body down to her ankles.

She turned to face Gabriel, who had moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He was still completely naked, and she wished he would cover himself. His body was too distracting and she did not want to risk being seduced into accepting his proposal. She moved to look out the window instead.

"What did I hate most about marriage? Taking orders. Being told what to do, or more often what not to do. When I was married I learned to be secretive and sly, to agree to whatever was asked, and when it was something I despised or disapproved of, I deviously worked my way around it somehow. Marriage did that to me, made me artful and scheming. I have been a much better person since poor Somerfield died. My own person. And it wasn't Somerfield's fault. It is the way things are, the way wives are expected to behave. We take a vow to obey, you know."

She heard Gabriel move off the bed and turned to face him. He was pulling on his breeches. A good sign that he was ready to accept her refusal. He would be less likely to seduce her again with his clothes on.

"I hated being dominated," she continued. "I could not leave the house without Somerfield approving my dress, my bonnet, my destination, my companions. And he would not allow me to take a step outside without a maid or footman to accompany me. I was never allowed to do anything on my own, even something as insignificant as driving a one-horse gig."

"Forgive me, Beatrice, but he sounds like an insufferable bully."

"He was just an ordinary man. No different from most other husbands I've known.
I
was the problem, not Somerfield. I was not a good wife. I tried to be biddable, but it was not in me to be that kind of wife. And as much as I hated being dominated, I hated being ignored even more. I was allowed no part in any decision that affected our family. I have told you of my interest in financial matters. Somerfield would not even listen to me. He thought it unseemly for a woman to concern herself with such things. Ha! If he only knew how many times over I have increased my fortune in these last three years! I chafed for thirteen years under a husband's authority. I will never put myself in that position again."

"You cannot judge all men by Somerfield's behavior," Gabriel said as he pulled his shirt over his head. Then he came and took both her hands in his and gazed intently into her eyes. "I would never treat you like that, Beatrice. I would want a marriage of equals, a partnership."

"Would you, really? Are you so very different, then, from other men? You would allow your wife to do as she pleased?"

"Within reason, yes. You would bear my name and my title, however, and a certain consideration for that position must be respected. Otherwise, you would have a significant degree of independence to do
as you wanted."

Beatrice pulled her hands away. "But
you
determine that degree, don't you? You would still be in control of everything, wouldn't you? My behavior, my money, my ... everything."

"That is a husband's responsibility, to protect his wife and children," he said as he tucked his shirt into his breeches. "And you must be reasonable, Beatrice. There are certain expectations from a wife, any wife, but especially the wife of a future duke."

"But you see, it is those expectations that I find objectionable. No, I won't marry again." Beatrice crossed her hands over her chest and looked down at her feet. "It has nothing to do with you, Gabriel. I would find it objectionable with any man. I am simply not willing to give up my freedom again."

He reached out and placed a knuckle under her chin, lifting it so she had to look him in the eye. "Not even for me?"

That voice. He was trying to seduce her with that voice. Damn him. She cocked her head away and he released her. "I'm sorry, Gabriel. I do not want a husband in my life again. I treasure the freedom my widowhood has brought me. I like being able to act and speak without the watchful eye of a possessive man, imposing checks on my behavior. I never want that again, never want another person to have such power over me again."

He picked up the waistcoat he had flung across the room and slipped it on. "You're being mulish, Beatrice. You think all men are the same. We're not. And as you are so fond of saying, you are not a young woman anymore, as you were when you married Somerfield. You are mature and self-possessed with a strong streak of independence. I doubt any man could have much power over you. I would not."

Beatrice snorted. "Of course you would. Look at what you did tonight, forcing your way into my house against my wishes, risking exposure of our affair to my young daughters. You had no consideration for my feelings in the matter. You just barged in and seduced me into capitulation."

He reached for his coat and glared at her, a glint of anger flickering in his eyes. "That is not how it was." The deep, seductive tone was gone and the lordly arrogance was back. He was Lord Thayne now, no longer Gabriel.

"Of course that is how it was," she said. "You always get what you want. You told me that the first moment you realized I had been the one at the masquerade. And I am to believe you would not try to control me? To dominate me? When you have just demonstrated that is precisely what you would do?"

He struggled into his coat and picked up the boots that stood by the bed. Anger radiated from every inch of him. His body was tense with it, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. "And so those are my sins, Beatrice? Youth? Arrogance? Or merely that I am a man? I think we have said enough on the matter. I am sorry I troubled you. I shall not do so again, I assure you. And do not worry. I will not disturb anyone in the house as I leave. I will go the same way I came."

He flung open the window, and was gone.

Beatrice stood in the middle of the room, stunned at what had just happened. After a perfectly wonderful interlude of lovemaking, it had come to this. Anger and bitterness. The end of her love affair.

Ironically enough, she had only just come to realize she was a little bit in love with Gabriel. More than a little. Why did he have to ruin everything by asking her to marry him?

She lay down on the bed, buried her face in the pillows, and wept.

It was the last place he wanted to be tonight. Thayne had no desire to see Beatrice after she had so vehemently rejected his proposal the night before. He did not know what possessed him to allow Burnett to drag him to this damnable ball.
Her
ball. One of her blasted charity events. Meeting her in the receiving line had been difficult at best. Tension stretched between them so thick you could cut it with a knife. Even her friends had seemed uncomfortable. The Duchess of Hertford was the only one to give him a warm smile.

And did Beatrice have to look so bloody beautiful? She wore a dress of brilliant turquoise that reminded him of the sari he had wrapped around her that day at Loughton House. The day that had been one of the happiest of his life. He wished he could forget it. He wished he could forget
her
.

He ought to hate her for all she had said, but he did not. He could not stop loving her that easily. He was angry with her, to be sure. She was as muleheaded as any woman he'd ever met. How foolish to allow that dolt of a husband not only to make her unhappy while he lived, but to ruin the rest of her life as well. Thayne had wanted to shake some sense into her. But he suspected she would never change her mind. She was determined that marriage was little better than a prison and that he would be the worst of jailers.

Damn her!

Had she never witnessed a happy marriage in all her life? Thayne thought of his own parents, who loved each other fiercely. If Beatrice thought he was domineering, she ought to have grown up with the Duke of Doncaster. And yet his mother had always held her own against him, would not allow him to bully her. That is the sort of marriage he had hoped for with Beatrice — that she would fight with him, butt heads with him, challenge him, and ultimately love him, all with equal passion. But she could not even comprehend such a marriage, and so she had dismissed him out of hand.

Damn her!

He still was honor bound to find a bride this Season, but how was he to do so now? He had made his choice. What the devil was he to do when that choice was not allowed him? Thayne had spent a lifetime making his own choices and decisions with little or no objections and no obstacles in his way. He had been totally unprepared for Beatrice to toss this decision, the most important of his life, back in his face. He had almost no experience in being denied something he badly wanted. It made him feel unsteady, like foundering in unknown waters. He did not like the feeling. It made him angry.
She
made him angry. Being at this damned ball made him angry.

But Burnett was determined on pursuing Emily Thirkill, and equally determined that Thayne should be there to support him. Whereas Thayne had once asked Burnett to fill Emily's ears with a recital of all his faults, Burnett appeared to believe it was Thayne's turn to exclaim
his
virtues to the girl. Since he barely ever spoke to Emily, Thayne did not know how such a thing was to be accomplished. But Burnett was top over tail in love with the girl and had begged his friend for help.

And if he was brutally honest with himself, Thayne supposed he would have to admit that he had in fact wanted to see Beatrice again. He still wanted her, God help him, and perhaps he hoped for one more twinkling of serendipity to bring them back together again. But overriding any glimmer of hope was a hot anger at the scene she had enacted for him the previous evening.

Damn her!

Burnett was at that moment chatting with the fair Emily. He seemed to have made headway among her circle, which was as crowded with lovesick puppies as ever. Thayne kept his distance since Beatrice stood at her niece's side. She refused to look at him, and cast her gaze about the room.

Suddenly her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open in a look of complete astonishment. Thayne followed her gaze to the entrance, where she had stood earlier in the receiving line. A slightly stout, fair-haired woman was making her way across the floor with difficulty. She hobbled uncertainly on a crutch, a liveried footman at her elbow helping her along. The crowd that milled about the dance floor waiting for the next set parted to let her pass.