Page 25 of Notorious

Drusilla frowned, only slightly mollified by his comment.

“Tell me what happened.”

“You know what happened.” She felt her face heat, which only angered her. Why should she blush? She had nothing to be ashamed about. “Surely you can see that I have no choice now but to marry? It is either that or live my life on the fringes of society.” She shrugged. “While I don’t care if I’m never invited to another ball or rout, I hardly wish to become an outcast.”

“No, of course not,” he echoed, his voice faint, his eyes rather wild as they flickered around the room restlessly.

Drusilla felt a sudden surge of affection for him. “You are taking this almost as hard as I am,” she said.

He gave a rather high-pitched laugh. “Oh, I’m sure everyone in the group will be equally concerned on your behalf, Drusilla.”

“How fortunate I am to have such loyal and caring friends.” She squeezed his hand. “Thank you, my friend.” He gave her a look of confusion. “For understanding just how difficult this is for me—how this goes against all our principles.”

His smile was tight and he looked nothing like his usual self. “Of course, yes, of course. I’m sure you are feeling this violation of your principles most horribly.”

Well, that seemed rather a strong way to put it, but Drusilla decided not to correct him. “While it is not what I’d planned for myself, marriage is the only way, Theo.”

“Yes, marriage.” He pushed the fingers of one hand through his hair and shoved back a few somewhat lank brown curls that had fallen over his forehead. He shook himself and looked up at her. “But, Lord! What a cad I am being. Never mind all that, how are you faring after this heinous ordeal?”

Drusilla was tempted to ask just what he’d heard but decided against it. “Oh, the incident itself was not so horrific, Theo. I am made of sterner stuff. I refuse to allow a—” A shadow passed in front of the bow window and stopped. Small hairs on the back of her neck—which she’d never really noticed before—stood on end.

Theo turned toward the window as the shadow persisted. “I say, what’s this nosy bloke all about?”

Drusilla knew before she looked who it would be.

* * *

Gabriel felt like rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, or perhaps closing them and then opening them again, hoping the bizarre vision would be gone.

He leaned closer to the window and stared. No, it was not a hallucination; it was real—she was still there. It really was his betrothed holding another man’s hand. And that man was glaring at Gabriel as if he were some sort of street rubbish.

Gabriel looked at Drusilla and met her haughty stare. She was looking at him as if he were street rubbish, as well.

He pivoted on his heel, strode to the shop door, and almost tore it off the hinges. The clatter of bells filled the little room with shrill, almost hysterical ringing. He felt, rather than saw, dozens of eyes upon him as he closed the short distance between the door and his fiancée.

The man had released her hand but was now standing, half hovering in front of Drusilla as if to protect her. From him, Gabriel could only assume.

“Miss Clare. What a surprise. I would have assumed you were busy today.” His mouth twisted into a mocking smile and his gaze settled on her hand, gloveless and limp and now alone on the table. “But I suppose you are busy, just not with wedding preparations.”

Her companion took a step toward him. “And just who—”

She laid a hand on the other man’s forearm, her gaze still on Gabriel. The casual gesture—that easy touching of another man—sent fury thundering through him like a herd of stampeding horses. His hands clenched so tightly that the pain brought him back to himself: thrashing this man here and now would not be wise for about a dozen reasons. Besides, he had no wish to air such private feelings in public. He would have time enough to deal with this—and her—later. For the remainder of his life, as a matter of fact.

“This is Mr. Marlington, my fiancé. Gabriel, this is Mr. Rowland, a . . . a friend of mine.”

“Fiancé!” Rowland shouted.

Drusilla, Gabriel, and every other patron in the shop stared at the man, who appeared as though he was already regretting his outburst if his dark, ugly red flush was anything to go by.

Drusilla frowned at her companion. “Yes, Theo, I told you I was getting married.”

The man—Theo—shook his head. “But I thought it was to Visel—”

Drusilla shuddered, her face a mask of distaste. “Never.”

Gabriel almost smiled; at least there was somebody she found more repellent than him.

“But I asked you about the duke and you said—”