Page 27 of Notorious

“You are only allowed one wife under English law, Jibril.”

It took everything he had not to roll his eyes. “Yes, Mother, I understand that.”

“I do not think you do.”

He threw up his hands. “Why don’t you say your piece? Because I know you’ll not stop hounding me until you’ve done so.”

She smiled, sat on the arm of his chair, and took his hand. “I’ve had an unhappy marriage and a happy marriage, Jibril. I can tell you, in all truthfulness, that a happy marriage is much better.”

“That does not surprise me.”

“You have not chosen each other, that’s true, but she’s an intelligent, comely girl and love isn’t something you stumble into; love is something you build.”

Gabriel did not bother telling his mother how much his prospective wife actively disliked him. Instead he said, “I’m entering into this marriage with the best of intentions and—”

“Bah!” She flicked one hand, “The best of intentions. What is that? You must enter into it with an open heart. You must look at intimacies with your new, young wife as the first step in a lifelong commitment to each other and to joy.”

Gabriel’s head became so hot it felt like it might explode. “Fine, I am entering it with a joyous and open heart and mind.”

She’d squeezed his hand so hard the bones shifted. “You are my eldest son and I love you beyond life itself. But—” Her eyes clouded and she looked, for the first time he had ever seen her, defeated. “But you are also your father’s son and he has left his stamp on you.” She held his hand pressed between her much smaller ones. “Although there was no love between us, I have rarely spoken ill of your father.”

“That is true.”

“But I must do so now. You view women as—well, you view them as a sultan would. That is to be expected, given where you grew to manhood, but you live here now.”

He disentangled himself and got to his feet. “Putting aside your ridiculous assertion that Englishmen somehow treat Englishwomen so much better than the treatment women receive in my country, is it your point that I am an Englishman in England who should behave in the English manner? Because I have grasped that, Mama. Believe me—I know who I am not. I would have thought my behavior over the past five years might have proved that to you. I’ve changed my name and abandoned my people—everything that I was is now behind me. I am English.” His voice had risen, which only bothered him more. “Now, I must go.”

She caught his arm before he could make his escape.

“You will do the right thing, Jibril. I know you will.”

Oh, if only his mother knew just how many wrong things he’d done lately and how he was—most likely misguidedly—trying to make them all right.

He snorted as he recalled the uncomfortable exchange. His mistresses were the least of his problems.

Besides its not being any of his mother’s concern, Gabriel was hardly enthusiastic about breaking off a mutually satisfactory association with a beautiful, passionate woman—or women, as the case may be—so that he might enter into marriage with a wife who at this very moment sat holding another man’s hand.

Irritation roiled with something else—surely not jealousy? No, fury was more like it—inside his chest.

Such loose behavior might be the norm between English husbands and wives, but Gabriel was not English. At least not in that way. He’d never liked the way Englishwomen went about uncovered and exposed to other men’s eyes, and he liked it even less now that his wife-to-be was one of those women. Drusilla would soon learn that he would not permit handholding with other men—or holding of anything else—once she was his.

Perhaps he should tell his mother to go and deliver her speech about extramarital lovers to his wife-to-be instead of him. He snorted and shook his head, diverted at the image of that conversation.

Gabriel had been so caught up in his own thoughts he’d walked halfway across London without even noticing; here he was already at Giselle and Maria’s.

Their maid greeted him at the door. “Miss Maria is not here, Mr. Marlington. She’s gone out with Sami. Only Miss Giselle is here.”

Gabriel was relieved to find Giselle alone. He could speak with her first and Maria later.While he cared for both women equally, it would be easier to say what he had to say individually.

“I’ll see Miss Giselle,” Gabriel said, pulling off his gloves, tossing them into his hat, and handing both to her.

She showed him to a small second-floor parlor and went to fetch her mistress.

Gabriel had met Giselle almost three years ago, right after he’d first seen her perform onstage. She’d been in a minor part then, but she’d shone, and Gabriel had found himself with flowers in hand, waiting at her door the very next night.

At the time she’d just been starting out and could find only small roles. She lived with Maria, her childhood friend, fellow actress, and—unbeknownst to Gabriel at first—her lover. While it had been Giselle who’d first attracted his notice, he’d quickly become fond of both women, who also seemed pleased with him.

At first he’d believed Giselle had encouraged his interest to divert attention away from her relationship with Marie—or that the two women had needed, like so many other actresses, a wealthy protector. When Gabriel had raised the subject, they had let him know—in their blunt fashion—that he was not their first male lover. That admission had effectively quashed any erroneous notions he’d had of being their savior in that way, but he’d still insisted on leasing this house—citing his own comfort rather than their safety as the reason—to get them away from the collection of rundown rooms where they’d been living.