Page 9 of Notorious

She glanced at the spot Eva had just vacated. Why not? Why was she always so proper? It wasn’t as if anyone was ever watching her. Eva had stretched out on the bench without a care in the world. So could she.

Feeling as naughty as if she were displaying her garters at Almack’s—not that she could ever hope to secure a voucher for that venerable establishment—Drusilla lay back on the bench and balanced her reticule on her midriff. She closed her eyes and forced her tense body to relax in this unusual position.

Pictures of Gabriel Marlington immediately formed behind her eyelids. She grimaced. Why must she be afflicted with this stupid infatuation? Could there be anything more pitiful than a homely wallflower yearning for an arresting, attractive Corinthian? Because that was exactly what Gabriel Marlington was. Even with her dismal knowledge of male pursuits, Drusilla knew he rode, shot, fenced, and boxed superbly.

And then there was the way women behaved toward him.

A groan of frustration slipped from her, and she bit her lower lip. They say eavesdroppers never hear good about themselves, but in Drusilla’s case, she never heard anything good about Gabriel when she listened to the conversations of others. Oh, it was nothing too horrid—he didn’t torture animals, nor was he cruel to small children—but he was, it was loudly whispered, a slayer of hearts.

It appeared that tales of his wickedness only made women wilder for him. Even smart women like Drusilla were not immune to such charm and male beauty.

She’d pondered her obsession with Gabriel Marlington for years, long before she’d heard tales of his mistresses—plural—or seen the amorous widows stalking him, or watched him bewitch one woman after another.

Drusilla was not, in the main, attracted to bright and shiny objects. She’d always believed that if she ever did marry, it would be to a man who was kind and gentle and devoted to the same causes as she was. Not that Gabriel was not kind and gentle—at least to his family. And apparently the Kitten.

Thinking about Gabriel and the Kitten was like abrading her soul with a cat-o’-nine-tails. How could a person make themselves stop wanting something they could never have?

She punished herself by envisioning them together.

Yes, some sage inner voice praised her flagellating behavior, that is the way—face your fears head-on and you will conquer them.

Drusilla pictured them dancing—waltzing—together. She didn’t have to imagine it because she’d seen it times beyond counting. Separately they were perfect; together they were almost too perfect to look upon.

Next, she pictured them kissing. She’d seen people kissing more than once. Oftentimes the more fortunate people—the beautiful people—believed they were unobserved at the balls, routs, and picnics that comprised the Season. They should have realized the walls had eyes. Or, to be more precise, the wallflowers had eyes. And what else did they have to do with those eyes but watch those around them?

Thankfully, Drusilla had never actually seen Gabriel and the Kitten kissing. She knew the Kitten had probably schemed to orchestrate such a thing, but Gabriel—for all his wild ways with widows and actresses—was the very image of propriety around maidens.

Still, Drusilla could imagine them embracing, his powerful shoulders sheltering the Kitten’s delicate frame, his hands, elegant and strong, one splayed on the small of her back, the other cradling her head like a priceless and fragile object. His lush, sensual lips—lips that were almost as expressive as his brilliant, flashing eyes—pressed against the Kitten’s perfectly bow-shaped mouth.

The horrifying image shifted in her mind’s eye, and Drusilla smiled dreamily at the new picture: her in Gabriel’s muscular arms.

She let her body relax on the unforgiving marble bench and enjoyed the mental image. What a rebel she was, sprawled on a bench in a conservatory during a ball. Alone. She was wicked and her aunt would scold her if she found out.

She sighed, telling herself to get up—to go back and join the bouquet of wallflowers—but her eyelids were so heavy . . . so heavy. And it was so peaceful . . . so . . .

“What have we here?”

The low voice penetrated her dozy state at the same time that something warm touched her cheek.

“A sleeping beauty,” the same voice murmured. “Not the one I was looking for but you will have to—”

Drusilla’s brain awoke from its slumber, and her eyes flew open to find a face looming over her. She shrieked and jerked into an upright position—or at least tried to—slamming her forehead into his nose.

“Oww, dammit, that bloody hurt!” Her assailant staggered back

Drusilla tried to sit up, but her legs had somehow become tangled in her skirts and she began to slide off the bench, her fingers scrabbling to grip the smooth stone, her other hand stupidly clutching her reticule rather than participating in her rescue.

Powerful hands clamped on to her shoulders. “Quit your bloody squirming or you’ll land on your head.”

Moonlight slanted across his face, and Drusilla gasped and jerked away. It was Lord Godric Visel—a handsome, sneering libertine who’d never had a second to spare for her in the past.

“Unhand me,” Drusilla demanded, jerking away and then sliding off the back side of the bench in the process.

“Bloody hell.” He caught her up in his arms before she could fall, lifted her, and then dropped her onto her bottom with an undignified thump. “There.” His hands steadied her. “Will you quit already, Miss Clare? I’m only trying to—”

And then, suddenly, he was gone.

Chapter 3