“His undoubted approval of you will certainly be of assistance, but your greatest weapon will be my mother.”
“Your mother?” she whispered. “Good lord.”
Gabriel did not blame her for her disbelief.
The dowager countess’s horror in having Talia as the next Countess of Ashcombe had been the source of avid interest throughout society. The older woman had rarely missed an opportunity to bemoan the cruel fate that had brought Silas Dobson into her life, without once admitting that any blame for that fate might lie at Harry’s feet.
And, of course, her dramatic exit from London on the day of the wedding had ensured that none were left in doubt of her disapproval.
Gabriel, however, understood his mother well enough to know that her flamboyant outrage had more to do with her pleasure at being the center of attention and less to do with her feelings for Talia.
“Whatever her numerous faults, my mother does happen to be the unquestionable ruler of the fashionable world,” he pointed out in tones that defied argument.
“Yes, but she detests me.”
He shrugged. “She does not know you.”
Talia hunched a defensive shoulder, her expression darkening with
unpleasant memories.
“That did not prevent her from fleeing London rather than attending our wedding.”
His hand moved, stroking down her throat in a comforting gesture. Dammit. This was precisely why he did not wish to have this discussion with her. He did not want her to suffer the painful reminiscences of her awkward years among society. Or their less than romantic wedding.
“You would not have denied her such a wondrous opportunity to earn the sympathy of her friends as she was driven from her home by the evil interloper who stole her son, her title and her position?” he teased.
Her eyes flashed with emerald fire. “I do not find this amusing.”
“You will become accustomed to my mother’s love for melodrama,” he promised, hoping that he spoke the truth. He had become resigned to his mother’s excessive emotions. He could only hope that Talia would learn to be likewise tolerant. “Especially when she is given the opportunity to play the role of the tragic heroine.”
She wavered, a hint of uncertainty softening her expression.
“You are saying that her anger was a pretense?”
“Who can say how much she believes and how much is a performance?” he admitted wryly. “I do know that she will soon grow weary of her self-imposed exile to Kent, and she will be eager for an excuse to return to London.” He bent down to steal a swift kiss, his body still hard with frustrated desire. “I intend to offer that excuse.”
Her hand curled around the nape of his neck, her fingers threading into his hair so she could gently tug his head back to meet her searching gaze.
“What are you plotting?”
“I intend for her to visit Carrick Park so she can come to know you.”
“Oh.” She bit her lower lip, unable to hide her flare of unease. “Are you certain that is a sound notion?”
“Of course I am. She will adore you, I promise.”
She grimaced. “You can promise all you like, but I do not believe she could ever come to adore the daughter of Silas Dobson.”
Gabriel chose his words carefully. He had made a promise to himself that he would never lie to Talia again. But neither would he allow her to fear that she would never be accepted by her husband’s family. His mother was…not a complicated woman.
She delighted in her excessive bouts of emotion, but they were as shallow as they were mercurial. Talia would never genuinely understand a woman who could change her feelings with the same ease she changed a gown.
For now it was enough to convince his tender young bride that she could win her mother-in-law’s approval.
“She will adore you because you are generous and kind and loyal,” he informed her.
She remained unimpressed. “You make me sound like a favorite hound.”