There was a brief hesitation. “Yes.”
“And why Lord Ashcombe is so angry. He thought to teach his brother a lesson only to once again be the one to suffer the consequences.” Talia pressed a hand to her aching heart. “It is no wonder he hates me.”
Mrs. Manning shook her head. “He is angry for the moment, but once he has accepted that you are to be his countess, I am certain that all will be well.”
Talia swallowed a hysterical urge to laugh. She was quite certain nothing would be well again.
“I wish I possessed your confidence,” she said dryly.
Perhaps sensing Talia’s disbelief, the housekeeper stepped forward, her expression troubled.
“His lordship can be a hard man in many ways,” she admitted. “When he took the title at such a tender age there were any number of unscrupulous individuals who thought to take advantage of his inexperience, including several gentlemen who had claimed to be his friend. He had no choice but to learn how to protect himself and his family from those who would exploit his naïveté. But he has a good heart and he is fiercely loyal to those he considers his responsibility.”
Talia shied from the temptation to pity the boy who had lost his innocence at such a young age. The Earl of Ashcombe was determined to crush what little was left of her spirit. The moment she thought of him as anything but the enemy she would be lost.
“Responsibility?” She latched onto the revealing word. “What of those he loves?”
The housekeeper grimaced. “I fear he has become convinced that such an emotion is a weakness.” She deliberately paused, meeting Talia’s gaze. “A wise woman would remind him of the joy to be found in sharing his heart with another.”
CHAPTER FOUR
GABRIEL HAD NO formal plans for his wedding day. Nothing beyond ensuring that his new bride understood she was an unwelcome intruder in his home.
Something he had achieved with admirable results if her stricken expression at his abrupt departure had been anything to go by.
But once away from his townhouse, he discovered himself turning his restless horse toward the outskirts of London, refusing to admit he was disturbed by the lingering image of Talia’s pale face and wounded eyes.
What did it matter if she had looked like a forlorn waif as he had walked away from her? Or that she was spending her wedding day alone in an unfamiliar house? She was the one who had been willing to trade her soul for a title. She could damned well learn just how empty her victory was doomed to be.
Determined to dismiss Talia and the travesty of a wedding from his mind, he traveled through narrow lanes and at last into the countryside. He paused to watch a brilliantly painted wagon pass that was loaded with a bear locked in a cage and allowed himself to be distracted by the sight of two burly men wrestling in the middle of a village green.
But as he stopped in a small posting inn to slake his hunger with a simple meal of venison stew and freshly baked bread, his thoughts returned to his neglected bride.
Draining his third glass of ale, Gabriel shoved away from the small table set in the middle of the private parlor and strolled to glance out the window overlooking the stable yard. He barely noted the grooms bustling about their business or the stray dogs who skulked among the shadows, lured by the scents drifting from the kitchen. Instead his mind was filled with a pair of emerald green eyes and a tender, rosebud mouth.
Dammit.
He was in this godforsaken inn to forget the deceitful witch, not to be haunted by the vulnerability he had briefly glimpsed in her eyes or to dwell on the temptation of her lush curves. In a few hours she would be whisked off to Devonshire, and he could pretend that the wedding was nothing more than a horrid nightmare.
Draining yet another mug of ale, Gabriel found himself recalling precisely how the rose silk of Talia’s gown had skimmed her curves and the way her string of pearls had gleamed against her ivory skin.
Was she seated in the formal dining room, savoring her new position as Countess of Ashcombe in isolated glory? Or was she hidden in her rooms, already regretting the choice to force him down the aisle?
Either image should have disgusted him.
Instead his blood heated at the thought of removing her soft rose gown and devoting the entire night to exploring the satin skin beneath.
And why should he not?
The question teased at his crumbling resolve.
It was his wedding night, was it not?
And since it was increasingly obvious that he couldn’t rid her from his mind, why should he be driven from his home and forced to endure the dubious comforts of this damnable inn? He should be in his own chambers, enjoying his own fire and fine brandy. And when he decided the time was ripe, he would enjoy the pleasure of his warm, delectable wife.
After all, he would be a fool not to take advantage of the one and only benefit of their unholy union.
And besides, the voice of the devil whispered in his ear, they weren’t truly married until they consummated their vows.