And yet, she could not possibly be utterly innocent. Could she?
Tapping a slender finger on the side table situated next to his chair, Gabriel grimly admitted that the only means to discover the truth was to travel to Carrick Park. Beneath his watchful gaze Talia would either reveal that she was truly her father’s daughter or she would prove she was as much a victim as Gabriel was to Silas Dobson’s ambitions.
Yes. His vague notion hardened to determination. He obviously had no choice but to leave London for Devonshire. In fact, there was no reason he could not begin the journey today.
Without warning a savage flare of anticipation clutched his stomach. An anticipation that had nothing to do with discovering the truth and everything to do with returning his beautiful bride to his bed.
Christ, he ached for her.
It was ludicrous. He could have his pick of beautiful, willing women. All of them eager to offer him endless hours of pleasure.
But night after night he had slept alone, plagued by the memories of his dark-haired gypsy.
A prickle on the back of his neck shook Gabriel out of his delectable thoughts of Talia spread across his bed, his hands tangled in her dark hair as he thrust deep into her satin heat.
He turned his head, preparing to flay the unwelcome intruder with a few well-chosen words, only to have them die on his lip.
Damn.
His gaze skimmed over the tall gentleman with a large, muscular body who was currently attired in a cinnamon jacket and tan waistcoat, black breeches and glossy boots. The nobleman’s light brown hair was cut shorter than the current fashion and his features were more forceful than handsome. And while his golden-brown eyes often simmered with amusement, they could also send any preening fop who hoped to garner his acquaintance fleeing in fear.
Hugo, Lord Rothwell.
And one of Gabriel’s few friends.
“Is there a particular reason you are hovering behind me like a vulture, Hugo?” he demanded wryly, knowing it would be a futile effort to try to convince his friend that he preferred to be alone.
Hugo narrowed his golden gaze, absently toying with the signet ring on his little finger.
“I am attempting to decide if I have the nerve so early in the day to beard the lion in his den. Or shall I wait until I am in my cups and therefore impervious to your foul mood?”
Gabriel pointedly turned his attention toward the dunces clustered about the room casting covert glances in his direction.
“My mood would not be foul if I were not surrounded by idiots,” he growled.
“Hmm.” With the ease of a natural sportsman, Hugo lowered his large body into the leather chair opposite Gabriel. “That would not be my first guess as to why you have been snapping and snarling at every unwitting soul who has crossed your path over the past month.”
“At least I have not yet taken to lodging bullets in those who annoy me,” he smoothly pointed out, “although that might change at any moment.”
Hugo smiled at the threat. “You do realize that you cannot keep society at bay forever? Eventually you will have to face their curiosity.”
“Society’s curiosity, or yours?”
“Both,” Hugo admitted. “But considering we have been friends since I bloodied your nose our first day at Eton I surely deserve to be the first to be taken into your confidence?”
Gabriel snorted. “First of all, I was the one to bloody your nose after you attempted to pinch my favorite cricket bat. And I have never known you to take an interest in gossip.”
“That is because the rumors have never before hinted that the proud and notoriously aloof Earl of Ashcombe has secretly wed the daughter of Silas Dobson.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened at the mention of his offensive father-in-law.
“Obviously not so secretively.”
“Is it true?”
There was a moment of silence before Gabriel gave a grudging nod of his head. “Yes.”
“Bloody hell,” Hugo muttered.