Miss Talia Dobson.
Gabriel was braced for the frustrated rage that clenched his heart. Any man would be ready to commit murder at having been so neatly trapped. But what he did not expect was the odd sense of recognition that stirred in the pit of his stomach. As if during his rare social appearances he had actually taken notice of Miss Dobson’s silky black hair that was forever slipping from its pins and the eyes that shimmered like emeralds in the afternoon sunlight. That he’d contemplated how soft the ivory skin would feel beneath his fingertips and the precise manner her inviting curves would fit against him.
The mere thought only intensified his anger.
The female might have played the timid wallflower to perfection, but the past hour had proved that she was as greedy and conniving as her boorish father.
“Oh…” The unfamiliar female fluttered in the center of the room that was surprisingly decorated with the simple elegance that he preferred. Unlike the public rooms that had been a garish combination of lacquer furnishings covered in a crimson velvet. “My lord.”
He waved a dismissive hand, not bothering to glance in her direction.
“You may leave us.”
“But…”
“I am not in the habit of repeating myself.”
“Yes, my lord.” He heard her faint gasp swiftly followed by the sound of the plump female hurrying to obey his command.
His gaze never shifted from Miss Dobson regarding him with an expression of frozen shock. Rather like a mouse watching a hungry cat suddenly approach.
Did the wench think he would accept being blackmailed?
If so, she was in for a bitter disappointment.
By the end of this meeting, Miss Talia Dobson would regret ever having dared to force him into this unbearable situation.
As if sensing his dangerous fury, Talia leaned backward, unwittingly pressing open the window behind her.
“If you are considering a tragic leap to bring an end to this farce, I would suggest that you wait until the guests have taken their leave,” he mocked, folding his arms over his blue jacket that he had matched with an ivory waistcoat and buff breeches. He had intended to spend the day at Tattersall’s in the hopes of acquiring a new pair of bays to pull his carriage. A convenient means to avoid his mother’s hysterical ranting at his refusal to prevent Harry’s imminent wedding. When Dobson had so rudely intruded into his townhouse, he had not considered the necessity of changing into more formal attire. “This travesty of a wedding has caused quite enough gossip.”
She blinked, shaking her head. Almost as if hoping that he was an unwelcome vision she could make disappear.
“Lord Ashcombe, why are you here?”
“I believe you are well aware what has brought me here.”
Her brows drew together. “Is there word of your brother? Has there been an accident?”
He narrowed his gaze, not at all amused by her pretense of bewilderment.
“Please don’t play coy with me, Miss Dobson. I have already spoken with your father.” His lip curled in disdain. “A shockingly unpleasant experience, I confess.”
Talia jerked to her feet, her hand pressed to her enticing bosom.
“My father?”
Gabriel clenched his hands at his sides. Could a woman deliberately drain her face of all color?
“I will admit you play the role of wounded martyr quite convincingly,” he said in biting tones. “My jaded heart might be touched if I was not aware that you and your father are shameless charlatans who will use any tactic, no matter how vile, to acquire a place among society.”
“I am aware you disapprove of your brother taking me as his wife.”
His sharp burst of laughter echoed through the room. “Not nearly so much as I disapprove taking you as my own wife.”
“I…” She swayed, and for a moment Gabriel thought she might sink into a predictable swoon. Then, with a visible effort, she sucked in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Your wife?” She shook her head in denial. “Is this a jest?”
“I do not jest about the next Countess of Ashcombe.”