A Gentleman Never Tells(7)
“I believe we saw what she was doing here, Duke,” Lord Austerhill argued. “What I want to know is why, when she is to marry my son a week from today.”
How could she tell her father she had enticed the viscount because something about him drew her, and she wanted to be kissed the way she saw her fiancé kiss her sister last night? How could she admit to Lord Austerhill she wanted to experience the unbridled passion she saw on her sister’s face when his son had kissed her? Though one look at her father’s thin lips, not to mention Lord Austerhill’s bulging eyes, let her know she didn’t want to tell either man the truth. Besides, how could she explain to them what happened when she was as astounded at what she’d done as they were? No, it was best to remain silent and let them think what they wished.
Gabrielle had never been a witless ninny who was led by fanciful dreams of romance and feminine emotions. She was calm, sensible, and never flustered—until today. The truth was, she had never done an impetuous thing in her life. She was her father’s oldest child. She was dependable, rational, and obedient. That was why she had accepted the practical, unemotional marriage her father had arranged for her in the first place. That was what those of her kind did.
Or so she had always believed. Now she wasn’t so sure. After what she experienced with this viscount, this stranger, Gabrielle had to wonder if she had only buried feelings of passion and desire in order to please her father.
But, what in heaven’s name had come over her this morning to make her throw all of her upbringing away and want to be kissed and held in the arms of a handsome stranger? What was there about Lord Brentwood that had awakened the wanton desire she’d felt when she looked at him?
“Speak, girl, speak,” her father demanded again.
“Have you absolutely nothing to say in your defense?” Lord Austerhill snapped.
Gabrielle was forced to ignore her father and the nobleman. She had no answer. She felt as if her whole life had suddenly shifted, and she didn’t know herself.
She glanced back at the man on the ground. She watched in horror as the two footmen struggled with Lord Brentwood. No matter what her father or the earl thought about what they witnessed, she was the reason the viscount was being manhandled like a common footpad, and it was her responsibility to help him.
Suddenly, Gabrielle was not concerned about her father’s ire, herself, her sister, or Lord Austerhill’s son. She was appalled to watch the handsome viscount dragged unceremoniously to his feet, his hands held firmly behind his back by the servants.
She turned to her father. “Papa, tell Muggs not to hurt Lord Brentwood. What happened was not his fault; it was mine.”
Her father’s jaw was set with rage. He was a rigid man, straight as the blade of a soldier’s sword and just as hard. In his younger days, a mere glance from him could send a shudder through the household staff, and her younger brother and sister racing to hide beneath their beds.
“I’m not the least concerned whether Muggs hurts the man. He can kill the scoundrel for all I care. And for your information, young lady, when a man puts his hands on an untouched maid of quality, it is never her fault as far as I’m concerned. The blame is always with the man, though the girl is always the one punished.”
“Notice whom her concern is for, Duke,” Lord Austerhill remarked scathingly. “Did you hear her say one word about how this shameful act of betrayal she’s committed is going to destroy my son?”
Gabrielle smothered an angry retort about his son by pressing her lips tightly together. Her ill-advised words of concern for Lord Brentwood didn’t sit well with the earl or her father and wasn’t going to help the struggling viscount.
“Clearly, your daughter has been carrying on an affair with this man behind my son’s back with secret assignations.”
Gabrielle gasped. “That is not true, my lord. I haven’t,” she said earnestly, and immediately wondered if letting them know this was the first time she had ever met the man made her seem more a wanton doxy than if she and Lord Brentwood had been long-standing lovers.
Apparently her fierce denial did nothing to salve the earl’s rancor. His bushy gray eyebrows rose with skepticism, and a nervous tic worked each side of his wide, sneering mouth.
Indignation dripped from his words as he said, “That is not what it looked like to me. You two seemed to know each other very well indeed, considering the way you were wrapped in each other’s arms, with your lips locked together as if you were trying to swallow each other. Your torn gown and gaping cape were falling off your shoulders.”