How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(59)

“How long before they’re home?” He slid a hand inside her dressing gown and cupped her breast in his palm.

“Hours.”

He smiled and kissed her again. Then he stood and reached for her hand. Clary led the way, and when they reached her bedroom and locked themselves inside, she pushed Gabe against the door and stood on her toes to kiss him. He groaned when she teased at his lips with her tongue, reaching around to grab her backside and lifting her against him.

Turning with her in his arms, he gently pushed her back against the door and reached down to part her dressing gown and settle her legs around his waist.

“Is it possible . . . like this?” she asked between kisses.

He was hot and hard between her thighs, and she wanted to try.

“Yes,” he said, breathing against her mouth, “but I want to take you to bed.” He settled her back on her feet.

Clary smiled, sidestepped past him, and dashed for the bed. “Ow!” Her bare foot came down on some obstruction beneath their pile of discarded clothes, and she hobbled to a chair near the fireplace.

Gabe rushed forward and knelt to take her foot in his hand. “There’s no cut, just redness.”

“What did I stumble on?”

He patted the piles of clothing—her black skirt and shirtwaist, his gray waistcoat and overcoat—and stalled as he shaped an object with his fingers. Pushing the garments aside, he lifted his coat, and a chess piece thudded to the carpet.

“A little knight.” Clary retrieved the glowing marble horse head from Gabe’s palm. The stone had substantial heft and had been carved with detail and care. “Where did you get this?”

Still down on his knees, he lifted two fingers to pinch the skin between his brows. “In the gutter. Where I came from.”

“Gabriel.” Clary reached for him, but he leaned away from her and got to his feet.

The horse head was a token, a reminder, jostling Gabe from a dream.

This joy, this luxurious bliss of Clary and contentment and thoughts of a future with her was a figment. A fantasy he’d let spin too far.

“When I found the piece,” he told her, “I thought I’d discovered treasure. That marble seemed fine and delicate, a piece of beauty when everything around me was ugly. I believed the trinket was the only piece of beauty and goodness I’d ever possess.” He cast her a stark gaze. Realization enveloped him like the bitter smoke of Rigg’s cheroot, snuffing out the foolish hopes he’d let kindle into an inferno. “I never dreamed of someone like you.”

“And now you’re stuck with me.” She smiled as if she believed what he’d told her in the park. That there was no going back. Apparently, she’d taken his words as a promise rather than a warning.

“I can’t give you what you deserve.” And he’d bring her misery. Pain. That little imp he’d found outside her door meant that Rigg knew exactly where to find her. Gabe had let his guard down and led the devil to her door. God, what had he done?

He stared at the chess piece in her hand, but he couldn’t meet her gaze.

When she stood and approached him, Gabe backed away.

“All I want is you,” she said in a tone of utter certainty. Her eyes shone with a love he longed to grasp, to hold on to.

“You don’t know me, Clary.” With a shaking finger he pointed at the chess piece clutched in her fingers. “I’m a guttersnipe who found a bit of beauty and wished to keep it for my own. I was selfish then, and I was selfish tonight.”

Selfish, thoughtless, reckless. He hadn’t changed a bit since the day he’d found the knight floating in flotsam. She was all he wanted, and he’d taken what she offered without any noble thought of doing what was right or protecting her.

“This was a mistake, Clary.” Nausea welled up. He hated hurting her. He wanted so desperately to keep her from all the dangerous parts of his past, but now he was the one causing the pain shadowing her eyes. Still, he had to make her see. “This can’t ever be between us.”

“You care for me. I know you do.” Panic threaded her tone. “I’ve only just found you. Don’t do this.” After drawing in a breath, she reached for him. “Gabriel, I love you.”

Her words lit him up inside with a warmth that spread to fill up every dark space. But she didn’t know the rest. And when she did, she’d take the words back. Sidestepping away from her touch, he confessed, “I lied to you, Clary. To your whole family.”

Swallowing back tears, she insisted, “I don’t care where you came from. Neither will they.” She pressed a fist to her chest. Gabe longed to go to her, to take back the pain he was causing. But he couldn’t. He’d only bring her more pain to replace whatever he soothed away.

“No man is perfect,” she said quietly, in the determined tone he loved. “Not even my father thought so. That’s why he wrote books telling men how to behave.”

Ah, yes, Leopold Ruthven. The shadow of that blasted man had loomed between them from the moment he’d met her.

“How well did you know your father?” Gabe strode to the window and looked out onto the darkening sky. “Did you know what he did with his leisure hours?”

“The last thing I care about is my father’s predilections.” She came up behind him, and he ached to turn and take her in his arms. To hold her and kiss her and love her again, to forget truths and lies and live only for this moment. “I overheard bits and pieces from Kit and Sophia’s discussions about him,” she said. “He kept women, I believe. A mistress, maybe more than one. And he had a fondness for Gaiety Girls.”