Bride for a Night(166)



“Why have you traveled to London?” he asked.

“I had a ridiculous thought that I could convince you that I belong at your side,” she admitted, relieved when her voice came out steady. Her pride was battered enough without revealing how grievously he had managed to injure her. “Obviously it was a wasted journey.”

Somehow he managed to look offended by her words. “What the hell do you mean? Of course you belong at my side.”

“Only when we are being chased through France or secluded in the countryside.”

He frowned, regarding her with a puzzled frown as if she were speaking a foreign language.

“You are angry because I did not bring you to London?”

God almighty, she wanted to slap him. Was he being deliberately obtuse?

“I am angry because you treat me as if I am a shameful secret.”

Reaching out, he grasped her shoulders and glared down at her with a furious expression.

“Have you gone utterly mad?”

“Do not pretend you are not embarrassed to have me as the Countess of Ashcombe.”

He hissed in a sharp breath, pretending as if he were shocked by her accusation.

“For God’s sake, Talia, I could not possibly be more proud to claim you as my wife,” he ground out, his fingers biting into the flesh of her shoulders.

She frowned, studying his ashen pallor and the seemingly genuine disbelief that shimmered in his eyes.

“Then why did you refuse to bring me to London?”

“Because I did not want you to have to endure the unpleasant gossip.”

It was the same excuse he had given before leaving Devonshire, and she gave an exasperated shake of her head at his stubborn insistence.

“I am not a child, Gabriel. I am perfectly capable of ignoring the spiteful comments and insults.” She hunched a shoulder at the painful reminder of her years spent in London ballrooms. “It is not as if I have not spent most of my life doing so.”

He scowled, his grip easing so his hands could rub a soothing path down her arms.

“Well, I cannot bear the thought of you being wounded by their vicious tongues.”

“And your solution is to keep me away from society?” she asked tartly.

He gave an evasive shrug. “For now.”

“Why?” She jerked away from the beguiling stroke of his hands, refusing to be distracted by his skillful touch. “Time will not make me more acceptable as the Countess of Ashcombe. No matter how many months or years pass, I will always be the daughter of a baseborn merchant who bullied a peer of the realm into an unwanted marriage.”

“Shh, my dear.”

He reached for her, but Talia stepped hurriedly backward, bumping into one of the long glass cases that filled the room.

“No, do not touch me,” she commanded. “I am furious with you.”

He grimaced, but with an obvious effort he forced himself to drop his hand and draw in a deep, steadying breath.

“I surmised as much,” he said, hesitating as he considered his words. “Although you are mistaken, my dear.”

“Mistaken about what?”

“Most important, you are mistaken if you dare to think that I am anything but absurdly happy that you are the current Countess of Ashcombe.”

She flinched at the low words, desperate to believe him even as she was terrified to endure yet another disappointment.

“I just overheard you admitting that you could not bear to have Silas Dobson step over your precious threshold,” she reminded him, her voice harsh. “How can you forget that I am his daughter?”

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