Bride for a Night(17)

Was she seated in the formal dining room, savoring her new position as Countess of Ashcombe in isolated glory? Or was she hidden in her rooms, already regretting the choice to force him down the aisle?

Either image should have disgusted him.

Instead his blood heated at the thought of removing her soft rose gown and devoting the entire night to exploring the satin skin beneath.

And why should he not?

The question teased at his crumbling resolve.

It was his wedding night, was it not?

And since it was increasingly obvious that he couldn’t rid her from his mind, why should he be driven from his home and forced to endure the dubious comforts of this damnable inn? He should be in his own chambers, enjoying his own fire and fine brandy. And when he decided the time was ripe, he would enjoy the pleasure of his warm, delectable wife.

After all, he would be a fool not to take advantage of the one and only benefit of their unholy union      .

And besides, the voice of the devil whispered in his ear, they weren’t truly married until they consummated their vows.

He would not put it past the nasty Dobson to insist on proof his daughter had been stripped of her innocence.

Watching the sun slide slowly toward the distant horizon, Gabriel at last slammed his empty mug on the table and headed for the nearby door.

Enough, by God.

Talia would soon be on her way to Devonshire. Until she was gone, there was no reason he should not sate the unwelcome desire she had stirred to life.

Refusing to consider the knowledge that for the first time since taking on the heavy duties of Earl of Ashcombe he was tossing aside his commonsense on a mere whim, Gabriel left the posting inn and headed back to London with fervid speed.

For all his haste, however, night had fully descended by the time he reached the city. He cursed at the elegant carriages that jammed the cobblestone streets and the hordes of drunken bucks who spilled along the walkways. It seemed that all of society had descended upon Mayfair, making it all but impossible to reach his townhouse.

At last he entered the alley that led to his private mews and, leaving his horse in the care of a uniformed groom, Gabriel used the back entrance to enter his house and make his way to the upper chambers.

He moved with a silence that ensured he would not disturb the servants. He had no desire to announce his return. These few hours of madness would be forgotten the moment dawn arrived.

Reaching his rooms, he wrestled out of his clothing without the assistance of his valet and pulled on a richly embroidered robe over his already aroused body. Then, ignoring the fact he was behaving more like a common thief than the Earl of Ashcombe, he snuffed out the candles and glided through the dark corridors to the blue chambers.


Silently he pressed open Talia’s door, a smile of anticipation curving his lips at the knowledge she hadn’t turned the lock.

Resignation or invitation?

There was only one way to discover.

Stepping over the threshold, Gabriel closed the door and leaned against the wooden panels, covertly turning the key. At the same moment his gaze skimmed over the pretty rosewood furnishings, his heart slamming against his ribs as a slender form slowly rose from the window seat across the room.

He should have been amused. Or perhaps horrified.

At some point in the evening she had removed the wedding dress and replaced it with a ghastly monstrosity that he assumed was a nightgown. Christ. For a gentleman accustomed to females who understood a man enjoyed being teased and tantalized in the boudoir, he had never seen anything that resembled the yards and yards of white linen that swathed Talia from her chin to her toes. It looked like a funeral shroud. And to make matters worse, there were bows and ruffles and what looked to be a hundred buttons that ran from top to bottom.