Bride for a Night(42)

“Return to the ship and ensure it is prepared to leave the moment I arrive with Talia,” he commanded, his sharp tone warning he would endure no argument.

Hugo’s jaw tightened, but he gave a reluctant nod.

“Very well.”

“And, Hugo?”

His friend frowned. “Yes?”

“If I have not arrived by dawn tomorrow you are to return to England without me.”

“No.”

Gabriel narrowed his gaze. “You gave your word you would follow my orders when I allowed you to accompany me.”

Hugo tossed his hands in the air, clearly at the end of his patience.

“I begin to wonder if marriage has softened your brain.”

Gabriel’s lips twisted. “I must admit that I wonder, as well.”

Hugo headed toward the nearby trees. “Do not miss the ship.”

“I shall do my best.”



TALIA’S PRIVATE CHAMBERS were as magnificent as the rest of the palace.

The walls were covered by a pale green that matched the velvet curtains and the green-and-gold striped satin on the furnishings. A large fireplace made of white marble veined with black dominated one wall with a vast mirror framed in a profusion of gilt hanging over the mantel.

On the opposite wall a row of arched windows overlooked the sunken garden and the distant lake. While overhead a heavy crystal chandelier spilled a golden glow over the canopy bed set in the center of the room.

Still attired in her ruby satin dinner gown trimmed with French pearls at the plunging neckline and white roses along the cap sleeves, Talia sat in front of the satinwood dresser pulling a brush through her thick curls.

It had been over a week since her arrival at the palace, and while Jacques had been a charming companion when he was not meeting with the various guests who routinely traveled from Paris to speak with him, she was growing frustrated with her elegant prison.

As she should be, she acknowledged, tossing aside the brush and rising to her feet.

After accepting that she could not escape, she had instead turned her thoughts to the looming disaster awaiting General Wellesley’s troops.

But despite her efforts, she had yet to find the means to send a warning to those poor men who were about to march directly into an ambush. And she’d had even less luck in discovering the sort of secret information that might be used to England’s advantage once Jacques returned her to Devonshire.

She was proving to be as much a failure at being a daring adventuress as she was a society debutante.

Talia paced out the French doors that led to the balcony. She was leaning against the stone balustrade gazing at the moon-drenched garden when she caught the unmistakable sound of a soft footfall behind her.

“Jacques?” she called, a frown marring her brow. Until this moment she had never felt uneasy in these private chambers, despite being a prisoner. The various guards who roamed the palace and surrounding grounds had treated her with a wary respect that assured her that Jacques had left strict orders that she was not to be bothered. Now she realized just how vulnerable she truly was. “Who is there?”

A large, distinctly male form stepped onto the balcony.

“It most certainly is not Jacques,” a familiar voice growled.


“Gabriel?” Talia gasped in shock, half suspecting this must be a dream. It certainly would not be the first time she’d imagined her husband magically appearing to sweep her back to England. Of course, in her dreams he had spoken sweet words of regret. His sharp retort assured her that she was very much awake. “Dear God. What are you doing here?”