The Earl's Snow-Kissed Proposal
Nina Milne
Christmas kisses with the Earl…Gabriel Derwent, Earl of Wycliffe, needs an heir. With no wife or child of his own, he hires Etta Mason to research his family tree and find one!Single mum Etta isn’t used to things going her way. So she can’t believe her luck when her new boss whisks her away from her humdrum life to spend Christmas with him! She might be cynical about fairytale endings, but standing in Gabriel’s arms, with snowflakes softly falling, she can't help but be tempted by his achingly romantic kisses…
Christmas kisses with the earl...
Gabriel Derwent, Earl of Wycliffe, needs an heir. With no wife or child of his own, he hires Etta Mason to research his family tree and find one!
Single mom Etta isn’t used to things going her way. So she can’t believe her luck when her new boss whisks her away from her humdrum life to spend Christmas with him! She may be cynical about fairy-tale endings, but standing in Gabriel’s arms, snowflakes softly falling, dare she hope his achingly romantic kisses could mean so much more?
‘I’ve tried dating and...it doesn’t work out.’
‘And I’ve told you you’re dating the wrong men.’ Gabriel surveyed her. ‘I bet you’re going for nice, average men with nice respectable jobs and...’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Color climbed Etta’s cheekbones and she narrowed her eyes.
‘Physical attraction is important too.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘That you date someone you feel attracted to in a physical way—where there’s a spark.’
‘I don’t seem to meet guys like that. Maybe that gene is missing, too.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
The last berry slipped on to the ring and he stood up and held the mistletoe circle, then attached it to the waiting ring.
‘Look up.’
A hesitation, and then she did as he asked, her face tipped up toward him, her delicate angled features bathed in the flicker of light.
‘Kiss me and I’ll show you,’ he said. ‘The ball’s in your court. Literally.’
His throat was constricted, his breath held in his lungs, and then slowly she rose to her feet and stepped forward until she was flush against him. Hesitantly her hands came up and looped around his neck; her fingers touched his nape and desire shuddered through his body. She stood on tiptoe and touched her lips against his in sweet sensation.
The Earl’s Snow-Kissed Proposal
Nina Milne
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
NINA MILNE has always dreamed of writing for Mills & Boon Cherish—ever since as a child she played libraries with her mother’s stacks of Mills & Boon romances. On her way to this dream Nina acquired an English degree, a hero of her own, three gorgeous children and—somehow!—an accountancy qualification. She lives in Brighton and has filled her house with stacks of books—her very own real library.
Family is a big part of this book so this is for my mum. Thank you for being a great mum, an amazing grandma, and for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself!
Contents
Cover (#u093a3591-3e3f-5b6f-b365-6d76d402307c)
Back Cover Text (#ued03638b-3966-5198-844d-e84199123a1c)
Introduction (#ufe00c550-1517-5a6f-9e87-fc1762391b44)
Title Page (#u24321276-b119-52b2-9677-cc9342d83129)
About the Author (#u3e9aeeed-7eac-5738-a084-a230cf4f4fb2)
Dedication (#u2b266523-0935-5551-acb3-16bfd0e60afb)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_df82d529-460f-5f41-a231-82102a9f08a4)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_bbd15536-f271-5102-9936-d40b4dc433b0)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_992a2759-fa3d-5905-89f1-275b38625cdb)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_bfba8c2d-9cb2-5a04-8fd7-985817afe919)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_17cc9e8c-a401-512f-9571-4b45eb158f03)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e122e8b8-a996-5d07-a78b-3467beeb48ed)
GABRIEL DERWENT STARED at his reflection in the opulently framed mirror of the lavish hotel room—just to make sure he hadn’t inadvertently put his shirt on inside out or his boxers on his head.
But, no...his reflection gazed suavely back at him, its crisp white shirt correctly on beneath a midnight black tux, spiky blond hair free of encumbrance. No indication of the inner turmoil that had been tossing and turning inside him for the best part of a year. Not that he was complaining—the very last thing he needed was for the truth to be emblazoned on him for the world to see. For anyone to see.
Instead his fellow guests at the Cavershams’ Advent Ball would see what they expected—the debonair, rugged, charming Gabriel Derwent, Earl of Wycliffe, heir to the Duke of Fairfax. No doubt there would be questions as to his prolonged absence from the social scene, but he’d deal with those as if he were without a care in the world. Ditto any queries about his split from Lady Isobel Petersen.
This was a fundraiser for a cause he believed in, but the whole idea of circulating, itty-bitty small talk and a face-off with the press made his jaw clench. Yet necessity dictated his actions... He needed the social backdrop to conceal the true reason for his presence—which was to start a quest, the idea of which banded his chest with bleakness.
Enough, Gabe. No way would he submit to despair. A childhood lesson well learnt.
The click of the hotel room door caused him to spin round and he forced his lips to upturn. ‘Hey, little sis.’ Seeing her expression, he stepped forward. ‘Is everything OK?’
Cora Martinez entered, her emerald-green dress shimmering as she moved. ‘You tell me. I knocked twice and you didn’t respond. I was worried. In fact I’m still worried.’
‘No need to worry. You look stunning, by the way.’
A wave of her hand swept the compliment away. ‘Don’t distract me. I am worried. I’ve seen you once in nearly a year, I have no idea where you’ve been, and then you ring me up out of the blue to ask me to introduce you to the Cavershams. Next thing I know you get a last-minute invitation to this ball. I don’t get it.’
‘I know.’
Her turquoise eyes narrowed. ‘That’s it?’
Digging deep, Gabe pulled out his best smile. ‘There is nothing you need to know except that I’m back.’
No way could he confide in Cora. What would he say? Hey, little sis. Nine months ago I found out that I can’t have children. Life as he had known it had changed irrevocably—the future he’d had mapped out for years was toast. Thanks to the archaic legal complexities that surrounded the Dukedom of Fairfax, the title that had passed from father to son for centuries might now die out. Unless he could find a male heir who descended directly, father to son, back to an earlier Duke of Fairfax. Bleakness returned in a vengeful wave even as he forced his body to remain relaxed.
‘Earth to Gabe...’ Cora placed her hands on her hips, one bejewelled foot tapping the plush carpet. ‘I’m still worried. I may be six years younger than you, and we might never have been close, but you’re my brother.’
Never have been close.
The words were no more than the truth. They weren’t close—Cora and her twin sister, Kaitlin, had been only two when he’d been sent to boarding school and after that he’d figured there was little point in forming close bonds with anyone, because closeness led to the agonising ache of missing people and home. Closeness made you weak and weakness rendered you powerless.
Her forehead crinkled. ‘Is it something to do with Dad? Was his attack worse than I thought? Or are you upset about Isobel? Love can be really complicated, but...’
‘Stop.’
Love was something he’d never aspired to—as far as he was concerned love was the definitive form of closeness and a fast track to complete loss of power. As for Lady Isobel...their relationship had been a pact. Gabe had always known his playboy lifestyle would have to end in the name of duty, and Lady Isobel would have been a dutiful wife. In return she would have had the desired title of Duchess and been the mother of the future Duke of Fairfax.
When he’d found out there was a possibility he couldn’t fulfil his part in that, he had asked to postpone their engagement for a few months. True, he hadn’t told her why, but she’d agreed...and then sold him down the river. She’d appeared on numerous talk shows on which she’d denounced him as a heartbreaker and a cad. But this was conversational territory he had no intent of entering.
‘Isobel is history. As for Dad—I spoke with the doctors and his prognosis is good. The heart attack was serious, but the stent should prevent further attacks and Mum has taken him away to convalesce. I’ll hold the fort in their absence.’ Tipping his palms up in the air, he aimed for an expression of exasperated affection. ‘So all is fine. There is no need to worry.’
Patent disbelief etched Cora’s delicate features. Clearly his aim was off.
‘Sure, Gabe. Whatever you say,’ his little sister said as she turned for the door.
Five minutes, one grand oak staircase, several wooden panelled walls and more than a few intricately beautiful medieval tapestries later Gabe followed Cora into the impressive reception hall of the Cavershams’ Castle Hotel. Beautifully dressed people filled the cavernous room and the hum of conversation was interlaced with the discreet pop of champagne corks and the clink of glasses.
Next to him, Cora’s face lit up with a smile that illuminated her entire being—a clear indicator that Rafael Martinez must be in the vicinity. Sure enough, within seconds her tall, dark-haired husband made his way through the throng to her side.
‘Gabriel.’ Rafael gave a curt nod.
‘Rafael. Good to see you.’
His brother-in-law raised one dark eyebrow in patent disbelief and Gabe couldn’t blame him. Although he had no problem with his sister’s marriage, he hadn’t exactly been around to offer his good wishes. On the other hand Rafael Martinez was undoubtedly more than capable of looking out for himself and his wife without assistance from anyone.
Gabe scanned the room, which glittered with festive cheer. Rich green holly wreaths adorned the stone walls and discreet choral music touched the air, heralding the first Sunday of Advent, the next day, and the arrival of Christmas in just a few weeks—the deadline he’d set himself to map out his options and discover if there was an heir to the dukedom besides him.
Not for the first time he cursed the legal convolutions that demanded his heir had to be derived from a direct male line only. If there was no descendant who matched the rules the title would die out; the idea coated his tongue with the bitter taste of the unpalatable.
Focus, Gabe.
Alongside the Christmas-tinged atmosphere he became aware of the attention and buzz directed at him, on his first public appearance for nearly a year. It came as almost a relief as his body and mind spun automatically into action. Time to walk the walk and talk the talk. It was crucial to ensure that the press didn’t work out why he was really here this evening, and that meant he must speak to all and sundry so that no one would identify his real quarry.
A smile on his lips, he headed towards his host and hostess—they should be able to point him in the right direction.
* * *
Etta Mason stepped behind an enormous potted plant and hauled in breath so hard her lungs protested as she checked her mobile phone for the gazillionth time.
This had been a mistake of supersonic proportions. Breathe, Etta. It would be OK. Cathy was safe. Images of her beautiful, precious sixteen-year-old daughter streamed through her mind. From babyhood to teenagedom she’d loved and looked after Cathy—sure, it had been hard sometimes, but not once had she regretted the choice her sixteen-year-old self had made. Whatever it had cost her.
Safe. Cathy is safe.
She was at a sleepover with her best friend, and most crucially of all there was no way that Tommy could find her. Etta dug her nails into the palm of her hand. Cathy had managed without her father thus far and that was how it would stay.
Determination hardened inside her. She had the situation under control. So now she needed to get on with her job. This was an important event and she had promised Ruby Caversham that she would do a pre-dinner talk. Therefore skulking behind potted plants was really not on the agenda. Instead she would step out in her pink-and-white candy cane dress and... And walk crash-bang into a very broad chest.
‘I am so sorry. Put it down to a combination of high heels and innate clumsiness... Thank goodness I didn’t impale y—’
The words died on her lips as she took in the appearance of the man she had nearly spiked with her candyfloss-pink heels. Short dark blond hair, blue-grey eyes that caught the light from the wall-mounted candles and cast a strange spell on her, a firm mouth that her gaze wanted to snag upon—especially when a smile tipped it up at the corners...
Etta blinked. Holy moly! There could be no gainsaying that this man had charisma. Whoa... Her brain cells finally caught up and she stopped gawping as recognition sent out a flare. The man in front of her was none other than Gabriel Derwent, Earl of Wycliffe, heir to the Duke of Fairfax.
Great! The first time she’d been poleaxed by a man since...since never, and it turned out to be a man she despised. True, she didn’t actually know him—but what kind of historian wouldn’t follow the exploits of a leading member of the aristocracy? A man whose ancestors had been instrumental in the most gripping moments of English history.
In fairness, she had no issue with the playboy lifestyle he’d enjoyed for years—it was his more recent actions that had left her enraged. Nine months ago Gabriel Derwent had renounced his playboy way of life, wooed Lady Isobel Petersen, wined her and dined her and taken her to visit his parents—all of it recorded in celebrity magazines worldwide. He had even been papped in a jewellery store, scanning the engagement rings, and then...kabam! On the verge of a proposal Gabriel Derwent had unceremoniously dumped Lady Isobel and fled the country.
There had been a short but excited media outburst before the efficient Derwent publicity machine had rolled in, and Etta had taken the plight of Lady Isobel to heart. Etta knew how it felt to be deceived, to become enmeshed in a situation only to have it exposed as an illusion, and she could almost taste Lady Isobel’s bitter hurt. A hurt inflicted by this man.
Her eyes narrowed as she returned his gaze.
His blue-grey eyes studied her face as he held out a hand, and something sparked in their depths. ‘I’m Gabriel Derwent.’
For an instant her gaze snagged on his hand. Capable, strong, thick-fingered...and suspended in mid-air. Get with it, Etta. The last thing she wanted was for Gabriel Derwent to believe her to be flustered by his presence.
Clasping his hand in a brief handshake, she mustered a cool smile. ‘Etta Mason.’ She ignored the surely imaginary lingering sensation from his touch.
‘Etta Mason...eminent historian.’
The words were more statement than question, and for a daft second she wondered if he had been lurking by the potted plant waiting for her. How ridiculous was that?
‘That’s me.’
For a moment she recalled the sheer struggle it had been to obtain her qualifications: the constant exhaustion as she’d strived to combine being the best mum she could be with the hours needed for study and working part-time. So no way would she go for false modesty—she was one of the best in her field.
As his eyes swept over her appearance she clocked a hint of surprise and ire sparked. Presumably her outfit didn’t match up with his idea of ‘eminent historian’.
‘You look surprised?’
There was a pause as he contemplated his answer, and then he lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Busted. I’ll admit that my preconceived idea of a renowned historian didn’t include a bright-pink-striped dress. But I apologise unreservedly. I shouldn’t have made such a stereotypical assumption. So how about we start again? I’ll forget you nearly impaled me with your shoes and you forget my stupidity? Deal?’
This was her cue to close this conversation down—make a light comment and then walk away. But the relaxed tilt of his lips vied with the determined glint in his eye. Gabriel Derwent was turning on the charm—and Etta wanted to know why. She certainly didn’t qualify as his type. Gabriel Derwent had been linked with a fair few women—all beautiful, all famous and all shallow—and none of them serious until the Lady Isobel Petersen debacle. So why would he show an interest in her?
The idea was laughable—Gabriel Derwent and a historian. And not just any old historian but one who had been a single mother at seventeen. True, he didn’t know that, but Etta knew the ballroom held plenty of women more suited to be the recipient of the dazzling Derwent smile. It could be that she was overanalysing, and that he charmed on automatic, but instinct told her otherwise and curiosity tickled her vocal cords.
‘Deal.’ There could be no harm in a conversation, right? ‘So how do we do that?’
‘How about you tell me a bit about yourself? A day in the life of a prominent historian?’
His interest seemed genuine, even if she didn’t get it. ‘Part of the reason I love what I do is that all my days are different. I recently helped an author research a historical novel. I investigate family trees...help organise historic events. I blog for a historic society, I’ve written articles, I’ve done guest lectures...’
‘Ruby told me you were one of the most committed professionals she knew.’
‘Well, I feel the same about Ruby. And Ethan. What they do for the kids their foundation helps is inspiring. I wish—’ Etta broke off. Her admiration for Ruby and Ethan Caversham and the ways in which they sought to help troubled teens—kids in care or on the street—stemmed from personal experience. How she wished she’d been able to turn to people like the Cavershams in her own time of need. But that was not a wish she had any inclination to share.
‘What do you wish?’
Surprise touched her at the hint of perception in his voice—almost as if he too could empathise with the children out there who needed help—and for an instant an absurd flicker of warmth ignited her. Ridiculous. Gabriel Derwent had come into the world housed and shod, with a whole drawer full of silver spoons to choose from.
‘I wish I did as much good as they do,’ she improvised. After all it might not have been what she’d meant to say but it was the truth.
‘Ruby mentioned that you’d done some work for her?’
The words niggled Etta. Ruby always had a good word to say about others, but that almost sounded as if Gabriel Derwent had expressed a specific interest in Etta. Could he be interested in her?
To her irritation the idea set off a spark of appreciation, caused her gaze to snag on his firm mouth, sent a strange, long-forgotten tingle down to her toes. Jeez, she must be losing it big-time—the idea was nuts.
Focus on the conversation, Etta.
‘I did. From time to time she deals with children who only have a name for their birth parent and want to know more about them.’
‘So you’re almost playing detective?’
‘Yes—that’s what’s so fascinating.’ Though that fascination held an element of the bittersweet—a reminder that all her research and effort hadn’t unearthed a single clue as to the identity of her own birth parents.
A familiar ache kicked at her ribcage and she clenched her nails into her palms. Enough. Accept it. She would never know who they were or why they had abandoned her on a doorstep thirty-two years ago. Move on.
‘What if you discover something people don’t want to hear?’ Now darkness edged his voice, and matched the shadow in his grey-blue eyes.
‘I tell them anyway. It’s better to know.’ This she knew. After all, her adoptive parents had hidden the truth of her birth from her—hadn’t even told her she was adopted. Instead they had woven a web of illusion around her life—a mirage that had been exposed when they’d had a child of their own and turned Etta out into the cold.
Enough. Accept it. Move on.
Aware that his grey-blue eyes were studying her expression with a penetration she wouldn’t have believed a man of his reputation capable of, she summoned a smile. Hoped to combat the fervour her voice had held. Somehow their conversation had taken on way too much depth—and, worse, she had no idea how or why that had happened.
‘After all, they say knowledge is power.’
‘So they do.’ Now his voice matched her lightness, and suddenly there was that smile again. Full of charm. And she wondered if she had imagined the whole other side to the conversation.
‘And sometimes knowledge is just useful. I did one job for Ruby when a pregnant teenager in care wanted to find out her medical history.’
It had been a case Etta had related to all too well. How many times had she looked at Cathy and worried that genes she knew nothing about might have an adverse medical impact on her daughter?
‘Although the other side to that coin is the fact that in the past no one understood genes and everyone got on with it. Sometimes I believe we have to make a leap of faith,’ she said.
‘And just believe in fate?’
So now they had plunged into philosophical waters. ‘Sometimes. Don’t you agree?’
A flare burned in the depths of his eyes. ‘No, I don’t. We choose our fate because we have the power of choice.’
The intensity of his voice prickled her skin.
Then his broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘Or at least that’s what I choose to believe.’
Enough. The Earl of Wycliffe possessed more depth than she’d given him credit for, but that didn’t alter anything. The man was at best a playboy and at worst a heartbreaking master of illusion. Etta still had no idea why he’d engaged her in conversation for so long but it didn’t matter. So...
‘It’s nearly time for my talk and I really must mingle. Hopefully the more people I talk to the more people will enjoy my speech. I’ll say goodbye.’
‘I look forward to your talk and to chatting again afterwards.’
Really? This didn’t make sense. Curiosity surfaced and she pushed it, her besetting sin, down ruthlessly. There were way bigger items on her plate right now.
Etta summoned up her coolest smile. ‘I won’t be staying long tonight, so in case we don’t get a chance to speak again I’ll say goodbye now.’
‘And I’ll say goodbye for now,’ he murmured, so softly that she couldn’t be sure she’d heard him correctly.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_eef4a1de-5bf7-5b97-92df-ebb8e87b0eaf)
GABE WATCHED FROM a corner of the beautifully decorated ballroom as Etta Mason headed towards the podium with a sinuous grace. Damn. There it was again. The tap of attraction that had sparked when she’d first emerged from behind the potted plant earlier—a complication he hadn’t anticipated.
In recent months his libido had been in hibernation mode. Plus the photo on her website hadn’t prepared him for Etta Mason in the flesh, and the instant impact had caught him unawares. In real life her brown eyes were flecked with hints of amber and her generous mouth called for his attention. Glossy chestnut hair seemed to invite the touch of his fingers, and the slant of her cheekbones would cause envy in the heart of many a supermodel. But it wasn’t only her beauty that had stopped him in his tracks—her expression had held a piquancy, a poise, that summoned notice.
Right now he needed to derail that train of thought and pull his libido under control. He required Etta Mason’s professional expertise. Urgently. So this attraction needed to be sidelined.
Etta tapped the microphone and waited for silence, showing no sign of nerves as she waited for the hum of chatter to die down. She stood with poise and stillness, her sleeveless pink-and-white-striped dress emphasised the slenderness of her waist and the soft material of its skirt artfully swathed over the curve of her hips and fell to her ankles in sleek, diaphanous curves.
Her expression held calm, her tawny brown eyes looked directly out into the audience, and her lips curved upwards in a relaxed smile. The only small indication of tension was the way she tucked one short tendril of brown hair behind her ear.
‘Ladies and gentlemen... I promise not to keep you for long. But before I begin I want you all to think about something that I feel is a staggering fact. Every single one of us here had an ancestor alive in medieval times, in Tudor times, in Victorian times.’
Gabe could almost hear the sizzle as the attention of the audience was caught.
‘Some of us—’ Did her gaze linger on him for a second? ‘—may have had ancestors who stood in this very room and feasted with kings. For others those ancestors might have been common soldiers or ale-keepers, stonemasons or cutpurses or highwaymen. We all have family trees, and all trees need roots. Tonight I want to think about what those roots mean to us. As you know this ball is a fundraiser for teenage kids who have had a pretty tough start in life for one reason or another. Many of those children say they feel rootless, or uprooted...’
As she spoke her voice vibrated with passion. She cared—really cared about her subject, and about these kids. It was something he recognised and respected in Etta Mason, in the Cavershams and in himself. An empathy that drove him to work with children who were victims of bullying and with the bullies themselves, to carry out charity work that he had not and would not make public.
It was not relevant to the here and now. And yet Etta’s genuine concern was an additional point in her favour as her speech came across as heartfelt but delivered with a professional edge.
A sweep of her hand indicated her dress. ‘I chose to wear this because it reminds me of Christmas and the traditional candy canes. Christmas is a time full of traditions—a time when families get together. As such, it is a difficult time of year for a lot of children in care and a lot of children who should be in care. The money raised today will help kids like those enjoy a better Christmas and help them towards a future in which they can hopefully put down some new roots of their own. So when it comes to the auction please dig deep, in the spirit of Christmas. Enjoy the rest of your evening, and thanks for listening.’
As applause broke out Gabe stepped forward. Decision made—he’d come here to assess whether Etta Mason could do what he needed and now he knew for sure. So he’d shut down the feeling of attraction and start on the mission he’d set himself.
A few purposeful strides and he’d cut through the people who clustered around her. As he reached her side, surprise sparked in the exotic brown of her eyes.
‘Impressive speech.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I was wondering if I could have a word in private. We could stroll on the terrace before we eat.’
For a second he thought she’d refuse, in which case he’d fall back on his reserve plan, but after a fractional hesitation she nodded.
Five minutes later they stepped out into the clean, cold air and Etta gave a small gasp that undoubtedly denoted appreciation. ‘It’s beautiful!’
Potted greenery twinkled with fairy lights and lanterns hung over the tables dotted about the mosaic-paved terrace, casting a warm, magical glow whilst outdoor heaters combated the chill of the night air.
‘The Cavershams know how to throw a party. There’s outdoor dancing planned for later. It’s a shame you have to leave early.’
A sudden image of Etta Mason in his arms as they glided round the moonlit mosaic tiles pierced his brain with a strength that sent a tingle through his body. Without thought his feet carried him a step closer to her, and a tantalising overtone of her vanilla scent teased his senses.
‘Yes, it is.’
For a heartbeat he wondered if her mind had followed the same path as her brown gaze held his and flared with an intensity that caught his breath. Then the instant was over.
Her lips thinned and she muttered a ‘tcha’ under her breath before moving away from him towards the wooden railings that surrounded the terrace. Once there, she turned to face him, arms folded. ‘Why did you bring me out here?’
Her voice was tinged with suspicion—and who could blame her? Self-irritation coursed through his veins. He needed this woman in a professional capacity, and this conversation was way too important to risk it for the sake of a flare of thoroughly unprofessional attraction. Time to get back on track.
‘I need a historian and you fit the bill.’
Surprise creased her brow as she assessed his words. ‘Tell me more.’
Gabe kept his pose relaxed, indicating one of the wooden tables overhung with delicate white lit-up stars suspended from the glittering arbour. ‘Shall we sit?’
‘Sure.’ Etta walked over and lowered herself into the chair with a wary grace.
Gabe followed suit, taking the opportunity to marshal his thoughts and line his words up like troops.
‘I’d like you to put together a detailed family tree of the Derwent family, going back centuries. About eighteen months ago a much-publicised flood hit Derwent Manor and a lot of valuable items were destroyed—including a parchment that documented the basic Derwent family tree. A lot of the supporting documentation—ledgers that date back centuries—were also damaged and muddled up. Unfortunately I’ve now discovered that those records were never computerised. I’m sure some of the facts are a matter of public record but I wouldn’t have the first clue how to access them let alone piece them all together.’
She leant forward, those amber-flecked eyes sparking with interest now, and for a perverse moment he felt chagrin that they hadn’t been ignited by him.
‘So you want me to put your family tree back together?’
‘Yes. But in way more detail than the original.’
For centuries the dukedom had passed from father to son, and now that would come to an end. Which meant he needed to clamber up the family tree, delve down obscure branches and work out who might succeed to the dukedom after him, now that he knew he would never have a son of his own.
Frustration coated his insides. It was imperative that he understood his options—and fast. His father’s recent heart attack meant the Duke and Duchess wanted him, the heir, to marry and produce a son at speed. That couldn’t happen. But Gabe had no wish to trigger another heart attack in his father and the enormity of learning the truth might well do exactly that. So he had to come up with a strategy...a way to deal with it.
‘There is another stipulation. I need it done by Christmas. I realise that this is a big job to accomplish in only a few weeks, but I’ll do everything I can to help. As you may know my father recently suffered a heart attack. I’d like to present him with the family tree as a surprise gift.’
The animation left her face and she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I have family commitments—I’m leaving the country in a couple of days on a five-week holiday.’
Disappointment weighed upon him. He’d done his research and Etta had seemed the perfect candidate. Now he’d met her, every instinct told him she would do the job right and fast. ‘Any chance you’d postpone? I’d amply compensate you and you can name your fee.’
‘It isn’t about money. I’m taking my daughter on a cruise.’
Daughter. Somehow it hadn’t crossed his mind that Etta might have a daughter—there had been no mention of a husband or children on her website—and for a second the idea of their existence twanged a chord of disappointment inside him. No. The whole attraction thing had been closed down. But on a professional level he wanted Etta Mason for the job. So...
‘You’re sure? Perhaps your husband could take your daughter and I’d pay for another family holiday.’
‘There is no husband. Thank you for the opportunity, but I really can’t accept the job.’
Now her words held regret, and a shadow that betokened disappointment clouded the amber of her eyes. Gabe frowned. Maybe he could change her mind—cruise or no cruise, he sensed she wanted the job. Time to utilise his reserve plan.
As if on cue the dinner gong pealed out and he rose to his feet. ‘We’d better go in.’
* * *
Etta swallowed down a sigh. To trace the Derwent family tree ranked up there with her ideal job. Gabriel Derwent had offered her the opportunity to access papers and records of the past, to piece together a lineage that stretched back over centuries and complete a jigsaw puzzle of historical import, to lose herself in the life of people who had existed in times gone by.
On top of that a high-profile case like this would have boosted her reputation and it would have paid well. Nothing to sneeze at if ousting Tommy from her life ever involved a need for legal aid.
Tommy. Fear shivered through Etta—she would not let Tommy become part of their lives again. Nothing could compare with the importance of removing Cathy from Tommy’s orbit. So this golden opportunity would have to be passed by. Yet disappointment twinged, compounded by an inexplicable feeling of chagrin that he looked so calm. Which was further complicated by a memory of that moment on the terrace—that heartbeat of time when she had been aware of him with an intensity that had rocked her senses.
So all in all it was a relief to re-enter the warmth and grandeur of the hotel and join the throng of guests headed for the banqueting hall.
Once there, Etta stopped on the threshold. ‘I’d better go and find my place.’
‘I can help you there. You’re at Table Five. Same as me.’
Etta frowned. ‘No. I checked the seating plan earlier.’
‘There’s been a slight change to the plan.’
A flare of anger heated her veins at his sheer arrogance and she spun to face him—she would not be manipulated. ‘Are you telling me you altered it? Ruby puts a huge amount of thought into these arrangements—you can’t change them to suit yourself.’
‘Relax, Etta. I asked Ruby if she would change it. You told me you had to leave early, and I wanted to make sure I got the chance to speak with you about the job.’
That made sense, and yet alarm bells began to clang in her head. She narrowed her eyes with suspicion. Gabriel Derwent was used to getting what he wanted, and right now he wanted her to take this job. Worse, he might have sensed how much she wished she could do just that. And even worse than that the idea of Gabriel as a dinner companion held a temptation she didn’t want to analyse.
‘Well, that’s no longer necessary, so I think we should change the seating plan back.’
‘Why complicate matters?’ A nod of his blond head showed that most of the guests had found their places. ‘Come on—it won’t be that bad. I promise I won’t mention the job again. We can chat about whatever you like.’
Clearly he’d found the charm button again. The persuasive lilt to his deep voice and the accompanying smile held definite appeal, enticing her own lips into an answering upturn.
Careful, Etta. Perhaps he believed he could charm her into the job. Perhaps she should prove him wrong. Etta Mason was impervious to beguilement—had long since accepted that romance was not in her nature, that relationships were not something she understood. So...
‘Fine.’
Once at their table, she turned to greet the man on her other side, received his congratulations on her speech, and realised from the slight slurring of his words that he was on the road to inebriation. No matter—she’d manage. Because no way did she want to give Gabriel Derwent even a hint of encouragement.
Within minutes she’d set Toby Davenport off on a conversational trail upon which he told her all about his expensive lifestyle, his luxury holidays, and his yacht. Which left Etta free to add the occasional comment of encouragement whilst she savoured the rich flavours of the venison broth, appreciated the authentic tang of cloves and mace from the medieval recipe, and did her best to ignore her body’s hum of awareness at the warmth and sheer presence of Gabriel on her other side.
Until his well-modulated tones broke into the Davenport drone. ‘Sounds amazing, Toby. Etta, here, is about to go on holiday. Tell me, Etta—I’m intrigued. As a historian, do you choose your holiday destinations based on historical interest? You mentioned a cruise... Where are you going?’
Etta opened her mouth and realisation dawned—she had no idea of the answer. Her mind was a resounding example of the clichéd blank state. When she’d booked the cruise its destination had been the least of her criteria—availability had been her priority, because the idea of a ship surrounded by sea had felt safe. That was why it had been worth the remortgaging of her flat and the ransacking of her savings to pay for it. Cathy would be safe from her father.
Because visceral fear had flared inside her—a fear that had been dormant for sixteen years but that had been reignited the instant Tommy had swaggered back into her life days before.
Focus, Etta. Gabe had raised his eyebrows, and his eyes were shadowed with concern.
‘Sorry,’ she managed. ‘Senior moment. I can’t remember.’
‘You’re too young to qualify.’
‘Clearly not. I’ll let you know if it comes back to me.’
Come on, Etta. Change the conversation. Unfortunately her brain was still tuned in to Planet Blank.
Desperation loosened her vocal cords as she saw the challenge in his eyes. ‘In the meantime, what about you? Have you got any holiday plans for Christmas?’
‘No. I’ll be based at Derwent Manor. My parents are away in France, so my father can convalesce, and I need to ensure that various traditions are upheld. Including the annual Christmas Fair at the manor. This year I’ve decided to introduce a Victorian theme—hopefully whoever I get to do the family tree can lend me some advice on that at the same time.’
Etta blinked. She loved to help with events such as this, and she’d bet Gabriel knew that. However innocent those blue-grey eyes looked as they calmly met her gaze.
‘That sounds like a pretty full-on few weeks.’ And a far cry from the playboy-style Christmas festivities she had imagined he would indulge in.
‘It will be. In truth, running Derwent Manor is a full-time job in itself—my parents’ whole life revolves around it.’
‘And yours too?’
‘Not my whole life, no.’
‘But one day it will?’
‘Yes.’ The syllable was clipped, and she’d swear his knuckles had whitened around the crystal water tumbler he lifted to his lips.
‘That must be strange. To always have known what your job will be one day. For most children the perennial question is, What do you want to be when you grow up? For royalty or aristocracy that isn’t a question—you’ve always known what you will be when you grow up.’
‘Yes.’
It was impossible to read anything from the single word—yet she sensed a depth of emotion in the sheer rigidity of his jaw. Did Gabriel Derwent relish or resent his destiny? Speaking of which...
‘You said earlier that you believed in the power of choice over the power of fate, but that’s not true, is it? Fate has decreed that you will become Duke of Fairfax.’
‘Yes.’ As if this time he’d realised the curtness of his response he curved his lips into the famous Derwent smile. ‘But I do have the choice to renounce the title.’
Etta placed her spoon down into the empty bowl. ‘Fair enough.’ Even if she didn’t believe he’d do that in a million years. ‘But not everyone has that sort of choice. Think of all the princesses in history who were forced to marry. They had no choice.’
‘You don’t know that. You could argue that they simply chose to do their duty. And some of them could have elected to give their life up to religion. Sometimes none of the choices we have are palatable, but they exist.’
Etta opened her mouth but he raised a hand to forestall her.
‘I know that there are examples of people who have no choice. Innocent people caught up in a chain of events they can’t control. But I’m not sure fate comes into it—perhaps they are casualties of sheer bad luck.’
‘Fate versus chance?’ Even as she said the words Etta wondered how they had ended up in this discussion. It was almost as if they were in their own bubble amidst the glitz and buzz of their glamorous surroundings, complete with fairy-tale elements.
The warning bells that had clamoured earlier renewed their alarm. But there was no need for worry. Two more courses and she’d be on her way. She’d never meet Gabriel again. This conversation was nothing more than a welcome distraction from her thoughts of Tommy. That was all. A distraction. If Toby Davenport hadn’t been bent on a drunken flirtation with his other neighbour she would no doubt have been distracted just as effectively by him.
Liar, liar, candy cane dress on fire.
In truth Gabriel Derwent was casting a mesh of fascination over both her body and her mind, and panic trickled through all the other sensations. She couldn’t remember the last time her body had responded like this and she didn’t like it.
Before Etta could end the conversation she felt her minuscule evening bag vibrate under the strategically placed napkin on her lap. Foreboding shivered her skin even as she tried to tell herself it could be anyone. There was no reason to believe anything had happened to Cathy.
Pushing her chair back, she tried to force her lips into a semblance of smile. ‘Excuse me. I’ll be back in a minute.’
Don’t run.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_84c9326f-8f88-5b1f-9c95-0911d289a198)
GABE GLANCED AT the empty space next to him and frowned. No bathroom break took this long. Euphemistically speaking, Etta Mason could have powdered a hundred noses by now. Plus her food would soon congeal. Could she be in trouble?
Not his business. And yet there had been an expression of near fear on her face when she’d left the table, and that had touched him on a primitive level. Fear had once been a part of his life, and the memories still lingered in the recesses of his soul. Plus, the more he could discover about Etta Mason the more likely it would be that he could work out a way to persuade her to do the job. All valid reasons to go and check up on her.
Rising, he smiled at his table companions. ‘Be back in a second.’
He moved through the imposing doors and into the hall. A quick scan showed no sign of Etta. Could be she had headed somewhere more private to make a call. Could be he should just leave her to it. Yet his feet strode towards the lobby, which was a fusion of medieval detail and modern comfort.
He halted on the threshold, took in the scene with lightning assessment. Etta was backed up against a pillar and a dark-haired man stood over her, aggression in his stance. The man’s expression held a malevolent smirk that Gabe recognised as that of a bully, of a man who knew he inspired fear in his victim. Tattoos snaked and writhed over the bulge of muscles that spoke of a lot of time spent pumping iron.
‘Is everything all right, Etta?’ Stupid question, because Etta Mason looked like a different woman from the professional, articulate, give-as-good-as-you-get woman he’d sat with at dinner. Her face was pale, her hands were clenched, and those tawny brown eyes held a mix of defiance and fear.
‘Everything’s fine,’ the man said. ‘So you can take a hike.’
‘I didn’t ask you.’
The man took a step away from Etta. ‘And...?’ The menace was palpable. ‘I said take a hike.’
Etta moved towards the man, her whole being diminished as she approached him, fear in every awkward movement, and Gabe knew with ice-cold certainty that at some point this man had hurt her.
‘Tommy, please.’
The man gave a short, harsh laugh that prickled Gabe’s skin.
‘That sounds just like the old days, Etta.’
‘Enough.’ Cold rage ran through Gabe’s veins and he strode towards Tommy. ‘The only person who needs to take a hike round here is you.’
‘It’s OK, Gabe. I’ve got this.’ Etta hauled in an audible breath. ‘Tommy, just go. Please. You’ve made your point.’
Tommy hesitated, his dark eyes mean, his fists still clenched, and Gabe took another step forward.
Then, ‘Fine. This toff isn’t worth messing up my parole for. But this isn’t over. Cathy is my daughter and I will meet her. Whatever it takes.’ Turning, Tommy walked towards the portcullis-style door and exited.
Gabe turned to Etta. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
She rubbed her hands up and down her forearms and stared at the door as if to make sure Tommy had gone for good.
‘Right.’ Straightening, she tugged out her phone. ‘I need to go.’ A tap of her finger and then she lifted the phone to her ear. ‘There’s been a problem. Tommy turned up here. I’m on my way back now. I’ll let you know what train I’m on.’
She glanced towards Gabe as if she was surprised he was still there and then she returned her attention to her phone.
‘Taxi numbers...’ she muttered under her breath.
‘Where are you going?’
‘London.’
Before he could even consider the import of his words his lips opened. ‘I’ll drive you there.’
Genuine shock made her jaw drop. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because I can get you to London way faster than the train, and I don’t trust Tommy not to be waiting out there to follow you.’
The idea made her wince, and she rubbed her hands up and down her arms again, her brown eyes staring at a scenario that she clearly didn’t like the look of. ‘I’m not sure I should say yes, or why you even care, but I’d be a fool to refuse. Thank you.’
‘Let’s go. I’ll find Ruby and explain you’ve had a family emergency.’
* * *
Ten minutes later Etta eyed Gabriel Derwent’s deep red Ferrari and wondered anew if she shouldn’t have caught a train, tried to hire a car—worked out some way to deal with this crisis herself. But the primitive need to be with Cathy overrode all else.
Logic told her that Cathy was safe with her friend Stephanie and her daughter Martha—according to Steph, Cathy and Martha were safely ensconced in Martha’s bedroom, watching a rom-com. Common sense reinforced the idea—there was no way that Tommy could track Cathy down there. And yet he’d found Etta.
Chill, Etta. That was hardly a huge feat of deduction. Her website had detailed her speech at the Cavershams’ Advent Ball. As for her mobile number—anyone could get that from her work answer-machine. But she couldn’t ‘chill’—not when she remembered how she had cringed before Tommy and his delight in her reaction. Dammit, he’d revelled in her fear—a fear that filled her with self-loathing even as a tidal wave of memories threatened to break lockdown. No. The past was over. She had to focus on the present and her daughter.
So Etta wanted to be with Cathy as soon as possible and Gabriel’s car offered the ideal solution. The problem was Gabriel himself came with the deal.
‘All set?’ The deep timbre of his voice held concern alongside a hint of amusement. ‘You’re looking at the car as if it’s akin to a lion’s den.’
Heat warmed her cheeks. ‘I’m just wondering whether it’s fair to put you to so much trouble.’
‘I offered.’
This was daft—and a waste of valuable time. A nod and then she pulled the low-slung door open and slid into the luxurious leather seat. Fact: Cathy was more important than anything else right now.
Within minutes they were on the road. Etta looked into the shadowy darkness as the powerful car ate up the miles. Wind turbines loomed in the dark, turned by the Cornish winds, fields and farmhouses flashed past, and occasionally she glanced at Gabriel Derwent. His blond hair gleamed in the moonlight, and his focus was on the road, each movement easy and competent.
He glanced at her too, then returned his attention to the deserted road. ‘I get the feeling you’re not comfortable. Are you worried about your daughter?’
‘Yes. But I know she’s safe. You’ll have to let me pay you for this. I’ve dragged you away from an incredible dinner and moonlit dancing. I feel bad.’
‘I told you. No need. Do you want to talk about it? The situation with Tommy and your daughter?’
Did she? For an odd moment a pull to do just that touched her. More madness—this man was a stranger, and not even her closest friends knew about that dark period of her life. ‘There’s nothing to say that you haven’t deduced. You heard Tommy. He is Cathy’s dad and he has decided he wants to see her. I don’t want him anywhere near her.’
A small frown creased his forehead. Presumably he was wondering how she could ever have been such a fool as to have anything to do with a lowlife like Tommy.
‘Has he ever been part of her life?’
‘No.’ Etta shook her head. ‘I don’t want to sound rude, but I don’t want to talk about it.’
For years she had shut down the memories of Tommy and she had no wish to revisit them now—to expose her youthful stupidity, folly and weakness to this man. A man who clearly didn’t know the definition of the word weak. Even now her insides felt coated with a fuzz of shame at her own behaviour, so best to keep the door firmly closed and padlocked with a host of security outside.
‘This is my problem and I am dealing with it.’
‘By running away on a cruise?’
Despite the softness of his deep voice, the words sent a flare of anger through her. ‘I am not running away.’ Was she?
‘I’m sorry if that sounded harsh, and I know I don’t know the details. I get you don’t want to discuss them. But if there is one lesson I’ve learnt in life it’s that running away is seldom the best option.’
No doubt it was easy not to run away when you were the Earl of Wycliffe. Etta bit the words back—the man was doing her a massive favour here. ‘Thanks for the advice. As I said, it’s my problem and I’m dealing with it.’
With that Etta leant back and turned her head to focus on the landscape. Conversation over. To her relief Gabriel Derwent let it rest. Even if she sensed that next to her he was still mulling over the situation.
But he remained silent until they approached the outskirts of London, where he simply asked for directions, and soon enough they pulled up outside Steph’s house.
‘Thank you again. I truly appreciate this and I owe you a big favour.’ The idea was an irritant that she suspected would stay with her until she worked out how to repay the debt. ‘In the meantime, I wish you a safe journey home and I apologise again for wrecking your night.’
‘I’ll see you to the door.’
‘No! Really... Steph is waiting up and I’d rather go in quietly.’ She pushed open the door hurriedly. ‘Goodbye, Gabriel.’
Without looking back she scurried up the stairs and pulled out the spare key Steph had given her. Right now she just wanted to go and see Cathy and watch her daughter breathe peacefully. Yet at the door she turned for one last glimpse at Gabriel Derwent’s shadowy profile.
* * *
‘How did you sleep?’
Etta looked up from the pine kitchen table and smiled at her best friend. ‘Fine.’
‘Fibber,’ Steph said. ‘You must have been terrified when Tommy appeared.’
‘It was scary, but...’ But from the second Gabriel Derwent had appeared she had felt safe.
She had to get a grip—life had taught her that the only person to rely on was herself. She’d escaped Tommy once—she’d do it again.
‘I’ll be fine.’ Etta gripped her mug of coffee and tried hard to believe her words even as she heard the hollowness of each syllable. ‘How was Cathy last night?’
‘Quiet. She didn’t mention Tommy to me, though I’m sure she has talked to Martha about it. She did say she doesn’t want to go on the cruise.’
Etta sighed. Her usually cheerful, well-behaved daughter had changed since Tommy’s arrival on the scene, and Etta couldn’t blame her—she herself would do anything to meet her own birth dad. Or mum.
She hadn’t even known of their existence until she’d reached fifteen and discovered the fact that she’d been adopted. Worked out that her whole life had been an illusion, a lie. That was why she had vowed never to lie to Cathy, believed that honesty was the best way forward. So as Cathy had grown up Etta had told her who her dad was in an age-appropriate way. She had never wanted Cathy to feel she’d been lied to—hadn’t wanted her daughter to build up a fantasy picture of her father. Equally, when Tommy had turned up with his demand to see his daughter, Etta had told Cathy the truth—but she hadn’t anticipated her daughter’s reaction.
Cathy, caught in a web of confused emotions, wanted her father to be a wonderful man. Wanted to meet him, to bond with him, and the idea sent waves of terror through Etta’s veins. No one knew better than she the spell Tommy could exert when he wanted to—she could imagine his spin, the story of his reformation, his interpretation of his past character as misunderstood rebel without a cause.
She gusted out a sigh as she looked at Steph. ‘I know she doesn’t want to go.’ But the cruise had to happen, because Etta would not—could not—sit back and watch her daughter repeat her own mistakes. ‘But we’re going anyway.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Thanks a million for last night, hun. There’s no need for you to stay. I know you need to get Martha to her singing lesson.’
‘Stay here as long as you like.’
Twenty minutes later the click of the front door indicated their departure and Etta approached the bedroom where Cathy was staying.
Her daughter sat cross-legged on the bed, her long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail set high on her head. ‘Mum—please, please, please don’t make me go on this cruise. If Dad wants to see me badly enough to follow you to Cornwall then surely it’s worth a try.’
Etta sensed her daughter’s frustration and it tore her apart. ‘Sweetheart, your father is not a safe person to be around.’
‘Maybe he’s changed.’
Before Etta could answer, the doorbell pealed and fear jumped up her throat. Keep calm. No way could it be Tommy.
Cathy leapt off the bed, clearly desperate for the very thing that held Etta petrified to the spot.
‘Cathy—wait!’
Ungluing her feet from the carpet, Etta raced down the stairs after her daughter, reaching the bottom just as Cathy got to the door and peered through the spyhole.
‘It’s not Dad. It’s some blond bloke.’
Disappointment drooped Cathy’s shoulders and Etta moved forward and pulled her into a quick hug, her heart aching even as relief surged through her.
Cathy stepped back. ‘We’d better open the door. Whoever it is he looks familiar. Good-looking for his age.’
Etta peeped through the spyhole and blinked. Blinked again in case of hallucination. But Gabriel Derwent remained in her line of vision. Casually dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved sweatshirt, he still exuded an energy that sent her pulse-rate up a notch. Be that as it may, she couldn’t leave him standing on Steph’s doorstep.
She pulled the door open and bit back a protest as he stepped forward and closed the door behind him.
‘What...?’
‘Apologies for the unannounced visit. There’s been a development.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Etta said, as foreboding prickled her skin. Surely things couldn’t get any worse. Could they? ‘What sort of a development?’
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_0211235f-80b9-5768-9762-4266fb09abda)
GABRIEL HALTED, ALL thoughts of developments scrambled in his brain as he gazed at Etta. This was a completely different Etta from the previous night, and somehow even more full of allure in jeans and a short knitted cream jumper that emphasised the length of her legs. Shower-damp chestnut hair emitted a tantalising waft of strawberry, and fell in a glossy swathe around her unmade-up face. Her skin glowed and a smattering of freckles down the bridge of her nose was now revealed. For an absurd second his hands tingled with the urge to reach out and run his finger down the line. As for her lips—
Hurriedly he tore his gaze away and realised that they weren’t alone.
A girl stepped closer to Etta and eyed him with a speculative gaze. There could be no doubt the two were related, despite the girl’s long curtain of dark hair; her eyes were the same amber-flecked brown. Sisters? Or...
Etta stepped forward. ‘Gabriel, this is my daughter, Cathy. Cathy, this is Gabriel—the man who kindly drove me home last night.’
Her chin tilted upwards as she met his gaze in an unspoken challenge, and he blinked away the surprise he knew had surfaced in his eyes. There was no point in pretence—he was surprised. In his mind Cathy had been considerably younger, and his brain whirred to adjust the parameters of the idea he intended to present to Etta.
‘Good to meet you,’ he said, and he held out a hand to Cathy, who surveyed him, her dark head tilted to one side.
‘Are you... Gabriel Derwent?’
‘The one and only.’
They were words he wished unsaid as he flinched inwardly at their bleak truth. One day he could be the one and only Duke of Fairfax—the last of the line. Yet he forced his lips to tilt upwards and could only hope the smile factor outweighed the grimace.
A small frown etched Etta’s forehead. ‘Cathy, could you go and get ready, please? Once Gabriel has left we need to get home and pick up our cases.’
Cathy heaved a sigh. ‘I told you, Mum. It’s not necessary. We don’t need to go.’ The muttered words held defiance underlain with resignation, but she headed for the staircase.
‘Cathy. We’ll discuss this later, but the bottom line is we are going.’
Once the teenager had trailed up the stairs Etta turned to Gabe. Her lips parted as if to speak but instead she just stared at him for a moment, her eyes wide.
Then she stepped back and gave her head a small shake. ‘Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I haven’t got a lot of time. The cruise leaves tonight. What’s happened?’
This would be a tricky conversation, and he’d be damned if he would conduct it in a hallway. ‘I appreciate that you’re busy, but we do need to talk. Properly. With you focused on what I have to say. I promise I will be succinct.’
A hesitation, and then she nodded. ‘OK. Come through to the kitchen. I’ll make coffee. It sounds like I’ll need it.’
Gabe followed Etta into a spacious, airy kitchen with cheerful daffodil-yellow walls adorned with corkboards holding pinned artwork and photos. He seated himself at a big wooden table as she filled the old-fashioned kettle.
‘OK. Hit me with it.’
Easy does it, Gabe. Instinct told him Etta wouldn’t appreciate his next words, however he spun them.
‘The press clocked our departure from the ball last night, found out about our moonlit stroll on the terrace and discovered my ploy with the seating plan. They have decided you and I are an item. I thought I’d better give you the heads-up as there may be reporters outside your house.’
For a second she stood as if frozen, her lips formed in a circle of astonishment, her head tilted, waiting for the punchline. Then, when she realised none was forthcoming, she banged the kettle down onto the hob and sheer outrage etched her cheekbones with a flush of anger.
‘You and me? The press thinks we are an item?’
Hmm... A hint of chagrin touched him at the sheer horror that laced her voice. ‘I’m afraid so.’
Jeez, was it that bad?
‘But that’s ludicrous!’
‘Why?’ It wasn’t what he had meant to say, but her expression of distaste had sparked a surge of irritation.
‘Because...because it is such an impossible scenario.’
‘Why?’ Rising to his feet, he headed towards the kitchen counter, kept his gaze on hers.
And suddenly the atmosphere hitched up a notch. Or three. The look of aversion faded from her face and morphed into shock as desire ignited in her eyes. Gabe’s mouth dried, and the tick-tock of a clock in the background pounded his eardrums as he moved closer—close enough that those damned freckles caught his attention again.
Her hands gripped the underside of the worktop so tightly her knuckles showed white against the marbled grey. As if the touch had pulled her back to reality she stepped back. ‘It’s impossible because it could never happen.’ The quaver in her voice demonstrated the shakiness of her argument.
‘Really?’ He pulled his phone out and tapped the screen. ‘Look.’
Etta stared at the images, and Gabe could almost see her eyeballs pop from their sockets on cartoon stalks as she swore under her breath.
‘Yup. That’s what I thought.’ Gabe couldn’t keep the smugness from his voice. Because some enterprising photographer had captured the moment he and Etta had met, as she’d emerged from behind the potted plant. There could be no denying the look of utter arrest on their faces.
‘I’ll track down whoever took that and disembowel him,’ Etta muttered, before looking up with a tilt of her chin and challenge in her eyes. ‘Because he is incompetent—clearly the light was odd, or the angle of the lens, or...or...’
‘Or we saw each other and there was a mutual moment of appreciation.’
Her eyes rested on his image and for a heartbeat he would have sworn there was a glimpse of satisfaction on her face at seeing him equally smitten. Then it was gone and she straightened up.
‘I’ll stick to the mistake theory, thank you.’
Gabe raised his eyebrows. Maybe he should have let it go, but her sheer refusal to acknowledge the attraction prompted curiosity—along with his inner devil. ‘Or you could admit the truth. You are attracted to me and vice versa. I don’t have an issue acknowledging it.’ He gestured to the screen. ‘The evidence is right there.’
If the laws of physics had allowed, her laser glare would have shot his phone with its telltale images to smithereens. ‘This may be hard for you to believe, but I am not attracted to you.’
Each word was exaggerated, and issued through clenched teeth, and yet Gabe knew she was lying.
‘You don’t want to be attracted to me.’ And he wasn’t sure why not. ‘That’s different.’
‘Gabriel...’
‘Please. Only my parents call me Gabriel. I prefer Gabe.’
‘Gabe. You are not my type. I don’t go for shallow playboys or men who lead women on and then break their hearts.’
Whoa. ‘“Shallow playboy” I’ll own up to. But I don’t lead women on.’ Ever.
‘What about Lady Isobel? You led that poor woman up the garden path, round the garden and a whole village full of houses. You made her think you’d marry her, then you bailed out in the public eye, broke her heart and humiliated her.’
Anger stirred inside him even as he accepted Etta’s stance—Isobel had played her part to perfection, and most of the country believed in her false portrayal of Gabe Derwent as heartbreaker extraordinaire. In return she’d netted herself a packet and some great publicity. A month after that his sister Kaitlin had spotted her partying on the Riviera. It seemed as if Isobel had decided to break free—rebel against the role of duchess she’d been primed for and go for the money.
But forget Isobel. Right now Etta glared at him, one foot tapping the kitchen floor tiles. Gabriel met her gaze full on. ‘I thought historians valued accuracy and confirmation and didn’t rely on tabloid gossip?’
Heat touched her cheeks. ‘A good historian looks at the available evidence and makes deductions. Are you denying that you led Lady Isobel to think you would marry her?’
‘No. I’m not. But that is one fact. There are a whole host of other facts you are not privy to. Unlike Isobel, I intend to keep them private. However, I give you my word that it did not go down the way she claimed it did. I didn’t break her heart.’
A pause, and then she lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. ‘I accept that I may not know the full story. But I’m still not attracted to you. I appreciate you coming to warn me, and I’ll explain to any reporters it’s all a misunderstanding.’
‘Actually, I have a different solution.’
Suspicion narrowed her eyes. ‘We don’t need a different solution. We don’t need any solution because this doesn’t need to be a problem.’
‘Fine. I have an idea I want to run by you. It benefits us both.’
The kettle whistled as she hesitated, and then she pulled a cafetière towards her and nodded. ‘OK. Shoot. You’ve got a cup of coffee’s worth of time.’
‘Seems fair. I suggest we go along with the press. Run with the story.’
Her hand jolted on the plunger at his words and coffee spilt onto the counter. Etta ignored it. ‘Go along with it? Run with the story?’ Her hands tipped in an exaggerated question. ‘Why? Why would we even do a two-minute walk with the story?’
‘Because as my girlfriend you can bring Cathy and move in to Derwent Manor with me. You can put together the family tree. In return I will pay you a hefty fee and keep you safe from Tommy. Win-win.’
This way he would get his family tree done by the expert he wanted, she would get the chance to complete a project he knew she wanted, and she would be safe from Tommy. He figured it was pure genius. Etta looked at him as if she thought it was sheer garbage.
‘That’s nuts.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Yes, it is. For a start, how can you possibly guarantee our safety?’
‘I have a number of qualifications in self-defence and a variety of martial arts.’
Once Gabe had worked out that no one was going to rescue him from the horrors of boarding school and the ritual humiliation the other students felt a prospective duke deserved, he’d figured he needed to rescue himself. The best way to do that had been to learn self-defence—and as it turned out he had an aptitude for it.
Etta shook her head, clearly unimpressed by the claim as she mopped up the spilt coffee and poured the remains into two mugs. ‘You don’t get it. Tommy is a nutcase. He’s a street fighter. He got put away for an assortment of crimes—drug-dealing, armed robbery, and a hit-and-run whilst fleeing the scene of a crime.’
‘I’m not belittling any of that, and I’m not blowing hot air—I can protect you from Tommy. I didn’t just do a few classes and get a few belts. I’m the real McCoy. There is no way I would offer protection if I wasn’t one hundred per cent sure I could provide it.’
Her fingers drummed a tattoo on the counter, and her head tilted to one side as her brown eyes assessed him. ‘It wouldn’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘You couldn’t protect both Cathy and me because we won’t be together all the time. Plus...’ Her voice trailed off.
Gabe stared at her as his mind trawled the brief time he’d spent with Cathy. ‘Plus Cathy doesn’t want to go on the cruise because she wants to meet her Dad, and that would make her difficult to protect?’ he surmised.
For a moment he thought she wouldn’t answer, and then she exhaled on a sigh. ‘Yes. Which is why the cruise is a good idea.’
‘You can’t keep Cathy on a ship in the middle of an ocean for ever.’
‘I know that. But right now it works for me as a strategy.’
‘I told you yesterday—running away is seldom a good strategy.’ He had a memory of his eight-year-old self—the sheer exhilaration that had streamed through his body as he’d escaped boarding school. The terrified but determined trek home to Derwent Manor, the blisters on his aching feet, the growl of hunger in his stomach. His ignominious reception.
‘Derwents do not run, Gabriel. You have let the Derwent name down.’
His explanation about the bullying had fallen on deaf ears.
‘Cowardice cannot be tolerated, Gabriel.’
‘This is a tactical retreat.’
‘Don’t kid yourself, Etta. A tactical retreat is a chance to move away so that you can regroup, because to stand your ground means certain defeat. You can’t regroup on a cruise ship.’
Her mug made a decisive thunk on the counter. ‘Enough. I’ve known you for less than twenty-four hours—I don’t need your advice or analysis. This doesn’t even make sense. There are other historians you could employ in a way that’s much more straightforward and considerably less dangerous. Why offer to do this at all?’
It was a good question. From the second he’d seen her with Tommy a protective urge had kicked in. Nothing personal, but born from his own childhood experience of bullying, the taste of helplessness, the shameful desire to flee.
‘My instinct tells me you are the right person for the job, and I don’t like men like Tommy so it would be a great pleasure to kick him round the block. Several times.’
Her expression warmed even as she shook her head. ‘That is a wonderful thought, but it won’t work. I need Cathy off Tommy’s radar.’
‘Fair enough.’ Turning, he paced the length of the counter. ‘How about you stay here and Cathy goes on the cruise? With grandparents or another family member? I’ll pay any difference.’
‘There are no other family members.’ Etta’s voice was flat, clipped with sadness. ‘Which is fine, because I will keep Cathy safe.’
‘The best way to do that is to deal with Tommy.’
A small sigh escaped her lips and for a heartbeat vulnerability gleamed in the brown depths of her eyes, as if the idea of dealing with Tommy scared her.
‘Whilst I keep you safe.’
Once again her fingers drummed on the countertop. ‘I could ask Steph if she would take Cathy. And Martha, of course. The girls are at college together. I’ve explained the situation to the head and he is all right with me taking Cathy out as long as she takes some work with her. Martha could do the same. Steph is a self-employed illustrator, so she may be able to take work with her...’ Etta shook her head. ‘Sorry. I’m thinking out loud here.’
‘That’s fine with me.’
‘I’ll talk to Cathy first, and then Steph. If they agree I’ll research your family tree and in return you will pay me and act as my bodyguard whilst I figure out how to deal with Tommy.’
‘And we’ll go along with the press angle of a romance between us.’
When he’d seen the article that morning his first thought had been that he’d better warn Etta. His next had been to consider whether this development might be utilised to his advantage. His and Etta’s. After all, an alliance only worked if it benefited both parties.
‘It works for us both.’
‘How do you figure that?’ Her voice held a certain fascinated curiosity.
‘If the press believes we’re dating it takes the spotlight away from you researching the new family tree. No one need even know that I am hiring you.’ Nor start to dig into my motivation for doing so.
Besides, if his father got wind of his supposed ‘surprise gift’ he’d know something was off—neither the Duke nor Duchess had any interest in the family tree except in that it showed the unbroken direct line that he was about to snap with heart-rending finality.
‘That hardly works for me. If I am working for you then I want recognition for that.’
‘And you can have that recognition. In spades and shovels and pitchforks. After Christmas.’
‘A fat lot of good it will do me then. By then my professional reputation will be in ruins. It will look as though you hired me because I was sleeping with you.’
A pause stretched into a silence and for a second Gabe knew with bone-deep certainty that their minds had tracked the same path to an image of silken sheets and bare skin, of touch and taste and...
‘Supposedly,’ Etta said, her voice a touch breathy. ‘Supposedly sleeping with you.’
‘Not when they see your credentials and the results you provide. No one will blame you for mixing business and pleasure—you can spin the whole girlfriend deal into positive publicity. This is an opportunity.’ One that any woman he had ever dated had always taken advantage of—a chance to glean celebrity coverage and rich pickings.
Her mouth opened in a circle of outrage. ‘So you see this as a deal-sweetener?’
Gabe shrugged. ‘Yes.’
‘Not for me. I’d rather earn positive publicity through my work. So thanks, but no, thanks. I’ll do your family tree. But I won’t be your girlfriend. Fake or otherwise.’ Her chin tilted in challenge. ‘Take it or leave it.’
There was no quarter in her words and a hint of chagrin touched his nerves...along with a small burn of surprise. Not that it mattered. The most important objective had been achieved and he was a step closer to finding a future Derwent heir.
‘I’ll take it. We can tell the press I’m hiring you as a consultant for the Christmas Fair.’ Yet her continued refusal to acknowledge their attraction prompted his vocal chords. ‘But any time you change your mind and want to be my girlfriend—fake or otherwise—let me know. We can play this any way you want. It’s up to you.’
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_dc06c817-2a72-5d07-a84a-c93e29d2c1ea)
‘ANY TIME YOU change your mind and want to be my girlfriend—fake or otherwise—let me know.’
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