Page 21 of Notorious

“The marquess will assist me in procuring a special license. If you do not object, we can be wed the day after tomorrow.” Gabriel did not bother to spell it out for her: that by marrying before the duel, she would have the protection of his name if he were not to walk away from his meeting with Visel.

Her expression softened slightly. “That will be acceptable to me. Will we live here, at Exley House . . . after?”

“My stepfather has already offered us a small but well-appointed house on Upper Brooks Street.” The marquess had actually insisted on giving Gabriel the house as a wedding gift. As much as he’d wanted to reject such a generous gift, one did not say no to the Marquess of Exley.

Gabriel realized she’d asked a question. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”

“I said I am not without means.”

“Means?”

“My aunt and I live in the house my father built here in London.”

Gabriel had seen the house in question, a gothic monstrosity. While that didn’t bother him so much, it did bother him to think of living on her bounty.

“Are you fond of the house? Do you wish to live there?”

“No. My father built it while I was away at school, so I only stayed there during the holidays and, of course, since leaving school.” She hesitated. “If you don’t care for it, we will have plenty of money to acquire or construct our own lodging.”

Gabriel’s face heated. “I am no fortune-hunting fop below the hatches, Miss Clare. I can house my own wife.” Even without the marquess’s generous gift, he had ample means. The Duke of Carlisle was a wealthy man and Gabriel was his only grandson; the duke had been most generous.

She opened her mouth—no doubt to utter some emasculating pronouncement, but he made an abrupt chopping motion with one hand, surprised and pleased when the gesture worked.

“Your money is your own—I will take none of it.”

“But—”

“There is one thing you should know about me right now, Miss Clare. I do not argue once I have made up my mind.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. And, by God, Gabriel felt a slight chill. “Neither do I.”

He barked a laugh. “Excellent, then we shall rub along famously—and with very few arguments. Now, after the wedding we shall stay for the remainder of the Season to dispel any residual scandal. We can attend balls, be seen at the theater—” He shrugged. “Whatever is necessary.”

She remained quiet, her gaze serious and steady, which made him uneasy. And feeling uneasy made him irritated. What the devil was it about this woman—hardly more than a girl really—that put him on edge so? He was a man with a decade’s worth of experience with war, death, and women, but she made him feel like a callow youth.

“What about the wedding?” she asked, jarring him from his uncomfortable musing.

“Ah, yes, the wedding.” Gabriel cleared his throat, which seemed to have filled with his heart and lungs. God. Married. And to a woman who loathed him. Still, men of his class were not expected to limit themselves to one woman for the rest of their lives. In England a man would have one wife, one woman to give him children and comfort him in old age and infirmity. But most of the married men he knew either kept a mistress or conducted affairs. He could always keep Giselle and Maria and no one would look sideways at him—well, no more than they already did.

For some reason Gabriel found the thought of such a dual existence vaguely depressing.

He let his gaze linger over his wife-to-be’s body—a body that would be his in only a few days. Surprisingly, his groin grew heavy at the thought. His physical response was not what he would have expected; after all, bedding a woman who hated him was unlikely to be a satisfactory experience.

“Mr. Marlington?”

He met her gaze. “Hmm?”

“You were saying, about the wedding?”

“My mother and the marquess have offered to host a wedding breakfast for us.”

“That is very kind of them, Mr. Marlington.”

“Perhaps you might call me Gabriel as I am to be your husband in less than two days’ time.”

“Of course . . . Gabriel.”

She did not invite him to do the same, but then Gabriel did not expect it. Miss Drusilla Clare had never made her disdain for him a secret. And now this woman who could barely countenance looking at him or speaking to him would be his wife. If he survived his duel, of course.