Beauty in Black Read online

  He swept off the hat, as he should have done in the first place, and gave her a more-or-less-proper bow. “It was unintended. I was only trying to stop you from falling.”

  “I would not have fallen in the first place if you had not knocked me all asunder!”

  How her eyes sparkled when she was angry, he thought in some corner of his mind not totally benumbed by embarrassment. They were blue-gray, the color of a smoky autumn sky, and intelligence glimmered in their depths. She had a straight nose of just the right size and two full lips beneath it. He even liked her voice, which was mellow, its tone just now decisive.

  “Well, yes, that was my fault, too,” he admitted. “I offer my regrets once more.”

  The clerk came running up. His expression was startled. He had thin, mousy brown hair, and he stood barely as high as John’s shoulder. An image of the little man trying to eject his bullish customer made John fight a grin.

  For the faintest instant he thought the unknown lady might feel amusement, too, as if the very same thought had crossed her mind. But she conquered the slight lift of her lips and regarded him with a frosty gaze.

  “The table, oh my, oh my.” The clerk waved his hands in dismay. “Mrs. Hughes, are you all right?”

  John felt an irrational surge of disappointment. Of course she would be married. How could a woman with such a lovely rounded figure and trim waist, such glowing eyes and creamy skin, not be married? She was also limping just a little, he saw, and guilt now overlaid the confusion of emotions within him. Was there any other gaffe he could commit?

  The woman nodded to the clerk, but she spoke to John. “I will accept the possibility that it was an accident. But I would suggest that you look what you are about before you trample another person’s foot. You are not the most delicate of persons, and your weight is quite painful when inflicted on an innocent spectator.”

  John felt even deeper chagrin. “Are you hurt? My carriage is outside—”

  “I am bruised but not maimed, and I would not think of getting into a stranger’s carriage!” She tucked a straying lock of dark hair back beneath her hat. She was an enchanting sight, John thought, wishing he were not the one who had incited the flush of anger which tinted her creamy cheeks. At least, in her ire, she seemed too distracted to have noted the imperfections of his face.

  “Still,” he tried to argue, “I am responsible for your injury. I will summon someone, your husband perhaps, to aid you if you should require assistance?”

  For some reason, this seemed to irk her even more. “I can take care of myself, thank you.”

  “I am only trying to help,” he told her. Was every woman in London this hard to please? Heaven help him, if so!

  “I believe you have ‘helped’ enough today,” the lady retorted, her blue-gray eyes turning dark with annoyance. “Now, if you will excuse me—”

  She limped toward the door, her head high.

  “Mrs. Hughes.” The clerk hurried after her. “Your package!”

  She paused long enough to accept the small parcel, neatly wrapped in brown paper and string, and this time John had the sagacity to keep his thoughts to himself. She was appealing but stubborn; he told himself that he did not envy her husband dealing with such a strong-willed woman. No, that was not true . . . perhaps he did. Her lovely eyes bright with intelligence, the smooth curve of her hips, and even the moment when they had seemed to share the same private jest—they all evoked longings he seldom allowed to surface.

  He waited till Mrs. Hughes had marched out of the shop, then he handed the clerk a guinea, muttering, “For the table,” and made a quick exit himself. When he found his coach waiting by the side of the street, he climbed in and sat far back into the seat, keeping himself out of view.

  Presently, his heart slowed to a normal beat, and he could draw a deep breath and try to think.

  Damn it, he still needed a sponsor, or this whole trip had been a wasted effort. There was only one other person in the city with whom he had a connection. Could he bring himself to apply to his younger brother?

  Gritting his teeth, John sent his groom into several shops to make inquiries as to the address, and when the servant found someone who knew the name and direction, they proceeded slowly to a handsome square in the west of London. There, John told the coachman to pull over; he was still not sure if he could debase himself by approaching a brother neither he nor their father had spoken to for years.

  John stepped out of the coach and told the driver to wait, then walked a few feet, staring up at the town house before him. It was a large residence and well maintained, unlike the last house he had visited. But to grovel before his brother . . .

  No, he would not do it. He would have to think of something—someone—else. John turned on his heel, but before he could take more than a step, he heard someone call his name.

  “Gillingham? What in God’s name are you doing here?”

  His shoulders tense, John looked around. There stood a tall fair-haired woman of striking beauty, and by her side, a stripling with brown hair and merry eyes, his hat pushed a bit too far back on his head.

  “Westbury?” The young earl, whose estate ran alongside John’s own, had inherited his title very young. John had heard he was something of a rakehell, and the young lord seldom visited his country home. Having met Westbury’s mother, John did not blame him. But even though they had not conversed for years, the earl had not forgotten John’s face. Mind you, with its disfiguring scars, how could he be expected to?

  “What are you doing in London?” the handsome youngster repeated, raising his brows.

  John tried to control his irritation. “I am no longer under quarantine, Westbury. Despite what you may have heard, I am quite well. Am I not allowed to travel?”

  “Course, but everyone knows you never leave home. Good God, are you here to see your brother and make peace at last?”

  John hesitated. Before he could disabuse the young earl, the woman, who had been watching them both with keen blue eyes, exclaimed, “You are the new marquess of Gillingham? And you’ve come to see Gabriel! Oh, you must come in.”

  Three

  He could not find the words to explain that he had not really meant to call. Unable to withstand her enthusiasm, John was swept into the house.

  The woman, who John soon realized was his unknown sister-in-law, Lady Gabriel Sinclair, led them inside. A footman opened the door, his expression lofty, and though he blinked when he glanced at the visitor, his countenance did not reveal any sign of repugnance. Well trained, indeed, John thought sourly.

  “Allow me to remove my wrap—I shall return momentarily,” Lady Gabriel told him. The footman took his hat and gloves and showed John into the drawing room.

  John sat down on an elegant gilt chair, then in a moment found himself too restless to remain still. He stood and paced up and down the room. Sweet heaven, he had made a muddle of it now.

  From the hallway outside, he clearly heard Westbury say, “I’m not sure Gabriel will be pleased about this, Psyche.”

  “But they are brothers!” the woman argued.

  “If you say so,” the young man answered. “I don’t think I shall stay to see the happy reunion, however. You may escape unscathed, but I’m not his new bride! Just as soon stay out of it.”

  John gritted his teeth. He had to get out of here. But the door opened again, and Lady Gabriel entered. She was truly a vision, a tall woman in blue with lovely classic features and blond hair pulled up at the back of her head. She regarded him thoughtfully. John kept his own expression stoic, waiting for her to exclaim in revulsion or retreat in embarrassment, now that she had a good look at his face.

  Instead, she came into the room and, as calmly as if this was a normal social call, sank into a chair. “Please accept my condolences on your father’s death. I was surprised when I heard of it,” she said. “He seemed well enough the last time I saw him.”

  Reluctantly, John sat down again and stared at her in surprise. A v
irtual hermit, his father had not ventured into London in years. “You had met my father?”

  “I had occasion to encounter him, once. It was a sudden illness?”

  He nodded. Annoyed to find himself as tongue-tied as a boy, he tried to pull himself together. “There was little warning.”

  “I tried to—that is, I suggested to my husband that he should go down for the funeral, but he was unable to do so.”

  John could just imagine what Gabriel had said to that! “It was a quiet affair,” he said. His father had feuded with all of his neighbors and had not bothered to keep up contact with former friends. John had a sudden memory of the desolate graveyard, with only himself and the vicar and a few curious villagers standing around the grave in the drizzling rain, John’s own emotions a confused turmoil of shock and loss . . .

  He pulled his attention back to the woman sitting across from him. Gabriel had always been the fortunate one, John thought, and now to have a wife with such flashing blue eyes, such elegance of person, and such—hell’s fire!—enticingly womanly curves. Damn Gabriel, anyhow, the lucky bastard!

  “But you have come to see Gabriel?” Her tone seemed warm. Did she care that he and his brother had not spoken in years?

  John braced himself. He was here, despite his qualms—he might as well take the last step. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought grimly.

  “I have—I have something to ask of him,” John said, finding the words hard to get out. “If he is willing to receive me.”

  “My husband is not at home just now, I’m afraid.” She seemed to make up her mind. “If you do not have plans, perhaps you will return and dine with us tonight?”

  John hesitated, then at last he nodded. “I will come.”

  Psyche, Lady Gabriel Sinclair, canceled a luncheon with a friend and waited impatiently for her husband to return. When he did, in the middle of the afternoon, he looked startled to find his wife pacing the drawing-room floor.

  He walked forward to gather her into his arms—they had been married for over a year, but the honeymoon fervor had not abated in the least—but she returned his kiss for only a moment, then pulled back to gaze up at him.

  “Have you had any word from your brother since the note last year about your father’s death?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Of course not. The new marquess has little interest in me, and I none in him.”

  Sighing, Psyche shook her head. She knew how bitter Gabriel’s feelings were about his family, but still . . . “Do you not think that he might regret the gulf that exists between the two of you?”

  He led her toward a cushioned settee. “Never. You know there is little love lost between me and my family. So be it. It does not trouble me, nor them.”

  Taking her seat, she picked up the glass of lemonade she had been sipping. Lately, wine seemed to turn her stomach, so she had switched to lighter beverages. “You might be surprised.”

  He walked across to pour himself a glass of burgundy. “I very much doubt it.”

  “No? You have had a visitor.” She paused deliberately, then, when he did not answer, continued. “The new marquess of Gillingham came to see you this morning.”

  His hand wavered as it held the decanter, and a drop of wine spilled onto the side table. Then Gabriel’s famous self-control reasserted itself, and he turned, his expression as guarded as it had once been when he had spent his time as a gamester.

  “My brother? You must be mistaken.”

  “I admit, I have never seen him before,” Psyche agreed. “But he looks a little like your father, though better looking, I think. And why would he claim to be the marquess—”

  Gabriel raised his brows, and Psyche laughed out loud. She had once invented a fictional title for a so-called fiancé, but—“That was different,” she protested, knowing that he would understand.

  Gabriel still looked skeptical. “Perhaps. But I very much doubt that my brother, who never leaves his home and who would certainly have no desire to see me, would actually travel to London and knock on my door. It must be some kind of ruse. If this person calls again, have the butler deny him the house.”

  Psyche gazed at her husband thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I cannot do that, my darling.”

  His expression was inquiring, but instead of challenging her comment, he waited. Oh, he did know her well. After such a tumultuous courtship, she should not be surprised.

  “I have invited him to dinner,” she said, her tone innocent.

  “Psyche!” Gabriel set down his glass so abruptly that the wine sloshed onto the much-abused table, then he came forward to grasp her hand. “Why would you do such a thing? You know how I feel about my father. Well, that’s a—you’ll pardon the macabre pun—dead issue now, but my brother was just as condemning when I was sent away. Why would you even consider asking him into our home? I thought you understood!”

  Psyche touched his arm, her contact gentle. “Gabriel, I am always on your side, you know that. But I am concerned for you. You will never be able to find peace with your father—the chance is gone forever. And yes, I saw what a bitter, angry man he was, so intolerant and punitive and unloving. I would never fault you for your feelings, or your decision to have nothing more to do with him. But your brother—he has come to you, Gabriel. Perhaps he regrets the support he gave your father when you were disinherited.”

  “You think he has come to offer me a share of the estate? I don’t need his money,” Gabriel retorted. “I have done well enough on my own!”

  Psyche nodded. “Indeed, you have. With you handling our investments, our worth has soared, not to mention the acquisition of the country estate, which was your doing.”

  Her husband, who no longer had to resort to a good hand of cards to ensure a roof over his head, as he had for years after his family’s expulsion, looked scarcely assuaged. “So why should I forgive them now?”

  “As I said, he has come to you,” Psyche repeated. “At least, give him a chance to speak. He’s your brother. When my parents died, my sister and I became even closer . . . I could not have endured life without her.”

  “That’s different,” Gabriel muttered, his countenance still dark. “Circe is a darling, although somewhat—unique. But that is only part of her charm,” he added quickly before Psyche could defend her younger sister. “And the two of you were always devoted. John was a bully when I was younger, and he was intensely jealous of me.”

  “Why?”

  “He thought our mother favored me, and even though my father certainly preferred him, he took it amiss.”

  “And you are much the handsomer,” Psyche pointed out matter-of-factly. “That may have rankled. Gabriel, when did he contract the pox?”

  He had frowned; she knew that he did not care for anyone to comment on his extraordinary good looks, but he glanced up at her last words.

  “When I was a child. They feared he would die. My mother sent me away so that I would not catch it, too.”

  “You were not inoculated as children?”

  “My father thought it unnecessary, but after John fell ill, I was, yes. My grandfather took the precaution as soon as I reached his house.”

  “What carelessness,” Psyche exclaimed. “What a poor excuse for a father the late marquess was! I know you could never be so imprudent.” She touched the slight swelling of her belly without thinking. Gabriel’s expression softened when he saw the gesture.

  “You really wish to entertain my beast of a brother?”

  She smiled at the exaggeration. “Yes, dearest, I think you should give him an opportunity to be heard.”

  Gabriel sighed. “Very well, but only because you wish it.”

  Psyche smiled with the serene confidence of a woman who knows she is adored. This time, she held up her arms without reserve, and he bent to pull her into a strong embrace.

  The day stretched on for what seemed a small eternity. John stayed in his room, wondering what insanity had led him to begin this mad venture. In late af
ternoon one of the male servants knocked on his door.

  “Come in,” John snapped, as his small dog gave a small warning bark.

  When the servant opened the door, he bowed. “Do you desire any assistance changing for dinner, my lord?”

  “No.”

  The servant looked surprised, but he nodded. Then, glancing around the room, he took a step forward. “I’ll just light more candles for you, my lord.”

  “Leave it,” John said, his tone still abrupt.

  The servant paused. “As you wish, my lord.”

  John had been sitting in the biggest chair, which was the most comfortable for his tall, big-boned frame, with only one candle lit on the table beside him as he glanced through a book he had brought with him. The curtains had been pulled across the windows, and the room was comfortably dim.

  Outside, the streets teemed with traffic. He could hear people shouting and talking in the courtyard below. London had many attractions, no doubt, but they could wait for a later time. At least that was what he told himself, trying not to admit that all he really wanted to do was pack up and return home, where he did not have to face strangers at every turn, did not have to witness—a hundred times a day—the surprise and dismay which his disfigured countenance elicited.

  He was no coward; he would stay the course. But his heart felt leaden, and too soon it was time to call again for his carriage.

  He wore the same black coat he had worn for his morning call. If his precious brother, with his usual elegant ways, took offense that John had not changed for dinner, that was his misfortune.

  When he arrived, John braced himself, stepping out of the carriage and walking slowly up to the front door. What if his brother refused to honor his wife’s invitation? What if—

  But this time an elderly butler with a keen, respectful gaze admitted him and showed him the way to the drawing room. There, John found Lady Gabriel, looking even more beautiful in a gold-hued gown. She sat in a brocade-cushioned chair while across the room Lord Gabriel Sinclair, the man whose family name he shared, if perhaps little else, stood very still, his expression grim.