“I understand,” he said, as courteously as if he had offered her a cup of tea. “Perhaps later. Well, I’m afraid that I need to dress for the evening meal. Would you like to sit down? This won’t take long.”
Kate blinked. Was he planning to undress in front of her? “What of your valet?”
“My valet has been commandeered to help Wick this evening,” he said with a grin. “So I have to dress myself.” He reached up and began to slowly untie his cravat.
“Do you need assistance?” Kate asked, mesmerized by the golden skin that appeared as he pulled the cravat free.
Looking at her, he shook his head and widened his stance. As if he had bade her, the movement made her eyes go to his legs. His breeches were tight, molded to his thighs. She jerked her gaze back up in embarrassment.
With an easy movement he pulled off his coat and tossed it on the bed. He was wearing a waistcoat of striped toilinette edged with crimson binding. It fitted close to his chest; a beautiful linen shirt billowed as he casually pulled it free of his breeches.
Kate watched as if she were entranced, not saying a word. She almost felt as if she were at the circus, at a special private performance. There was an air of theater to Gabriel, and the dramatic, laughing flare in his eye showed that he was exploiting every second of it.
“I need help with my cuffs,” he said. With an easy stride, he presented one cuff to her. She bent her head over the snowy linen, and pulled apart the small ruby buttons that held his cuffs together.
Without a word, he held out the other cuff. It was curiously erotic, the turn of his wrist, the way the shirt fell back on his arm. “How did you get this scar?” she said, touching a white mark on his forearm.
“Excavating in Egypt,” he said. “Two years ago. I was bitten by a barga snake; the only remedy is to slash the bite as quick as you can and let it bleed free. Luckily I had a knife to hand.”
“Awful!” Kate said. “But it worked?”
“I was sick for a few days, but not much venom had reached my system.” He stepped back and his sleeves fell to his elbows.
She was thinking about Gabriel slashing his own arm, and not paying attention. “Kate,” he said. There was a kind of deep timbre to his voice that sent a little quake down her legs.
He was toying with the top button on his waistcoat. Her eyes were drawn to those clever fingers. He slipped the first button free and moved to the second. Kate’s mouth felt dry, watching as the buttons came free, one after another.
The linen of his shirt was translucent, giving just a glimpse of taut muscle underneath. Gabriel didn’t say a word, just slowly slid from one button to the next.
As he undid the last button, he pulled off the waistcoat and threw it toward the bed. From the corner of her eye, Kate saw the garment hit the coverlet and slide to the floor.
But her entire being was focused on those teasing hands. “It’s rather hot in here,” Gabriel said, his voice darkly amused.
Kate made a shuddering attempt to maintain some sort of calm. “I’m afraid I forgot to bring my fan,” she said.
“Here’s one,” he said, reaching over to the large table to the right and handing her one. It was a lady’s fan, exquisite, delicate, and obviously valuable. With a sudden thump of her heart, she realized that there had been other women in this room, that she probably wasn’t the first to watch the prince undress himself.
But he was shaking his head. “Not what you’re thinking, love. That’s a seventeenth-century German noblewoman’s fan, with an interesting painting. I picked it up in Bamberg.”
“Of course,” she said, opening it carefully. “That swan presumably represents Zeus?”
“Yes, Leda stands to the right, primly dressed in the clothing of a burgomaster’s wife. It’s one of the things that interest me about the piece.”
Kate fluttered the fan just under her eyes. For some reason it gave her a kind of impudent courage to hold it before her mouth. “Weren’t you about to take off your shirt?”
“Actually,” he said, pulling free the back part of his shirt, “I generally take off my breeches first.”
Kate made a little sound.
“Boots first,” he said conversationally. He turned, bent over, and pulled off his right boot. Kate raised the fan to hover just below her eyes. The second boot was off, and he was facing her again.
“Breeches next . . . or stockings?” The sensual curve of his mouth was enough to make her squirm with a thirsty sense of power.
“Since you’re asking me,” she said, fluttering the fan again. “Stockings.”
He bent over again. Watching the hard-muscled curve of his leg made her pulse beat fiercely.
Then he stood in front of her, legs apart, hands on his hips. “The breeches,” he said, with a primitive joy in his eyes.
She raised an eyebrow, as if nothing he could show her would cause particular interest. Of course she knew what the male anatomy looked like, if only from her embarrassed—but fascinated—study of Aretino’s engravings.
But it was entirely different to watch Gabriel’s hands swiftly unbuttoning his placket, under the shelter of his white shirt. He watched her intently.
“Shall I continue, lady?” he asked, as courteous as any medieval knight.
“Aye,” she said, and cleared her throat, met his eyes boldly. “Do.”
His hands paused at his hips, his eyes sizzling into hers. “I would rather you did this for me,” he said.
She almost dropped her fan.
“Kneeling at my feet,” he said, “coaxing my breeches to fall to the floor so that you could touch me . . . taste me . . . as you will.”
Kate swallowed.
It wasn’t Aretino’s pictures that came to mind, but the image of herself, kneeling before him, pulling his breeches down just as he was doing now. Leaning forward and—
His shirt was tented in the front. She frowned, trying to remember the smallest details of those engravings. That was just it: They were small.
“It seems you see something that keeps your attention, my lady,” he said.
“Ump,” she said ungracefully. “You may continue.” She waved her fan.
The white shirt rose, covered his face, fluttered in the air, fell to the side.
Kate’s mouth fell open, but it was behind the fan, so he couldn’t see it. Gabriel had to be three times the size of the men Aretino portrayed. “You are a bit larger than the pictures would suggest,” she whispered.
“Italians,” Gabriel said, standing with his hands on his hips and obviously enjoying her fascinated gaze. “Wait until you see the statues in Florence. Some of those statues have all the endowment of a small boy.”
“Well,” Kate said, forcing herself to look up, but that only gave her the chance to see what the rest of him looked like, the taut stomach, the muscled chest, the arrow of hair leading down to . . . to there.
“And now I must dress myself,” Gabriel said, casually turning. “I asked my man to set out evening clothing. We’re dancing tonight, did I mention that?”
Kate bit her lip at the look of him from behind, the powerful swell of his shoulders narrowing to his waist. Even his arse was muscled and powerful, as unlike Algie’s plump round bottom as imaginable. “Yes,” she said faintly.
He bent over to pick up a costume left for him on the side table.
“I don’t always bother with smalls,” he said chattily. “But when a man is wearing silk breeches, it stands to reason. Especially if there’s the faintest possibility that his rod might make an appearance.”
She nodded like a silly doll as he pulled on his smalls, followed by stockings embroidered with clocks in gold thread.
“Those are very nice,” she managed to say, and cleared her throat again.
“I can’t say I generally pay much attention to my dress.” Gabriel hauled on a pair of silk breeches so tight that they showed every bulge. Every bulge.
“You can’t wear that,” she gasped, before she thought.
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“Don’t you approve?” He grinned at her.
“I can see—anyone can see—” She gestured toward his front.
He gave himself a careless pat. “That’s not going anywhere until I’m out of this room. I’ll have to walk slowly down the stairs and think about something dreadfully boring.”
A billowing shirt went over his head, but this one was considerably more elegant than the one he had worn, with a gorgeous little frill at the neck.
“I must beg a favor, my lady,” he said, as grave as any courtier.
“Yes?”
“My cuffs.”
Her fingers slipped and trembled, pushing the rubies through the buttonholes on his shirtsleeves. If the truth be told, she felt ravenous. And that was no proper emotion for a young lady to feel.
“There you are,” she said. Her voice came out a husky rumble.
Gabriel moved to the glass and tied his cravat in a moment, his hands moving so swiftly, pleating, folding, and tying, that she could hardly follow.
“How are you tying your cravat?” she inquired, striving desperately to have a conversation. Any sort of conversation. Anything to stop herself from lusting after him like a veritable trollop.
“The Gordian knot,” he said. “It’s not too high or fussy and allows me to breathe.”
“Algie told me that he often ruins four to five cravats at a time,” Kate said. “He tries to create a Trône d’Amour, but he calls it a trumpeter.”
The corner of his mouth turned down. “He looks like a long-necked goose.”
Next was a silk waistcoat, a dark sea green with black embroidery. And finally he shrugged into a coat made of the same material, as tight as it was resplendent.
He pulled on a pair of buckled shoes. “I suppose I might wear slippers,” he said, “but they’re bloody cold on these stone steps.”
Without pausing he moved back to the glass, pulled back his thick hair and pulled it tightly into a queue. “Powder?” he asked himself, and then turned to her. “Must I powder? It is my own castle, after all.”
“Surely most gentlemen will be in wigs,” she managed. From being a naked, virile man he had transformed to a fairy-tale prince. “Your—Princess Tatiana will expect you to wear a wig.”
“Loathe them. On me and you. This will have to do. My sword,” he said, looking about. He picked up his rapier and buckled it around his hips, under his coat. “Gloves.” He snatched up a pair from the table.
Then he walked to just before her and put a leg forward, slid into a graceful court bow. “My lady, I fear I must leave you.”
Kate took a deep breath. The man in front of her was the epitome of elegance, as gorgeous a piece of manhood as ever graced a castle. She rose to her feet, held out her hand.
He raised it to his lips, and she felt the touch of his tongue like a brand. Her fingers trembled and he rewarded her with a smile that would have made a saint swoon.
“I shall return as soon as I am able.” He turned, the wide skirts of his coat flaring behind him.
Kate stood in place, watching, feeling as if she’d been bewitched. He almost left, turned at the last minute. “I forgot,” he said. “Something to keep my guest occupied during my absence.”
He reached out, picked up a small velvet-covered book, and tossed it to her. Reflexively she reached out and snatched it from the air.
“There’s my Kate,” he said, a wry smile quirking his lips. “Do you know how many women would have squealed and allowed the book to drop to the ground?”
The door closed quietly behind him.
Kate stood for a moment longer, and then looked down at the book. Her fingers rubbed across the velvet and she slowly opened the front cover, read the title page.
The School of Venus.
Thirty-one
Gabriel stopped after the first turn of the steps descending from the tower and attempted to calm his pulse. His rod was threatening to rip through silk, and the only thing he could think about was the way Kate’s lips parted in a gasp when she saw him in the flesh.
It hadn’t frightened her. She was the kind of woman whom men dreamed about, the sort who wouldn’t cower under the coverlet waiting to do her marital duty, but a woman with whom one could grow old, always discovering, never tiring, never less than enamored, bewitched, in lust.
He leaned his head back against the stone wall. His heart was thumping in his chest, tempting him to turn around, slam through that door, cover her mouth with his.
But she wasn’t his. She couldn’t be his. The chill truth of it slowly filtered through his blood, like the icy rain that Dante described in hell.
She couldn’t be his because he had this bloody castle to support. And that meant he had to take his pretty arse downstairs and meet Tatiana, the woman gilded in Russian rubles.
He needed to put on a smile and charm her at dinner. Dance with her once, and then again. And tomorrow, at the ball, he should open the dance with her on his arm.
They were to be married within the month following the betrothal ball . . . if all went well. Of course it would go well.
There was no problem with his breeches anymore. He glanced down and smoothed a wrinkle in his cutaway, then walked down the steps.
But he still had this night, this last night.
He would go to dinner for a few courses, and then he would make some excuse to come back up, back to Kate.
A small smile curled his lips.
He had plans.
The moment Wick caught sight of him coming down the stairs he pulled the door to the drawing room shut behind him. “Where in the bloody hell have you been? The princess arrived a good hour ago and you should have been here to greet her,” he said in a furious undertone. “Her uncle was visibly displeased.”
“I’m sorry,” Gabriel said.
“Prince Dimitri doesn’t seem to be a hothead, but it was a clear affront when you didn’t appear, you lugheaded idiot.”
“I will apologize.”
Wick narrowed his eyes at him. “Aren’t you going to ask what your future wife looks like?”
Gabriel considered that, and shook his head.
Wick said something under his breath, and then: “Prince Dimitri and his niece both speak fluent English, by the way. You will be joined by the Princess Sophonisba. Princess Maria-Therese will stay in her rooms this evening.”
“Bloody hell, Aunt Sophonisba is joining us?” Gabriel said with dismay.
“She’s painted her eyes so heavily that she won’t be able to see her dinner,” Wick said. “She’s in there swilling brandy.” Then he lowered his voice. “Just what have you done with Kate?”
“She’s in my chamber, reading. Only reading.”
“I never imagined you’d do something like this,” Wick said, his voice tight with rage. “If you weren’t my brother, I’d leave this house.”
“I’m not doing anything,” Gabriel said between clenched teeth. “For Christ’s sake, Wick, do you think I’d take her virginity? Do you think I’m that sort of man?”
“Keep your voice down. Anyone might descend that stair,” he snapped. “If not, what the hell is she doing in your chamber?”
Gabriel raised his right hand rather blindly and pulled on a glove. “She’s reading. I told you. Just reading.”
Wick stared at him. “Damn it.”
“I did it,” Gabriel said, conversationally. “I met the woman, the only woman for me. I met her, and now . . . I’m going to meet my wife.”
Wick made a sudden movement. “No.”
“That’s the way life is, Wick,” Gabriel said, pulling on his other glove. “It’s not always fair. You should be the first to know that. In case you’re wondering, Kate understands why I must marry Tatiana. She just spent seven years working like an indentured servant for her stepmother, as far as I can see, because she could not countenance leaving the servants and tenants on her father’s estate to her stepmother’s mercies.”
“Then marry her. Bring her servants
here and we’ll add them to the crew.”
“We can scarcely feed the lion,” Gabriel said, straightening his rapier. “Don’t treat me like a lovelorn maiden, Wick. I need to marry a woman with bags of money, and that’s what I’m planning to do.”
“We can manage,” Wick said. “Don’t go through with it.”
“How would I support all of them? Who would buy Sophonisba’s brandy, the lion’s beef, the candles, the coal we need to get through the winter?”
“The tenant farms—” Wick began.
Gabriel shook his head. “I’ve spent hours going over the books. In time, the farms will be profitable. But they’ve been neglected. The cottages leak, the steeple in the village church apparently collapsed last year. For all I know, the children are hungry. Not only that, but if I break the engagement, then I’d have to pay a forfeit. I need three dowries, not just one.”
Wick’s comment was short but heartfelt.
“I’ll forget about Kate in time.” He looked Wick straight in the eyes as he said it.
He would never forget her.
Wick knew it too. “I’ve never said how much I appreciate the honor of being your brother,” he said now.
Gabriel quirked a smile. “The feeling is mutual.”
He had barely walked into the drawing room when the doors behind him opened again and Wick’s voice boomed out. “Her Royal Highness, the Princess Tatiana. His Royal Highness, the Prince Dimitri.”
Gabriel squared his shoulders and turned to face his future.
Tatiana was poised in the doorway. She wore an exquisite gown of cream silk, embroidered all over with sprigs of flowers. Her eyes were large and dewy; her lips were a perfect rose pink. She was like a sweet drink of strawberries and cream, her skin a perfect milk, her dark curls satiny.
Gabriel advanced and gave his best court bow. She curtsied with all the grace of a member of the French court. He kissed her hand and she smiled at him, a bit shyly but very sweetly.
If the clouds had opened up and a booming voice had said, This is your bride, he wouldn’t have been surprised.
Tatiana was eminently beddable. Demure though she was, her low décolletage displayed her status as a desirable woman. She had no need for “bosom friends.” She was everything Kate was not: beddable, biddable, and rich.