“I’ve been your only friend for nearly twenty years. Not once in the course of your life have you asked for, accepted, or appreciated any help being given to you. Mine or anybody’s.” Waterson held his gaze. “No man is an island, unto itself, and so you’ll accept my blasted help whether you wish it or not. You will begin by going home and making love to your wife.”
A dull flush heated Gabriel’s neck, as with those words, Waterson roused seductive images of Jane, resplendent in her nudity, with her golden blonde tresses cascading in waves about them.
“And then you will accept that she is yours and you are hers, and that your marriage is final. Whether you wished it or not.” The earl set his snifter, nay Gabriel’s snifter, down, just beyond Gabriel’s reach and then planted his elbows on the table. He glanced about a moment and then dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. “And when you are done with that, do not leave her side again or else condemn her to a life to which she’ll never fully belong.”
Gabriel sat in stiff silence and took in the other man’s words. “I cannot,” he whispered, unsure whether he spoke to himself or Waterson. He slid his gaze beyond the other man’s shoulder.
His friend gave a wry grin. “Alas, my friend, you already have.”
He looked about and his skin pricked with the pointed stares studiously trained on him.
“Why did you wed her?” Waterson asked bluntly, bringing his attention back. “To protect her?” he supplied before Gabriel could speak. “Then do so. Prepare her for Society and spare her from further gossip.” He jerked his chin toward the entrance of the club. “Go,” he urged.
With guilt twisting in his belly—that hated, too-familiar sentiment that had dogged him all these years—Gabriel stood. “Waterson,” he said in clipped tones. “Th—”
“No thanks are necessary. Now, go.”
Gabriel turned and started over the crowded floor of White’s when a familiar, hated form caught the corner of his eye. The rakish gentleman with his Brutus curls tossed back his head and laughed at something the person opposite him said and then he froze. The Earl of Montclair shifted in his seat and a mocking grin formed on his lips. “Waverly,” the earl called out, raising his glass in mock salute. “I understand congratulations are in order.” Mockery tinged his words. Gabriel stared at the man’s mouth as it moved, imagined that mouth on Jane’s, hard and punishing, as she cried and fought for her freedom, then ultimately attained it. Only to be punished for resisting Montclair’s vile assault. And then of their own volition, his legs carried him over to the table.
The earl looked questioningly up at him with a jeering glint in his eyes. “Waverly. You’ve come to join—”
He hauled the bastard who’d put his hands upon Jane up by the lapels of his jacket, up from his seat and buried his fist into his nose, relishing the crack of bone and an agonized cry rung from Montclair’s lips. There was a triumphant thrill of revenge, a satisfaction of his bloodlust. Perhaps he was more like his father than he’d ever dared believe, for the sight of the man’s suffering filled him with an unholy glee. Gabriel tossed the other man to the floor, a bleeding, whining mess and then ignoring the frantic whispers, continued his march to the front of the club. A servant, with his gaze carefully averted rushed forward with Gabriel’s cloak and he shrugged into it. As he exited his clubs and accepted the reins from a waiting servant to his mount, he drew in a deep, steadying breath, filling his air with lungs. Then he swung his leg over the chestnut creature, Devotion, and guided it onward to his townhouse. To his wife. To his future.
His mount shifted under his legs, at the tension in Gabriel’s, and he lightened his grip upon the horse. In the quiet of the London streets, he mulled his friend’s words. He’d pledged to care for Jane. The minute he’d ruined her, she’d become his responsibility and he was shamed by the truth that by seeking out his clubs to avoid the woman who’d upended his world, he’d only brought greater difficulty, too. And more—he couldn’t avoid responsibility. It was part of who he was and one he could not extricate himself from, no matter how much they might wish it. Nay, no matter how much he might wish it. Gabriel guided Devotion down the cobbled roads.