He tightened his grip on the fragile glass in his hand. He’d spent the better part of his life distancing himself from the man the previous marquess had been. He’d dedicated himself to never adopting any part of his father’s ways. Yet, drunk with the scent of lavender and honey, he’d kissed her. Sleep had eventually come and when he’d arisen from that restless slumber haunted by the wide-eyed companion, he’d gone through his morning ablutions resolved to be free of any thoughts of Mrs. Jane Munroe. Her presence here only roused the dark similarity between him and his bastard of a sire who’d taken his pleasures where he would—with ladies of the ton and servants in his household.
He stared into the contents of his cup and then took another slow sip. Except—was she a Mrs.? Was the lady, in fact, a young widow dependent upon her own skills to survive in a society that gave few options to those very women? He frowned at the empty doorway and then shifted his cup to his other hand and consulted his timepiece. Jane had broken her fast at this time yesterday morn. At the prospect of seeing the companion, an odd excitement stirred in his chest.
With a groan, he set down his cup and scrubbed his hands over his face. What manner of madness was this, his thinking of the woman with anything less than annoyance? The sooner the tart-mouthed, yet kissable, lady took her leave, the better he’d be. He didn’t require distractions in the form of stiffly proper companions with a veneer of ice and a coating of molten heat underneath. But now that he’d tasted Jane’s fire, God help him if he didn’t burn for her.
The soft tread of footsteps sounded in the hall and he glanced up, a nonsensical eagerness stirred within, and then died a thankfully swift death. His sister stood framed in the entrance. “Oh.”
Chloe softly laughed. “It is lovely to see you as well.”
Gabriel blinked and then registered her presence. “Chloe.” He sprang to his feet and the wooden legs of his chair scraped noisily along the floor. “How are you feeling?” Guilt chafed at his insides. He’d been so fixated on Mrs. Jane Munroe he’d not given proper thought to his sister’s well-being.
Chloe waved a hand about. “I am rested and well,” she said with a smile. As though to prove as much, she moved with energized steps to the sideboard. She favored a nearby servant with one of her patently sincere smiles and proceeded to fill her plate. She carried it over and then claimed the spot beside him, and then froze. “What happened to your face?”
His face. As in his blackened eyes. He’d arisen with the underside of his eyes painted purple and blue for Jane’s efforts. And as he couldn’t very well admit to kissing a stranger fighting for the post as companion and then being dealt an impressive facer for those efforts, he said the first words to form on his lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He winced as soon as the lie left his mouth. His tenacious sister would not release her talons from this juicy morsel.
Chloe leaned up and touched the bruise. He winced. “This. I’m referring to this.” With a moue of displeasure on her lips, she adopted the disapproving tone used by their mother too often. “You do not fight, Gabriel.” No, he disavowed all violent endeavors. Having been the victim of too many fists of fury rained down upon him, he’d vowed to never raise one to another, except if it was to defend himself or his kin.
And so, with his sister staring pointedly at him, he did what any gentleman who’d been kissing his sister’s companion would do. “I was visiting Gentleman Jackson’s.” He lied.
“Oh.” The slight nod indicated she approved of that endeavor. “Well?” she prodded as she sat.
Would she not let the matter rest? “Well, what?” he asked, reclaiming his seat.
Chloe carefully diced a piece of cold ham. “Has she arrived?”
Ah, she spoke of Mrs. Munroe. Gabriel cast another look over at the door. “She has.”
“And?” she popped the breakfast meat into her mouth and chewed.
His mind drew a blank. What was there to say about the woman who was a spitting mad vixen one moment and a quiet-mannered, proper young woman the next?