A Night With the Bride Read Online Free Page B

subject, clearly. Which made her all the more determined to pry.
    The words were spoken harshly, a reminder that he was a duke and would be obeyed in all things. She smirked. A shame for him, then, that she’d never been particularly obedient.
    She tilted her head to the side, not at all chagrined. “Is this another setdown, Your Grace?”
    “It’s a warning,” he said.
    “Then you’ve underestimated my stubbornness.”
    He placed his napkin on the table and pushed back in his chair, then bushed the crumbs from his lap. He paused, uttered a curse under his breath, then brushed his thighs off again, and again—always in the same manner, from the top of his thighs, down, then repeat.
    She watched him for several long moments, then said, “I’d venture to say your breeches are clean.”
    That only served to frustrate him more as he cursed again and continued to brush off his breeches in clipped, agitated movements—as though there were an invisible something he couldn’t manage to brush away.
    “You understand you look quite insane when you do that, don’t you?”
    He didn’t respond. Indeed, she hadn’t any clue if he’d even heard her, so absorbed was he in his odd task. Suspicion slowly started to dawn. A distant uncle of hers had been obsessed with counting, with the number of times actions were performed, or the particular arrangement of items. Disruption of the order would drive him mad, and his only solace was restoration of that order.
    Jaw set, lips pressed into a hard line, Somerset repeated the clipped movements over and over. Gabriella felt a pang of sympathy for the strong, virile man beside her. Finally, after five minutes had passed, Somerset stood abruptly and bowed. “Good morning, Miss Weatherfield.”
    And with that, he was gone.
    She hadn’t even gotten to slap him.
    *  *  *
    That afternoon, a knock sounded on the library door. Nicholas looked up from his papers scattered across the cherrywood desk and cursed. He’d expressly requested no one disturb him. Business matters pressed on him urgently, and not even a day of rest could be spared.
    Not that he wanted rest. Indeed, what had transpired in the breakfast room earlier was proof enough of that. The moment he’d allowed himself a degree of normalcy, the thoughts, the urges, had come surging back. They always did.
    Placing his quill in the groove of the gilded inkstand, he stood and strode to the door. After a moment’s hesitation, he unlocked it and pulled it open.
    A vision of pure, pink loveliness stood on the other side, and he cursed again inwardly. Just what he needed: Miss Weatherfield disturbing what little solitude he’d managed to erect for himself.
    She smiled prettily and pushed the door open further, sweeping past him, into the room. “Is this where you’ve been holing yourself up?” She fingered a scrap of parchment lying on the wide desk. “I see you’ve taken the liberty of making yourself at home. Several of the guests are quite put out, you know. Turns out several of them enjoy reading. I wouldn’t be surprised if they stormed in with torches and pitchforks.”
    Morning light filtered in from the large windows along the back wall, making her look ethereal in her pink morning gown, her hair pulled up into a knot, delicate honey-colored tendrils trickling down her temples. She was beautiful, a vision, and when she turned to smile at him, his breath snagged in his chest.
    He glanced away quickly. “I have business that cannot wait.”
    He turned to close the door, and just as he did, a dark, familiar image swept into his mind—his sister lying in a coffin, dead, her face ghostly white. Panic squeezed his chest painfully and the urge to close the door, lock it— properly —overwhelmed him.
    Christ , not again. Not now.
    He clicked the door shut and turned the key in the lock. But the overwhelming sense that the door wasn’t secured properly grew heavy in his chest. He unlocked the door, opened it, shut it, and