A Curse of the Heart

Chapter 10

Gabriel strode from the house and jumped into his carriage, anger and disappointment escaping in the form of a loud exasperated sigh.

The hard lump still pulsed in his throat, a lump that threatened to explode in a burst of uncontrollable fury at the sight of Lord Wellford playing the doting brother. He’d fought to suppress it, tried to swallow it down. Then Miss Linwood’s firm stance faltered, and he felt her betrayal like strong hands around his neck, squeezing tightly until he could no longer breathe.

He’d not expected her to be fooled by her brother’s soppy blue eyes and soft words. He’d assumed her sharp tongue would leave Wellford sore and bruised. With steely determination, she would demand an apology. Yet like a naive debutante, she had fallen prey to his flowery charms.

Gabriel struggled to understand why he even cared. Why could he not shake the feeling she had sided against him? Why was his mind so fraught with jealousy that all rational thought was lost to him?

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact Wellford might prove to be the caring brother he could not be to his own sister — to the daughter of the woman who had taken his mother’s place. There was no denying the irony of his situation. He could show Miss Linwood compassion but could not feel the same way about his own kin.

He threw his head back against the cushioned squab and inhaled deeply, only to find the sweet smell of lavender teasing his nostrils, drawing his thoughts back to the moment he first tasted Rebecca Linwood’s lips.

Something had happened to him that night.

Her enchanting essence had penetrated his mind and body, igniting something deep inside that could not be extinguished.

In the past, he’d dabbled in the odd liaison, purely to sate a physical desire, purely to appease an appetite. Yet he had never felt a soul-deep connection before, never felt a blissful form of torture, an overwhelming need burning inside with such ferocious intensity.

Even now, as the muscles in his shoulders relaxed and he welcomed the silence and solitude of his carriage, his vivid imagination refused to be tempered. Instead, he imagined her sitting astride him, moaning with pleasure as her hot body moulded around the length of him.

Good God!

What had happened to the man content to spend his days idling in his study with just a mound of old books for company?

By the time his carriage pulled into Hanover Square, he could feel the tension pounding behind his eyes, which was slightly less torturous than the pulsating of his heavy loins.

“Welcome home, sir,” Cosgrove said in his usual lofty tone as his gaze lingered on Gabriel’s furrowed brow. “I trust you’ve had an enjoyable afternoon.”

If titles were given for sarcasm, his butler would be a duke.

“I believe my expression says it all,” he replied shrugging out of his coat.

“There is a package on your desk. I am certain it will improve your mood.”

Gabriel walked into the study and surveyed the cluttered desk like an eager father, expecting a rush of excitement when his children looked up and noticed he was home. However, the feeling of pleasant familiarity did not evolve into anything deeper.

In frustration, he strode over and picked up the package, ripping off the paper in a bid to rouse something more than a faint flicker of interest. He opened the top drawer, removed a pair of spectacles and put them on before scanning the leather cover for marks and flicking through the musty pages.

Terrasson’s The Life of Sethos was a fictional works examining the private memoirs of the ancient Egyptians. With a glass of brandy in one hand and his book in the other, he moved to the sofa. It would take him hours to read through Terrasson’s work, and with his mind preoccupied he would forget all about Rebecca Linwood delighting the guests at Lord Chelton’s ball with her dazzling smile and generous bosom.

Gabriel managed to read eight pages of the preface before his lids grew heavy and he became conscious of the fact he was struggling to stay awake. Eight pages became ten and then twelve and then — nothing.

Somewhere in a dark recess of his mind, he heard the faint strains of a waltz. The triple beat called to him, forced him to concentrate, forced him to focus his gaze. At first, he imagined himself outside, as a hazy mist floated up to obscure his view, only clearing when he willed it to do so.

He saw her then, his bewitching temptress, shining like a bright star in a black sky, illuminating the ballroom with all the power of a hundred-candle chandelier.

He pushed himself away from the door jamb and tried to take a step forward. But the chain around his ankle pulled him back, tearing into his flesh as a reminder of his folly.

“Let me go,” he cried. But he could only stand and stare as some other gentleman kissed her hand, as some other gentleman danced with her and pressed too close to her luscious body. “Rebecca,” he yelled, punching the air with clenched fists.

But she coul

d not hear him.

“Wake up, sir.”

Cosgrove’s voice penetrated his addled brain, and he opened his eyes, blinking a few times and shaking his head until his butler had two eyes and not four.