“Yes,” Mr. Pearce nodded, wringing his hands as he struggled to make eye contact. “She went shopping about an hour ago.”
“Shopping? On her own?”
Mr
. Pearce looked confused. “Miss Linwood always goes out unaccompanied.”
Gabriel shook his head. The woman’s logic confounded him at every turn. Was she not the least bit worried about the men who had broken into her home? Those same men could be trailing behind her while she ran her errands.
Then a sudden feeling of apprehension flashed through him.
Perhaps she had gone to see George Wellford, to berate him over the damaged painting. What if Wellford told her about their earlier discussion, where he had said he would act as chaperone, where he said he would marry her should any problems arise?
Pushing the thoughts aside and with a frustrated sigh, he said, “Very well, I shall wait for her in the office.”
Mr. Pearce bowed, and as he moved to walk away, Gabriel called him back. “Despite Miss Linwood’s leniency with regard to your disgraceful conduct, I want you to know I am not so forgiving.”
Mr. Pearce’s thin lips disappeared even further into his mouth.
“Your personal opinion, or Lord Wellford’s for that matter, is of no concern,” Gabriel continued. “In future, I expect you to treat Miss Linwood with the respect she deserves.”
Mr. Pearce offered no excuse for his crime. “I understand, sir,” he said with a solemn bow before walking away.
Gabriel wandered down to the office, feeling awkward entering Rebecca’s private space, uninvited. His gaze drifted beyond the crude wooden chair, to the small sofa. The red damask covers were worn and threadbare in places, but it looked comfortable enough. So he unbuttoned his coat, brushed the seat to remove the fine layer of dust and settled down to wait.
When the clock chimed four, Gabriel closed his eyes. Suffering from a distinct lack of sleep, thanks to the passionate Miss Linwood, he decided to take a nap.
But peace eluded him, driven away by the recurring ding dong ringing out every fifteen minutes. He thought he would grow accustomed to the sound, yet found himself glancing up at the clock, counting each slow revolution until it chimed five. By the time the hands approached six, he was restless and impatient, anger brimming beneath the surface.
Indeed, if the hollow clang mocked him one more time, he would throw his damn boot at it.
Where the hell had she got to?
This was the reason he preferred to be alone: the endless worry, the vivid images painting one distressing picture after another. He hated the thinking, the guessing, the waiting — the fear that gripped his heart with its sharp talons and refused to let go.
“That’s it,” he shouted to no one other than himself. What was he supposed to do, sit there until midnight? He would be fit for Bedlam if he waited a moment longer. The sound of ticking clocks haunting him in his dreams, the repetitive ringing like a death knell.
Jumping to his feet, he made for the door and decided to peruse the displays, to hound Mr. Pearce, to rip the place apart if only to satisfy the torment raging within. Then he heard the echo of footsteps moving along the hallway, the light, yet purposeful strides no doubt belonging to the lady in question.
With a disgruntled huff, he yanked open the door to find her happy countenance peering over a mound of parcels as she smiled back at him.
“Mr. Stone,” she said with some surprise as the packages wobbled in her arms. “I was not expecting to see you today.”
Not expecting to see him?
Not expecting to see him!
Mere hours ago she had fled his house in a state of terror. She had sought comfort in his arms; lay naked in his bed, run home with her emotions in tatters. What the hell was she expecting?
“Where have you been?” The words came out exactly as he intended: dark, menacing and resentful. They were the words of a cuckold, of a jealous lover, of an over-bearing parent.
She ignored the question completely. “Well, are you going to help me with my parcels or are you going to stand there like a bear forced from hibernation?”
With a huff and a noise resembling a growl, he scooped the parcels from her arms and plonked them on the desk.
“Be careful with those,” she said and then her face lit up into one of her illuminating smiles. “Wait until I show you what I’ve bought.” The smile turned coy, sultry. “I think you will like them all.”
His head threatened to explode with anger, his body threatened to explode with lust. If he carried on like this, he would be the first person ever to volunteer for Bedlam.