It's Beginning to Look a lot Like Scandal

The door was shoved open without the courtesy of a knock. Her heart hammering, she swung around. His gaze flew to hers, and her chest constricted. An odd emotion erupted through her heart. “Gabriel, what are you doing?” she cried as he closed the latch with a soft snick, walked over to the small table by the fire and rested an ornately carved wooden box on its surface.

His jacket, cravat, and waistcoat had been discarded, the top buttons of his white shirt unbuttoned and she could see the skin of his bare throat. Flushing, she glanced up to meet his gaze. Surely his family thought it odd he departed shortly after her.

He sauntered over to Primrose, his eyes devouring her. He looked at her so intently, as though he were memorizing every line and curve of her features, as if he'd missed her as she'd missed him. She departed from the warmth of her bed, standing to look up into his tender expression. “The countess—”

The rest of her words muffled against his chest as he pulled her into a fierce hug. With a soft cry, she returned his embrace, her cheek pressed against his chest, his fiercely pounding heart a soothing rhythm.

“You escaped as if the devil were on your heels. Surely you knew I would come to you before retiring to bed.”

The awareness of how alone they were seeped into the air. “This is a risk we cannot take,” she whispered, pulling away from his intimate embrace.

“I waited a few minutes before I excused myself. Even visited my rooms first. My family understands that I am tired and have retired for the night.”

He tucked his finger beneath her chin and stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Why did you leave in such haste? Are you well?”

It took so much courage to meet his regard after the thoughts she’d been pondering. An alarming flip went through her stomach. His admiration and regard hadn’t waned. She worried for naught, for his eyes glowed with something wicked and tender. “I could not bear hearing your mother speak of a possible courtship between you and Lady Beatrice,” Primrose said steadily, refusing to hide from the feelings which had torn through her.

He nudged her chin affectionately. “I have loved none but you, Miss Markham. I want to marry you, and there is no force on this earth capable of changing that.”

Her breath hitched, and her heart somersaulted. She stepped closer to him, lifted her hands, and cupped his strong jawline. She slid her fingers over his face, the angles and planes, memorizing his handsome features. If only she could have him forever, or even this brief moment in time. How she desperately wished to kiss him, to fulfill the promise of passion he so teased her endlessly with. “You haven’t experienced all society has to offer as yet; maybe if you did meet other ladies, courted Lady Beatrice, and then decided that you still wanted me, it would be—"

She faltered in her speech and narrowed her eyes at his soft, amused laughter.

“I graduated Cambridge at twenty, and then I spent several months abroad in the continent. I returned home and experienced all the lavishness of the season and town life. I gambled, I partook in races, I indulged in the theatres, the operas, and a few scandal sheets thought it noteworthy to link my name to a few actresses. Then I retired to Sancrest Manor, tired of the frivolities of town life, and met you, and only since then have I anticipated a future with such enthusiasm, and it is because of you, my love. I’ve been off to war for over two years, and my heart and mind and fidelity have stayed with you the entire time.”

She wanted so desperately to believe in him, believe in this. Her stomach fluttered with nerves, but her heart ached with something altogether different, a sensation she'd never felt before. Gabriel reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a small pack of letters, bound with a blue ribbon. The one she’d given him so long ago as a sign of her affections. “In the last few months, I did not receive the opportunity I'd hoped to send you my letters.”

He pressed them into her hands, and with trembling fingers, she untied the worn ribbon holding together nine letters. She traced the writing on the outside of a few of the stiff envelopes. “You did not write these last four.”

Curiosity had her lifting her gaze once more to his.

“I was indisposed to pen them myself, but I assure you, my darling, the words are all mine.”

She quickly grasped his meaning. “You were hurt?”

Shadows danced in his eyes. “It was trifling,” he reassured her.

She placed the letters on the small table by her bedside cupboard, before returning to stand before him, and took his hand between hers. “Please, do not leave me in a state of ignorance. Tell me what happened.”

He contemplated her for several moments, then he said, “I was shot in the side at Balaclava, but I’ve recovered.”

Fear rushed through her heart, and a lump grew in her throat. “How long were you abed?”

A grimace crossed his features to disappear quickly. “Primrose it does not—”

“Please, how long, Gabriel?”

They stared at each other in the pulsing silence. “ Six weeks,” he admitted gruffly.

“Surely you cannot be fully recovered!”

“I am well.”

She lifted trembling fingers to her lips, her eyes smarting with tears. “I feel wretched that I did not know you were so grievously wounded.”

He dipped slightly and pressed a kiss to her nose. “What matters now is that I am well, and it was thoughts of you…of our future together that became my reason to recover. I have something for you.” He stepped away and went over to the small table and collected the wooden box and handed it to her.

With a smile, she took the box and flipped open the small silver latch. There were several smaller packages, about eight in total, all carefully wrapped in fine yellow paper. Primrose lowered herself to the bed and pulled the first one open. It was a sweet. Round and yellow with a dusting of whites all over it. She had a notorious sweet tooth, and even the village confectionary shopkeeper teased her unmercifully. She had only mentioned once, quite fleetingly, how her father would always bring her sweets from London whenever he visited and returned to their home in Derbyshire. And Gabriel had remembered.