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Chapter Text

PART I

“One more bet, Your Grace.” Pierre Sancoeur, a dirty, desperate man Gabriel had never been fond of, eyed the gambling club’s banker at the faro table. “Just one last chance to regain what I’ve lost.”

Gabriel Agreste, the Duke of Ipswich, frowned down at the foul-smelling gambler. The cards had been in Gabriel’s favor all night, and he’d practically won the shirt off of Sancoeur--not that Gabriel wanted the man’s filthy clothing.

Gabriel steepled his fingers against his lips. He glanced at the banker, who raised a brow. “You don’t have anything left to bet, Sancoeur.”

Sancoeur spread his greasy palms out on the green baize of the oval card table. “Ah, but I do.” He smirked, revealing yellowed teeth. “The hand of my daughter, Nathalie.”

Due to Sancoeur’s compulsive gambling addiction, the noble family had gone into massive debt. The man had even lost his daughter’s dowry, leaving her to be an unwedded spinster, useless to the ton--the members of high society.

Gabriel, who’d lost his own wife in childbirth years ago, was repulsed. He’s offering her like a horse or a piece of jewelry. Gabriel had never met Nathalie, but he was sure she didn’t deserve such treatment.

Gabriel frowned at his opponent. “I’m not willing to gamble for a human being.”

“Who cares?” Sancoeur thumped his chest. “I don’t.”

Being tied to an awful person like her father must be horrid. Gabriel realized that he, as a Duke and a person of upstanding morals, could provide a better life for her than Pierre ever could.

It’s not like I couldn’t use help managing the household, Gabriel thought, nearly choking on the cigar smoke of the private, London club. And Adrien would be happy with a mother. Maybe a new wife is a good idea.

He decided then and there to take the bet, as no woman deserved to be gambled away by someone who was supposed to love her.

Gabriel raised a brow. “I have terms and conditions.” Sancoeur nodded, so Gabriel continued. “If I win, after we marry, I never want to see or hear from you ever again.”

Sancoeur grinned. “Fair enough.”

“Secondly,” Gabriel said, holding up two fingers, “as of the moment we wed, you never had a daughter, She becomes mine and you relinquish all claim on her. Cut all ties.”

Sancoeur shrugged. “That’s fine. She’s just an expense to me.”

Gabriel wanted to shake on it, but he was so repelled by the man’s actions and hygiene, Gabriel stuffed the impulse. “Banker, if you please.”

The banker placed down a board with the suit of spades laid out in numerical order, representing a standardized betting “layout.” Gabriel laid his coin on the edge of the eight and the nine, placing his bet on multiple cards. “You’re on, Sancoeur. I bet fifty thousand pounds.”

It was a tidy sum, a year's income from all the farmland Gabriel owned. He knew it was a heinous amount of money--a barrister could be educated for two thousand--and Gabriel wondered if Sancoeur had ever even heard of that amount of cash. It could easily pay off his debts and elevate his rank to that of a merchant gentleman.

Sancoeur gaped for a moment. Then he clapped his hands and laid his coin on the six. “Glad to hear you’re not a flapdoodle.”

Seeing that the game was at hand, the banker shuffled a deck of cards and placed them inside a mechanical dealing box known as the “shoe,” which was used to prevent him from manipulating the draw.

Gabriel watched as the banker burned off the soda, drawing and then discarding the first card in the shoe. Glancing at the giddy way Sancoeur was watching the banker’s movements, Gabriel felt inexplicably nervous.

It’s not like he couldn’t absorb a fifty thousand pound loss. But it was entirely possible, he chastised himself, that he’d bet too high.

The banker drew the first two cards after the soda. Gabriel and Sancoeur neither won nor lost that round, meaning that they could change their bets if desired.

Gabriel’s palms began to sweat. Should my bet stay?

He decided yes, but as the banker drew the next two cards, the nine of hearts and the Queen of diamonds, Gabriel knew what he had to do.

Gabriel reached into his pocket for his hexagonal copper token. He immediately placed it on top of his coin on the eight and the nine, “coppering” the bet, or reversing the win/loss piles for that particular bet.

Sancoeur gasped, drawing the attention of people around the club.

Gabriel’s luck was with him. He had won himself a wife.

***

“What?” Nathalie’s jaw dropped. Her father had gambled away her hand?

And someone had taken the bet?

Nathalie couldn’t believe it. She was not a heifer to be traded away.

As her father stood in the foyer of the family house, grinning like a loon at her, she was nearly overcome by the urge to punch him. Or flee. Or vomit. She swallowed bile.

“Pack your bags, lass,” her father said. “You’ll be making the Duke of Ipswich a very happy man in the morning.”

Despite being disgusted by her father’s cheerful tone, Nathalie had nothing to say in her defense. She wasn’t a clever woman--at least, that’s what Pierre had always told her--so she never came up with the right words to say at the right moment.

Those always came later, at night, when she’d rage in the pages of her private diary.

Nathalie’s hands trembled at her sides; she’d been trained not to clench her fists, as a lady wouldn’t, but oh, how she ached to do so. “What does Mother say?”

Despite being noble, Nathalie’s mother had taken on jobs as a governess when Pierre had refused to work. She was the only reason the family had food to eat. At the moment, Nathalie knew her mother was sleeping and shouldn’t be disturbed, though Nathalie had no doubts that Pierre had woken the woman in order to impart the good news.

Pierre shook his head. “Something about how you’ll have a better life with him. Don’t care.”

Nathalie had heard of the Duke of Ipswich. It’s true that the man was rich; indeed, it was a truth universally acknowledged that he was a single man in possession of a great fortune, but he’d never indicated that he was in want of a wife.

He must not be a man of upstanding morals, Nathalie decided, to gamble for a human being.

But Nathalie was resigned to her fate. She couldn’t go against her father, and her mother would have one less mouth to feed if Nathalie left. Nathalie did manage the family finances because her father left them to languish, however, and she knew her mother would have to take those over.

Still, the match was a fantastic one for Nathalie; being without a dowry, she’d been on the shelf for years.

The least she could do is be grateful.

Nathalie drew a shuddering breath and set her jaw. “I’ll pack my things.”

Chapter Text

Gabriel’s shoulders were tense.

He’d ordered the staff to line up outside the front of the mansion to greet Miss Sancoeur--soon to be Her Grace, Nathalie Agreste, Duchess of Ipswich--but he’d decided to show up in person himself to give a good impression. His son, Adrien, had been cleaned up from a mud puddle that his governess had been unable to keep him out of earlier that morning, and looked charming in a blue sailor suit.

Miss Sancoeur would love Adrien. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that Gabriel knew absolutely nothing about her. He didn’t know the color of her hair--he hoped blond--or her favorite foods or her opinions on members of the ton.

He didn’t know her opinions on anything, and waiting on the white gravel for her carriage to arrive was nerve-wracking to say the least.

Gabriel was torn. He didn’t know if he wanted to get to know Miss Sancoeur. She was to be a tool to manage his household and a mother to his seven-year-old, no more.

She probably hates me for taking the bet, Gabriel thought. I’ll have to keep my distance.

His good intentions were destroyed the moment she lifted her veil. Aside from Emilie, his late wife, Nathalie Sancoeur was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Looking over her delicate features and her coiffed, dark brown hair, Gabriel’s breath caught in his throat.

And her eyes…. Her eyes were both fierce and clever. Her intelligence and her anger shone through them, but from the gentle smile on her face, he knew she was a woman of good breeding.

Gabriel’s jaw had dropped from the moment she’d arrived, and he was unable to recover without stammering. “M-Miss Sancoeur, we, ah, w-welcome you.”

Was he a halfwit, to be reduced to stumbling over his words? The good impression he wanted to make may as well have been defenestrated.

Nathalie curtseyed. “The honor is all mine, Your Grace.”

Please, Gabriel thought desperately, call me Gabriel.

He didn’t dare give voice to the thoughts; that would be improper until he and Nathalie were well and truly wed--and used to each other’s presence.

Gabriel didn’t know how he’d ever get used to Nathalie.

She straightened and tilted her head towards his son in an unspoken question. Gabriel marveled at how well he could read her. “This is my son,” Gabriel said, motioning the boy forward, “Adrien, the Marquis of Orwell.”

Adrien stepped forward, a shy smile gracing his features. His hair had been combed ‘till it shone and he was spotless, just like Gabriel liked him to be. He offered a formal bow to Miss Sancoeur. “How do you do, madam?”

Nathalie smiled--a genuine smile; Gabriel’s heart leapt to see it--down at the boy and curtseyed to him as well. Gabriel was pleased to see the deference to his son; until Gabriel and Nathalie were wed, Adrien outranked her.

“My Lord,” Nathalie said. “A pleasure.”

Adrien cocked his head. “Are you to be my new Mama?”

Gabriel sucked a breath in over his teeth. Adrien wasn’t supposed to address Nathalie like this in a receiving line. It was improper.

But Nathalie didn’t seem to mind. She crouched down to better get on his level, slightly lifting her dress so as not to let the hem trail in the dirt. “I would very much like to be, Adrien.”

Gabriel practically melted on the spot.

***

Nathalie followed her new lady’s maid through the halls of the mansion, carefully absorbing the place that Nathalie would be ruling over. Occasionally, the servant would indicate a room that Nathalie would commit to memory.

The mansion was tastefully decorated, with white walls and white floors, with secluded black peacock designs. The foyer was especially impressive, with its massive windows and sweeping stairs.

But Nathalie saw nowhere where a young boy would be comfortable; the mansion was practically sterile, polished white and nary a fingerprint to be seen. The butler and housekeeper ran the place so efficiently, Nathalie didn’t know how she could contribute.

“And this is the master’s atelier,” the maid said, gesturing Nathalie inside.

“Thank you.” Nathalie peered into the office, hesitant to set foot in the place where His Grace tidied his affairs.

Duke Gabriel Agreste, the master of the house… Well, he’d nearly bowled Nathalie over with how charming he was. His silvered hair belied his strong jaw and flawless skin, and his blue eyes were striking. He had a small waist coupled with a grand torso, just as he should have. When he stammered, he put Nathalie at ease.

This wasn’t the plan. Nathalie had been prepared to hate him. He wasn’t supposed to set her heart fluttering and cause heat to constrict in her gut.

He lost his wife in childbirth, didn’t he? Nathalie mused, as the housekeeper showed her Adrien’s massive room. His Grace is most certainly hung up on her. I don’t have a chance.

That thought plagued her all throughout the tour, so when the maid left Nathalie in her new husband’s room to dress for dinner, she hardly noticed the woman had gone until it was too late.

Seeing the massive bed with its black duvet cover, Nathalie felt sick. His Grace was attractive, but would Nathalie be expected to perform wifely duties even though she had no desire to do so? Would she be expected to fall pregnant?

Her mother had given her a talk just before Nathalie had left, saying that she would have to “lie back and think of England.” She didn’t know what wifely duties would entail, except that they were apparently disagreeable to women and enjoyable to men, and involved one or both parties being in dishabille.

Nathalie couldn’t imagine His Grace would force himself on her. Surely not… But looking at the sumptuous bed, she imagined herself pressed up against it, an unwilling participant in whatever he’d like to do to her.

Lie back and think of England.

Nathalie’s gorge rose. She turned from the room and fled.

Nathalie wasn’t about to get lost on her first day here. But she had nowhere to go. All of the house was the Duke’s.

Despite not knowing where she was going, Nathalie knew she wanted to be outside. And weren’t there supposed to be gardens here? She hurried down the stairs as fast as her breeding would allow, taking small, measured steps so she didn’t turn her ankle, and nearly burst through the foyer doors.

The bright sun obscured her view of the outside for the barest of moments, but that was enough: she ran straight into a hard chest, finding her arms caught by large hands.

Nathalie found herself staring at a black, velvet frock coat--a riding coat--and a white cravat. “I’m sorry, I--”

“Are you quite all right, Miss Sancoeur?” His Grace said, his grip on her arms steadying her and literally holding her on her feet. Her knees would have sagged out from under her had she not mentally screamed at herself to get a grip.

Leaning on his chest like no lady ever should, Nathalie inhaled the scents of musky, expensive cologne and horses, and under that, so faint she almost didn’t recognize it for what it was, the unique scent of his sweat. Realizing she was breathing him in, she pushed off of him and stood on her own two feet.

Shame heated her cheeks, and she couldn’t meet his eyes. Her own felt tight and pressurized; she felt the sting of tears high in her nose but refused to cry.

Gabriel stepped back, and Nathalie found she could breathe again, despite the corset restricting her ribcage.

"I'm glad you're here; I wanted to talk to you." His Grace offered his arm, and Nathalie obediently tucked her fingers in the crook of his elbow. "Shall we?"

Nathalie nodded, choosing to remain silent, but she did not miss the way the Duke’s shoulders slumped slightly.

Was she that displeasing to him already?

And why should she be concerned with one man's opinion… except that he was the master of the house--and her master now, too--and he could turn her out on her ear or send her back to her father anytime she misbehaved.

As Nathalie walked arm-in-arm with the Duke towards his atelier, her mind spun.

Despite her fierce attraction to him, Nathalie would never earn Gabriel's love; she assumed he loved his old wife far too much to expend his energies on a useless spinster of a woman. Nathalie had no hope of love in her life, and she knew it.

She just had to make the best of an uncomfortable situation.

His Grace led Nathalie to a mahogany desk with two austere, black chairs in front of it, and gestured for her to take a seat. She did, surreptitiously gathering her skirts, and waited for him to take a seat behind the desk.

To her surprise, he didn't, merely leaned on it, giving her a full view of the lines of his body. He crossed his arms over his trim chest, drawing her attention there.

The Duke cleared his throat. Nathalie jerked her eyes up to his own startlingly-blue ones, finding amusement. Heat exploded on her face.

"I wanted to inform you of your duties," His Grace said, and Nathalie's heart sank. Was he going to mention duties in the bedroom? "You'll be the mistress of the mansion, and I expect great things from you."

Nathalie tone was wooden. "Yes, sir."

The Duke counted his expectations off on his fingers. "I expect you to oversee the charitable contributions, hiring and training of the staff, procurement of food and other supplies, the interior design of the mansion, and entertaining."

Nathalie had been trained for most of that. The unspoken duty was the care and raising of Adrien; her own mother had raised her right despite her father being a louse and shunting all of his duties onto her. As such, Nathalie took over most of the duties of the lady of the house, running her father’s finances for him.

His Grace continued. “What are your accomplishments?”

The question wasn’t entirely unexpected. A young woman’s accomplishments were primarily what made her marriage material.

Nathalie resisted the urge to count them off on her fingers like His Grace had done. “I can sing, play the piano, dance, speak French and Italian, draw, paint, sew, and embroider. I am well-versed in history, literature, and poetry, and my penmanship is elegant.”

His Grace nodded. “Good, good, all of that will help, and you can train Adrien with the appropriate skills.”

As far as she knew, Adrien wasn’t attending school yet. She’d have to change that; Eton was the school for a future Duke.

Nathalie then said what she knew would surprise Gabriel: "I also have sufficient understanding of mathematics to balance the household ledger. I managed the finances and business transactions of my own home."

As she expected, his brows rose. "And how did you feel about that?"

Nathalie was unsure if he truly wanted her opinion, but she was stunned he'd asked. She decided she had nothing to lose by giving it. "I did. Balancing the ledger gave me insights and certain freedoms I wouldn't have had otherwise. I could make purchases for the benefit of the family at will."

Gabriel regarded her with a small smile. "And how would you like to help me manage the accounts?"

Nathalie prevented her eyes from bulging from dint of sheer effort. "Wouldn't that be scandalous, Your Grace?"

Nathalie knew exactly how much of a scandal the news that a woman was aiding a duke in his finances would cause. Almost as much as his lady being won in a bet.

Gabriel's gaze glittered. "It would, wouldn't it?" His smile turned practically conspiratorial. "My closest confidants love a delicious scandal, and none of them would betray me. But if you'd prefer we keep your contributions in that area quiet, we can, though I’d like yours to have equal standing to mine own.”

He’s certainly an unconventional man, isn’t he? Nathalie knew that if she said that, she’d be too bold, so she refrained. He may have asked for her opinion, but he definitely didn’t expect her to share everything under the sun.

Nathalie resisted the urge to tilt her head. She inclined it instead. “I’d like to keep them quiet, yes.”

“So you’ll do it, then?” Gabriel grinned. “You’ll help me manage the finances?”

Nathalie didn’t have to be asked twice. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Grand.” He ducked his head, looking positively sheepish. “I don’t have a head for finances, so the ledger is a mess. My apologies?”

“I can handle that.”

He nodded, looking pleased, which was all to the good. But to Nathalie’s surprise, he opened the floor to her. “Do you have any questions?”

“A few.” Nathalie kept her hands at her sides like a lady rather than wringing them out like she wanted to. “Who performed the duties of the lady of the house previously?”

“My sister, though when she married last spring, I took over hers in addition to my own duties.”

Nathalie stuffed the impulse to tap her lip. “If I’m going to be managing the finances, I’ll need to know the amount of your yearly income and your total fortune.”

Gabriel’s attractive mouth turned up at the corners. “You’re a bold one, aren’t you?”

Nathalie did not bite her lip even as much as she wanted to. Her cheeks bloomed with heat like an opening peony. “Just practical.”

“I own over seven hundred and fifty acres of land, and all of it has capable tenants.” Gabriel tapped the side of his gorgeous nose twice. “My yearly income is fifty thousand pounds, and my total fortune is approximately two hundred thousand pounds.”

“How’s the household credit?”

Gabriel laughed. “Talk to the housekeeper about expenses; manage them as you will; let me know how much money to lay out.”

Given that he was a wealthy Duke, Nathalie reasoned she'd be working with enough coin that she shouldn't have to worry about selling excess dairy and eggs. Though from the tour she'd taken earlier, the estate also owned plenty of livestock.

She'd have to get an accurate count of the animals. But that could wait until later; His Grace was doubtless very busy and she shouldn't take up more of his time than necessary.

Though he did just come from riding… Nathalie chased that unappealing thought away. She didn't want to think of Gabriel as a lazy man.

Riding was a way to encourage social connections; a well-connected man could go out riding for an afternoon and receive a dozen invitations to dinner. Though the Duke hadn’t mentioned that the family would be attending dinner elsewhere that evening, which confused Nathalie. Does he neglect his social life? I’ll have to look into that.

Screwing up her courage, she asked her next question, the one she'd been dreading. She tried to phrase her words delicately, so as not to put off the Duke. "And, when it comes to wifely duties like the production of heirs and activities that are pleasurable for you, what is my expected level of participation?"

Gabriel's cheeks flared to life with a becoming pink. He gestured awkwardly, drawing her attention to his old wedding ring. "I have an heir to pass on my name, so I have no need for additional children. As for the ah, pleasurable activities, your participation, um, is based on, ah, well... I expect you to, uh…" He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I'm expecting nothing."

That answer satisfied Nathalie more than she thought it would. But she was torn. On the one hand, she appreciated being released from those particular duties.

On the other hand, did he not wish to take his pleasure from her? Was she not attractive enough? Gabriel seemed a generous man; she wondered if that extended to the bedroom.

Her gaze flicked to the wedding ring again. Of course. Nathalie bit back a sigh. I'll not intrude upon his love for his wife, no matter how appealing he is to the eyes.

Then why did the thought pain Nathalie so?

Nathalie shook off the cobwebs. His Grace wanted her to be all business, so she would be all business. "I assume you have procured a Special License?”

A Special License was an expensive dispensation from the Archbishop allowing a couple to marry immediately. Otherwise they would have to wait for the Banns to be read: for the announcement of their wedding to be read out publicly in church for three consecutive Sundays so that any objections could be heard in the line up.

The Duke blinked. “I have, just in case. But you have no desire for a large wedding?”

“If you desire a large wedding, I can certainly accommodate.” Nathalie swallowed. “But as of yet, I have no chaperone. Can you provide one?”

A chaperone was a respectable, older, married or widowed lady that wasn’t a servant who accompanied a young, unwed woman of the gentry everywhere. Without a chaperone, Nathalie and the Duke would have to be married that day because she couldn’t stay in his house unwed otherwise.

His Grace frowned, and Nathalie had to resist the urge to rear back. Had she displeased him again? That hadn’t been her intention.

“I can provide a chaperone. My other sister can surely accompany you.” But then he surprised her again. Gabriel placed his hands on the desk beside him and leaned forward until he was so close, he was borderline improper. She could smell the mint on his breath. “But that wasn’t my question. I asked what you wanted.”

Gabriel’s eyes pierced her through and through, stripping her bare until she could no longer manage to hold his gaze. She looked away, her cheeks burning hot. “I…”

Did she want a large wedding or a small, private affair? A massive wedding was the dream of every young girl; before she was placed on the shelf, Nathalie had planned out her nuptials like everyone else. But Nathalie was too business-minded to dream--what she’d thought would be--a hopeless dream.

Now she had the opportunity. But Nathalie didn’t want it. Planning a wedding would be a heinous amount of work. And for what? For her odious father to give her away?

And she didn’t want to subject Gabriel to a second rigamarole. She had no doubt he had fond memories of his own wedding to his prior wife, and Nathalie held no desire to infringe upon those.

No. She had no need to wear her Sunday best for a walk down the aisle.

And the sooner she was married to the Duke, the better. That way, he wouldn’t be able to ship her off. She wasn’t entrapping him; he’d entrapped her. Annulment and divorce were extremely difficult--Parliament only heard a few divorce cases per year.

She raised her head, looking directly at His Grace. “If you have no objections, I would prefer to be married today.”

“How curious,” Gabriel murmured, stroking his chin. “If that’s what you want, I have no need for a large to-do either.”

Just as she’d thought. From the slant of his shoulders, he seemed relieved, and Nathalie congratulated herself for making the right choice.

And once again, she wondered about what kind of a man he was. Gabriel seemed willing to go through a massive gala if that’s what she wanted. He didn’t seem to have considered his own needs at all.

“Also,” he continued, “you will no longer need to see your father. One of the conditions for my taking the bet was that your father would cut ties with both you and myself. I hope that’s acceptable to you?”

Nathalie was abruptly reminded that the Duke had gambled for her hand. Anger flooded her vision; she set her jaw and regarded the man who dared to insult her by taking her father’s awful bet. “Perfectly.”

She didn’t know what to do with these conflicting emotions. In one moment, Gabriel attracted her; in the next, he repulsed her.

She hoped she’d figure out her thoughts on him soon.

For now, she chose to remain incensed.

I can do what he’s asked me to do and balance the ledger, Nathalie thought, overcome by a wave of bitterness. I don’t have to like him for that.

Chapter Text

After his discussion with Nathalie about the household duties, Gabriel was left reeling.

She’d bustled off to go speak to the housekeeper about her and Gabriel’s first dinner as husband and wife. He found himself leaning on the desk, gaping after her like an idiot even ten minutes later when he was supposed to be sending servants to contact the clergy about an expedited wedding ceremony.

Nathalie was a brilliant woman, impressing him with her intelligence at every turn. She was accomplished, well-bred, polite, clever, and beautiful. She’d make a wonderful mother for Adrien, and if she really could manage the finances like she claimed she could, he would be even more dazzled.

And she was his. Gabriel could scarcely believe his luck.

Well, she was his after the wedding this afternoon. Toying with one of his pens, he marveled at the way she’d turned down the opportunity to walk down the aisle. He had no idea why she’d chosen not to exercise that option, but the choice fascinated him.

When she’d run into him in the foyer, Gabriel had thought her more a mouse than a woman. She had been trembling like a leaf, terrified of something. He’d been disappointed, wondering if she’d really be able to handle the entertaining his status called for.

But her question about wifely duties blasted any impression of her being a mouse out of his mind. A woman is expected to be meek.

And Nathalie being bold was… Gabriel was pleased. Beyond pleased, and wondering how he could endear himself to her.

The way her eyes had flashed right before she’d left had him worried. Had he offended her? Gabriel wondered how he could make amends. She was a prize among women and he wanted very much to treat her properly.

He just didn’t know how. It had been a long time since he’d been in the company of a woman he’d wanted to impress, and Gabriel was rusty.

He drummed his fingers on his desk. Gabriel didn’t know if he was betraying Emilie by moving on. It had been seven years since she’d passed, and Gabriel hadn’t had a whit of desire for another woman until he’d met Nathalie.

What do I do? Gabriel wondered, setting the pen down and picking it up again, if only to have something to do with his hands. How can I get her to treat me as a true husband?

Well, he decided. He’d just have to figure it out as he went along.

***

“Are you ready for your lesson, Adrien?” Nathalie lifted her skirts so as not to be impolite when sitting down in front of the Duke’s son, himself the Marquis of Orwell. The boy sat at his own tiny desk in Gabriel’s atelier near her own, pen and paper laid out in front of him.

Adrien beamed, all pink lips and good cheer. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Have you read the pages in your etiquette I assigned last week?”

Adrien bounced in his seat. “I have!”

Nathalie wanted to smile at his antics, but frowned instead. “Adrien, no squirming please.”

He straightened up immediately. “My apologies, Your Grace.”

“Remember, Adrien, good posture is imperative.” Nathalie inclined her head. “It is of vital importance that you conduct yourself with the manners befitting your station.”

“Yes, Your Grace!”

Well, he’s certainly enthusiastic. Nathalie permitted herself a small smile. “What did your reading teach you?”

Adrien squinted. “‘Etiquette demands a person behaves with courteous dignity to acquaintance and stranger alike at all times.’”

Hearing the precise words of the manual from a seven-year-old’s mouth was heartening, and Nathalie nodded. “And what sorts of rules of etiquette do you find the most important?”

Adrien counted off his learning on his fingers, much like she’d noticed his father would do. “To be considered well-mannered, I hafta control my face, my body, and my speech when in company, especially in the company of ladies.”

“Have to, not hafta.” Nathalie raised a brow. “Good. What else?”

“Excess emotion is considered vulgar, as is anything ‘pretentious or flamboyant.’”

He’d mispronounced the words he’d quoted, so she figured he’d had no idea what they meant. “Do you know what those words mean?”

As she expected, Adrien shook his head.

“They’re both adjectives.” Nathalie folded her hands together on the desk. “Pretentious is when a person attempts to impress someone else by affecting a greater importance, talent, or culture than is actually possessed.”

“Ohhhh,” Adrien said, his brows shooting into his golden hairline. “And that’s bad?”

“Very.” Nathalie’s fingers felt cold; she ignored them. “And flamboyant is similar, in that it means a person who trends to attract attention because of their exuberance, confidence, and stylishness. Both words are all about garnering the regard of others in inappropriate ways.”

“Mmhmm!” Adrien nodded rapidly, scribbling down notes. “Thank you, Your Grace!”

“Women, however,” Nathalie said, her lips turning up at the corners, “may have the vapors, faint, or suffer from hysteria if confronted by vulgarity or an unpleasant scene. This is an exception to the rule. If a lady faints in your presence, what do you do?”

Adrien blinked. “Attend to her?”

“Yes, Adrien, very good.” Nathalie picked up her pen and made a note on his progress. Last week, he wouldn’t have come to that conclusion, she was sure, so she decided he must really be doing the reading, and faithfully so. “A well-bred gentleman will endeavor to help a lady who has swooned, and do so without drawing attention to her state. Can you do that, Adrien?”

“Yes, Ma--Your Grace.”

Nathalie smiled at the slip. “It’s okay to call me that, Adrien.”

Adrien’s eyes brightened even further, shining like lamps in his cherubic face. “Okay, Mama!”

“Very good.” Nathalie picked up her pen and made a note. “Now, a well-bred gentleman or lady is never awkward in either manner or behavior and can respond to any social situation with calm assurance.”

“How do I do that?”

“It takes practice, Adrien, practice which you will be afforded based on conversations around the informal dinner table with your father and me.” She peered at him, not squinting, but locking eyes with him to make sure he was listening. “Your father and I expect you to be on your very best behavior at all times, especially around the formal dinner table. Otherwise you will be sent to your room in shame to think about what you’ve done. Understood?”

“Yes, Mama!”

Nathalie nodded. “When encountering people in public, what does etiquette suggest?”

Adrien screwed up his chubby face. “It’s the woman’s duty to acknowledge the acquaintance first, with a slight bow of the head and shoulders?”

“Correct.” Nathalie beamed at him. He was so smart! “If she does not make such an acknowledgement, as a gentleman, what do you do?”

“Not acknowledge her.”

“Excellent, Adrien!” Nathalie wanted to come out from behind her desk and pat him on the shoulder, but she dared not touch him or presume familiarity with the boy. Excess touch was considered improper, even between family members, and she didn’t know him well enough. “It’s bad form to be a ‘high in the instep’ rake. What does that mean?”

Adrien rubbed his forehead. “Don’t be arrogant?”

“Very good, son.” Nathalie allowed herself the slip; just like he could call her Mama, she could call him son. He lit up with a brilliant smile in response, so she knew that was the right decision. “Now, when you’d like to speak to someone else of good breeding but you haven’t been introduced, what do you do?”

Adrien clapped his hands. “Oh, I know! Ask for a formal introduction by a third party!”

“Yes!” Nathalie said but then drew back. It wouldn’t do for her to show herself too excited about his correct answers. He might get the wrong idea and be high in the instep indeed. “If a higher ranking individual does not desire an introduction, what does that mean?”

“One cannot be forced upon them.”

“You are a Marquis already and will be a Duke someday, so you will be able to indicate whether you wish to permit the introduction of a social inferior.” Nathalie raised a brow. “It’s especially important, however, that you treat your inferiors with absolute dignity and grace. To do otherwise is bad form.”

Adrien nodded rapidly. “Of course, Mama!”

“When introduced, the people of lower rank bow or curtsy.” Nathalie made another note, indicating Adrien’s enthusiasm for the right thing to do. “Gentlemen and ladies of equal rank both bow or curtsy when formally introduced to each other and again when parting. Do you understand?”

“Yes!”

Nathalie smiled. “What is touching and tipping your hat?”

“A standard salutation.” Adrien grinned a little too mischeviously for Nathalie’s liking. “Not returning it is very rude.”

“You are right.” Nathalie leaned forward, trying to impart the next part of the lesson. “Failure to acknowledge an acquaintance is a breach in conduct and considered a ‘cut.’ Only ladies are truly justified in delivering a ‘cut,’ and even then not unless absolutely necessary.”

Adrien squirmed in his seat, indicating to Nathalie that the lesson was practically over; though she’d expected him to remain well-behaved during the lesson for an hour, she did not expect to keep him more than that.

She understood the desire of young boys to run and play. The lesson had almost taken an hour already and she was feeling generous, so she decided to release him.

“Adrien,” Nathalie said, and he straightened up immediately. “Would you like to go outside?”

Adrien gave her a shy smile and nodded. “Yes, please, Mama.”

“You did very well today.” Nathalie matched his smile with her own gentle one. “Please go and enjoy yourself, and next week we shall discuss manners at the table.”

Adrien shot to his feet. He started heading for the door, but then Nathalie cleared her throat. “Oh, sorry!” he said and then bowed to her twice, dipping his little body in a facsimile of good etiquette.

“Very good, son.” Nathalie watched him go with amusement. “Very good.”

Chapter Text

The ledger really had been a mess.

It took Nathalie almost half a season to put the estate in order the way her position had called for. That spring day, she sat at her desk in the Duke’s atelier in his country estate, tallying up the accounts. She’d already weighed the week’s purchases as they came from the retailer to compare them with the charges.

Nathalie had found that by trusting the same store owners for decades, His Grace had been getting swindled. She’d put a stop to that immediately, sussing out who was trustworthy and who had defrauded the Duke. Nathalie encouraged him to take the offenders to court, where he’d won the cases.

After she finished with the accounts and ensured that the larder was still fully stocked--she’d procured supplies from the farms His Grace owned that produced food for the estate and staff of fifty--she planned her end-of-spring gala.

Her pen scratched across the paper as she took notes. They were far-reaching, ranging from foodstuffs to decorations to invitations. Her hope was that anyone who was anyone wouldn’t miss out on Duke Gabriel Agreste’s fête. And heaven forfend she wore the same outfit all night!

Without a mistress to manage his societal obligations, His Grace had fallen out of favor in the eyes of the ton, and Nathalie was doing her best to create in him a social butterfly.

She’d organized charitable contributions, arranged for the education of the village children, and was already planning practical gifts of baby clothes, blankets, shawls, stockings, and flannel petticoats to the poor during Christmas.

Her next task--after planning the ball--was to meet with the local clergyman. She’d found out the needs of the parish and delivered food to the poorest among them in the form of leftovers from her own table.

Nathalie scribbled a note to invite Her Royal Highness Duchess of York and Albany, a woman higher in rank to Nathalie, to the gala. It was a risk inviting a royal, but Nathalie had heard good things about the Duchess and wanted to meet her.

Nathalie heard a shriek of boyish laughter outside the window and smiled.

Adrien had been the delight of Nathalie’s new life. The boy was absolutely charming, bringing her dandelions he’d picked and practicing his piano dutifully under her tutelage.

His Grace, on the other hand, was… odd. He’d also taken to bringing her flowers, though they were far more expensive arrangements. He’d visited her frequently while she was working, often asking her to accompany him on rides around the estate.

Essentially, he was in her way.

She tapped her pen against her notes, noticing the little sketch in the margins she’d unwittingly made of him. The drawing had captured his strong jaw and wonderful smile, and she chastised herself for thinking of him as handsome once again.

She knew he still loved Emilie. He’d left his wedding band from that marriage on his finger despite having a new one from Nathalie’s own marriage, which he also wore.

I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame, she thought, frowning down at the sketch, but he wants nothing but business from me.

The flowers meant nothing. They were gifts he’d give to any wife, and Nathalie despaired of ever earning a place in his heart. Despite sleeping in the same bed--which was tortuous for Nathalie; he was right there--they’d yet to consummate their marriage. Nathalie wondered if she was even attractive to him.

Emilie had been beautiful. Blonde, with the sort of striking features that poets waxed lyrical about. Nathalie’s own hair was drab and lank compared to Gabriel’s late wife.

Nathalie sighed. She went back to her gala planning, resigning herself to the fate of an old spinster--until Gabriel strode into the room.

He was holding a small, velvet box and wearing the largest grin she’d ever seen on him.

“Your Grace,” he began, approaching her desk at a fast clip, “if I may have the privilege of granting you a small favor?”

Nathalie stared up at him with raised brows. “If you please, Your Grace.”

“Please,” His Grace said, beaming, “call me Gabriel.”

He brought the box out in front of him and opened it, revealing a broach in the shape of a peacock. “I acquired this for you--special order. Do you like it?”

Nathalie’s breath caught in her throat. She reached for the blue and purple peacock, taking it into her hands with all the reverence she could muster. “It’s beautiful.”

Such a gift would have cost a tremendous amount. The estate could likely afford a broach like this with no problems, but Nathalie wished His Grace would stop spending money on her.

Still, the jewelry was gorgeous.

“It suits your navy blue gown. You know the one?” Gabriel reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Nathalie gasped; never before had he been so bold as to touch her. “Would you wear it for me during the gala you’re planning?”

Nathalie burned under his scrutiny. His soft gaze would be the death of her. “I can’t wear the same outfit to a public gathering twice.” Gabriel’s face fell, and Nathalie scrambled to correct herself. “But I can tailor a similar one for you.”

Gabriel looked positively giddy. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, and Nathalie sucked a breath over her teeth. He kissed me? Her face grew even hotter; her cheek seared where his lips had touched.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Gabriel smiled, all white teeth and good cheer. “You are a good and faithful wife.”

“Please, Gabriel.” Nathalie swallowed hard. “Call me Nathalie.”

Gabriel’s voice was warm, doing terrible things to her composure. “All right. Nathalie.”

Wasn’t she supposed to be angry at him? He’d won her in a card game. She was no more a wife to him than a pawn, someone to raise his child and manage his household affairs.

She narrowed her eyes. “Your Grace.”

He straightened his shoulders immediately at her cold tone. Fear licked at his eyes. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“How much did you bet for me?”

The Duke licked his lips. “Fifty thousand pounds.”

The answer stunned Nathalie. Fifty thousand pounds was easily a year of his income and a fourth of his total fortune. “Am I worth so much?”

Gabriel cupped her cheeks, which flooded with heat under his gentle fingers. “Nathalie,” he whispered. “You are worth that and more. If I had the chance to bet my life, I would do it.”

Nathalie’s lips parted. She’d had no idea that she was worth anything to him, much less a sum of fifty thousand pounds. But was she worth his life? Surely not. She opened her mouth to object, but the butler entered the room, calling for Nathalie.

“Pardon me, Your Grace,” the butler said, his face carefully blank. He was pretending he saw nothing, like a good servant did.

Gabriel broke away from Nathalie as if scalded. Natalie missed the warmth, but addressed the butler immediately, lest he think something was amiss. “Yes, Jean? What is it?”

Gabriel covered his mouth and turned away from Nathalie. She did her best to ignore him.

Jean cleared his throat. “The Countess of Sorcy is here, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Jean.” Nathalie inclined her head. “Show her into the sitting room and inform her I’ll greet her in a few moments.”

Jean bowed and left, but the moment was spoiled. Gabriel looked flustered as he turned back to her, his face red hot and his lip thoroughly chewed.

“Are you quite all right, sir?” Nathalie didn’t know how to phrase that more delicately. She’d withdrawn into a cool exterior, putting up a mask of professionalism. Surely he wouldn’t want a businesswoman to be his lover.

“Ah… Yes, I’m fine. Thank you, Your Grace.” Gabriel bowed to her much like Jean had done, and Nathalie stood to curtsey. “I’ll let you attend to the Countess. And… I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Of course.” Nathalie nodded. They were back to the awkward dance they’d always done, all thoughts of the broach and the duke’s outlandish statement about what he’d bet for her forgotten--or at least shunted to the side.

For now.

***

Sitting astride his trotting horse on a ride with his friend, the Earl of Warwick, Gabriel despaired.

He didn’t know what to do about Nathalie. She’d seemingly rejected all his overtures, remaining cool to him. He’d taken to giving her little touches on the back of the wrist during the day to let her know of his affection to her, but she rebuffed the touch, pulling her hand away.

It was almost as if she hated him, and he didn’t know why.

“You’re moping.” George Greville pointed a thick finger at Gabriel, his horse nearly frothing under the man’s weight. “What’s wrong, old chap?”

Gabriel pulled up on the reins, slowing his horse to a walk. He didn’t know why he couldn’t just tell George what troubled him. “The lady of the house…”

“Ah, women troubles.” George snorted. “Henrietta makes no sense to me and never has.” The earl pulled his horse up beside Gabriel’s. “She’s managing the finances well, right? So what’s the problem here?”

“I don’t want her just for finances.” Gabriel sighed, his shoulders slumping. “She’s cool to me, and I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.”

“Women take time to fall in love.” George shrugged. “You’ve been married for what, a season? She probably thinks you haven’t given up on Emilie.”

“What do you mean by that?”

George gave him a measured look. “You’re still wearing your old wedding ring.”

Gabriel glanced down at his hand. He was, indeed, and hadn’t even noticed. At the time of his wedding to Nathalie, it seemed wrong to take the ring off, but now… “Have I not been sufficiently devoted to the lady? I’ve purchased her gifts.”

“Who knows what’s in a woman’s head?” George shook his head, his jowls bouncing. “Just be grateful she’s revitalized your social life, Gabe. Anyone who’s anyone will be attending your end-of-spring gala.” George cracked a grin. “I’m no longer ashamed to be your friend.”

“Ha, ha,” Gabriel said, slanting his friend a look. “I do want to know what’s on her mind, though.”

“Am I the right person to ask?”

Gabriel considered that. “Who else would I ask?”

George goggled at him. “Who else? The lady herself, man. If you truly want to hear her reasons for doing things, she’s the only one who can inform you of them.” George shuddered. “Though why you’d want to listen to a woman prattle on is beyond me…”

And Gabriel laughed.

Chapter Text

As promised, Nathalie had designed a gown to wear for the Duke during their ball that evening.

The dress was a stunning dark blue, with a fuzzy black collar and sleeves that ended in points on the back of her hands. The gown had a set hexagonal texture, with clever embroidery Nathalie had sewed herself. The end of the skirt sported rounded points with dark blue, light pink-centered spots resembling a peacock’s tail feathers.

A peacock-feather-like cocktail hat that was blue and tear-shaped with a light pink mark in the center and a light blue, translucent veil completed the ensemble. She also ordered a custom-made blue hand fan similar in design to the end of her skirt.

The outfit was inspired by the broach Gabriel had given her. She was looking forward to his reaction to the ensemble.

Nathalie was just getting laced into her corset in her bedroom with the aid of her lady’s maid when His Grace burst into the room. “Natha--oh, I’m sorry!”

Nathalie covered her chest with the gown, which she’d laid on her bed nearby. She turned to the Duke, her cheeks flaring with heat. “Beatrix,” Nathalie said, addressing the lady’s maid. “You’re dismissed.”

Beatrix curtseyed to His Grace and beat a hasty retreat.

The Duke still had one arm thrown over his eyes. “Are you decent?”

“Not quite.” Nathalie retrieved her blue satin robe from her side of the closet and tightened the belt around herself. She laid the gown out back on the bed. “All right. What is the issue, sir?”

Gabriel was wearing a bold, purple suit, black gloves, and a broach in the shape of a butterfly. Nathalie had made the outfit herself, and Gabriel had approved. She felt her mouth water at the sight of him; with his grand chest and long legs, he cut a gorgeous figure.

Gabriel fidgeted with the hem of his jacket. “I need to talk to you, Nat--Your Grace.”

“What about?”

His Grace hemmed and hawed for a moment, working his mouth, and Nathalie began to grow impatient. She had a gala to run; while his flustered state was fairly endearing, if she wasn’t downstairs to greet their guests, she and the Duke would leave a bad impression. She was running out of time.

Gabriel took her hand in both his own and knelt, an unusually-brazen choice for him. “I need to know what you think of me.”

Nathalie blinked down at him. “Now?”

“I’ve been wracking my brain for a way to ask, trying to tease the answer out of you over dinners, but I’ve had no success.” Gabriel sighed, sounding lovelorn. “So I need to know: what do you think of me, Nathalie?”

Nathalie wondered if he was asking her honest opinion. “I’m…”

He leaned forward over her hand, staring up at her. “Yes?”

“I’m conflicted.” Nathalie licked her lips. “On the one hand, you’re a kind and generous man. I appreciate your efforts to treat me with compassion.”

Gabriel beamed. Then the smile faded. “And on the other hand?”

Nathalie extracted her hand from his loose grip and folded her arms. “On the other hand, you won me in a bet. In a gamble over a human’s life. You had no right.”

Gabriel’s hands hovered awkwardly around her shoulders. He looked pained, as if he wanted to touch her but was refraining for her sake. “I apologize, Your Grace. But are you not happier here with me than you were with your family? You’re very useful here.”

Nathalie’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Useful. Is that all I am to you?”

His Grace shook his head rapidly. “No, not at all. You’re clever and easy to talk to. I’ve been impressed by your kindness to Adrien and am delighted in your presence.”

“And your late wife?” Nathalie’s gaze flicked to his ring finger. He still wore the old wedding ring. “Am I able to measure up to her or will I always be in her shadow?”

Gabriel followed her gaze to his finger and stared at it as if it had sprouted from his hand ten minutes prior. He gripped his old wedding band and tore the metal circle off his finger, holding it aloft. Then he flicked the ring away. The gold band landed on the floor in the corner of the room with a metallic, ringing clatter.

“You will never replace Emilie,” Gabriel said, and Nathalie’s heart sank. Then he lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “But I do love you, Nathalie.”

Love. It was the first time he’d confessed his love, and she was in a bathrobe.

Nathalie didn’t know what to say.

“I… I-I’m…”

She stumbled over her words, feeling very much like a halfwit. He was still holding onto her hand, his blue eyes beseeching, and she didn’t know what he wanted from her.

Did she love him?

She didn’t know.

Nathalie gulped. She breathed in his musky, expensive cologne and the unique scent of his sweat. “I suspect I can learn to love you.”

“You suspect?”

She cupped his cheek, the first time she’d ever dared to touch him. “I can.”

Gabriel’s smile took over his whole face. “Then that’s all I need.”

“Please,” Nathalie said, half-exasperated. Was this what being in love was like? “I need to get dressed.”

Gabriel flushed. “Oh, yes, o-of course. I’ll--I’ll send in Beatrix.”

“Thank you.”

***

Nathalie was an excellent dancer, Gabriel thought. She glided across the floor, effortlessly checking in on their guests. The gala was absolutely perfect, with the noblest of the ton being entertained. The decorations, the food, the music--everything was perfect and he couldn’t have been prouder of his wife.

And he loved her dress. She’d designed and made it just for him, and he was inordinately pleased.

Gabriel was happy, too, that she’d said she could learn to love him. That’s all he wanted, was a chance to earn her affection.

Clearly he’d done something right.

But he’d also done something wrong. She seemed so angry at him about the bet, and he wondered if he would have married her or given her a second thought without that incentive.

Probably not. Gabriel cursed himself. I’ll have to find ways to show her how valuable she is to me.

They were already married, so fortunately they didn’t have to go through all those pesky rules of courtship. And Gabriel could write her as many letters or purchase her as many gifts as he wanted--provided he didn’t mess up her ledger anymore than he had to.

Perhaps she’d enjoy a more personal gift? Gabriel’s eyes were not on his dance partner, HRH Duchess of York and Albany; they were on his wife, while she charmed ladies and gentlemen alike.

Gabriel’s dance partner clucked her tongue, drawing his attention. “Distracted, Your Grace?”

Gabriel’s cheeks flooded with heat. “Er. You could say that. My apologies, Your Royal Highness.”

Gabriel recalled that the Duchess in front of him was actually Princess Frederica Charlotte of Prussia, and should thus be treated with the utmost respect. To his relief, she offered him a smile, though it was much too sly for his liking.

“I see.” Her Royal Highness raised a brow. “You adore your wife, then?”

“I do,” Gabriel answered immediately. “She’s a wonderful woman.”

“She’s very lucky.” Her Royal Highness made a turn in his arms and returned to his face. “Have you told her that you’re so fond?”

Gabriel frowned a bit. “I have, though she doesn’t…”

“Yes?”

Gabriel shook his head. “She doesn’t appear to enjoy my company as much as I would like.”

Her Royal Highness’ eyes glittered. “I see. Have you tried gifts?”

“I have.” Gabriel knew he shouldn’t be explaining his relationship with Nathalie to a practical stranger, but he didn’t know where else to turn, and perhaps a woman’s input could be more useful than George’s. “She’s wearing one of them now.”

The Princess beamed. “Then your case is not so hopeless after all.”

As Gabriel pondered that, the waltz came to an end. He bowed formally to the Duchess, who curtseyed back to him. She wandered off--presumably to find a new dance partner--but Gabriel went directly towards his wife.

Nathalie, who appeared deep in conversation with a Countess, glanced up at him as he approached and curtseyed. “Greetings, Your Grace. I trust you’re enjoying the gala?”

“I am, yes.” Gabriel smiled, and then offered his arm. “Though I would enjoy it more if you would accompany me for a dance? My apologies for stealing your conversational partner, Countess.”

The Countess curtseyed. “It’s no trouble, Your Grace.”

“I would be delighted.” Nathalie tucked her fingers into the crook of his arm, pleasing him. She turned to the Countess with a beatific smile. “If you wish, we can continue afterwards, Lady Von Schönfeld?”

The Countess waved her fan in front of her face. “Nothing would please me more.”

As Gabriel led Nathalie away, he was practically giddy. He’d danced with her before, but tonight was special to him because she was wearing the dress she’d designed especially for him.

“Your Grace,” he said, taking her hand in his own and bowing over it. “You have performed your duties magnificently. The gala is an absolute success.”

Nathalie appeared to take that praise in stride. “I couldn’t have done any of this without the aid of our servants.”

The next waltz began, and Gabriel started leading Nathalie in the box step. “Are they pleasing to you?”

“Very much so.” Nathalie relaxed in his arms, and Gabriel’s heart leapt in his chest. “My abigail, Beatrix, is especially helpful,” Nathalie said, referencing her lady’s maid. “As expected of me, I plan to visit the tenants this Christmas in a few months to provide for their needs.”

“You are a gem among women, truly.” Gabriel rested his hand on the small of her back, pulling her into the close position the dance required. “Is there anything you need? Money, perhaps?”

Nathalie shook her head slightly. “No, Your Grace. You have adequately provided for my needs and the needs of Adrien.”

“How is Adrien?”

Nathalie smiled, and Gabriel wanted to wrap himself up in that expression like a warm blanket. “He’s lovely.” She sighed, sounding utterly content. “He’s taken to his lessons well and is a generally well-mannered young man. I have no complaints about your son.”

“Our son?” Gabriel tried, only to have Nathalie nod.

“Our son, then.”

Gabriel was over the moon. He didn’t expect to grow closer to Nathalie through Adrien, but Gabriel was willing to use their son as an excuse.

The waltz came to an end much too soon for Gabriel’s liking. Even married couples were only allowed two dances together at a gala, and never one right after the other. He found himself pouting, which made Nathalie laugh.

“What troubles you, Your Grace?” Nathalie’s gaze shone with amusement. “You seem distressed.”

“If I could, I would keep you to myself all night.” The admittance made her eyes widen. “Alas, society requires us to socialize with people other than ourselves.”

He kissed the back of her wrist. “Until the next dance, Your Grace,” he said.

Nathalie said nothing, worrying him. She curtseyed and left.

Despite his valiant attempts to engage others in conversation, Gabriel watched her all night.

Chapter Text

“Your Grace,” Nathalie said, approaching Gabriel as he sat at his desk in the country estate’s atelier. Rain pelted the windows in a summer storm. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

Gabriel set down his quizzing glass, a single magnifying lens that aided him in reading difficult papers. He smiled up at her. “You are always welcome to ask favors of me, Nathalie. I only wish you’d ask more.”

Nathalie wasted no time painting the lily. “I wish for Adrien to attend a preparatory school in September, so he can apply for Eton in three years.”

“No.” Gabriel said the first thing that came to mind, his knee-jerk reaction. “Does the education you’re giving him not suffice?”

“I fear it does not.” Nathalie gripped her skirts. “Eton is the school for a future Duke.”

“I don’t want him picking up bad habits.” Gabriel didn’t understand why this was so hard to understand. “What’s your real reason for asking this?”

Nathalie hesitated for the briefest of moments. She licked her lips, drawing Gabriel’s attention to them. He’d yet to kiss her, and though he knew those thoughts were inappropriate during a discussion, he couldn’t help but have them.

Finally, she spoke. “He’s lonely. He only has Chloe for a friend, and I’d like him to socialize more often. Without socialization, he’ll not grow up properly.”

Gabriel waved a hand dismissively. “Friends will only give him bad habits, like I’ve said. He has you and his governess and tutors to attend to his needs. That’s adequate.”

Nathalie straightened her shoulders, throwing them backward. “With all due respect, Your Grace, that is not adequate at all. Adrien needs peers his own age. Without them, he’ll--”

“I’ve said no.” Gabriel stood, slapping his hands on the desk. “Is this so hard to understand? I do not grant my permission.”

“Why not?” Nathalie set her jaw. “How can you pretend to know what’s best for the boy if you don’t spend any time with him?”

Gabriel looked away. “I spend plenty of time with the child.”

“No, you do not.” Nathalie flushed red hot. Gabriel could hear her teeth grinding in a very unladylike manner. “Adrien misses you. While you’re out riding, or whatever it is that you do, he languishes in his room.”

“And you think sending him to school will help?” Gabriel scoffed. His heart slammed behind his breastbone and his mouth was dry. “Don’t make me laugh.”

Nathalie trembled with poorly-repressed emotion. “You don’t know what’s good for him.”

Gabriel had had enough. “Don’t you dare interfere with my son!”

“Your son?” Nathalie snarled. “At least I pay attention to him!”

Lightning crackled outside the windows, and thunder followed with a boom so loud, it rattled the glass. Gabriel’s chest was heaving. He leaned into Nathalie’s space, baring his teeth. “How dare you?”

Gabriel pushed past her, speaking over his shoulder. “Clearly I’ve given you too many freedoms, Your Grace. We’ll discuss your duties when I return.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out.” Gabriel slammed the door behind him, leaving a distraught Nathalie behind. He strode into the foyer and outside into the storm, raising a hand to protect his eyes from the pouring rain.

How dare she? he seethed, ignoring the freezing cold wetness soaking his clothes. How dare she presume to know more than me about my own son?

Water splashed up around his slacks as he stomped through the pea gravel, staining them with muck. The maids would be doing his laundry later, so he felt just vindictive enough to make a mess for them to clean up.

He'd feel better if it was Nathalie doing his laundry. Then he could spite her.

Ridiculous woman! Gabriel continued stomping through the grounds, making his way into the less-coiffed part of the estate. The mire was thick there, and Gabriel's shoes were soon slick with it. The nerve! The absolute audacity!

Gabriel struggled to lift his foot in the fiercely sticky mud. It squelched between his toes, angering him further. Rain gushed in torrents, dumping on his head as if it, too, cared not a whit for his opinion.

The very presumption that she knows what's better for my son than I do… He stepped over logs and purposefully cracked smaller sticks beneath his feet. I never should have taken that deuced bet!

Gabriel railed against the sky, shaking a fist at the muted, grey heavens that had opened up on him with hail and ice. The grounds were dark; until lightning sizzled right next to him, he could barely see anything. “Whoa!”

Covering his ears from the deafening boom and blinking away the spots crawling in his vision, Gabriel considered what a precarious place he was in outside in the middle of a thunderstorm. Maybe I should go back.

He could go back. But he didn’t want to face Her Grace.

What a fool I am, he thought, which opened up an uncomfortable proposition he didn’t want to face. Was he being a fool about Adrien? Was it possible that Nathalie was right, and Adrien would flourish in school?

His conduct had been terrible. He’d snapped at his wife. He’d yelled at her. He’d shut her down before he’d even given her a chance to speak her piece.

That was not the man he wanted to be. Gabriel could at least hear her out.

And he had to get out of this storm. Being out here was not just foolish, it was dangerous.

Gabriel took off running in the direction of the mansion. But no sooner than he had taken three steps, he slipped on a rock, landing painfully on his behind and wrenching his ankle. Gabriel gasped, clutching the joint, which was already beginning to swell.

He grit his teeth against the tender ache and tried to stand, but fell back into the mud as soon as he realized the ankle would not hold him.

Gabriel cupped his hands around his mouth. “Help!”

His only hope was that Nathalie would be worried about him to send a servant to fetch him.

***

Nathalie was sick with worry.

She’d had an argument with Gabriel about Adrien potentially going to school, and the man had taken off afterwards into a raging thunderstorm. He’d yet to return, and hours had passed.

Ridiculous man! Nathalie paced in the country mansion’s foyer, glancing at the door. She’d never had a fight with her husband before, and if this foolish way was how he’d respond every time, she had no desire to have another one.

She’d already sent a search party of servants out an hour ago, expecting them to comb the grounds until they found him. The rain hadn’t let up, which she knew made visibility awful.

Nathalie had snapped at him. She’d yelled at him. She’d completely discounted his opinion as the master of the house and Adrien’s father.

That was not the woman she wanted to be. Nathalie could at least hear him out.

Her stomach churned, nausea lingering in the back of her throat. She would not vomit; unless she was pregnant--of which there was no chance as she hadn’t even kissed Gabriel--vomiting would be unseemly.

The door handle jiggled. Nathalie froze.

Jean, the butler, opened the door, Gabriel riding on his back like a toddler.

A wounded toddler.

“Gabriel!” Nathalie bustled to his side, her hands hovering around his face, which rested over Jean’s shoulder. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

“I twisted my ankle.” Gabriel was white as a sheet. Nathalie brought her fingers to her lips, letting loose an unladylike gasp. “I cannot walk until it is mended.”

“Oh, my dear husband.” Nathalie coaxed him and Jean into the sitting room, where a fire crackled merrily in the fireplace. After Gabriel was settled in a reclining chair, she sent Jean to warm up and inform another servant to fetch the surgeon.

Nathalie knelt by the chair, her blue skirts pooling around her. “Can I order you anything? A hot drink, perhaps?”

Gabriel closed his eyes. His lower lip quivered, drawing Nathalie’s attention there. “A hot drink would be lovely, thank you.”

Nathalie trailed her fingers across the back of his hand, causing him to open his eyes and look at her. His brilliant, blue gaze pierced her through and through.

She stood, aware she was being watched, and crossed to the bells. Ringing one, she summoned a female servant and ordered her to prepare a glass of warmed port.

Servant dismissed, Nathalie returned to Gabriel’s side. “Are you hungry, my dear?”

Gabriel gave her a pained grimace. “Nathalie. Enough. Aren’t you angry with me?”

Nathalie glanced at the floor, shame heating her cheeks. “I… I was. But after you were lost to me, I realized how foolish I was, and recognized that I should have respected you as Adrien’s father.”

Gabriel took her hand and brought her knuckles to his lips. “No, my love, I was the one being foolish. I shut you down before even giving you a chance to plead your case.”

Hope swelled within Nathalie’s breast. She covered his fingers with his own. “Then you’ll consider…?”

“He can go to Eton.”

Nathalie was overjoyed. She wanted the very best for her son, having grown increasingly attached to the boy. On impulse, she leaned forward and kissed the corner of Gabriel’s mouth.

He blinked up at her, seeming stunned. “Nathalie…”

“Thank you, Gabriel.” Nathalie cupped his cheek, her hand warm against his cooled skin. “I appreciate this more than I can say.”

Gabriel grinned up at her, which Nathalie thought was entirely inappropriate for the tender moment. “If I’d known that’s what it would take for you to kiss me, I would have sent him to school ages ago.”

Nathalie scoffed. “Men.”

Gabriel laughed, color coming back into his cheeks. Nathalie smiled down at him, running her fingers through his hair. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed.

Nathalie had the sneaking suspicion that she loved Gabriel. Being affectionate with him didn’t only feel appropriate, it felt right. He clearly wanted her to touch him, and her fingers itched to caress his skin, to explore his face and neck.

She’d almost lost him. And he wasn’t out of the wood yet; Gabriel still could have caught hypothermia out in that storm.

“Gabriel.” Nathalie had to tell him what she felt. She must. She wouldn’t get another chance. “I love you.”

Of course she loved him. He was kind, generous, and provided well for his family. She relied on him, and he on her. They were husband and wife, and though he’d won her in a bet, he’d also won her heart.

Gabriel’s eyes opened, filled with shock. His lips parted, and Nathalie, to prove her point, pressed her own to them. The kiss was chaste, but filled with all the passion she could give him.

Gabriel cupped the back of her head, his questing fingers impossibly gentle. His mouth glided against her own, and as Nathalie drank him in, she realized his kiss was a promise.

He’d provide for her. He’d be her companion through thick and thin. He’d listen to her concerns and give her a place of importance in his life.

And she’d gladly stay with him.

Forever.

END PART I

Chapter Text

Part II

“How did the ton find out?” Nathalie furrowed her brow, watching Gabriel pace in his atelier in the family’s London estate. He was chewing on his lower lip, and she wanted nothing more than to work his flesh free from his teeth with her fingers. “As far as I recall, no one knew of the terms of the bet between you and my father. Right?”

Her Royal Highness the Duchess of York and Albany had quietly approached Nathalie yesterday, letting her know that the rumor mill had started churning about her and Gabriel.

“They’ve said that your hand was won in a bet!” Fredrica Charlotte had clucked her tongue, her fan fluttering. “Can you imagine the scandal this sort of fudge would cause?”

“It’s not a false rumor.” Nathalie had been forced to confirm the Canterbury story. “His Grace really did win me in a bet. But please, don’t spread that around.”

Nathalie’s friend, the Duchess, had gravely agreed and had taken her leave.

Now, in his atelier, Gabriel clenched his fists at his sides. His ankle had healed after two months of inactivity, but as a result of the sprain, he couldn’t make any social calls until the end of the summer. So the scandal was new to him and Nathalie both. “I can’t think of any way the ton could have found us out.”

“My father could have spread the information.” Nathalie folded her hands at her desk, having taken a seat when Gabriel had started pacing. “I wouldn’t put it past him to be a poor sport.”

“He was a windmill dwindled to a nutshell,” Gabriel said, meaning that Mr. Sancoeur had lost his money rather quickly. “It’s either him or the banker at the club, though I would be surprised if the banker had anything to do with it.”

Nathalie inclined her head, acknowledging that statement. “This could be very bad for us, Gabriel. We could be ostracized all over the ton.”

Gabriel’s frown deepened. “We could be. How do we fix this?”

“Well,” Nathalie said, tilting her head. “You are a Duke. You could tell our detractors to stop spreading rumors, and they’d listen because you outrank them.”

Gabriel’s shoulders slumped. “It would not be seemly to flaunt my rank in their faces and would only confirm the facts.”

Nathalie nodded. “I understand, my love.” She tapped her lower lip, glad Gabriel had stopped biting his. “Let’s feel out who is saying what, and tailor our approach.”

“And the Duchess of York and Albany?” Gabriel squinted at Nathalie. “You’re sure your friend is truly a friend?”

“Her Royal Highness has given me no cause to doubt her.” Nathalie raised a brow. “She was the one, after all, who approached me in confidence to let me know this scandal was brewing right under our noses.”

“Tap her, then.” Gabriel laced his fingers in front of his beautiful mouth. “Find out from her personally where the rumor came from, and who our fiercest detractors are. Perhaps you can invite them to the house to…. Massage the truth out of them.”

“Understood.”

***

“I just don’t know who would have spread the rumors, George.” Gabriel sat astride his horse on a ride around London’s biggest park, his fingers gripping the reins. His dearest friend, George Greville, the Earl of Warwick, rode beside him. “They’re incredibly damaging to my reputation.”

“I’m well aware, old chap.” George shook his head, pulling back on the reins to ride up next to Gabriel. “But the question on everyone’s lips is: is it true? Did you win your wife’s hand in a bet?”

Gabriel sighed. He had no desire to lie to his dearest friend and figured confirming the truth wouldn’t do any harm. Most of the harm has already been done by now, just having had the rumors spread.

“It’s true.” Gabriel rubbed the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t cut out for chicanery like this. George was gaping at him, so Gabriel smiled ruefully. “The problem comes not whether the rumor is true, but that someone malicious found out about it and decided to inform the ton.”

“That is a problem.” George rubbed his jowly chin. “Any news on who wanted to malign you?”

“No.” Gabriel lowered his gaze to the grass and pea gravel pathways. “But we’re well on our way to finding out. Nathalie is whip-smart and she’ll unearth the culprit for us, and nothing will stand in her way.”

George laughed. “Lucky man. My Harriet’s a complete widgeon; she couldn’t scheme her way out of a cloth bag.”

“Remember, this is damaging to Nathalie, too.”

George nodded, placing a thick hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Good luck, my friend. You’ll root them out.”

***

Nathalie smiled over her teacup at Her Grace Georgiana Cavendish, the Duchess of Devonshire, as she sat across from Nathalie in her sitting room. The Duchess of Devonshire was joined by her sister, Lady Harriet Lowry-Corry, the Viscountess of Duncannon.

Duchess Cavendish simpered back, plucking up a piece of chicken stuffed with a pig’s tongue in her fingers. She placed the finger food on her tongue and slurped it up in a manner Nathalie thought rather offensive, but she knew better than to point it out to the poor woman.

Nathalie decided to take a straightforward approach to the pair, who had done their fair share of spreading rumors. “So what is the latest news, my dears? What’s the scandal ‘round the ton?”

“Well,” Her Grace said, nearly bouncing in her seat. “I just found out that the Viscount of Tamworth’s teeth are false.”

Nathalie gasped. “Really?”

“Yes!” Where her sister maintained a sense of decorum, Lady Lowry-Corry actually did bounce in her seat. “He uses dentures made of dead soldier’s teeth. They’re so lifelike, no one would have known until he confided them to the Earl of Dartmouth, who told my lovely sister.”

Nathalie didn’t care about someone’s false teeth. That was his business, and Nathalie was no gossip. She kept the dryness out of her tone by sheer dint of effort. “What a scandal. Tell me, my dears, what other on-dit do you know?”

Her Grace reached for another finger sandwich and stuffed it in her mouth. She spoke as she chewed, repulsing Nathalie. “Lady Falmouth is pregnant with a by-blow.”

An illegitimate child was news indeed but not the news Nathalie was looking for.

“Oh, my goodness.” Nathalie covered her mouth with her fingers. “Surely that’s not all the gossip you know, though. What’s the biggest scandal rocking the ton?’

Her Grace hesitated for a moment. She leaned forward to stage-whisper, cupping her hand around her lips. “Did you know, my dear, that a very high-ranking lady was only married to her husband because he won her hand in a bet?”

“It’s true.” Lady Lowry-Corry beamed around a mouthful of chicken. “I heard it myself.”

Got you.

“No!” Nathalie feigned shock, setting her teacup down on its saucer and placing a hand on her chest. “Who would have possibly gambled over a human being?”

The sisters exchanged glances. “Well.” Her Grace smirked. “I hear he’s rather close to you.”

Nathalie blinked owlishly. “I know the gentleman in question?”

Lady Lowry-Corry tittered. “Oh, yes. You know him quite well.”

Nathalie offered them a daft smile. “Surely not the Earl of Warwick?”

“Oh, no, old George is untouchable.” Her Grace waved a hand. “No one has any scandals about Lord Greville.”

Lady Lowry-Corry gave Nathalie a beaming grin, one Nathalie could only describe as evil. “Harriet, on the other hand…”

Nathalie sipped her tea. “Tell me more about the person who’d made the bet. Where did this rumor come from? Is it true?”

“No one knows if it’s true or not.” Lady Lowry-Corry contradicted the statement she’d just made about the truth of the rumor. Her hand fluttered in front of her face like a caged bird with nowhere to go. “But I heard it from the Viscountess of Grandison, who heard it from the Countess of Sorcy.”

“And?” Nathalie pressed, trying not to seem too eager. “Where did she hear it from?”

“You’ll have to ask her.” Her Grace plucked up a third piece of chicken and pig’s tongues. “But if the rumor is true… You’ll be shocked, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” Nathalie murmured, already planning to invite the Countess of Sorcy to the London manor.

Chapter Text

Ever since he’d found out about the hearsay circulating the ton, Gabriel had been reluctant to attend the private gentlemen's clubs of London, lest he be branded with a gambling addiction.

But at Nathalie’s request, he’d stepped foot in the most repugnant one, the one where he’d won her hand.

As he expected, Nathalies’s revolting father was present at the Faro table, gambling his wife’s wages away.

Gabriel slid into the seat next to him. “Sancoeur.”

Sancoeur jumped, nearly falling off his chair in his haste to bow. “Your Grace! Did Nathalie displease you? I knew she’d come crawling back--”

“Not at all.” Gabriel cut the air with a stiff hand. “I came to see you because I’ve heard some rather… disturbing news.”

Sancouer paled. “I had nothing to do with that dead body down in the park. You can’t prove anything.”

What? Gabriel’s brows rose. “That’s not what I’m after.”

Sancoeur visibly relaxed, his shoulders slumping. Then he adopted a more defensive posture, looking very much like he was prepared to enter a fisticuff battle with Gabriel. “Well? What’s the problem, Your Grace?”

The casual tone Sancoeur used to address Gabriel irked him, but that wasn’t what he was after either. He glanced at the banker, and then dragged Sancoeur over to a secluded corner by the ear.

“Ow, ow, ow!” Sancoeur cried. “What’s that for?”

“Someone has spread information that I won Nathalie at the Faro table.” Gabriel cleaned his fingers off on his handkerchief. “Who could that possibly be?”

Sancoeur held up his hands and shook them rapidly. “It wasn’t me, I swear on my whirlygigs. Hang me if I’m tellin’ a lie, but I ain’t.”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “And you have no idea who started the tittle-tattle?”

“Not on my life, I swear.”

Gabriel nearly spat on the floor in disgust. “All right then. Go back to your Faro table.”

Sancoeur licked his lips. “You know? The banker could have had his wheels greased.”

Bribery? Gabriel considered it. He didn’t even remember which banker had served him and Sancoeur in that fateful bet. Gabriel didn’t know the man’s name, but Gabriel had often played Faro at that particular table.

Someone malicious could have bribed the banker. Gabriel stroked his chin. Such a person may have bribed any number of servants to keep tabs on Gabriel, he decided. But whom?

***

Anne Marie Louise Thélusson, the Countess of Sorcy, tittered on Nathalie’s couch. “Oh, la,” the Countess said, waving a hand. “You wouldn’t believe the impropriety that’s going around the ton!”

Nathalie had already heard about false teeth and by-blows today, so she was curious to see if the Countess would divulge the information Nathalie wanted.

Nathalie smiled, offering the air-headed, young woman an Oxford Pudding, a sweet ball of suet, crumbled biscuits, and currants. “Oh? Do tell, my dear. What has your heart fluttering?”

Lady Thélusson leaned forward, her eyes bright and eager. “Well...”

Nathalie had begun to hate the word “well.” All the ladies used it as if it were the only way to impart information. And they also tended to use the phrase when they were expecting her to be on tenterhooks. “Well?”

Lady Thélusson grinned. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that a particular high-ranking wife was won in a gamble.” The lady licked her lips, taking a dainty bite of the Oxford Pudding and chewing before she spoke. “The woman in question was elevated above her station.”

“Oh?” Nathalie tapped her chin. “Who could that be?”

The Countess looked nonplussed. “You don’t know?”

Nathalie shook her head. “Please, enlighten me.”

“Why,” Lady Thélusson said, making a strained gesture as if to take in all of Nathalie, “it’s you, Your Grace.”

Nathalie laughed. “You must be joking. Imagine, the Duke gambling for a human being! My husband is certainly more conscientious than that.”

Lady Thélusson sagged in her chair, looking very much like Nathalie had taken the wind out of her sails. “Oh. The source I had was very, ah, sure.”

Nathalie prepared to pounce. She resisted the urge to narrow her eyes and clench her fists, trying to appear simply curious and not desperate or angry. “And who, pray tell, told you this speculation?”

Lady Thélusson shifted on her seat, squirming like a worm on a hook. “I probably shouldn’t say…”

“Lady Thélusson.” Nathalie sharpened her tone, brandishing the knives of her impatience. The Countess straightened her shoulders, sitting stock still. “I am the Duchess of Ipswich, and as such, I outrank you. Don’t make me order you to tell me.”

“It was the Earl of Warwick!” Lady Thélusson burst out. “Lord Greville--He was the one who told me.”

Nathalie drew a breath through her nose. That Gabriel’s friend was the one who’d apparently started the gossip was terrible news indeed.

Especially if it was true.

“This is a grave accusation.” Nathalie stood, placing her hands on the couch’s arms around Lady Thélusson, caging her in. “Are you sure it was Lord Greville who told you?”

Lady Thélusson leaned away, pressing her back into the couch cushions. She looked very much as if she would bolt if only Nathalie would let her. The woman nodded rapidly. “Oh, yes, it was certainly Lord Greville. He made a call on my house and informed me of His Grace’s bet at the Faro table.”

Knowing you would spread it.

Nathalie released the Countess, sitting back on the chair. “I see.”

“Oh, oh, oh,” Lady Thélusson said, her hands coming up to cover her mouth. “I think I have a case of the vapors!”

Nathalie just about rolled her eyes. “Would you care for a promenade around the park, Lady Thélusson? Your cheeks have lost their natural color.”

“Yes, please.” Lady Thélusson stood immediately, gathering her skirts. She looked awfully spritely for someone who had threatened to swoon not two minutes prior, Nathalie thought. “Fresh air would be good, Your Grace.”

As Nathalie soothed Lady Thélusson’s ruffled state and reassured the woman that she was not in trouble, Nathalie dreaded telling Gabriel his friend was the traitor in their midst.

My poor Gabriel, Nathalie thought, arm in arm with Lady Thélusson. He’ll be crushed.

Chapter Text

Gabriel stretched his shoulders, burning the midnight oil. He’d been sitting at his desk in his atelier for hours, managing details of his estate that his steward didn’t have the authority for.

Gabriel had sifted through applicants to man the sawmill and cider press, advised his tenant farmers on how to consider the best price of the corn, and debated whether to invest in draining a new field so that rain wouldn’t spoil the harvest.

He’d also assigned new hands to repair the damaged houses of the tenantry due to a rash of recent fall hailstorms. Gabriel was just about to finish the paperwork to pay them on the morrow when someone knocked on the door frame of his atelier.

Gabriel glanced up to spot Nathalie hovering by the door. “Ah, Nathalie.” Gabriel smiled, beckoning her in with his index finger. “Please, come in.”

Nathalie entered the room. “I understood you were busy today?”

Gabriel rubbed his sore eyes. He’d been using his quizzing glass, a monocle with a handle, since early this morning. “I have been yes. But I’m mostly finished now, and I always have a moment for you.”

Nathalie hesitated by the door, so Gabriel’s attention on her sharpened. “What are you thinking, my love?”

Shutting the door behind her, Nathalie strode to his desk. This was the woman he was used to; no pauses, no feminine hesitation. She sometimes reminded him of a man; she knew her own mind much like a man would. His wife was no mouse--nay, she was a force to be reckoned with.

Nathalie placed her hands on his desk and leaned forward, and Gabriel gladly received her, thinking she might kiss him. But she didn’t, keeping her voice low and soft. “I have found the root of our problem.”

Gabriel’s brows rose. “Who? Who started the rumors?”

Nathalie’s impassive expression gave him nothing to work with. Her words, however, stunned him. “The Earl of Warwick.”

Gabriel sucked a breath over his teeth. The news was like a crushing weight on his chest. Disappointment battled with denial in his brain. “No. George wouldn’t--I don’t believe it.”

Nathalie’s mouth turned down slightly at the corners. “It’s true. He’s the source.”

Gabriel slammed his palms on his desk. Anger won the battle. “Tarnation, Nathalie, how can you expect me to believe this? He’s my dearest friend!”

Nathalie inhaled through her nose, her chest expanding under her bodice. “He was the one who told the Countess of Sorcy about the bet. This is what I’ve learned; tell me what you’ve learned and we’ll corroborate notes.”

In moments like these, where Nathalie was calm where he expected her to be wracked with emotion, Gabriel had begun to hate that. He didn’t hate her--she was his wife and he loved her--but would a swoon at such a vulgar proposition be too much to ask?

But no, Nathalie was a logical creature. Didn’t he just tell himself that he loved that about her?

“Your father didn’t start it. He could have been lying to me, though he swore by God’s wounds he wasn’t the man.” Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. This was all falling apart too quickly. “Sancoeur said someone could have greased the wheels of the banker.”

“That’s entirely plausible.” Nathalie nodded, folding her arms. “You used to spend quite a bit of time in that club, did you not?”

“I conducted business with the other landowners there,” he said, but Nathalie raised a brow. Found out and embarrassed, Gabriel ducked. “And sometimes I played at games.”

“Can you think of why Lord Greville would have cause to go against you?”

“No.” Gabriel shook his head, mystified. “He always appeared affable to me.”

Nathalie pursed her lips. “You can take him to the courts for defamation.”

Gabriel gave her a pained grimace. That was the last thing he wanted to do. “I don’t want to.”

Nathalie sighed. “What reason would your friend have--”

“You’re asking the same question, Nathalie.” Gabriel worried his lower lip between his teeth. “And I’ll give you the same answer: I don’t know.”

“Then you can ask him.”

The concept was anathema to Gabriel. It was the only rational choice, and he understood why Nathalie was suggesting he ask George, but Gabriel had no desire to suspect his friend of being poisonous.

Nathalie’s cool fingers alighted on the back of Gabriel’s hand. “Gabriel? My love.”

Gabriel directed his gaze upward, peering into Nathalie’s concerned, blue eyes. “Yes, dear?”

“I know you don’t want your friend to be the culprit.” Nathalie gave voice to Gabriel’s tortured thoughts. He nodded. “But sometimes the people you allow to be closest to you are the ones who can do the most damage.”

Gabriel sniffled. This was all too terrible to consider. But why would Nathalie lie to him? “You think he’s been right under my nose the entire time?”

“I do.” Nathalie stroked Gabriel’s hand. “Who else could have had such intimate knowledge of your habits? It’s painful to think of your closest confidant as someone who could betray you, but all the evidence points to him.”

Nathalie kissed his cheek. “I would remove this burden from you if I could.”

“I know, dear heart.” Gabriel brought her knuckles to his lips. “I know you would.”

Nathalie cupped his cheek, leaning on his desk. “You can do it, lovely. I know you can.”

Gabriel sighed. He felt the sting of tears high in his nose, but he pressed on. “All right.” He squared his shoulders. “I’ll ask George tomorrow.”

Nathalie frowned. “Will he run?”

Gabriel bared his teeth. Anger flooded his face with heat. “He won’t run from me. I guarantee it.”

***

Gabriel’s dark indigo cane clicked on the pea gravel of the path in the park as he promenaded about, waiting for George to show his traitorous face. Gabriel was walking slowly, deliberately taking each step to give George the chance to catch up from his discussion with his own wife, Harriet.

The pause gave Gabriel time to think. His cane contained a silver sword, but he didn’t think George would have the gumption to attack him in broad daylight.

If Nathalie is right… Gabriel didn’t want Nathalie to be right. He wanted his friend to be a true friend, and not someone as repugnant as Nathalie’s father.

Hearing a huffing behind him, Gabriel stopped walking and turned. George was bustling up to him, his booted feet crunching on the gravel.

“Gabriel! Old boy.” George blew air out through his mouth and nose, gasping for oxygen. “Be a dear and let me catch my b-breath?”

“Of course, George.” Gabriel leaned on his cane, which was roughly half as tall as he was. He gripped the round stone at the top, the intersecting black lines resting under his hand. Could George have betrayed him? Gabriel still couldn't believe that was true. “Take all the time you need.”

George slapped a thick hand on Gabriel’s arm, chest heaving. Dark clouds rolled across the sky, obscuring the sun and giving the fall afternoon a gloomy appearance.

After panting for a bit, George straightened, releasing Gabriel. “Well, my friend. What was so urgent you paid a call to my home so early in the morning?”

“Walk with me.” Gabriel started up again, his cane tapping out a rhythmic pattern. He walked slow enough for George to keep up, wanting nothing more than to flee this conversation. “I bet you're wondering why I didn’t choose to ride this morning.”

“I am, yes.”

Gabriel considered his words carefully. “I wanted to talk to you on a personal level.”

“What about?” George squinted at him. “Don’t keep me in suspense, man!”

Gabriel decided to take the plunge. “Someone has been spreading speculation about me.” He chewed on his words, wondering how best to convey his disappointment, and choosing to let his tone do the work for him. “This has been extremely damaging to my reputation and that of my wife, Nathalie.”

George scoffed and lightly smacked Gabriel on the shoulder. “I knew about that. You told me a month ago, remember? Give me something new to bring to Harriet!”

Gabriel felt the gravel shift under his feet. “Why would someone hurt me like this, do you think?”

George answered immediately. “Jealousy. You’re a lucky man, Gabriel, with your title, holdings, and a lovely wife. Everyone respects you; every woman wants to be with you and every man wants to be you.”

George smirked. “I’m frankly surprised you haven’t been shot yet.”

Gabriel planted his feet, turning to face his traitorous friend. Gabriel kept his voice soft, indicating just how seriously he was taking George’s words. “Is that a threat, George?”

“What?” George blinked up at him; off a horse, Gabriel towered over the man. “You think I’m that contemptible?”

“I’m not looking down on you, George,” Gabriel said, even though physically, he was doing just that. “I’m just wondering what would possess a man to attack me.”

“Like I said.” George narrowed his eyes. “Jealousy.”

Gabriel’s next words exited his lips in a whisper. “Are you jealous of me, George?” Gabriel’s hand tightened on his cane. The truth became more and more clear to Gabriel, and his vision burned scarlet. “Were you the one who distressed my wife?”

George glared up at Gabriel. The Earl’s face reddened and his eyes bulged; if Gabriel didn’t know any better, he’d think George was ready to pop out of his cravat. “You suspect me? What kind of a friend are you?”

Gabriel poked George in the soft chest. “The evidence points toward you, friend.” Gabriel drew a deep breath through his nose. Time to sink the knife in. “I know it was you.”

Rain started pattering on the two of them, sprinkling down from the overcast sky. Gabriel paid it no mind, even when droplets struck his scalp.

George straightened up to his full height, trying to put his face into Gabriel’s space. “Alright. I admit it.” George threw his shoulders back, puffing his chest out. “I paid the banker to keep tabs on you. And your butler. You’d be surprised at how much money can accomplish in a man’s house.”

Gabriel’s jaw dropped. George was confessing to destroying Gabriel's reputation just like that? “You didn’t.”

“I did.” George cackled, his hands outstretched like claws, a manic look filling his eyes. “I know everything there is to know about you, Your Grace. I can bring you down in shame.”

The wind picked up; Gabriel froze even through his tailcoat. The heavens opened up, beginning to pour. Rain trickled down Gabriel’s neck and he knew he should find shelter, but he had to finish this conversation.

“You slandered my wife.” Gabriel grit his teeth. How dare he? “I can understand coming after me, but you damaged her reputation, and that’s unforgivable.”

George jabbed a thick finger in Gabriel’s face. “Your pretty wife deserves to rot in the bowels of hell with you.”

Gabriel’s tone was like a well-aimed dagger of ice. “Then I’ll see you in court with a defamation suit.”

George sneered, rain running in rivulets down his face. “You wouldn’t. You don’t have the balls.”

Rain spewed down on Gabriel, matching his mood. “I will.” Gabriel stepped forward, looming over George. “And I won’t stop there. Queen Charlotte is a personal friend of mine. I’ll petition her and King George III to strip you of your title and absorb your lands into mine own.”

George gasped. Gabriel’s knuckles whitened on his cane. He curled his lip, baring his teeth. “You’ll be thrown in the poorhouse, doomed to fade from history without being known except as a pauper.”

The color drained from George’s face. “N-No. You wouldn’t.”

Lightning lit Gabriel from behind. Thunder slammed in his ears. “I want you to know something about me, Lord Greville,” Gabriel growled, thrusting his nose close to George’s. “No one messes with my wife.”

Chapter Text

Nathalie paced in her bedroom, her chemise billowing out around her thighs. Her hair had been tied up for the night and tucked under her nightcap.

The bed was warmed with a brick from the fire, the fire itself was banked, and Nathalie had given her dress to the maid to press it for the morning. Nathalie’s stockings were mended, her shoes had been polished, and her gloves were soaking in the sink to remove stains.

In short, Nathalie was ready for bed.

But her husband was still not home.

The weather had taken a turn for the worse that afternoon, with a fall storm in full swing outside her windows. Lightning crackled around the house, lighting up the night. Thunder rattled the glass.

Nathalie was terrified that Gabriel would wrench his ankle again, like the last time he’d been out in a storm. She wrung her hands, wearing a furrow in her elaborately-patterned carpet.

She knew he’d planned to talk to Lord Greville today. Had the man attacked him? Was her husband lying dead in a ditch, stripped of his cane and fancy clothes?

Nathalie approached the door, driven to go look for him herself. She’d just laid her hand on the door handle when it turned underneath her fingers.

The door swung open silently, revealing a dripping wet Gabriel wearing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Nathalie didn’t waste time covering her mouth or swooning or doing any other wildly-inappropriate feminine actions. She gripped Gabriel’s ice-cold hands, drawing him into the heated room. “You’re soaked.”

Gabriel remained stoic, nodding to her and having water drip off his chin onto the rug. “I am.”

“Warm clothes first.” Nathalie drew him over to the banked fireplace, knowing he’d be warmest there, and began to remove his tailcoat. Gabriel shrugged out of it, helping her. She draped it across a chair. “Then you can tell me why on earth you decided to risk catching your death in a storm. Again.”

Gabriel winced, loosening his cravat. She took it from him, setting it aside on the nightstand. “Okay,” he said, his tone rueful. “But…”

“I know, love.” Nathalie cupped his cheek briefly, hoping her fingers were warm enough to heat him up. She moved onto his waist coat next, removing the single-breasted garment with elaborate embroidery, laying it on the chair cushion. “The maids will have a field day with your clothes.”

Her words were a joke, and they hit their mark; Gabriel brightened, his smile turning amused, before his eyes dimmed again. Nathalie knew he was still upset, and as she lifted his muslin shirt over his head, catching his ears in the ruffled collar, he ducked his head as if to hide his expression from her.

Nathalie worked in silence, opening the “fall” of his breeches, a flap in the front that released with an elaborate series of buttons. She removed his Hessien boots and peeled his stocking off him, leaving him naked and shivering near the banked fire.

Retrieving a towel from their linen closet was the work of a moment; she toweled his body off and then dried his hair. Handing him his nightshirt, she watched him don the flannel garment before fastening his nightcap to his head.

Last, he slipped on the banyan, a wraparound, knee-length garment made of silk damask that fitted close to his body. By the time he was finished dressing in his nightclothes, he’d stopped shivering, and his cheeks were no longer as pale.

Nathalie drew him to the bed and had him rest his head in her lap. She stroked his face, trying to chase away the cold and return the color to her husband’s cheeks. “Tell me, dear heart. What has distressed you so?”

“You were right.” Gabriel’s words were more a weak croak than a utterance of a confident man. He sounded fragile to her ears. Nathalie’s heart twisted in her chest. “Geo--Lord Greville was the traitor.”

“Oh, Gabriel,” Nathalie whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“My chest--it’s tight.” Gabriel rubbed his breast bone, his cheek rubbing against her leg. “I feel…”

“Like there’s broken glass where your heart should be.”

“Yes.”

Nathalie placed a hand on his head, feeling warm, wet droplets on her thighs. For Gabriel’s sake, she pretended she didn’t notice. A show of emotions was unseemly, but she cared not a whit for etiquette in this moment.

She cursed Lord Greville. The man had been Gabriel’s best friend, and yet he had proven himself a poison.

“Did that deuced man tell you why?” Nathalie couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. Gabriel stiffened under her fingers. Nathalie bit back a sigh and modulated her tone, trying not to offend Gabriel further. “I’m sorry.”

“He was still my friend, Nathalie.” Gabriel’s shoulders sagged into the mattress. “But yes, he told me why.”

“Why, then?” Nathalie frowned into the glowing embers of the fire. “Why would he hurt you so?”

Gabriel drew a deep breath in and then exhaled through his mouth. “Jealousy. He didn’t like that I outranked him.” Gabriel sniffled, and Nathalie chose not to remark on the show of weakness. “He didn’t like that you are clever and beautiful, whereas Harriet is… not.”

“So he paid the banker to keep tabs on you?”

“And Jean, our butler.”

Nathalie gasped. “Have you taken care of Jean…?”

Gabriel nodded against her, gripping her knee. “I threw him out as soon as I got home. He’s already packed his things.”

Nathalie pressed her hand to her stomach. “There’s no telling the damage he could have caused already. Or could have continued to cause.”

“It’s over now.” Gabriel turned his head to peer up at her, tears welling in his eyes. “He’s gone.”

Nathalie didn’t know if he was referring to Jean or Lord Greville. She decided that didn’t matter. “What can I do to help you, Gabriel?”

Gabriel frowned a little. He rubbed the tears out of his eyes. “I want you to throw a winter gala.”

“A winter gala?” Nathalie blinked down at him. “Why?”

“Let’s… Let’s just sleep?” Gabriel begged. “And deal with this in the morning?”

“Yes, love.” Nathalie kissed his forehead. “Let’s.”

***

The time of Nathalie’s winter gala had arrived, and she was ready. She wore a white chemise gown, a high-waisted dress made of bleached, ultra-fine, semi-sheer cotton with a ruffled collar and sleeves. The gowns were the most popular of the era in French fashion, and Nathalie hated them.

Despite wearing a thick shawl and fluffy muffs, Nathalie was cold. She was always cold in the winter; really, she felt very much like a reptile, cold-blooded and preferring to sit in the sun--with a parasol, of course. Freckles were unfashionable.

Hang fashion, Nathalie thought, plastering a smile on her face as she followed Gabriel to the main dais of the ballroom. HRH the Duchess of York and Albany was not the only royal in attendance at this ball; Queen Charlotte herself had arrived in style earlier in the evening.

As Gabriel had planned, there was no Master of Ceremonies present to introduce the guests to each other to facilitate dancing. Gabriel himself would do that, he’d said.

He’d told Nathalie that he’d put the scandal to rest tonight, though he didn’t tell her how. Gabriel had been infuriatingly secretive about his strategy to silence the naysayers.

Her part was to plan and host a winter gala. His part… She was unclear about what his part was, but as she stepped onto the stage behind him near the musicians, who Gabriel silenced with a wave of his hand, she began puzzling over it once again.

All eyes were locked on Gabriel and Nathalie. He held a hand out to her, and she took it, lacing her fingers with his.

What are you scheming, husband?

“May I have your attention, please?” Gabriel asked the gathering--superfluously, Nathalie thought. Everyone’s attention was focused on him. “Thank you.”

He cleared his throat and began to speak, the dynamic of his voice pitched to carry. “I’m pleased to have you all here tonight. Thank you for attending the gala of myself and my wife, Her Grace Nathalie Agreste. She has worked hard to cultivate invitations to the very best of the ton, and I’m sure you all appreciate her efforts.”

Nods ricocheted around the audience; most bobbed their heads while some of the party guests murmured their assent.

“Speaking of the ton...” Gabriel made a grand gesture starting with himself and then encompassing all of the people present. “You may have heard of a recent scandal that sullied my name.”

The murmurs increased in volume, but Gabriel made a cutting gesture that silenced them all. “I am here to expound upon this on-dit.” Gabriel frowned, glaring out at the listeners. “This gossip was spread as part of a malicious plot by the Earl of Warwick to slander me. I have engaged him in the courts in a defamation suit and petitioned the royal family to strip him of his title and lands for deplorable behavior.”

The audience was silent. Gabriel peeked at Nathalie out of the corner of his eye, and she could have sworn he wanted to wink at her. “But the rumors he spoke of are true: I won my wife’s hand in a bet.”

The spectators exploded, railing against Gabriel and Nathalie. She stood firm, choosing not to shrink from their outrage. If Gabriel had revealed the truth, he must have a good reason, Nathalie thought.

Gabriel turned to Nathalie then, staring directly at her. She felt stripped bare by his startlingly-blue gaze; he peered into her very soul, enrapturing her.

She would do anything for him.

“But let me make this clear,” Gabriel said, his voice a whip-crack that sliced through the din. The assembly reluctantly quieted. “I love my wife. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Nathalie is irreplaceable.”

Gabriel brushed his lips against her knuckles. “I bet fifty thousand pounds on her. And I now see that was far too little a sum for her worth.”

Nathalie kept her mouth shut, realizing Gabriel’s plan: he was proving to the naysayers that he loved her. She had a feeling she knew what he was going to do next, and eagerly watched him to see if she was right.

Gabriel smiled over her hand. “And now, if she’ll do me the honor of participating in the first dance of the evening, I’ll lead her out.”

Nathalie nodded, confirming that she’d agreed, and Gabriel swept her into his arms. With a sharp hand movement from him, the musicians began to play, and Nathalie’s feet flew over the dance floor.

She’d been right about Gabriel’s plan: by opening the ball with a speech declaring his love for her publicly, he’d cemented her status as his wife. When he’d led her out for the first dance even over any royalty there, he’d proclaimed her to be the highest-ranked lady in the room. His grand, romantic gesture wasn’t exactly a surprise to Nathalie, but it was much appreciated.

There would be no doubt in anyone’s mind--especially hers--that he found her worthy, despite the origin of their marriage.

Whispers floated up around the pair of them as they danced; clearly the ton was processing the events. Nathalie was worried about the reaction of Her Royal Highness, Queen Charlotte, but both she and HRH the Duchess of York and Albany were smiling at Gabriel.

Nathalie counted Fredrica a true friend; she’d have to thank her for quietly letting Nathalie know about the initial scandal and for tacitly approving of Gabriel’s gesture.

Nathalie knew that she’d have to soothe some feathers tonight. Gabriel had undoubtedly upset some people.

There was always work to be done. But while the music surrounded her and Gabriel held her close, she'd decided to enjoy his presence.

He was her husband and she was his wife, and he’d proven without a doubt that he loved her.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

Part III

Gabriel didn't know what he'd do without Nathalie.

A group of his tenant farmers had come to petition him for a raise, and since Nathalie had been managing the finances for the past several months, Gabriel needed to consult with her in private.

"What do you think, Nathalie?" Gabriel asked the woman sitting at her desk in his atelier, after he'd dismissed the deputation. "How have the farmers performed?"

"Over the past year," Nathalie said, flipping through paper in their portfolio, "the production rate of wheat on our farms has nearly doubled. Your choice to have the farmers adopt the French Norfolk four-course rotation last year greatly increased crop and livestock yields. It works much better than convertible husbandry."

Gabriel nodded, taking that in. Rather than allowing the land to lay fallow or unplanted, the Norfolk four-course rotation involved planting turnips and clover in the fall and winter to restore nutrients to the soil. Livestock could graze the turnip tops and roots during the winter months, which enabled more animals to be kept during the cold season, meaning more production of milk, wool, and meat.

“How are the Rotherham Swing Ploughs working out?”

“Foljambe’s innovation was an excellent investment on your part.” Nathalie took the papers back from him. “According to the steward, the farmers have described it as a perfect instrument for ploughing the fields.”

Gabriel stroked his chin. “And last year, I paid the farmers…?”

Nathalie held out a pad of papers, and he approached her desk to view the sheaf. Her tiny, elegant handwriting showed the cost of cultivating one hundred acres of land, including such costs as labor, manure, seed, interest, and wear and tear.

“Last year, in 1791, you paid each farmer eighty-five pounds per week, a tidy sum for any tenant.” She passed him another paper cataloguing the estate budget. “Considering the excellent crop yields, the farmers can each be given a raise to eighty-seven and a half pounds per week without impacting our profits.”

Gabriel rubbed his chin. “Labor costs seem to be escalating at a rapid rate lately. Whereas seed is seeing a steady increase, and manure swings wildly from year to year.”

“Industrialization is taking the forefront. Despite the yields being better than ever and the markets turning national, the importance of agriculture has decreased. The economy is shifting.” Nathalie peered at him, her face open and guileless. He trusted her opinion implicitly. “Considering the soaring cost of living and the mechanization of many tasks, the farmers are being squeezed.”

Gabriel tried tallying the figures in his head. “You think I should increase their wages?”

Nathalie raised a brow. “That’s up to you, Your Grace. I merely manage the finances; you are the landowner who makes the decisions that impact your tenants.”

Gabriel kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Nathalie. I’ll have a decision for you by the morrow.” He winked at her, causing her cheeks to bloom with a pretty dusky rose color. “Some might say I rely on you entirely too much, but I don’t think so.”

Nathalie’s pretty, red lips curved with a soft smile. “I just have a head for business, Your Grace. Thank you for allowing me to exercise it.”

“Indeed you do.” Gabriel beamed. “Everything is looking up, Nathalie. We’re in a revolution.”

Nathalie shuffled her papers. “With all due respect, Your Grace, production may be good, but we’re heading for a crash soon. This bubble can’t last long.”

Gabriel raised his brows. “You think we’re headed for a depression?”

Nathalie licked her lips. “Increased taxation, overabundance of crops, and fewer gentried subsidies are all contributing factors to economic depressions. We’re seeing all of that recently.”

“It’s 1792, Nathalie. Life is good.”

“I hope you’re right, Your Grace.” Nathalie tapped her papers on her desk. “I hope you’re right.”

***

The holiday season had arrived with a flurry of winter weather, and Nathalie was excited to visit the tenant families and give them the Christmas gifts she’d had prepared for them. She’d planned to take Adrien with her while he was on break from his preparatory school, but decided at the last minute to leave him at the country estate, citing concerns of an outbreak of illness in the village.

Gabriel had cautioned her against going, but as Nathalie saw the young children’s delighted faces upon opening their dolls and wooden tops, she knew she’d made the right choice.

“Bless your soul, Your Grace.” One beleaguered mother juggling twin infants thanked Nathalie profusely for the baby clothes Nathalie had given her. Nathalie could barely hear the young woman over her babies’ wails. “We’ve had a rough year with the passing of my father.”

“If you can,” Nathalie said, holding her hands out for one of the children, “send your husband to formally petition the Duke for relief, and we’ll take your loss into account.”

The mother handed the baby over, looking at Nathlie with such naked gratitude that Nathalie’s heart was fit to burst. “Thank you, madam.”

The little girl Nathalie was holding was soaked with urine. Nathalie didn’t know the first thing about baby care and had never bothered to learn; thankfully she hadn’t fallen pregnant yet.

She jostled the infant, shushing her and stroking her wisp of blond hair. “It’s all right, little one. Everything will be okay.”

Then the baby coughed, blood and spittle flying from her lips and landing on Nathalie’s face. Nathalie gasped. “She has consumption?”

“She does?” The mother looked horrified. “Oh, no! That’s what claimed my father!”

The mother joined her babies’ cries. Nathalie did her best to comfort the woman, but fled the house as soon as she could.

Nathalie covered her mouth with her handkerchief, trying not to infect Gabriel, who greeted her at the door just as he was heading outside. “Nathalie, hel--are you okay?”

Ignoring him, Nathalie bolted to her room, eschewing the help of her lady’s maid. Gabriel followed, and Nathalie slammed the door in his face.

She threw herself on the bed and wrapped herself around her pillows, trembling. Gabriel knocked on the door and entered, approaching her slowly, as if she were a wounded animal. “Nathalie?”

“Leave me, Gabriel,” Nathalie croaked, not bothering to look up at him. Was her throat sore already? Did she feel a tickle in the back of it? Was she going to cough? “I was exposed to consumption.”

Gabriel gasped. Nathalie felt a calm pass over her frantic mind. Consumption was contagious, but there was no guarantee she’d contracted the illness just from one visit.

Gabriel placed a tentative hand on her shoulder, and she choked on a sudden cry, surprising herself. She wasn’t of a mind to lament about this; she had to think logically and hope for the best. Crying wasn’t rational.

“Nathalie...” Gabriel’s voice sounded strained to her ears, as if he were broken by her death already. “How?”

Nathalie turned over, covering her mouth with the cloth again. “One of the tenant families I visited contracted the disease and didn’t inform us.”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “How dare they?” He reached for her hand, but she shied away, scooting to the edge of the bed. “I can’t lose you, Nathalie. I can’t.”

The thought of him losing her burned behind Nathalie’s eyes, pressurizing them. She felt the sting of tears high in her nose. She couldn’t leave him! Gabriel didn’t have a head for finances. Without her, he’d have to go back to struggling to maintain his budget.

And what would he do about Adrien? Gabriel can’t keep Adrien in boarding schools forever. He needs a tutor.

He needs a mother.

The fact that Nathalie would be the second mother Adrien would lose--the second wife Gabriel would lose--came out of her mouth in a strangled sob. She bit her lip to keep from keening, rocking back and forth in the bed.

Her agitated state broke down Gabriel’s defenses. He sagged to his knees, seizing the blankets in a white-knuckled grip and burying his face in them.

Nathalie reached out and gently shoved his shoulder, speaking through the handkerchief. “Go, Gabriel. You’ll be infected.”

Gabriel dropped the blanket, and from the wet spot on the cotton, she knew he’d been crying. His face was flushed and his eyes were swollen but surprisingly free of tears.

“I’ll get the surgeon.” Having assigned himself a task to do, Gabriel sprang to his feet. He moved purposefully to the door and jerked it open. “You’ll have the best care available for a woman of your breeding, and we’ll beat this together. You’ll see.”

But Nathalie knew it was too late. The surgeon couldn’t do anything.

The baby’s bloody sputum had dried on her face.

***

His wife was dying, and Gabriel was powerless to stop it.

He hated being useless.

Nathalie had developed a fever and a bloody cough three weeks after Christmas. Gabriel and Adrien couldn’t even spend the holidays with her; she’d been quarantined in their bedroom, with Gabriel stubbornly sleeping on the floor outside the door.

He was only allowed to see her for thirty minutes a day while wearing a cloth mask, and even then, the surgeon had discouraged Gabriel from staying any longer than necessary.

He wasn’t allowed to touch her. He wasn’t allowed to even sit within three feet of her. And oh, how he ached to let his fingers alight on the back of her hand, or to kiss her, or even just to be in the same space and be able to see her smile.

As Gabriel entered their room for his morning visit, Nathalie sounded like she was coughing up a shoe. The scent of medicine--useless ointments--and potions struck his nose, causing bile to floor his tongue. He sat in his chair six feet from the bed, which he’d commanded no one to move, and waited for her to be able to breathe normally.

When she looked up at him, his heart leapt in his chest. She was smiling--though he couldn’t see her lips behind her bloody mask, her eyes showed him the affection he so desperately craved.

“Nathalie…” Gabriel whispered, leaning forward as far as he was able. “Tell me you’ll pull through this. I need you to…”

But Nathalie shook her head. “I know you do. But I can’t promise anything.”

There she was, being calm and logical again. Gabriel hated it. He started to scoot forward in his chair, but a look from her stopped him.

“How’s Adrien?” she asked, and Gabriel couldn’t help but notice the subject change was for his benefit.

“He’s good. He’s read the etiquette manuals you’ve assigned; I had to buy him new ones.”

Another cough, another smile. “He’s always been a voracious reader.”

“He really is.” Gabriel brushed imaginary dirt off his cravat. He hated imaginary dirt. He hated a lot of things about this situation. “Look, Nathalie, I--”

“I need you to deliver a letter for me.”

The request was abrupt; Nathalie had never requested anything from him before, and this seemed so personal. “Of course, love. Of course I will. To whom?”

“Her Royal Highness Fredrica Charlotte, the Duchess of York and Albany.”

That made sense. HRH Charlotte was Nathalie’s friend and had supported Gabriel and Nathalie’s relationship from the very beginning. “Of course. Where’s the letter?”

Nathalie reached under her blankets and pulled out the envelope, sealed with her own red wax seal. Gabriel stood and took it from her, intentionally brushing his fingers against hers.

Gabriel sat back in his chair, fiddling with the little string under the letter’s seal. “So. Is there anything I can bring you? Anything that will… put your mind at ease before...”

Gabriel couldn’t say it. He couldn’t say “before you die” or “something that will ease your passage” or even “help you sleep,” because it was anyone’s guess as to when Nathalie’s next sleep would be permanent.

He’d lost his first wife to childbirth; he was losing his second wife to illness.

It just wasn’t fair.

“Nothing about this is fair,” Gabriel muttered, his dark mood infecting his tone. “I can’t stand the thought of you being…”

“Gone?” Nathalie smiled a little, her eyes shining. “No, none of this is fair. But fairness was never promised to us.”

He wished she’d cry; that might make him feel better. She was so calm and logical and accepting; it was as if she’d already given up and Gabriel abhorred that. Nathalie was a fighter; she shouldn’t be giving up on herself.

On him.

Gabriel stood abruptly. He couldn’t bear to be in her presence anymore. He bowed to her, etiquette masquerading as serenity. “Take care, Nathalie. Please.”

Nathalie was already looking out at the window. Snow had blanketed the grounds, and their son was out playing in it. “I will.”

Gabriel fled the room.

***

Nathalie watched Gabriel leave and bit back a sigh. He didn’t even stop to see her turn back to him after watching Adrien play in the snow.

Adrien. She was leaving him behind, too.

Nathalie couldn’t bear the thought. He was such a happy child; he deserved the world and more, and he’d be as affected by her death as his father would be.

Well. Maybe not that much.

“Gabriel…” Nathalie had done a lot of crying in the past few weeks, but never where anyone could see, and always before bed, so her eyes would be attractive in the morning.

She was a warrior; she wasn’t meant to show weakness. She was calm and rational. Someone needed to be. Throwing a fit about this situation was beneath her.

Nathalie rubbed at her aching chest, which was coated with slimy ointment. She tried to breathe in deeply, but that set off a wave of painful coughing that took several minutes to recover from. Chills wracked her body, and she lay in bed, trying to fight off the fever that had spiked.

“Nothing about this is fair,” Gabriel had said, and Nathalie wasn’t sure if she agreed.

She did not exactly regret visiting the tenant; the illness was not the baby’s fault, or the fault of the mother who’d bore her. Nathalie held no ill will towards the woman who’d lost her father and would probably lose her baby, too.

Fairness, Nathalie thought, drawing a shaky breath through her nose, is not something that we should expect.

Fairness wasn’t even something she deserved; fairness just was, or it wasn’t. And in this case, it wasn’t. Nathalie had no illusions about being robbed of her life before it was her time; this was her time. And it was her life, and she could choose to spend the end of it however she wanted to.

Nathalie replaced her bloody mask and sat down at her writing desk.

My dearest Gabriel, she wrote. I know you will miss me. I will miss you, too…

Chapter Text

Gabriel knew better than to ask what the letter he'd delivered said. But oh, his curiosity burned like an itch he couldn’t reach.

HRH Fredrica Charlotte sat in front of him with her lady's maid nearby. The Duchess tapped her lips with her fan as she read Nathalie's message, brow puckered.

Just when Gabriel could bear waiting no more, Her Royal Highness spoke.

"This is grave news indeed."

Grave news? Gabriel didn't think the pun was intentional, but he was incensed on Nathalie's behalf anyway. He curled his lip but refrained from baring his teeth, as that would be undignified.

He’d never bare his teeth at a lady even as much as he wanted to.

Isn’t this woman supposed to be Nathalie’s friend?

Her Royal Highness set the letter down on the table between them, and Gabriel had to school his eyes not to look down to read the contents.

“Thank you, Gabriel, for bringing this to me,” she said, fanning herself. The room was sweltering; Gabriel had noticed she’d installed a more-efficient Rumford fireplace, which only the very wealthy could own.

Having bundled up, Gabriel was sorely tempted to remove his tail coat, but he was already seated, and he wasn’t about to stand, especially not to strip in front of a lady.

Her Royal Highness leaned forward in her wingback chair. “I’ll not tell you what she’s asked of me. You’ll find out soon enough. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to compose a response to Her Grace and have you deliver it.”

Gabriel’s brows rose. He’d expected HRH to compose a response, but he’d also expected the woman to let him know what Nathalie had asked. But pressing the Duchess would be bad form. “I can do that,” he said, trying to not let the reluctance creep into his tone. “You probably shouldn’t visit.”

“Heavens, no.” Her Royal Highness’ eyes widened. Frowning, she lowered her fan into her lap. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I truly am. Nathalie is my friend, and I am sad to see what fate has befallen her.”

Her Royal Highness seemed to want to say more, so Gabriel remained stoically silent.

“My advising you at this juncture would be inappropriate.” Her Royal Highness shook her head, offering him a sad, fond look. “But I hope that in time, you and I can become friends, and I can offer you a listening ear when you need it.”

Never, Gabriel thought, consumed by bitterness. You’ll remind me too much of the wife that’s being stolen from me.

“I would be delighted.”

***

The worst part about dying, Nathalie thought, was that she was starved for touch.

She hadn’t realized until she’d married Gabriel how much she relished the physical contact between two adults. Not love-making, necessarily, but the way his fingers would alight on the back of her hand, or how he’d kiss the top of her head at night, or his firm embraces that told her everything was right in the world.

But now that she was contagious, he couldn’t do any of those things, and oh, how Nathalie missed his touch.

She missed his lips, too, the way they’d turn up at one of the corners in a half-smile reserved only for her. His smirks, his boyish delight at spending money on her--even though she thought that was ridiculous--or the way his eyes would light up every time she entered the room.

He wasn’t smiling any more.

Ever since she’d contracted tuberculosis, Nathalie hadn’t seen him smile once. He looked haggard, barely sleeping at all on the floor outside her sickroom, and avoiding going in at all costs.

At the thought of him avoiding her, Nathalie’s pen skittered across the paper, staining it in some places. She bit her lip. Shoot. She crumpled the letter up, intending to throw it into the fire. I’ll have to write another one.

Nathalie stood from her desk, adjusting her cloth mask on her face. She’d had to change the last three because of bloody phlegm, but she had high hopes that this one would stay clean for a bit.

The tailor must be making a fortune, given how many masks I’ve been going through.

That was a silly thought, and Nathalie smiled a little despite herself. The tailor wasn’t making her masks--Beatrix, her lady’s maid, was.

Like Gabriel, Nathalie had so little to smile about these days that she took whatever amusement she could garner out of small things.

Nathalie knew Gabriel was scared, but she needed him there. Not to be told what to do--losing the management of her home to the housekeeper was yet another loss to bear--but for him to listen to her fears.

But he couldn’t handle that.

She’d decided to allow herself to be frustrated with him in private. Nathalie was writing him a treasure trove of goodbye letters stuffed to the brim with advice on how she would have raised Adrien, how to manage the finances, and how to move on after her passing.

She hoped they’d help. But she had no guarantee that Gabriel would listen to the advice of a dead woman.

Nathalie took the crumpled paper off her desk and crossed to the fireplace, where a comfortable fire crackled. She tossed the letter in, sifting through the coals with the iron poker.

Nathalie allowed the fire to warm her face and hands; if she didn’t ward off the chill, she might catch her death.

That made her laugh.

Bitterly, until tears spilled over her cheeks and a flush filled them, warming her in ways she didn’t want to be warm.

Nathalie had promised herself she wouldn’t cry in front of anyone--only at night, where she would listen to Gabriel tossing and turning outside her door and indulge in a spell of self-pity.

It wasn’t night.

So Nathalie drew a deep, cleansing breath--and coughed her way out of another mask. She groaned, walking to the trash to dispose of the bloody cloth. Then she crossed to her linen closet, opening it up to retrieve yet another mask--and a rag to clean her face off with.

She could be practical. She could be rational. She could be logical.

Nathalie had to be all of those things, because dying wasn’t.

***

Gabriel tossed and turned outside the door to his former bedroom, finding no comfortable place to sleep at two in the morning. His back ached; his joints ached; his heart ached.

In a fit of pique, he threw off his covers and stomped downstairs, intending to go to the kitchens, where there’d be sure to be a fire and no one around.

Rain stalked him through the halls; a cloudburst had opened up the heavens, and Gabriel could hear the drops striking the roof.

Listening to a clap of thunder, Gabriel’s mood blackened even further. He waffled over avoiding having a nightcap so he didn’t give into temptation and drink himself to death.

And why shouldn’t I? Gabriel thought, consumed by bitterness. He slammed his feet into the floor just outside the kitchens. There’s no reason for me not to--

Opening the door revealed Adrien, red-eyed and shivering in a thin nightshift. He was barefoot, and Gabriel’s first, yet absurd, thought was that the seven-year-old needed to put on socks immediately. Adrien was clutching a half-drunk glass of milk, and looked so alone in the huge kitchen that Gabriel’s heart went out to him.

Ah, Gabriel thought, watching Adrien make the bows children made to their parents when greeting them. There’s my reason to live.

He approached Adrien cautiously, afraid the boy might spook. “Adrien. What are you doing out of bed?”

Adrien gave him a pained grimace. “I couldn’t sleep, Father.”

“Nightmares?”

Adrien’s green eyes--so much like Emilie’s--welled with tears. He bit his lip and nodded, gripping the glass as if it might run away from him. When he spoke, he said his words so softly that Gabriel had to strain his ears to hear.

“I have so many now.”

Gabriel didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know whether Adrien wanted to talk about his bad dreams--Gabriel knew that he, as a child, wanted to talk about his own nightmares, but his own parents never allowed him to.

Gabriel was flummoxed about the right parenting move to make. Should he be stoic, like his own parents and society called him to be, or should he be empathetic?

Adrien made the choice for him. The boy asked a simple question, one that stunned Gabriel.

“When will you die, Father?”

That’s a thoughtless question. Gabriel bit down on his knee-jerk reaction to tell the boy off, realizing that’s not what Adrien needed at the moment.

“I don’t know when I’ll die,” Gabriel said instead, furrowing his brow. "I can't promise I'll stay forever, but I can promise that you'll be well-taken care of."

The little boy's eyes were wide and terrified. "By who?"

"By whom, Adrien." Gabriel felt a curl of irritation in his throat, tightening it, though whether it was from his son's incorrect grammar or the discomfort of not having all the answers, Gabriel couldn't say. "I… You shouldn't worry about who will take care of you. I'll worry about that."

Adrien's shoulders relaxed a fraction, but then tensed up again. "Why is Mama dying?"

Gabriel sucked a breath over his teeth. Adrien calling Nathalie "Mama" was like a searing brand to Gabriel's heart.

"Because life's unfair," he barked, but when Adrien flinched, Gabriel softened his tone. "Because she caught an illness called tuberculosis. It ruins her lungs, so she can't breathe."

Adrien nodded. "Okay."

Gabriel grit his teeth. Nothing about this situation is remotely okay.

Adrien shied away from him, so Gabriel forced himself to relax. In the back of his mind, he recognized this moment as a pivotal one for his relationship with his son. Gabriel drew a breath in through his nose and counseled patience.

"Do you have any more questions, son?" Gabriel asked, dreading the answer.

“Did I make Mama die?”

A cold pit opened up in the pit of Gabriel's stomach. He'd blamed Adrien for Emilie's death for years. Had the boy picked up on that? "Which one?”

Adrien flinched. “Both of them.”

Gabriel crouched down in front of his young son, placing a hand on his shoulder. “No, son. You aren’t at fault for either of them passing.”

Adrien's hand trembled on the glass of milk, nearly spilling it. Gabriel took the drink and set it on the kitchen's wooden island just in time, because Adrien launched himself at his father, wrapping his arms around the man's middle. Adrien buried his face in Gabriel's stomach and sobbed.

Gabriel froze. He wasn't prepared for such a display of emotion. Without Nathalie to help him navigate this thorny issue, how was Gabriel going to raise his son?

He awkwardly patted Adrien on the back, not knowing whether he should encircle his son with his arms or… what?

Adrien continued keening, clinging to Gabriel with all the strength the youth had in him. Gabriel knew he had to get his son to stop crying or he’d wake up the whole house.

As Adrien’s breath hitched, Gabriel felt a stirring of compassion behind his breastbone. He wrapped his arms around the boy, drawing him into a firm embrace against Gabriel’s chest. Cupping the back of the seven-year-old’s blond head, Gabriel murmured soft nothings, telling him everything was going to be fine.

“Sssh, sssh, you’ll be okay.” Gabriel carded his fingers through Adrien’s soft hair. “You’ll see. Everything hurts now, but we’ll be okay.”

We. Gabriel hadn’t meant to use the ‘we.’ He didn’t know if he’d be okay after Nathalie’s death.

But he had to be. Somehow.

For his son.

As Adrien wiped his nose on his father’s nightshift, Gabriel drew him back to look him in the eyes. “Don’t do that.”

Adrien sniffled. “S’rry.”

Gabriel released him and patted his head. “Good night, Adrien. You should be able to sleep now.”

Adrien’s lower lip quivered. Gabriel didn’t know whether the boy was going to burst into tears again, so the man braced himself.

But Adrien nodded instead. “I’ll try, Father.” He wiped his nose with his fingers. “I’ll try.”

Chapter Text

Nathalie had never died before.

Despite the process being instrumental to the human condition--after all, everyone she’d ever known who’d been remotely close to death had died--she’d never felt so alone.

And so exhausted, too. Dying was tiring. She felt she had so very much to do--galas to plan, children to educate, husbands to romance--and yet she couldn’t manage to do any of it from her sickbed.

If she was a woman of prayer, she would have prayed for a quick death, if just to end the boredom. But she knew Gabriel wouldn’t be able to handle not saying goodbye.

He sat in front of her on his chair, practically squirming. Gabriel looked pained, as if both wanted to fold her into a passionate embrace and flee at the same time.

“How’s Adrien?” she said, sounding croaky to her own ears. The coughing was taking a toll on her voice.

Adrien was the one topic they could agree on without Gabriel running away. The finances--no good. Her current condition--no good. What happens after she passes--absolutely terrible.

Gabriel grimaced. “Still having nightmares.”

“Have you given him any laudanum?”

“Yes, but I’m worried that he might get addicted.” Gabriel rubbed at his forehead. The way he was squinting made Nathalie think he had a headache. “I just… I don’t know what to do with him. After you’re…”

His eyes took on a glassy sheen and he turned his face away.

Nathalie floundered for words. “Well, you can see to his education. Keep him in the preparatory school and get someone to help you with applying to Eton.”

Gabriel turned back to her, his hands forming into an odd shape, as if he were holding a pencil. Nathalie wondered if he wanted to take notes. “Good idea.”

Nathalie knew Gabriel would fare better if someone told him what to do. That’s why their relationship worked; he came to her for direction, which she was only too happy to provide.

But now that she was dying…

Nathalie’s letters took on a new meaning to her now. She needed to write him instructions. In the meantime, she could give him what advice she could.

“Don’t stress the bo--” Nathalie started, but she was overcome by a wave of coughing. Gabriel started towards her, but she raised her hand to get him to stop. He did, but he still bit his lip, lurching out of his chair to stand behind it.

“As I was saying,” Nathalie said, knowing the bloody mask would disconcert him, “do not stress the boy. You will undoubtedly feel many strong emotions after I pass. Adrien has your brains. He’ll pick up on the way you’re feeling just from the way your face scrunches.”

Gabriel gripped the back of his chair. “So do I just… not feel things?”

“No, not at all.” Nathalie shook her head. “But make sure that you tell him he’s not responsible for what you feel.”

Gabriel nodded eagerly, his knuckles whitening. “What else?”

“Spend time with him.” Nathalie coughed into her fist, once. “And develop a daily routine where he gets to see you at least once a day. Predictable routines are good; the structure will help him settle and eventually thrive.”

Gabriel blinked at her. “Where are you getting all of this advice?”

“I’m telling you how I wanted to be raised as a child but wasn’t.” Nathalie folded her thin, pale hands into her lap. “Due to the deficiencies of my parents, I needed to impose my own structure as an adult, and I learned how to do it to my own satisfaction.”

She cleared her throat, afraid she might set off another wave of coughing but her throat cooperated. “And I’ve noticed that when I’ve imposed structure on Adrien, he has thrived.”

Gabriel unclenched and clenched his fists. “I should be taking notes.”

I knew it. Nathalie pointed to her writing desk. “I have paper here.”

Gabriel crossed to her desk and sat down. Nathalie wondered if he was relieved he didn’t have to look at her frail body. She’d lost a great amount of weight, and was practically wasting away while still living.

He glanced over her shoulder with a tiny smile. “Please, Nathalie. Tell me about your daily routine.”

“Gladly.”

***

Gabriel had never seen Nathalie cry before, and he was terrified.

Thunder raged all around their bedroom, and tears streaked down Nathalie’s sunken cheeks. She was composed of bones covered by a thin mesh of pale skin, and Gabriel couldn’t bear the sight of her like this.

He held her hand--contagion be damned--as coughs racked her thin body in between times when she half-dozed, feverish and soaked in night sweat. Her fingers trembled in his as she suffered chills; because of the weight she’d lost, she was always cold and no amount of blankets or roaring fire could help her.

But now she was crying.

“Gabriel,” she croaked, her mask stained bright, bright red. “I’m scared.”

Gabriel knew he couldn’t leave her to face death alone. And he also knew that tonight was the night--she was dying.

And true to form, she would not go quietly.

“Nathalie.” Gabriel felt his own tears well in his eyes. “Don’t go.”

Nathalie’s breathing turned ragged, though from pain or emotion, Gabriel couldn’t tell. Soon, it slowed, and she appeared to be dozing again. Her clammy hand went slack in his.

Gabriel didn’t dare release her. Nathalie was acting strange; he didn’t think she’d be so tired as to fall asleep.

But her chest didn’t rise and fall under the sheet.

Sudden lightning lit up her features, casting an eerie glow on her peaceful face in repose.

In death.

Gabriel dropped her hand, shooting to his feet. His fingers flew to his mouth, and he bit down on his knuckles, tears streaming down his face.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye!” Gabriel stomped over to her writing desk, scattering the papers and writing implements there. He whipped his hand out to grasp the glass ball he’d made her at a glassblower’s for fun, and hurled it against the wall. Thunder covered the shattering sound, so he broke a pencil cup to listen to the noise he’d made.

He overturned the writing desk, breaking off one of the legs. Rage consumed him; his vision in the dim room was as bright red as her mask.

The tears wouldn’t come. His eyes burned with all the fire Gabriel had in him, but his eyes remained stubbornly dry.

Gabriel flew to their wardrobe, ripping one of the doors off the top hinge. He tossed her clothes on the floor, looking for one particular dress--the one she’d had tailored for him to match the peacock brooch he’d bought her.

When he found it, he buried his face in the cloth, smothering a keening howl and sinking to his knees. Gabriel wept without tears into the dress, breathing in Nathalie’s scent on each inhale. His shoulders shook and his breath ripped through his throat.

By the time he stopped wailing, his face was hot and he was utterly spent. He dropped the dress, letting his hands remain loose at his sides as he raised his head to the ceiling.

“Why?” Gabriel barely recognized his voice striking his ears. “Why, God, why?”

His marriage was over before it had begun. She’d been his for a mere eleven months.

Nothing was fair.

Gabriel didn’t know where to turn.

He sat on the floor of the room until the fire burned out and the cold made his joints stiff.

And all he could ask was why, why, why?

***

Gabriel sat in the wingback chair of his atelier, staring Her Royal Highness the Duchess of York and Albany down. Since Nathalie had died three weeks ago, Gabriel hadn’t bathed. He knew he looked haggard, having hardly slept or eaten.

He’d refused audiences with everyone, including the Duchess, but then he was promptly reminded by a calling card--a note practically dropped at his feet by his valet--that HRH was royal, and thus outranked him.

Gabriel scowled at the woman who’d demanded an audience with him. He was breaking all manner of protocol and would undoubtedly be punished by the ton, but he cared so little for their collective opinion, he was tempted to tell them all to go hang.

“What,” he gritted out, heedless of decorum, “do you want?”

“Tut, tut.” The Duchess lifted her tea cup the housekeeper had provided her to her lips. She took a sip of the tea--the first brewing; the servants would enjoy the second and third brewings later, Gabriel was sure--and set the cup down on the saucer resting on the table between them. “You need to bathe, Gabriel. You smell rancid.”

Did you come here just to tell me to bathe? Gabriel bit down on his irritation, beating his tone into a more acceptable shape. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

The Duchess waved a hand, making a gesture as if to take in all of him. “You’re falling apart. Have you even seen your son lately?”

“He’s at preparatory school.” Gabriel’s excuse sounded wooden and wrong to his own ears. “I’m busy.”

“Busy doing what?” A fire roared in the fireplace, and the Duchess used the polescreen the servants had provided her to shield her face so her heavy cosmetics wouldn’t melt. She leaned forward, into his space. “The ton has noticed your absence.”

“I’m a grieving man.” Gabriel folded his arms. “They should allow me some space.”

“Now you’re just being petulant.” The Duchess clucked her tongue. “I have something for you. I’d advise you to take it for what it’s worth.”

As she reached into the tortoiseshell bag she’d brought with her, Gabriel peered at her, raising his brows. She pulled out an open portfolio of envelopes that Gabriel assumed were letters addressed to him. “What are these?”

“She wrote them.”

Gabriel’s stomach bottomed out. He felt a vicious sense of vertigo while he was still sitting. He didn’t realize he’d said, “What?” until a few moments later.

His voice sounded both raspy and barren to his ears, a stranger’s voice. It was rusty from disuse and his own howling in the middle of the night when he would turn over in his bed and not find Nathalie there.

Her Royal Highness pressed the portfolio into his hands before he’d noticed she’d risen from her chair. “There. Now you have them. She wanted me to give them to you for whatever reason.”

The letter I delivered to Her Royal Highness. Of course. Everything suddenly made sense, like tumblers falling into place in a lock. He clung to the portfolio when he wanted nothing more than to fling it from him.

Staring up at the Duchess, wide-eyed and letters in hand, Gabriel was struck with a sense of unease as never before. He hardly knew this woman, and yet Nathalie had trusted her with her dying words?

And Her Royal Highness had brought them to him?

Gabriel’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

The Duchess offered him a small, sad smile. “How about a thank you?”

“Thank you,” Gabriel managed, swallowing bile.

The Duchess sat in her chair again. “I loved her, too, you know. If you want, we can exchange memories sometime.” Her Royal Highness sighed. “Nathalie was a fascinating woman. I’d love to hear more about her.”

Gabriel’s fingers tightened on the portfolio. His immediate reaction was to try to send Her Royal Highness away even though she outranked him.

But…

Gabriel was exhausted. Grieving was an active process--one that kept him tossing and turning and sobbing into dresses that were already beginning to lose Nathalie’s scent.

Grieving also felt like an interminable process; he didn’t know when this pain would end, if ever. Having lost Emilie, he knew without a doubt that he’d return to a semblance of normalcy eventually, but he didn’t want to.

He wanted to rage and cry and rail against God.

But after three weeks, that had begun to grow tiring.

Nathalie wouldn’t want you to be this way, Gabriel thought, feeling the texture of the portfolio under his fingers. Nathalie would want me to extend an olive branch.

She always did have my best interests at heart.

Gabriel sighed, addressing Her Royal Highness. “That would be… delightful.”

“No, it wouldn’t.” The Duchess’ coiffed wig bounced as she shook her head. Her sharp, assessing gaze softened. “At least, not at first.”

Gabriel pressed his lips together. “Yes. Yes, you’re quite right.”

The Duchess did a little movement with her shoulders that Gabriel thought might be a shrug, but no lady would do anything so undignified. “But perhaps, eventually…?”

Gabriel lowered his head. “Perhaps.”

For now, he had a portfolio to deal with. The folder burned under his fingers, searing a hole in his chest where he’d pressed it against himself.

Gabriel excused himself once he thought the Duchess had been properly attended to--or, rather, when he found he could no longer abide her presence.

He absconded with the portfolio to his bedroom, where no one would bother him, finding it warmed by a new fire. The winter months were still besieging the manor and the servants were quick to stoke fires.

The fire gave him enough room to read by, he reasoned, so he sat in a wingback chair by the crackling hearth.

Gabriel toyed with the string of the portofolio. Unexpectedly, he had no sense of curiosity about the contents; they were like leaden weights on his lap, pressing him into the chair’s cushions.

What could Nathalie have possibly said? Gabriel rubbed at his eyes. As always, they were dry. What does she want from me?

Gabriel decided enough was enough. He tore into the case, plucking out a letter at random. The envelope was addressed to him in Nathalie’s elegant script, saying, “Open when you miss me terribly.”

Gabriel snorted. He could have used this letter three weeks ago, when he was holding her hand that stormy night.

Using his fingers, he ripped the envelope open at the top and retrieved the folded message.

”Dear Gabriel,” Nathalie had written. But though he heard the words in her voice, Gabriel could read no further. Finally, finally, tears were stinging his eyes, but they were full of white-hot anger, because he’d seen the words, “please move on.”

He leapt from his chair, hurling the entire portfolio into the fire.

The blaze licked at the case, curling its edges and lighting up its contents immediately. With dawning horror, Gabriel realized what he’d done.

Panting, he staggered over to the fireplace, kneeling on the hot stone before it. Desperate, he thrust his hands into the flames, feeling his skin blister and blacken as he tried to pull the portfolio out.

Dropping the case on the ground and stomping on it with his foot, Gabriel choked out a sob. His fingers were flooded with pain, but that wasn’t why he was crying: Nathalie was gone, and he’d burned the last vestige of her he had left. The letters were charred beyond recognition, with Nathalie’s words of what he assumed was advice lost to the ether.

Gabriel sank to his knees, burying his face in his scorched hands. He knew he had to get them treated before he scarred, but he cared not a whit for himself.

Nathalie was gone. He’d burned her.

She was gone.

Chapter Text

Days dragged onto weeks, weeks dragged onto months, and months dragged onto years.

His hands recovered, but the fire left white scars as thin as filament--as delicate as lace--stretched across his fingers as a reminder of what he’d done.

Gabriel struck up a tentative friendship with Her Royal Highness the Duchess of York and Albany, sharing as many memories of Nathalie with her as his fragile heart would allow. She was the only member of the ton he would entertain, and as such, he became a recluse, a social pariah who only sometimes received invitations to social events.

Adrien went to Eton. Gabriel hardly saw the boy, so the man was stunned when his son had bloomed into a young man without Gabriel noticing.

On the anniversary of Nathalie’s death, sixteen years later, Gabriel realized that he, too, was dying, and quickly. Adrien, the Marquis of Orwell, had no marriage or heir to pass on the estate, and Gabriel wanted nothing more than to see his grandchildren before he died.

So he summoned the boy--young man, he was now twenty-four, after all--to the London estate and waited for him in Gabriel’s atelier, under the ever-watchful eye of Emilie’s portrait. Adrien arrived late in the evening; by the time he’d opened the door, Gabriel was so wrapped up in tallying the finances that he’d barely noticed.

“Sir,” Adrien said to announce himself.

Gabriel barely glanced up. “You’re filthy.”

What on earth have you gotten into, boy? Gabriel had told Adrien how important appearance was to a duke. Gabriel focused on his papers, but didn’t miss the way Adrien’s cheeks colored. The boy will have to learn, and quickly.

“Your summons sounded urgent,” Adrien said. “I did not stop for a bath after my journey.”

Gabriel nodded. Adrien was right; the summons was urgent, so even though Gabriel would have preferred a fresher-smelling son, Adrien did come when called. To business, then. “I have decided it is time for you to marry and produce an heir.”

Adrien didn’t seem to have a response, which was to his credit, so Gabriel continued. “I will give you the end of the current season to select a suitable bride; if you do not choose one in that time, one will be selected for you. That is all.”

Adrien blinked. Then he bowed. “As you wish, Father.”

“That is all,” the Duke said, and Adrien bowed once more and departed, dismissed.

Nathalie raised him well.

Gabriel shuffled his papers, his rings catching the light. He’d taken to wearing both wedding rings in honor of his two wives. As was his nightly wont, he placed the day’s work away in the drawers of his writing desk and pulled out the papers he knew he wanted to look at: Nathalie’s tally of the finances.

After he’d burned her letters, he’d tore through his desk and found Nathalie’s work. He treasured every scrap of her writing, every last piece of her preserved in the loops and curves of her cursive.

Gabriel looked over the papers, his heart swelling at the crisp, professional handwriting.

Seed. Manure. Labor.

All costs that had inflated over the years, to levels even Nathalie would have been stunned by.

He kissed the date--1792. Then he put the papers away in their case in the drawer, and stood to kiss Emilie’s portrait.

“Good night, my loves,” Gabriel whispered, knowing he would join them soon. “Good night.”