“Wherein fate takes a hand.”

Gabriel breathed a sigh of relief as he set his foot down on the cobbles. It was raining in Bath and the streets were sodden and mucky with slush, but at least here he was free from the unnerving presence of Miss Holbrook and her strangely determined pursuit of him.

Why she had decided on him, he simply could not fathom. Surely, a young woman with looks like hers would be inundated with offers? Gabriel had to concede at this point that Miss Holbrook was quite astonishingly lovely. Certainly enough to make any normal red-blooded male overlook her lack of fortune. Though then her letters came to mind, and all the peculiar little gifts she’d sent him over the years, and he experienced a qualm of misgiving. That kind of behaviour, the subject matter of her conversations … none of that would be received well by any man of the ton that he could bring to mind.

Well, whatever. It was her future husband’s problem, and not his, thank God.

Then he remembered her astonishing revelation that she had no desire to marry - any man but him, that was. A more conceited man might preen a little at that, but the idea crawled beneath Gabriel’s skin and prickled at him like ants on the march beneath his flesh. What was going on in the poor child’s head that she should desire a man like him over … over anyone?

He shook his head, refusing to think about her a moment longer. He had visited the house of Mrs Wilkins and her exotic ladies yesterday, as was his usual routine, but even Mary’s company had failed to relieve him of the vaguely unsettled feeling that was making him so on edge. The idea that Miss Holbrook could appear on his doorstep at any moment was unnerving, and though he was determined to prosecute her as he’d threatened, he found no delight in the idea.

So he had left.

Instead, he turned his thoughts to his cousin, in whom he was really rather disappointed. Edward believed him responsible for the attack on his sister’s husband, Aubrey Russell, and yet he’d done nothing about it to date. At the least, Gabriel had been expected to be called out, but so far … nothing. That Edward was suffering, that his mind was unbalanced after his experiences in France, all of that was well known, and Gabriel had hoped it enough to make sure the man would act rashly and come for his blood. But he’d been disappointed.

Not for the first time, the idea of him and Edward facing each other in a dual came to mind. Gabriel was by far the better shot and knew that he would fell his cousin, with no difficulty and fewer regrets. Yet the more tantalising idea, the one that kept him awake at night, was to allow his shot to go wide and to pray Edward was competent enough to kill him outright. It was such a peaceful idea that Gabriel almost longed for it.

Then it would be over.

He might have failed, but at least he would no longer care. Dead men couldn’t be haunted after all..

Gabriel stared up at the imposing architecture of Bath Abbey and sighed. Well, now he was here and far from the wiles of a certain irritating young woman, but now what? He didn’t have the slightest idea what to do with himself. That being the case, he did what he always did when at a loss and headed to the nearest book shop. He spent more on books than he cared to think about, but they were at least an escape from real life, and one which he need not relinquish control of his senses to enjoy. For that pleasure, he’d pay any price, and it wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford it.

That being the case, the rather obsequious owner of the book shop’s eyes lit up at seeing DeMorte come through the door. Gabriel waved the man away like an irritating blue bottle and settled himself to perusing the shelves. He’d secured a room in his usual hotel where the staff were well aware of his peculiarities. His demand for punctuality, his need for absolute order, and for things just as he liked them was accepted as he paid well, and so he was reasonably content that a peaceful evening awaited him. It would be far more pleasant, however, with a good book to keep him company.

It wasn’t as if anyone else would.

Gabriel was a little startled by the bitterness of that thought and wondered where it had come from. He didn’t have to think too hard as Miss Holbrook’s lovely face swam into his thoughts along with her breathless desire to be his friend.

Though he didn’t doubt the authenticity of her words, Gabriel snorted with disgust at the idea. That might be what she thought she wanted, he muttered inwardly, remembering the desire he’d seen in her eyes. What she was likely to get if she carried on in such a manner was a man to take her in hand and show her what it meant to play with fire.

Except it was only him she played with.

The words were vehement, and he was a little startled by the revulsion he felt at the idea she’d act this way with anyone else. He squashed the idea. He knew her, knew that she was genuine, if peculiar, and for some reason he could not fathom, she had settled upon him. He found himself strangely soothed by this idea, which was disturbing in itself. Once again, he pushed thoughts of her away from him with irritation, forcing a book back onto the shelves with rather too much vigour and earning himself a tut of reproach from a rather dandyish-looking fellow standing beside him.

Gabriel glowered and the man moved away with haste.

Dammit.

He’d come to Bath to escape the blasted woman and still she plagued him.

Gabriel picked up another book and flicked through the pages, settling on a description of the heroine and her “fine eyes.” He scowled, remembering another pair of exceedingly fine eyes and trying to remember if they’d really been that strange shade of lilac grey that they appeared to be in his mind’s eye. Then he remembered the heat he’d seen in them, the way her heartbeat had fluttered beneath his fingertips whilst his hand had rested on her slender neck. He could have kissed her then, he could have plundered her mouth and she would not have resisted.

She would have welcomed him in.

He wondered if she would have made the slightest protest if he had taken her to his bedroom there and then. The idea that she would have accepted his advances with enthusiasm, that she would coil her lovely limbs around him and cry his name out was sudden and forceful, and left him rigid with desire.

He cursed, mortified at being so afflicted in a bloody bookshop, of all places!

What the hell was wrong with him? Virgins had never held the slightest appeal for him. What was the point in dallying with a woman who hadn’t the slightest idea of how to please a man, and would likely weep all over him after the deed was done?

No, thank you.

And yet, the idea of teaching Miss Holbrook a thing or two made his mouth grow dry.

“Hello.”

Gabriel jolted, horrified as his nemesis seemed to materialise in front of him. Oh, good God. He’d lost his mind completely. For surely she could not be standing in front of him now, here in Bath, in a bloody bookshop, and with him as hard for her as he’d ever been in his life before.

Please God, just let him be mad. It would be easier to deal with.

God, however – unsurprisingly - was not on his side.

“You can’t prosecute me,” she said in a hurry, her lovely lilac – yes, lilac - eyes just a little anxious. “I had no idea you’d be here, after all, and it is a public place.”

Gabriel groaned and was thankful for the greatcoat he wore as it covered up his discomfort.

“My God, I’m doomed,” he muttered, glaring at her and finding his temper flickering to life at the amusement in her eyes.

“Is my company such a dreadful fate to endure, my lord?” she asked with such an innocent lilt to her voice that he snorted.

“Yes.”

He turned his back on her and walked away, deciding to look at the philosophy books instead, surely a young woman would not be interested in … He dared to glance up from the book he held to see her standing beside him, her nose buried in The Phenomenology of the Spirit by Hegel.

“You cannot be serious,” he exclaimed, too incredulous at her choice of title to be provoked by the fact she’d followed him.

She wrinkled her nose in confusion, which he refused to find the least bit endearing and then she looked really a little annoyed.

“I’ve read it before,” she said with cool dignity.

“You have not,” he retorted, before good sense told him to keep his blasted mouth shut and move away.

She stared back at him, a challenging gleam in her eyes as she shut the book with a snap and handed it to him.

“The preface reads …” She cleared her throat and took a breath as she began to recite. “‘To help to bring philosophy nearer to the form of science – that goal where it can lay aside the name of love of knowledge and be actual knowledge – that is what I have set before me.’”

Gabriel stared back at her, refusing to acknowledge that he was impressed.

“Go on, then,” she said, waving an airy hand at him and looking appallingly smug. “Look it up.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You could have just read that line this moment.”

“I did not!” she exclaimed, looking at though she wanted to stamp her foot.

He believed her, of course. She was strange and annoying and always bloody there, but she was no liar. Gabriel chuckled and was immediately alarmed by the delight in her eyes, by the smile that spread over her sweet mouth like a dawning sun. Feeling quite revolted by his sudden romanticism, Gabriel thrust the book back at her and moved away again.

“Leave me alone, Miss Holbrook,” he muttered as he discovered she’d followed him once more and was watching his perusal of the novels with interest.

“No, my lord,” she whispered, moving a little closer to him.

Gabriel sighed and determined to ignore her. All he had to do was pick a book, any book, even if he already had the bloody thing, he didn’t care. He picked one up at random and flicked to the first page. Miss Holbrook came closer and, to his astonishment, leaned into him, her hand covering his as she made him lower the book so she could see what it was.

“Oh no,” she said, her voice low and intimate and rather breathless, as though she knew she was dancing around flames and was daring them to burn her. “Don’t read that one. You’ll be horribly bored. I was,” she said, looking up at him from under her lashes once more. “And … I should hate to think of you sitting all alone tonight, and … bored.”

He stared back at her.

Before he had actually thought about it, before the conscious acceptance of the idea had even flitted into his mind and been quite rejected because it was Miss Holbrook and they were in a public place, for the love of God … he’d moved.

The book fell to the floor, quite forgotten as he grasped her by the wrists and forced her up against the bookshelves, his body pressing against hers, hard and unforgiving against her softness.

She gasped, but didn’t shriek, didn’t look appalled or shocked or horrified. No. The wretch lifted her mouth and stood on tiptoes.

Gabriel refused to kiss her. Refused to play this game she was intent on. He did not toy with innocents. He had no desire for them, he never had. Except Miss Holbrook was by now very well aware that this was a lie, so there was little point in voicing his indignation. She could feel his desire, as there wasn’t a breath of space between them and it was hard to miss.

“Do you think of me, at night?” he asked, the words out before he could stop them, wanting to know if she was just a silly child with romantic dreams, or a woman who fantasised about what might truly happen between them if he was to allow it.

“You know I do,” she replied, without hesitation or embarrassment, and with no trace of the virginal coyness or timidity that would have had him taking to his heels. She stared up at him, her gaze bold and enquiring. Watching him as if she wondered what he would do next.

Gabriel wondered, too.

“You want me to kiss you,” he said, the words a fact, not a question.

She smiled at him and nodded. “Yes, please,” she replied, all eager willingness. As though she were famished and he’d offered her tea and cakes.

“I’m not going to,” he snarled, angry at her for tormenting him, for unsettling his life and interfering with his plans. He had no time for her, no need for her, no desire …

“That’s all right,” she said, her voice soft and amused. “I’ll kiss you instead.”

Before he could utter a retort, or better still move away, she had pressed her mouth to his.

***

Crecy wondered briefly if she’d finally run mad. Belle was somewhere in the shop, and kissing Viscount DeMorte in a public place was surely on the list of things a girl could be committed for?

It ought to be.

But then her mouth met his and she was startled by the softness of his lips. Somehow, she had not expected that. A rush of warmth shivered over her, heat and longing unfurling beneath her skin, and she pressed her mouth against his a fraction harder. She felt DeMorte suck in a breath, and she forced her eyes to open, to look up at him and see to the searing shock in his eyes as she pulled back a little.

He didn’t move, nor speak. He looked rather stunned, actually, she thought with a touch of chagrin. Was that a good thing? She wished she could tell.

He moved as suddenly as when he’d grasped her wrists in the first place and dropped his hold on her, moving away, staring at her as though she was some alien creature that he’d never seen before.

“You’re insane,” he said, his voice rough and husky and sounding really rather unsettled.

“There, you see,” she said, keeping her tone soothing though her heart felt like it was going to explode or expire if it kept thudding at its current, erratic pace. “I told you we were a perfect match.

He opened his mouth and she waited for him to speak, but nothing happened. Closing it again with a snap, he turned away, and she knew he would leave.

“Don’t go,” she said, the pleading in her voice quite clear. “Please.” Crecy crouched down to pick up the book that he’d dropped. “You haven’t found anything to read yet,” she added, the words rushed but said with a smile as she stood again. “At least let me find you something.” She turned back to the shelves, knowing that when she turned back, she’d likely find him gone, and listened for the sound of his footsteps moving away, but they didn’t come.

She scanned the shelves, disregarding title after title until she settled upon one of which she thought he might approve. She smiled as she found Tom Jones by Henry Fielding, turning and offering it to him with smug grin.

He was still standing there, watching her with a look of deep suspicion in his eyes, like he was cornered by a savage animal that might turn on him and bite at any minute.

“Have you read this yet?” she asked, as his eyes moved reluctantly from her face to the book. He took it from her, still keeping her at arm’s length as he reached for the book and studied the title.

He snorted, incredulous. “A long time ago, yes, but don’t tell me that you have?” he demanded, those indigo blue eyes flickering with curiosity now.

Crecy flushed a little but held his gaze and nodded. She was well aware that the bawdy tale was shocking, and certainly not considered a suitable text for young ladies.

“Yes, I have,” she said, raising her chin a little, daring him to chastise her for it. If he did, she would be sorely disappointed in him. “And …” She swallowed, knowing if anything would shock him, this would, as the titles made Tom Jones look like a children’s bedtime story. “I’ve read Fanny Hill too, and … and de Sade.”

His eyes did widen at that, and she could see that he was shocked indeed, but then curiosity seemed to override that immediate response.

“Which did you read by de Sade?” he asked, frowning at her now.

Crecy cleared her throat, aware that her cheeks were burning. “Philosophy in the Boudoir,” she said, aware that she sounded defiant.

He gave a short, astonished bark of laughter. “Good God,” he whispered. “And still you pursue a man like me? Did the story not give you enough reason to stay clear? What if I’m like the fellow in the book?” He paused, staring at her, his eyes hard now. “What if you’re like the girl?”

Crecy flushed harder, but refused to look away or allow him to intimidate her. “I’m not like that girl,” she said, her voice trembling a little. “And … well, yes, all right, I was deeply shocked, if you must know.”

His mouth quirked a little, a smug smile at his lips.

“But I learned a lot, too,” she added as DeMorte gaped at her and then cursed. He turned away, muttering under his breath, and then looked back just as fast. His expression suggested he hadn’t the faintest idea what to make of her. “And you are not at all like him,” she added, praying that that was, indeed, the case.

He let out a huff of laughter. “You have no idea if that’s true.” His voice was scornful, his expression a sneer as he dared her to believe he was anything less than a debauched monster.

Crecy nodded. “I know,” she said, realising her hands were clenched tight, the material of her skirts bunched up and creased in her anxious grip. “But I believe it is, and … and until you let me know you better, I can only be guided by my feelings for you.”

DeMorte looked faintly nauseated by this and grimaced. “And what,” he barked in disgust, his words becoming a harsh whisper as he lowered his voice. “What if I allowed you to know me better?” The tone of his voice implied a very physical manner of getting to know him, and Crecy’s breath caught in her throat. “What if I take advantage of your outrageous advances and ruin you as you so clearly desire … and then you discover that I am every bit as dark and twisted as the characters in that book. What then?” His voice was low and hard and angry, and Crecy swallowed, knowing he was giving her fair warning. She might well be wrong, she might become a scandal, a fallen woman, a figure of ridicule and shame to everyone who knew her.

“At least I’ll know,” she whispered, feeling a lump in her throat at the idea she might never win this war for his soul, for his heart, this battle of wills. Perhaps she wasn’t strong enough, brave enough. Perhaps she simply wasn’t … enough? “At least I’ll have done something about taking my destiny into my own hands,” she said, knowing that in this, at least, she was certain. “Instead of marrying a man who will own me and control me and never, ever know me.”

DeMorte held her gaze, and she hadn’t the slightest idea of what he was thinking. He looked away from her then, staring at the book in his hand.

“I liked this one, it was … amusing. I don’t own a copy, either.”

Crecy nodded, trying hard not to smile and feeling as though she’d won a victory, albeit a small one. He looked up then, those eyes still full of suspicion.

“How the devil did you get hold of such titles?” he asked, his dark brows drawn together, though his expression was more intrigued than disapproving.

“After my father died, we had to pack up his library. Many of the books were sold, as we couldn’t afford to keep them,” she added with real regret. That had been a very dark time in her life. “But I found this secret box, and those books were there, and … well, we could never have sold them, in any case,” she said, feeling a little indignant at the glitter of laughter in his eyes. “S-so I gave them new covers and … and new titles and hid them in my bedroom.”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw his shoulders shake a little.

“And what … pray,” he asked, pinching his nose and closing his eyes as though he feared the answer, “is the new title for de Sade’s little masterpiece?”

Crecy gave a little, dignified sniff and pursed her lips. “Songs of Innocence and Experience by William Blake.”

She watched the internal struggle behind his eyes with curiosity until it was clearly too much for him, and, to her delight, he burst out laughing. In that moment, he seemed transformed, his face alight with mirth, his eyes suddenly the blue of a hot summer sky instead of a glacial ocean. Crecy stared. She had the sensation that her heart had been somehow exposed, it felt raw and vulnerable and she knew in that moment that she had been right about him. The thought gave her courage, and she determined that Gabriel Greyston would be hers. No matter what she had to do, what risks she must take. She would give everything for the chance to save him from the darkness he so obviously dwelt in.