Gabriel: Lord of Regrets by Grace Burrowes Read Free Book Online Page B

himself. Had been, the whole time he’d been feeding slops to Hildegard and wrestling sheep from the pond muck at Three Springs.
    Polly tore off the sketch of Hildy—the pig’s expression had been uncharacteristically downcast—and instead drew a careful, aquiline curve near the middle of the page. The curve grew into Gabriel’s nose, then his mouth, and his beautiful, serious eyes.
    Not Gabriel, not North. Hesketh. Lord Hesketh.
    The entire time he’d been permitting Polly the occasional liberty—a kiss, an embrace, a cuddle—he’d been Hesketh.
    With a huff of self-disgust, Polly set her sketchbook aside. The Wendover family Bible would be in the library. Knowing Gabriel’s antecedents would appease the curiosity she had about him—had always had about him.
    From the first time he’d showed up at her kitchen door—tall, gaunt, and bearing a letter from Lady Warne—Polly had been interested in Gabriel North.
    Gabriel Wendover, she corrected herself, finding a flannel wrapper and belting it tightly. The corridors were lit by only the occasional sconce, but it was enough, because the moon was full and Polly knew her way.
    Someday I am going to have my own house. Nothing so grand as this, but something as light and elegant and comfortable. I’ll have a library and a studio, and my family will be welcome.
    My daughter will be welcome.
    She opened the library door, a comforting warmth enveloping her as she stepped into the room.
    And stopped.
    Somebody had pushed the long sofa right up close to the hearth, using it as a sort of fire screen, though the spark catcher was still in place as well. Moving silently, Polly stepped closer, peering over the back of the sofa.
    Gabriel was stretched out on his stomach, a fat ledger open for his perusal.
    “Brandy is on the sideboard, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
    He didn’t glance up, but Polly knew he could identify her scent—he’d confessed as much once on a dark, lovely night.
    “Would you like some?”
    “I’ve already indulged, but help yourself.” He stirred, setting the book aside and shifting to sit.
    “Your back is hurting?”
    “Of course. You’re having trouble sleeping?”
    “Of course.”
    “Come sit, then, Polonaise, and you can tell me how our dear Allemande fares.”
    He would ask that, damn him.
    She helped herself to brandy and poured him a glass despite his demurral. By the time she’d brought both to the sofa, he’d pushed the furniture back to a more usual distance from the fire.
    “Should you be shoving furniture around if your back hurts?”
    “Should you be offering brandy to me when you’re in such fetching dishabille?”
    “Don’t be churlish.” She handed him his drink and sat a small distance from him. He rose and tossed a log on the fire, while Polly watched his movements. She’d seen him move much more slowly, and manage in surrounds far less commodious than these.
    “Allie is well enough,” Polly said. “She’s angry at me for leaving Three Springs, but Beck and Sara are patient with her, and her Uncle Tremaine is a nice distraction.”
    “The Sheep Count. His nom de guerre among the merchants. Every girl can use a wealthy uncle.”
    “He doesn’t use the title.” They fell silent, but when he resumed his seat, Gabriel settled right beside her, hip to hip, as he often had at Three Springs. When he’d first developed the habit, she had thought he’d done it as a simple, animal way to garner some human warmth for himself, but when he’d taken no more advantage than that over weeks and weeks of opportunity, she’d realized he was doing it for her, to alleviate her loneliness in the small ways that wouldn’t cause talk or stir feelings.
    And she’d been grateful.
    She was still grateful, which would not do.
    “So tell me why you did it, Polonaise.” His voice was the same rasping baritone she’d heard many times before, but here before the fire, it carried a kind of fatigue she’d not sensed