Page 30 of Notorious

“Then I will bring him to live with me on the country estate my grandfather gave me.”

“When will you hear from this captain again?”

“I don’t know. My guess is that all of Fatima’s family will be hiding in the mountains if they managed to escape the city.” The English navy’s attack on Oran had left thousands fewer casualties than their assault on Algiers. Unfortunately, Gabriel’s brother Assad and his wife Fatima had been among those who were killed, leaving their only son an orphan.

Giselle nodded, gently stroking his nape. “Will you leave him with us until you find out—now that you are getting married?”

Gabriel chewed his lip. Giselle and Marie were taking care of the boy as his bachelor chambers were not the sort of place for a child. He’d been planning to take Samir to the country right after the Season ended and stay there with him until he received word about Fatima’s family. But, of course, that had been before last night. He could only imagine the stern Miss Clare’s reaction when he confronted her with Samir. He would not wish to take the boy if his new wife was cold or cruel to him. At the same time, he would not shun Sami to appease Miss Clare.

Gabriel knew he could tell his mother—indeed, he should have already told her—and bring Samir to her. He’d kept the information from her because he’d wished to make the decision without her meddling. But now . . . ? Well, she would take the boy in an instant.

But he was not yet ready to make that decision.

He kissed Giselle’s hand. “I don’t know what I’ll do, my friend. But he’ll stay with you until the end of the Season as we’ve already decided. He’s already suffered enough upheaval, and I don’t wish to change our plans at this point.”

“I will miss him, Gabriel.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“I know you will.” Gabriel pulled her to him, holding her familiar body in a tight embrace. “You need a child, Giselle. You and Marie both—you were made to have children.”

She sighed heavily against him, and he heard a delicate sniff. “I would have liked to have yours, Gabriel. But I know . . .” She trailed off.

Gabriel was grateful she’d not completed the thought. He knew the two women desperately wished for children, but he’d never felt right about being a father to a child he could not claim.

She disentangled herself from his arms and moved off his lap. “But what of this duel?” she asked, wiping her eyes with a scrap of lace that mysteriously appeared, before reclining against the plush velvet cushions that spilled over the settee. “It is to be swords, I hope?”

“Hmm?” he asked, hoping his vague response would communicate his unwillingness to discuss the situation.

She shook her head, her lips pursed. “Very well, I see the way it is—it is man’s business and you will not discuss it.”

Gabriel smiled.

“But at least tell me one thing.”

He raised his eyebrows, unwilling to promise an answer before he knew the question.

“Please tell me you are not going to kill him, my love.”

He chuckled and took her hands, bringing them to his lips. “You never know—I might.”

Her mouth puckered into a disapproving moue. “But then you would be forced to flee to the Continent.”

He kissed each of her knuckles. “I could live out my life as a card sharp.”

“But you do not like cards.”

“Then perhaps I might have to make my way seducing the bored wives of wealthy men and living off their largesse.”

“Mmmm, yes—a cicisbeo. Now that I can see you doing.” Her full lips curved, and she brought their linked hands to her mouth, where her tongue darted out, licking the sensitive skin between his fingers.

Gabriel’s cock sprang to life at the suggestive gesture and he groaned. “You could make a dead man hard, Giselle.”

She laughed. “Come, Gabriel, you are hardly dead—just betrothed.” She lowered their clasped hands to her lap. He drank in her voluptuous beauty, which masked a sharp intelligence and wicked imagination, before dropping his head against the plush velvet headrest of the settee, closing his eyes as the image of his wife-to-be elbowed her way into his mind.

Giselle fiddled with their joined hands, brushing the sensitive skin on the back of his hand against her silk-covered thighs in a most distracting manner. “I have not seen this Miss Drusilla Clare; is she so ill-favored? Or is it that your affections are with Miss Kittridge?”

Drusilla Clare’s intelligent gray eyes, frowning lips, and generous bosom clothed in an unflattering gown flashed into his mind.

“She is an attractive young woman,” he said, realizing he spoke the truth only after he’d uttered the words. He ignored Giselle’s second question entirely. Miss Kittridge—and whatever there might have been—was no longer a subject he cared to think about. Had he loved her? He did not believe so. But perhaps he could have grown to love her. He had certainly lusted for her—had envisioned bedding her. But that was true about many women.