but to force himself to return to his previous routine.
Which included an hour at his club, followed by a trip to his tailor and then on to Tattersall’s to have a look at the horses to be auctioned.
Even if it meant he was to attract precisely the sort of sordid attention he detested.
He tossed aside the unread paper and smoothed his hand down the simply tied cravat that he had matched with a pale blue jacket and ivory waistcoat, his brooding gaze trained on the tip of his glossy boot.
Was it any wonder he was in a foul mood?
And he knew entirely where to lay the blame.
His aggravating wife.
His jaw tightened. Dammit. He had sent her to Devonshire to ensure she understood that she would never again be allowed to manipulate him. He would be the master of their relationship, and she would learn to be an obedient wife or she would suffer the consequences.
But after waiting day after day for a message from his suitably chastised bride, pleading to be allowed to return to London, he found his temper fraying at her stubborn lack of communication.
What the devil was the matter with the chit?
Surely she must be anxious to return to her precious society so she could flaunt her newfound position as the Countess of Ashcombe? For an ambitious female, being trapped in the country should be a fate worse than death.
And yet, his housekeeper had written several letters revealing that Talia had swiftly become a favorite among both his staff and tenants. Indeed, Mrs. Donaldson had gushed with monotonous enthusiasm for the newest Countess of Ashcombe, assuring him that Talia had settled nicely at the estate and revealed no desire whatsoever to return to London.
Or to her husband.
So the question was—what game was his bride playing now?
The more cynical side of him insisted that Talia was merely biding her time in an effort to lure him into complacency, and yet, he could not entirely believe such a simple explanation. His tenants might not be well educated, but they were keen judges of character. They would have sensed if Talia were merely pretending to care.
And yet, she could not possibly be utterly innocent. Could she?
Tapping a slender finger on the side table situated next to his chair, Gabriel grimly admitted that the only means to discover the truth was to travel to Carrick Park. Beneath his watchful gaze Talia would either reveal that she was truly her father’s daughter or she would prove she was as much a victim as Gabriel was to Silas Dobson’s ambitions.
Yes. His vague notion hardened to determination. He obviously had no choice but to leave London for Devonshire. In fact, there was no reason he could not begin the journey today.
Without warning a savage flare of anticipation clutched his stomach. An anticipation that had nothing to do with discovering the truth and everything to do with returning his beautiful bride to his bed.
Christ, he ached for her.
It was ludicrous. He could have his pick of beautiful, willing women. All of them eager to offer him endless hours of pleasure.
But night after night he had slept alone, plagued by the memories of his dark-haired gypsy.
A prickle on the back of his neck shook Gabriel out of his delectable thoughts of Talia spread across his bed, his hands tangled in her dark hair as he thrust deep into her satin heat.
He turned his head, preparing to flay the unwelcome intruder with a few well-chosen words, only to have them die on his lip.
Damn.
His gaze skimmed over the tall gentleman with a large, muscular body who was currently attired in a cinnamon jacket and tan waistcoat, black breeches and glossy boots. The nobleman’s light brown hair was cut shorter than the current fashion and his features were more forceful than handsome. And while his golden-brown eyes often simmered with amusement, they could also send any preening fop who hoped to garner his acquaintance fleeing in fear.
Hugo, Lord Rothwell.
And one of Gabriel’s few friends.
“Is there a particular reason you are hovering behind me like a vulture, Hugo?” he demanded wryly, knowing it would be a futile effort to try to convince his friend that he preferred to be alone.
Hugo narrowed his golden gaze, absently toying with the signet ring on his little finger.
“I am attempting to decide if I have the nerve so early in the day to beard the lion in his den. Or shall I wait until I am in my cups and therefore impervious to your foul mood?”
Gabriel pointedly turned his attention toward the dunces clustered about the room casting covert glances in his direction.
“My mood would not be foul if I were not surrounded by idiots,” he growled.
“Hmm.” With the ease of a natural sportsman, Hugo lowered his large body into the leather chair opposite Gabriel. “That would not be my first guess as to why you have been snapping and snarling at every unwitting soul who has crossed your path over the past month.”
“At least I have not yet taken to lodging bullets in those who annoy me,” he smoothly pointed out, “although that might change at any moment.”
Hugo smiled at the threat. “You do realize that you cannot keep society at bay forever? Eventually you will have to face their curiosity.”
“Society’s curiosity, or yours?”
“Both,” Hugo admitted. “But considering we have been friends since I bloodied your nose our first day at Eton I surely deserve to be the first to be taken into your confidence?”
Gabriel snorted. “First of all, I was the one to bloody your nose after you attempted to pinch my favorite cricket bat. And I have never known you to take an interest in gossip.”
“That is because the rumors have never before hinted that the proud and notoriously aloof Earl of Ashcombe has secretly wed the daughter of Silas Dobson.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened at the mention of his offensive father-in-law.
“Obviously not so secretively.”
“Is it true?”
There was a moment of silence before Gabriel gave a grudging nod of his head. “Yes.”
“Bloody hell,” Hugo muttered.
“My sentiments exactly.”
Hugo scowled at Gabriel’s dry retort. “I suppose I need not ask how this particular disaster occurred,” he rasped. “Only Harry could force you into such an untenable situation.”
Gabriel shrugged. Hugo had never bothered to hide his disgust for Harry and his reckless extravagances.
“He certainly can take a share of the blame,” he admitted.
“A share?” Hugo
