The Taming of Victoria Colton

Chapter Nine

Chapter 9

Having made up his mind, the gentleman offers- wisely, if he can in speech… A few sentences, spoken in earnest, and broken by emotion, are more eloquent than pages of sentiment, both to parent and daughter.

~ The Habits of Good Society: A Handbook for Ladies and Gentlemen (The Last London Editor; 1860)

 

Gabriel was about to propose to Oriana Brightmore.

It was a perfect day and a perfect setting. He could not have asked for a better opportunity should another present itself. They sat comfortably together, moderately close to each other, on a quaint stone bench overlooking a small pond and surrounded by flowers. Oriana was quite fetching in a pale pink day-dress with a swooping neckline that showed… well, nothing really. The poor girl was quite inadequately endowed. Not like Victoria…

Mmm. He really should stop imagining Victoria in everything that he did with the other women. It was quite frustrating and it was one of the reasons why he was going to propose to Oriana Brightmore and he was going to do it today. Victoria was quite unsuitable and he had despised the harpy for most of his life. This sudden, unprecedented attraction was just that- a fleeting, albeit disgruntling distraction and it would surely dissipate abruptly when she tried to hop continents the day after the wedding. So it would be best if he ignored Victoria Colton and the waves of desire she conjured within him and set his cap for the lovely Miss Oriana Brightmore, with the soft eyes and a gentle smile, quiet intelligence and cool temperament. She would make a fine wife for a duke.

“Miss Brightmore,” Gabriel began, inhaling deeply to dispel the urge to flee into the pond and hide, “I-” She stared up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, and his tongue stuck to the top of his palate as if it were glued there. “I- uh- urm-”

Damn it.

It must be her eyes. So damn hopeful and charmingly sincere. And the rosy cheeks and… Good God, the woman had huge ears. They stuck out from the side of her head like dinner plates. How had he not noticed this before?

Regardless, this was no time to be fussy. Gabriel Sinclair must choose a wife, somebody content to live holed up in a fancy house somewhere and fulfil certain ducal duties when required. There was little time to be pedantic over whom he chose. Oriana would be satisfactory.

Ugh, those ears.

“Miss Brightmore…”

“Yes?” she breathed hopefully, leaning closer to him as if attempting to encourage the words from his lips.

Gabriel stifled the urge to run his hand through his hair and sigh. This shouldn’t be so hard. What could possibly be so hard about blurting out: You are quite the most lovely thing to have ever happened to me. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? He didn’t even need to embellish it as such. A simple: Will you marry me, Miss Brightmore? would suffice. Even shorter, he could possibly grunt this one out: Marry me, Ori.

But no. His tongue was not adhering to the will of his mind. It was being downright stubborn and whenever he braced himself to utter any combination of those words, it would glue itself to the top of his mouth and refuse to budge.

“Are you alright, my lord?” Oriana asked concernedly. “You look like you’re about to be ill.”

“I think I’m catching Victoria’s chill,” he grumbled.

“Oh, dear. Perhaps you’d better rest inside then.”

“Hmm.” Gabriel glanced over to where Imogen Brightmore was teetering behind a rose bush, spying on them blatantly. Dratted pest of a woman, that. She had made it known, eloquently, that she disapproved of the match between himself and Miss Oriana Brightmore, even going out of her way to tell him straight to his face what she thought of him. You’re a despicable rake of the worst kind, Lord Sinclair, and my sister would do well to stay away from you. I know you’d only hurt her, after all.