He did not speak to her, nor did he deign to even look at her. Yet she knew he was seething. The very air around him was charged with his burning rage. Not until he strode to the door was she able to summon the strength to break the horrible silence.

"Gabriel ... you are leaving?"

He stopped. The cold, biting fury in his eyes was like a blow. "I shall go to London where the sight of you need not forever remind me of my folly."

Cassie could not help it. "Where?" A smothered cry tore from her chest. "To your mistress?"

"Now there's a thought, Yank, an appealing one at that!" His jaw was tense. His gaze raked over her. "Christ," he ground out tightly, "if I had to be burdened with a wife, why did I have to choose you? Why couldn't you have been barren?" He whirled. The door slammed so hard the walls shook.

Heartbroken, Cassie began to sob. Nothing could have wounded her more ... nothing. Everything inside her -- her very soul -- seemed to wither up and die. His reaction was all she had known it would be ... all she had feared.

Her feeble strength deserted her. She collapsed on the floor, her heart in shreds.

Oh, but she had been foolish, so foolish and mistaken! Even worse, she had Deliberately blinded herself ... Gabriel had felt no tenderness for her. No warmth. No protectiveness. Yet in that shattering instant, Cassie could hide from the truth no longer.

She loved him. Through his anger. His indifference. She loved him.

She always would.

Chapter 20.

Though the night was near spent, the crush of people in Lord Chesterfield's gilded, elegant ballroom had only recently begun to disperse. Gabriel was among those who had arrived hours ago. He drank. He talked. He laughed.

He whirled Lady Sarah around the floor and stared into smiling, upturned features. He listened idly to her chatter, but his mind was miles away. And indeed, it was not Lady Sarah he saw at all, but the image of another ... of hair like a golden sunrise, of eyes as clear and bright as topaz, of lips as soft and sweet as ripe, juicy fruit.

And all the while a seething tempest of emotion squalled and churned inside him. Confusion. Pain. Resentment. And something else ...

Regret.

With a start he realized the dance had ended. Lady Sarah touched his forearm. "I grow weary of so much company, my lord. Perhaps we might depart for my townhouse and more quiet surroundings."

Dark, sultry invitation gleamed boldly in the lady's eyes. The seductive slant of her smile proclaimed her invitation more clearly than words themselves. But Gabriel was neither seduced nor bewitched, beckoned nor persuaded.

"I'm afraid the time is too late, my lady," he murmured, holding her gaze. "Therefore, I must refuse your kind offer." He knew by her indrawn breath she understood his silent message -- just as he knew she had not pined his loss these many months. He kissed her fingertips in fast farewell, then glanced toward the sidelines. "I do believe Lord Waverly awaits this next dance." He bowed, made his excuses to his host, and departed.

A nagging restlessness persisted as he descended the wide stone steps. He shunned the cab the footman would have procured for him and decided to walk instead.

Wispy tendrils of fog curled all around him. The London streets were damp and deserted. The caped layers of his greatcoat swirled around his legs. His footsteps echoed on the cobblestones.

If I had to be burdened with a wife, why did I have to choose you?

Christ! Had he really said that? What demon had possessed him?

Why couldn't you have been barren?

Each word sank into his brain like a hooked barb. Over and over again, his reckless taunts pounded through him, haunting him, tormenting him. A voice in his soul cried out. How could he have been so cruel? No ... not just cruel. Deliberately cruel.

For the life of him he could not explain what provoked him. He knew only that fit was as if he'd been seized by the throat. Spurred by the helpless fury that heated his blood. He'd felt as if he'd been ... tricked. Trapped. Betrayed by this beauty he now called wife ...

His steps carne to a halt. He ground his fingertips into his forehead, as if to drive out the devils that possessed him.

A shuffle of sound nearby roused him. He raised his head. It was then that he saw her -- a woman leaning against the corner of a crumbling brick building.

She was poor -- and with child -- soon to deliver from the look of her. She was young, far younger than he, yet the sorrows of the ancients dwelled in her eyes. A heavy mist had begun to fall, but she wore no cloak to protect her from the elements; her clothing was little more than rags.

But it was on her tremendous belly, heavy and swollen with her burden, that his gaze lingered endlessly.

Cassie, too, he thought numbly, would soon be cradling a babe in her arms. But no, that was not right ... Not just a babe. His babe.

For an instant Gabriel could not breathe. His breath burned like fare in his lungs. The enormity of that realization washed through him, humbling him, nearly bringing him to his knees.

Why couldn't you have been barren ... barren ...

Self-disgust ate into his stomach like acid. He had treated her as if she had done something wrong -as if this were all her fault! But if the blame were to be placed on anyone, it belonged squarely on his shoulders.

His lips twisted. He'd made precious little effort to restrain his desire. Night after night he had wanted her. Night after night he had taken her. Selfishly. Uncaring of the consequences -- refusing to even consider those consequences.

Yet he'd hated himself for making love to her. Because every time, he'd felt as though he had lost a part of himself ...

He fumbled beneath the layers of his greatcoat. The woman watched him warily, retreating a step as though she did not trust his motives. But when he pulled out a small pouch stuffed full of coins, her eyes widened.

He extended it toward her. "Here," he said with a nod. '"fake it."

Her cracked lips parted. She gaped openly. "But, sir . . . it's surely a fortune."

The merest hint of a smile creased his mouth. She reminded him just a little of Cassie, that very first night at Black Jack's. She, too, had been struck dumb by the pile of silver coin on the dresser.

He shook his head. "Hardly a fortune," " he corrected. "But if you guard it wisely, it's enough to tide you over for many months, you and your babe." He dropped it into her palm.

The woman looked up at him, both awed and moved beyond measure. "Oh, bless you, sir." She clutched the pouch to her breast and looked up at him. Tears sparkled in her eyes. "You are a saint, truly a saint. And I will never forget you -- never!"

He watched as she ran off around the corner, then continued on his way. But when he arrived at his townhouse, it was not his own bedchamber that he sought, but that of his coachman.

Thomas rubbed his eyes sleepily. "My lord! What is it? Is something amiss?"

Gabriel shook his head. "I've decided to return to Farleigh, Thomas."

The young man blinked. Through the narrow window at the foot of his bed, he saw that streaks of dawn pinkened the eastern sky. "Now, my lord?"

Gabriel nodded. Thomas dallied no longer but reached for his clothes.

A short time later, Gabriel closed the carriage door. No doubt Thomas thought him mad --returning to Farleigh when they'd scarce been in London half a day. A self-deprecating smile rimmed his lips. And perhaps he was just a little mad...

It was mid-morning when they finally passed through the iron gates of Farleigh Hall.

He had no more than stepped into the entrance hall than he knew something was terribly, terribly wrong.

A dozen servants milled near the other end of gallery. It was the little maid Gloria he spied first. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, as if she'd been weeping for hours. Mrs. McGee was patting her shoulder, only slightly less teary-eyed.

So distracted were they that not a one of them heard his entrance.

"What the devil goes on here?"

An odd pall seemed to fall over the assembly. It was Davis who stepped forth, his expression harried as Gabriel had never seen it.

The old man cleared his throat. "My lord, I fear we have dreadful news to impart."

"Do not mince words, Davis." Gabriel's tone came out sharper than he intended. "Just come out with it."

"Very well, then, my lord. Her ladyship was not in her bed this morning ... to all appearances it was not even slept in. Our first thought was that she had gone to London to be with you. Yet she asked no one to drive her, and her horse was in the stables. Therefore, we thought it best to continue searching." He faltered, a faint distress flitting across his face. "My lord, she is nowhere to be found."

"What! But, that is impossible."

Davis's features were very grave. "No, my lord. We have searched the house from top to bottom. And we've every hand out combing the grounds this very instant." He hesitated. "There has been no sign of her, my lord. We know nothing except ... a number of her gowns are missing. And Gloria believes a small bag as well."

Gabriel's blood froze. All conscious thought fled his mind. His skin was ashen.

"My lord, it's possible her ladyship found some other way to London --"

"She did not," he said in an odd, strained voice. A sick sensation knotted his belly, mounting until he felt he could not breathe.

"My lord --"

Before their horrified eyes, he bolted up the stairs. There was a mighty crash as Cassie 's door banged open. To anyone who might have looked on, he must have appeared crazed. But there was no one to see, no one who might know how truly alone he was.

Alone ... as never before.

A dainty lace handkerchief lay near her war robe. He picked it up, staring at the delicate scrap of fabric.

There was an awful tearing in his chest. Her image played again and again through his mind. He saw her as she had been when last he'd seen her, shocked and stricken, pale and ashen, her expression bruised and wounded and pleading.

"Cassie," he cried. His fingers crushed the handkerchief in his palm. "Cassie."

Edmund returned home three days later. In the entrance hall, Davis swept the doors wide and bowed low. "Your Grace, it's good that you have returned."

"It's good to be back, Davis." He handed the butler his hat and cane. "Is Gabriel at home?"

It was a moment before Davis replied. To Edmund's surprise, the butler appeared discomfited. "He is upstairs in his chamber, Your Grace."

Edmund frowned, for it was unusual for the man to display anything but aplomb. "Is something wrong, Davis?"

"All has not been well in your absence, Your Grace. But I do believe you will wish to hear it from his lordship --"

Edmund ha already started up the stairs. "Your Grace," the butler called, "you should know ... his lordship is not himself . . ."

An understatement, to be sure.

The drapes had been drawn and closed tight. Only a wintry trickle of light seeped through. Standing on the threshold of his son's room, it was several seconds before Edmund's eyes adjusted to the gloom.

Then he could only stare. He had seen his son angry. Fighting mad. Defiant and rebellious and unafraid of anyone.

Never in his life had he seen Gabriel like this.

He was sprawled in the chair near the window. He wore no jacket. His shirt was half-in, half-out of his breeches; wrinkled and untidy, it looked as if it had been slept in for days. His jaw and cheeks were dark with stubble. The air reeked with the unmistakable odor of stale brandy.

"Gabriel ... Gabriel, my God, you're foxed!"

Slowly Gabriel raised his head. Bleary, bloodshot eyes sought to focus. To his brandy-laden mind, it seemed only fitting that his father be here to witness his misery.

A hard smile twisted his lips. "That I am, Father. And that I shall stay."

Edmund's gaze narrowed. "What's the meaning of this? And where is Cassandra? In London?"

Cassie. The very mention of her name sent knifelike pains shooting through Gabriel's heart. When he shook his head, his father persisted. "Where then?"

Gabriel's lips drew back over his teeth. His arm came out in a wide arc, sending empty bottles and glasses crashing to the floor from the table next to him.

"Christ," he shouted, a furious rage suddenly exploding inside him. "Do you have to hear me say it? She left me. Goddammit, she left me!"

Edmund jerked, as if a giant fist had plowed into his belly. "Dear God," he said faintly.

Gabriel turned blistering eyes upon him. "There's no need to pretend," he sneered. "Isn't that what you wanted all along?"

Not anymore, Edmund thought dazedly. God in heaven, not anymore.

Lord, but he'd been so very stubborn ... Too proud to readily admit his heart was softening. For the life of him, Edmund did not know precisely when it had happened ... But there was no denying the truth. The country of her birth was no longer of any consequence, nor was her former station in life. Somewhere along the line, the chit had sneaked her way into his heart. He had opened it just a crack and she had slipped inside ...

Shame poured through him like boiling oil. He deserved his son's scorn. He deserved his condemnation, and so much more...

Gabriel's anger drained as suddenly as it had erupted. "She's with child," he said heavily. "That's what started it all."

Edmund inhaled sharply. "Gabriel, you must think. Where would she go?"

"I don't know. Christ, I -- I just don't know! Lady Evelyn has heard nothing. Neither has Christopher." Leaning forward, he braced his forehead in his hands. His voice dropped, so low Edmund had to strain to hear. "She took only a few of her belongings. All I can think is that she's out there somewhere. Cold. Hungry. With no money. Nowhere to stay."

"Gabriel, we will find her. Never doubt it."

"We won't," he said hoarsely. "I deserve this, don't you see? She didn't want to marry me." His mouth twisted. "She thought she wasn't good enough to marry a lord. She thought she wasn't worthy. But she fooled us all ... she fooled us all."

Slowly he raised his head. "She was crying when I left. I did not care. Heartless bastard that I am, I did not care." There was a heavy pause. "I can still hear her crying," he whispered.

Edmund's skin prickled eerily, for Gabriel looked not at him, but through him, his features etched with a tortured despair.