Lady Nicola Howerty has never backed down from a challenge, and she's not about to start now.
Being blackmailed into marriage by an old friend. Hiring a private investigator. Kissing said investigator... Okay, it might be a bit much, but she can han...
Gabriel Winter had learned at an early age that acting dense made one's life a lot easier. People forgave you and allowed you certain freedoms when you simply 'didn't know any better'. He discovered this as a young boy when he finally gave up trying to compete with his older brother, Michael. Being the heir, there was nothing Michael could do wrong, and nothing he wasn't best at. Or such was the general opinion.
So Gabriel simply stopped trying. Suddenly people felt sorry for the poor child who was obviously somewhat dense. Since he was anything but, he'd been quick to make the most of the situation. As an adult, he found that while having most people think he was dense had reaped certain benefits—not least his employment in the War Office—it also made him somewhat lonely. A less pleasant side effect when no one knew the real you.
Looking around the garden at the cheerful crowd of wedding guests, he couldn't help but feel a stab of alienation. Everyone was enjoying the food and drinks being served, as well as the mutual spirit of joy from having seen a beautiful couple tie the knot that morning. The sight of so many content faces made him feel oddly hollow in comparison. While he could paste a silly smile on his face and take part in the revelry, it was fake and he couldn't quite escape the feeling of being an outsider.
Probably because he was, even if no one of the ton knew. They all knew him as a pleasant, but somewhat slow-witted man, an image he'd cultivated for many years. It allowed him the freedom to do the things he needed to do but also separated him from his peers since no one really knew him. They might think they knew Gabriel Winter, but in fact, no one did. On most occasions, this didn't bother him, since he loved his work for the War Office, but other times he found himself rather lonely.
Fighting the melancholy, he walked along the party tables in the gardens of Davenhall—the country residence of the Marquess of Pensington, whose wedding he was attending—and was intrigued when he glanced a foot peeking out from underneath a tablecloth. Hunching down, he lifted the fabric to peer inside, only to find a pair of brown eyes staring back at him. The eyes belonged to a young girl, somewhere between twelve and fourteen years of age, with shoulder-length blonde hair.
"Well, good evening, little lady." He smiled, wondering what the girl was doing hiding under a table.
"Good evening," she replied warily, and he noticed a certain green tint to her skin, she was obviously not feeling quite the thing.
"What are you doing?" he asked politely.
Although she looked as if she was going to cast up her insides at any moment, she crossed her arms in front of her chest and gave him a defiant look. "I'm hiding. Do you have a problem with that, Sir?"
"Not at all," he quickly replied, barely able to hide a smile. "May I join you?"
The girl looked surprised, but she nodded and he bent his head to sit down underneath the table next to her, letting the tablecloth fall back down to hide them from sight. It was slightly dusky under the table, but not as dark as he would have expected. The fabric of the tablecloth was so fine that it filtered the disappearing daylight into a grey mist.
"So, why are you hiding?" he asked, crossing his legs to sit more comfortably on the grass.
"Why are you?" she quickly replied, making him smile.
"I'm merely keeping you company," he said and was surprised when the girl shook her head.
"No," she argued. "People don't keep others company underneath tables. You're hiding. Why?"
"We all have our reasons," he replied vaguely, not about to share his feelings with a child, while also amused by her direct manner. "What's yours?"
She lifted her dainty shoulders in a shrug, but the suave movement was ruined by the grimace on her face as she swallowed back a wave of nausea. When she could finally speak, she muttered, "I'd have thought it was quite obvious."
The disgruntled tone made him smile. "Aren't you a little young to be drinking?" he asked, having noticed the distinctive smell on her breath.
Looking miserable, she nodded. "The boys from the village stole some of the punch and were drinking it."
"And you didn't want to be any worse than they?"
"Exactly." She lifted a small hand to her mouth as another wave of nausea hit her. "I swear I will never touch another drop of punch in my entire life."
Chuckling, he watched her. "I daresay you will. But hopefully not for several years yet."
"Oh lord," she suddenly burst out as she turned away and started heaving in a corner. Gabriel watched her a moment and feeling sorry for her, he scooted over and touched her back soothingly as she kept emptying her stomach contents in the grass.
When she finally stopped, she leaned back heavily against him, her eyes closed in misery. "I hope the boys are feeling as bad as I am," she muttered, only to add savagely, "No... I hope they're feeling worse. Much worse."
He smiled at her vengeful thoughts as he comfortingly stroked some of her blonde hair away from her forehead. He felt somewhat out-of-place sitting there under a table at his friend's wedding, with a drunken girl in his arms.
"You're nice," she mumbled sleepily against the fabric of his coat. "I'm supposed to marry James when I grow up, but I think I might marry you instead."
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