Page 62 of Wedded to the Deviant Duke
“You sound as if you’re insinuating otherwise,” Gabriel replied coolly, once more taking the lead as they continued their walk around the gallery.
“It seemed simply a rather fortuitous coincidence,” Thalia remarked lightly. “Meeting a man not only interested in the arts, but whose career is one I’m interested in pursuing as well.”
“I never told him you painted,” Gabriel said defensively.
A small smirk crossed Thalia’s face. “I know that, I was here for the conversation, Gabriel. Or, do you perhaps mean some other time you two communicated?”
It was the first time she’d seen Gabriel look so flustered, so lacking in terms of what to say next. A thrilling rush filled Thalia to the brim, and she suddenly understood why the duke so thoroughly enjoyed the concept of a hunt. To be in such control, to catch your prey off-guard; there really was no feeling like it.
“I only tease, Gabriel,” Thalia chuckled. “Thank you for introducing him to me.”
Gabriel remained silent, staring ahead through the crowd with a hard scowl on his face.
“Gabriel, I hadn’t meant to upset you,”
He suddenly released his hold, practically tearing through the crowd like a hunter’s dog catching the scent at last. Thalia stumbled, nearly losing her balance completely as she tried her best to spot what had put the duke on such an edge.
A number of socialites were minding their own business, enjoying paintings and statues beneath the now-erected tents, now coated with a light layer of drizzling rain that filled the air with a sticky humidity. She caught a brief flash of a familiar dress—of Charlotte’s—and made her own way delicately through the crowd beginning to form where she'd last seen both Hardings.
Thalia finally reached the front, immediately frozen at the sight before her. Charlotte practically hid behind her brother’s massive frame, who appeared tense and ready to pounce if anyone made one false move.
Across from them stood an older lady of society, her own gown reminiscent of the color of yellowing paper. Her hair was as dark as the Harding siblings’, partially undone and falling past her shoulders rather like dead seaweed. She hardly looked her best, the wrinkles across her face heavy and deep, with a sort of desperate look in her eyes akin to that of an animal trapped in the corner.
“You can’t have an invitation.” Charlotte practically spat the words from her mouth, an uncharacteristic venom seeping into her tone. “I didn’t write one for you.”
“Charlie, angel, that hurts me to hear.” The woman tried to take a step towards them, only for Gabriel to wrap his arms protectively around Charlotte’s frame and push her farther behind him. She stood in place, as if struggling to find her next words. “I… I only wish to celebrate with you, sweetheart. You’ve grown into such a fine young woman; how could you not want your own mother at your Seasonal event?”
Thalia’s heart skipped a beat entirely, her mouth going completely dry. Mother; this woman called herself mother. Charlotte and Gabriel’s–she was still alive? Thalia had simply assumed–the way Charlotte spoke of her, it sounded as if both parents had long-since passed on. But, no; the Hardings’ mother stood before them in her disheveled state, pleading with them as a beggar might on the streets.
“Charlotte has no mother,” Gabriel snarled, holding Charlotte even closer than before.
“Gabriel, darling, please.”
“You forfeited that title long ago, Lady Fletcher.” He spat her surname like it was poison in his mouth. “Now, leave us. Or do I need to involve the constable once more?”
Again, Lady Fletcher—Gabriel’s mother—moved to close the distance between them.
“Children, darlings… I’m so sorry for what happened all those years ago. There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t regret my actions fully.”
A soft sobbing came from Charlotte, whipping Gabriel into further frenzy. “Feeling remorseful, now that Oliver has lost interest in you? A punishment well-deserved, after what he did to his best friend.”
Best friend? Thalia’s eyes widened, realization settling into a sour lump at the back of her throat; Oliver must have been the duke’s second during the duel.
“I’m sorry, Gabriel,” Lady Fletcher cried out. “I-I didn’t truly think your Father would go through with it.”
“Don’t lie to me!” Gabriel snarled. “You knew from the start how Father would react, how he’d stand up for you! You used his honor against him, and for what? For a marriage that lasted barely a year?”
The crowd visibly trembled at Gabriel’s outrage, and Thalia found herself cowering alongside them.
“I-it’s not my fault, Gabriel!” his mother sobbed, hands covering her face as she trembled horribly. “It’s not my fault. It isn’t!”
“Your hands are just as bloodied as Oliver’s,” Gabriel hissed. “He may have shot my father, but you orchestrated his death. And now, you dare come to us, begging to be allowed the privilege of my sister’s hospitality?” He spat defiantly in her direction, gathering Charlotte in his arms before turning to leave. “Crawl back beneath the stone you emerged from, miserable wretch.”
“No—no!” His mother tore at her hair, it coming completely undone as it partially draped across her face. “You’re not allowed to do that—you’re not allowed to paint me as the evil one! You’re still young, still foolish; when you love someone—truly, and deeply, as I did with Oliver—you’ll find yourself willing to commit any act to be with them!”
Gabriel turned sharply on his heel, his back arched and visibly ready to attack the very woman who gave birth to him. But just before he could, Thalia suddenly found herself standing between them.
She had no idea when she’d moved, nor was she entirely sure what she was meant to accomplish. But instinct had taken over her body, taken over her mouth; she was surprised entirely by what she said next. “Your perception of love leaves much to be desired, ma’am.”
