Miss Gabriel's Gambit by Rita Boucher Page A

to reading faces, he was hard put to name the expression that passed across Sylvia Gabriel’s countenance. Was it regret? he wondered, that she had whistled a titled suitor to the wind? As for Highslip, his usually bland mask slipped for barely a fraction of a moment, but it was long enough for David to perceive the raw desire burning in Highslip's eyes.
    “Beautiful, as ever, Sylvia,” Highslip declared at last, a slight hesitation in his drawled compliment.
    “Am I, indeed, Hugo?” Sylvia said, her tones cold and clipped. Even without gold ? her eyes asked the foppish earl.
    David wondered at the air of tension between them, the crackle of feelings imbuing the atmosphere with an electricity of emotion. Even Mrs. Gabriel could detect the silent undercurrent, for her color was becoming alarmingly beet in hue as the earl continued to stare.
    “May I have this dance, Miss Gabriel,” David found himself asking, looking toward Mrs. Gabriel for permission to dance with her niece.
    With a glowering nod, Mrs. Gabriel gave her assent, while Highslip gazed angrily after them.
    “I account myself lucky to steal you away, Miss Gabriel,” David said, trying to fill the awkward silence.
    “Is he still staring after me, milord?” Sylvia asked under her breath, a pasted smile upon her lips.
    David glanced in Highslip’s direction. “No, Miss Gabriel,” he said softly. “He has recovered himself and is engaged in a conversation with your cousin.” The girl relaxed visibly, the tension in her posture easing as the orchestra began to play.
    “‘I feel almost a Bartholemew Fair freak,” Sylvia said, thinking aloud. “It seems as if every eye is upon me. I vow ‘tis hard enough to bear without Hugo acting the fool.”
    David stiffened. Although Highslip’s behavior had been inappropriate, surely her rejected former suitor deserved more sympathy. “Men have forever been making fools of themselves over beautiful women, Miss Gabriel, so you are scarcely a freak,” David said, ruefully recalling hopeless infatuations in his past, when he had been without title or purse. “Brummel has pronounced you an Incomparable. Is not that type of attention gratifying?”
    “Think you so, milord?” Sylvia asked. Although his voice was even and his smile was pleasant enough, her reading of his expression detected the unfavorable set to his jaw, the glint of reprimand in his eye. Surely he could not fault her for the uncommon notice that she was receiving? “I did not campaign for the title, sir and now that I have been granted the moniker, I suspect that it will only cause me grief.”
    “There are some who would put marriage in the grievous category, but I have never met a female who looked upon it so,” David said. “We had supposed that between your uncommon looks and Brummel’s approbation, you would certainly be able to snare some man.”
    “‘ We ?’” It took all of Sylvia’s skill to keep her visage calm, but she could not keep the snap of anger from her voice. The events of the past days were suddenly becoming clear. “So, my sudden popularity has not come ex nihilo. Who is counted among this cabal of ‘we,’ milord?”
    David fingered his neckcloth uncomfortably as he tried to extricate himself from the results of his foolish disclosure. “’Twas Brummel’s idea, actually,” he began clearing his throat. They were parted momentarily by the pattern of the dance and he prayed that her anger would wane somewhat by the time they rejoined. However, that was not the case. Although a placid facade was fixed on her face, her eyes were spitting sparks as they linked arms.
    “I ask you again; who else is in on this plot of yours?” Sylvia asked, in tones of poisoned honey.
    “We had only meant to help you, Miss Gabriel,” David explained weakly. “Your desperate situation ... I uh, mean.”
    “‘My desperate situation,’ as you call it, has only been made more untenable by your interference,” Sylvia whispered,