But that had been decided eleven years ago. Fate had yet to revoke her decree.
From the side of the dance floor, Gabriel watched as Alathea gracefully twirled. She was thinking of something, some thing other than the cotillion-there was a distance in her gaze, a closed calmness in her expression that meant she was mentally elsewhere. He was certain she was thinking about him. He wanted her to think of him, but… he had a strong suspicion that her thinking at present was not following the lines he wished. His instincts prodded him to press her, to seize her however he might. Some other emotion-a stronger emotion-warned him the decision was hers. And he knew just how easy she was to influence.
At present, his campaign was mired in circumstance and his quarry was proving elusive. Every time he thought he had her in his grasp, she drew away, hazel eyes wide, slightly puzzled, not convinced.
Nowhere near convinced enough to marry him.
That fact left him feeling caged and not the least bit civilized every time she moved away from his side. There was no convenient wall against which he could lean and guard her, so he prowled the edge of the cleared area, unwilling to be waylaid by any of the ladies intent on catching his eye.
He was successful in avoiding all the encroaching madams, but he couldn't avoid Chillingworth. The earl loomed directly in his path.
Their gazes clashed. By mutual accord, they swung so they stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing over the dance floor.
"I'm surprised," Chillingworth drawled, "that you haven't tired of this game."
"Which game is that?"
"The game of knight-protector, keeping the rest of us at bay." Chillingworth's gaze raked his face. "Being such a close friend of the family's, I can understand why you might feel compelled by the notion, but don't you think you're carrying the role a little far?"
"Now why, I wonder, should that so concern you?" Even as he asked the question, Gabriel felt an icy tingle at his nape.
"I would have thought that obvious, dear boy." Chillingworth gestured toward the dancers, careful not to indicate Alathea specifically. "She's an attractive proposition, particularly to one situated as I."
Every word deepened the chill now steadily coursing Gabriel's veins. The uninformed might imagine Chillingworth meant he was considering seducing Alathea because he was presently amorously free. Gabriel knew better. The earl was of their class, from the same social stratum as the Bar Cynster; he was their contemporary in every way. He abided by the same unwritten code Gabriel himself had honored all his adult life. Ladies of good family and good character were not fair game.
Alathea was unmistakeably both. Seducing her was not what Chillingworth had in mind.
His expression impassive, Gabriel looked over the dancers, his gaze fixing on Alathea's face. "She's not for you."
"Indeed?" Challenge rang in Chillingworth's tone. "I realize this may come as a surprise, especially to a Cynster, but the lady herself will ultimately be the judge of that."
"No." Gabriel uttered the word quietly, yet it held enough latent force to make Chillingworth tense. And wait.
Gabriel saw the danger clearly. Chillingworth was Devil's age but had yet to marry. He needed an heir, and for that he needed a wife. He could appreciate Chillingworth's taste in being attracted to Alathea; he was not, however, of a mind to approve.
Alathea loved him, but whether she knew that, or accepted it, he didn't know. She was headstrong and willful, used to charting her own course. She also had that streak of considered recklessness he'd always found alarming. He could never predict wha
t it might lead her to do. She was finding coming to terms with the notion of marrying him difficult. If Chillingworth offered for her hand, might she accept to escape the impasse he'd created?
Despite loving him-or even because of it-might she think to set him free of the chivalric bonds she imagined compelled him by marrying Chillingworth instead?
Over the heads of the other dancers, Gabriel considered Alathea, and knew he couldn't risk it. She felt friendly toward Chillingworth. The earl could be charming when he wished and was, after all, a gentleman in the same mold as he. And Alathea was an earl's daughter. It would be a felicitous match all around.
Except for one thing.
Turning to Chillingworth, Gabriel met his gaze. "If you're imagining rectifying your lack of an heir through an alliance with the Morwellans, I suggest you think again."
Chillingworth stiffened; the look in his eyes suggested he could barely believe his ears. "And why is that?" he asked, his tone steely, his aggression poorly masked.
"Because," Gabriel said, "you would die before you laid so much as a finger on the lady in question, which might make getting your heir a trifle difficult."
Chillingworth stared at him, then looked away, resuming his previously noncombative stance. "I can't," he murmured, "quite believe you said that."
"I meant every word."
"I know." Chillingworth's lips quirked. "How enlightening."
"Just as long as you keep it in mind."