Page 20 of Gabriel: Duke of Bencalor

Which shifted his ex­pres­sion to con­cern and made him wrap one arm around her shoul­ders to guide her away from the Spano. “Are you all right?”

Shit! His scent and the weight of his arm against her back sent a shiver of de­sire right down be­tween her thighs.

She slid out from un­der his arm in what she hoped was a sub­tle way. “Just a klutz.”

He reached for the inn’s door, which swung open to re­veal a blond woman dressed in a black sheath dress. “Mon­sieur le duc! Bi­en­v­enue! It is a plea­sure to have you back.” She even dipped into a grace­ful curtsy.

“Amelie! You look as beau­ti­ful as al­ways.” Gabriel leaned for­ward to do the dou­ble Eu­ro­pean air-kiss.

“Please, I have a ta­ble for you by the win­dows.” She turned to lead them into a din­ing room where light was ad­mit­ted by an en­tire wall of win­dows fac­ing the sea, while a sense of airi­ness came from the white walls and high beamed ceil­ing.

As they walked, the wait­ers—who were all male—gave Gabriel lit­tle bows and mur­mured, “Mon­sieur le duc.”

A cou­ple of the din­ers nod­ded to him re­spect­fully as well.

The host­ess seated them at a ta­ble that com­manded a spec­tac­u­lar view of the surf rolling onto the glit­ter­ing sil­ver beach. She ges­tured a bus­boy over to pour sparkling wa­ter in their glasses and asked Gabriel if he needed any­thing else be­fore she de­parted with an­other curtsy. As a waiter sprang to at­ten­tion and headed for their ta­ble, Quinn leaned for­ward and said, “I need to eat out with dukes more of­ten. The ser­vice is amaz­ing.”

One cor­ner of Gabriel’s beau­ti­ful mouth twitched up­ward be­fore the waiter swooped in with menus. Gabriel waved the leather fold­ers away. “Quinn, if you are agree­able, I sug­gest that we let the chef de­cide what we should eat.”

“As long as noth­ing is still alive when I put it in my mouth, I’m good.” Al­though she hoped there wouldn’t be any tongues or brains or even liv­ers. But she could choke them down if nec­es­sary.

Gabriel’s eyes glinted as he said to the waiter, “If you would pass my com­pan­ion’s re­quest along to the chef, I’d ap­pre­ci­ate it.”

The waiter looked of­fended be­fore he re­al­ized Gabriel was jok­ing. “Ah, yes, of course, mon­sieur le duc.”

He ac­tu­ally bowed and backed away from the ta­ble.

“What do they do when the king shows up?” Quinn asked. “Crawl on their hands and knees?”

Gabriel gri­maced. “My mother dines here when she’s home, so they are very aware of my, er, her­itage.”

“I’ve never re­ally seen you treated like a duke be­fore.” Ex­cept for Emilia, of course, but Quinn had dis­missed her be­hav­ior as starstruck.

“Con­sid­er­ing you’ve only seen me twice and both times were in your of­fice, that’s not sur­pris­ing. Mikel has no re­spect for my ti­tle.” Gabriel grinned. “Some­times quite the con­trary, I think.”

“Mikel has a great deal of re­spect for you as a per­son,” she as­sured him. In fact, her boss was pro­tec­tive of Gabriel be­cause of what he’d been through. “But not be­cause you’re a duke.”

Gabriel gave a slight nod. “I ap­pre­ci­ate that about Mikel and about you.”

Yet she’d seen the sub­tle change in Gabriel’s pos­ture when the valet had greeted him by his ti­tle. His chin had lifted, his spine had snapped straighter, and he’d worn an air of com­mand and dig­nity that he hadn’t pro­jected in the car with her. In fact, even seated in the restau­rant, he did not re­lax back in his chair but sat tall, his shoul­ders square and his chin high.

“Do you get tired of be­ing a duke?”

He lifted his slash­ing eye­brows in a look of sur­prise. “Some­times I tire of be­ing treated like a duke. But I would have to be tired of my­self to feel the way you sug­gest. Be­ing a duke has been wo­ven into the fab­ric of who I am since I was born. Who knows? Maybe even be­fore.” He smiled that dev­as­tat­ing smile of his. “When I need a break from be­ing ducal, I find an Amer­i­can.”

“Oh, so that’s why I’m here. As an an­ti­dote.”

“More of a respite. Or per­haps a coun­ter­bal­ance to keep me from be­com­ing too self-im­por­tant.”

He joked, but she had seen the sac­ri­fice his ti­tle had de­manded of him. Sud­denly, she didn’t feel like teas­ing him about it any fur­ther.

The waiter ar­rived with a bot­tle of wine, which he dis­played for Gabriel. “The chef rec­om­mends be­gin­ning with the Mon­tra­chet. Would that be agree­able to you, mon­sieur le duc?”

Gabriel looked at Quinn with a lifted eye­brow. She nod­ded, and the waiter de­parted.

“Don’t worry. I won’t drink more than two glasses,” Gabriel said. “Un­less you’d like to be the des­ig­nated driver?”

“I can’t be­lieve you would trust me with that car.”

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