A Secret Love by Stephanie Laurens
His head whipped around and he scowled at her. “Thea—stop resisting. We’ll be married soon. All I just said is going to happen—you know it is.”
“I know nothing of the sort. Why do you imagine I’ll agree to your dictates?”
He hesitated, his narrowed gaze locked with hers. Then he said, “You’ll agree because you love me.”
Alathea felt her lips part, felt her jaw drop. Horrified, she searched his eyes. The comprehension she saw horrified her even more. How could he know? She snapped her lips shut and fixed him with a militant glare. “I’ll be the judge of whether I love you or not.”
“Are you saying you don’t?” His tone was a warning.
“I’m saying I haven’t yet made up my mind.”
With a disgusted snort, he looked away. “Pull the other one.”
Although he’d muttered, Alathea heard him. “You don’t know that I love you—you can’t know!”
He looked her in the eye. “I do.”
“How?”
After a moment, he looked away; this time, his gaze fastened on the jasmine, blooming in profusion over the gazebo, filling the arches, fragrant white blossoms nodding in the breeze. Catching a spray, he snapped it off. Looking down, he turned it in his hands, long fingers caressing the velvet-soft blooms. “How many men have you allowed to make love to you?”
Alathea stiffened. “You know perfectly well—”
“Precisely.” He nodded, his gaze on the jasmine. “Only me. You don’t know—”
Alathea waited; after a long moment, he drew breath and met her gaze. “I know you love me because of the way you give yourself to me. The way you are when you’re in my arms.”
“Well!” She fought down an urge to bluster. “As you’re the only lover I’ve yet known—”
“Tell me,”—his steely words cut her off—“can you imagine being as you are with me, if it wasn’t me with you but some other man?”
She stared at him. She couldn’t begin to even form a mental picture; the idea was utterly foreign.
So foreign, she suddenly realized she’d lost sight of her agenda. “You’re avoiding my point.” It was a wrench to drag her mind from the avenues into which he’d lead it, to consider instead that if he knew she loved him, he’d be even more chivalrously inclined to wed her regardless of any other motive. The realization fueled a fresh rush of emotions, hope and frustration equally represented. Hope that the reason for his self-protective shield was a heart as vulnerable as hers; frustation over convincing him to lower his guard long enough for her to know.
She felt like clenching her fists, screwing her eyes shut, drumming her heels, and demanding he tell her the truth. Instead, she fixed her eyes on his and carefully enunciated, “I will not marry you until you tell me why you want to marry me, and place your hand on your heart and swear you’ve told me all—every last one—of your reasons.”
Those who thought him the epitome of a civilized gentleman would never have recognized the harshly primitive warrior who now faced her. Luckily, she’d encountered him often enough not to quake.
“Why?”
The very air shivered beneath that one word, so invested with suppressed passions—anger, frustration, and barely leashed desire.
Alathea didn’t blink. “Because I need to know.”
He held her gaze for so long, she began to feel giddy, then he wrenched his gaze from hers and abruptly stood.
He looked out over the lawns, then glanced down at her. His expression was impassive. With a flick of his fingers, he tossed the sprig of jasmine into her lap.
“Don’t you think we’ve wasted enough years?”
His gaze rose, touched hers, then he turned and strode down the steps.
Alathea sat in the gazebo mentally replaying their exchanges, wondering, if she had the chance, if she would say anything different, do anything different, or manage to achieve anything more.
At the end of an hour, she lifted the jasmine and inhaled the heady scent. She focused on the sprig, then, with a self-deprecating grimace, tucked it into her cleavage.
For luck.
She’d diced with fate for her sisters and won. She’d just played for her own future—had she told him she wasn’t aggressive? She’d risked everything on a last throw.
She’d do it again in a blink.
With a sigh, she rose and headed for the house.
Sunday evening. Gabriel let himself into his house with his latchkey. As he closed the door, Chance materialized from the back of the hall.
Gabriel handed him his hat and cane. “Is there brandy in the parlor?”
“Indeed, sir.”
Gabriel waved a dismissal. “I won’t need anything more tonight.” He stopped with his hand on the parlor doorknob. “One thing—did Folwell bring his report?”
“Aye, sir—it’s on the mantelshelf.”
“Good.” Entering the parlor, Gabriel shut the door and headed straight for the sideboard. He poured himself two fingers of brandy, then, glass in hand, lifted Folwell’s missive from the mantelpiece and slumped into his favorite armchair. He took a long sip, his gaze on the folded sheet, then, setting both glass and note down on a side table, he pressed his hands to his eyes.
God, he was tired. Over the last week, aside from the time he’d spent with Alathea and a few restless hours’ sleep, he’d devoted every waking minute to trying to shake formal statements—statements with legal weight—from a score of civil servants and foreign ambassadors’ aides. To no avail. It wasn’t that the gentlemen didn’t want to be helpful; it was simply the way of governmental authority the world around. Everything had to be checked and triple-checked, and then authorized by someone else. Time, it seemed, was measured on a different scale in Whitehall and foreign parts both.
Sighing deeply, Gabriel stretched out his legs and leaned his head back, eyes closed. It wasn’t his failure on the foreign front that was worrying him.
He’d called on Captain Aloysius Struthers that afternoon. Even from that short interview, it was clear that the captain was indeed the savior Alathea had thought him. His testimony, even in the absence of any further facts beyond those they’d already gleaned, would prompt the most reticent judge to a speedy and favorable decision. The problem was the captain had embarked on a crusade with all flags flying. He’d already contacted acquaintances in search of maps and mining leases.
Gabriel wasn’t at all sure that was the way to sling a noose around Crowley’s neck. Stealth might have been wiser.
He’d spent half an hour urging Struthers to caution, but the man hadn’t wanted to listen. He was fixated on bringing Crowley down. In the end, Gabriel had accepted that and left, trying to ignore the presentiment of danger resonating, clarionlike, in his mind.
As long as Struthers appeared at Chancery Court on Tuesday morning, all would be well. Until then, however, the investigation and his nerves would teeter on a knife edge. One wrong move . . .
Opening his eyes, he straightened, reached for his glass, and grimly sipped. There was nothing more he could do tonight to bolster the Morwellan cause. It was, however, time and past that he attended to the other matter on his plate.
He was a coward.
A difficult fact for a Cynster to face, but face it he must. She had given him no choice.
He hadn’t seen Alathea since their meeting in the gazebo the previous afternoon. Indeed, he didn’t want to see her, not until he’d decided what to do, how to respond to her ultimatum. She made him feel so . . . primitive, so stripped of all his elegant attitudes, the patina of his social charm. With her, he felt like a caveman, one who had suddenly discovered heaven on earth was beyond the ability of his club to provide. He’d painted the details of their future life intending to lure her into admitting how desirable it would be, to show her how easily their lives would mesh. Instead, he’d opened his own eyes to how desperately he wanted all that he’d described.
He hadn’t considered the details before—he’d known he wanted
And pricked and prodded at his cowardice.
Was he going to risk that future—the glorious future that should be theirs—simply because he couldn’t find the words to tell her what she wanted to know? Because the mere thought of what she truly meant to him closed his throat and rendered him incapable of speech?
But there were no words to encompass all she was to him, so how the devil could he tell her?
He swallowed a mouthful of brandy, and brooded on that fact. But he had to tell her, and soon. Patience had never been his strong suit—patience that entailed concommitant abstinence was utterly foreign to his nature. He’d endured more than a week without her; his stock of patience was stretched vanishingly thin. He certainly wasn’t about to let the court case run its course and risk her slipping back to the country. If she did, he’d have to hie after her, and just think how revealing that would be to the now all-too-interested ton.
No—he had to speak before Tuesday morning. God knew how things would pan out after that, Struthers or no. And if, by some hellish twist of fate, things went awry and the decision went against them . . . if he waited until then to drum up his courage and speak, it might take forever to convince her he wasn’t simply doing his all to whisk her into his protection. He’d probably go insane before he succeeded. Best to strike now, when their case looked strong, so she had less justification to attribute all his motive to his admittedly obsessive protective instinct. He wasn’t sorry for that instinct—he wouldn’t dream of apologizing for it—but he could see that in this case, it was going to get in his way.
So—how to tell her what she insisted on knowing before Tuesday morning?
He couldn’t see himself doing the deed via a formal morning call, and trying to talk to her in the park would be insane. Reaching for Folwell’s note, he scanned the list of Alathea’s engagements. As he’d supposed, the next time he and she would unavoidably meet was at the Marlboroughs’ ball tomorrow night.
They’d meet at Chancery Court the next morning.
Gabriel grimaced. How, between appearing in court and now, did fate expect him to declare his hand, let alone his heart?
“Send Nellie up to me, Crisp. I may as well get ready.”
“Indeed, Lady Alathea. I believe Nellie’s with Figgs. I’ll inform her immediately.” Crisp sailed on through the green baize door.
Alathea climbed the stairs, doggedly ignoring her constantly vacillating emotions. On the one hand, she felt almost hysterical with relief, buoyed to the point of frivolity over having the sword that had hung over the family’s future for the past months all but effectively removed. The captain’s testimony would carry the day against Ranald Crowley. There were moments when she had to concentrate to keep a silly grin from her face.
She had mentioned to her father and Serena that matters were looking up. A superstitious quirk had stopped her from assuring them that the family was finally safe. That she would do later in the week, the instant the judge handed down his decision.
But they were safe. She knew it in her heart.
Her heart, unfortunately, was otherwise engaged, not at all inclined to share in her imminent joy. On a matter that had, to her considerable surprise, come to mean more to her than even her family, her heart was troubled. Uneasy. Unfulfilled.
Reaching the top of the stairs, she released her skirts and sighed.
What was he up to?
She hadn’t seen him, or heard from him since he’d left her in the gazebo, his harsh words “Don’t you think we’ve wasted enough years?” ringing in her ears. So what now? Did he imagine she’d weaken and meekly acquiesce?
“Hah!” Lips compressing, she swept down the wing and flung open the door to her room. Nellie’s footsteps came pattering after her.
“I want that ivory and gold gown—the one I was saving for a special occasion.”
“Oooh!” Nellie darted to the wardrobe. “What’s the occasion, then?”
Alathea sat before her dressing table; in the mirror, she considered the militant light in her eyes. “I haven’t yet decided.”
She wasn’t going to do it—weaken and give in. She was going to be tenacious, stubborn—she was utterly determined. As far as she could see, she was the one who had taken all the risks thus far—in demanding his sworn motives, in being so naively transparent. It was time he did his part and told her the full truth.
A tap on the door heralded her bathwater. While Nellie oversaw the preparations, Alathea unpinned and brushed her hair, then wound it in a simple knot. Nellie came to fetch her usual bath salts; she mumbled through lips clamped about hairpins, “No—not those. The French sachets.”
Nellie’s brows rose, but she hurried to the drawer where the expensive birthday present from Serena was secreted. A moment later, a lush scent reminiscent of the countess’s perfume wreathed through the room.
Nellie’s face was gleefully alight; without further direction, she assembled all required to turn Alathea out at her finest—at her most seductive.
It was nearly an hour later before they were done. As she settled a gold cap on her hair, Alathea studied her reflection, trying to see herself through his eyes. Her hair shone, her eyes were wide and bright. Her complexion—something she rarely considered—was flawless. The years had erased all traces of youth from both face and figure, leaving both honed, refined. She touched her fingers lightly to her lips, then smiled. Swiftly, she scanned the expanse of her shoulders and breasts revealed by the exquisite gown, one Serena had forced on her earlier in the Season.
Sending heartfelt thanks winging her stepmother’s way, Alathea stood. The gown rustled as the stiff silk fell straight, the gold embroidery at neckline and hem glittering. Stepping back, she turned, studying her outline, the way the gown caressed her hips. Determination glowed in her eyes.
As far as she was concerned the next move was Gabriel’s, especially given he’d been so helpful as to make her declaration for her. Being naively transparent was bad enough—having one’s transparency explained to one was infinitely worse.
She wasn’t going to budge. He was going to have to convince her, utterly, completely, beyond a shadow—“Here!” Nellie turned from the door to which a tap had summoned her. “Look what’s come.” Alerted by the wonder in Nellie’s voice, Alathea looked around.
Reverently holding a white-and-gilt box, Nellie gazed delightedly on what it contained. Then she beamed at Alathea. “It’s for you—and there’s a note!”
Alathea’s heart leaped; her lungs seized. She sank back down on her dressing stool. As Nellie approached with the box, Alathea realized the reason for her awestruck expression. The box wasn’t white—it was glass lined with white silk. It wasn’t gilt, either—the decorations at corners, hinge and latch were all pure gold.
As Nellie gave it into her hands, Alathea could not imagine anything more exquisite. What on earth did it contain?
She didn’t need to open it to find out. The lid was not lined. Through it, she saw a simple posy.
Simple, yes; in all other respects the posy was a match for the box. A group of five white flowers of a kind she’d never seen were secured with a ribbon of gold filigree. The posy nestled amid the white silk, all but hiding the note beneath. The petals of the flowers were lush, thick, velvety, the green of their stems a sharp contrast.
It was the most elaborate, expensive, extravagant come-out posy Alathea had ever seen.
Swivelling on the stool, she set the box on her dressing table and raised the lid. A drift of perfume reached her, sensual and heavy. Once inhaled, it didn’t leave her. Carefully sliding her fingers beneath the flowers, she lifted the posy and set it aside. Then she drew out the note. Barely breathing, she opened it.
The message was simple—a single line in his bold, aggressive hand.
You have my heart—don’t break it.
She read the words three times a
And concentrated on dragging in her next breath.
“Oh, dear,” she finally managed, and even that wavered. Blinking frantically, she stared at the posy. “Oh, heavens. What on earth am I to do?”
“Why you’ll carry it, of course. Very nice, I must say.”
“No, Nellie, you don’t understand.” Alathea put her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, how like him to make it complicated!”
“Him, who? Master Rupert?”
“Yes. Gabriel. He’s called that now.”
Nellie sniffed. “Well, I can’t see why you can’t carry his flowers, even if he is using some other name.”
Alathea swallowed a hysterical laugh. “It’s not his name, Nellie, it’s me. I can’t carry a girl’s come-out posy.”
He’d known, of course. She’d never had her come-out, never received a come-out posy, never had the opportunity to carry one.
“Damn the man!” She felt like weeping with happiness. “What am I to do?” She’d never felt so flustered in her life. She wanted to carry the flowers, to pick them up, rush out of the door like an eager young girl, and hurry to the ball just so she could show him—her lover—that she understood. But . . . “The scandalmongers are watching us as it is.” If she carried the posy, they’d be the on-dit of the night. Possibly the whole Season.
“Maybe I can wear them as a corsage?” She tried it, angling the flowers this way, then that, at her right, her left, in the center of her neckline.
“No.” She sighed. “It won’t do.” One flower wasn’t enough against the gold embroidery, but three, the number needed to balance the spray, was too much, too large. Far too visible. Aside from anything else, the spray would be in her constant vision—facing him over it, spending the evening with him by her side with his flowers so blatantly between them would be impossible. She’d never maintain her composure.
“I can’t.” Dismayed, she gazed at the beautiful blooms—at the favor her warrior had sent her as a token of his heart. She desperately wanted to carry them, but didn’t dare. “Fetch a vase, Nellie.”