A Secret Love by Stephanie Laurens
Brook Street couldn’t be much farther. The thought spurred him to drink more deeply, to take all she offered—then seek, search, and tempt her further.
She gave—not so much easily as willingly, taking hesitant steps along a path he instinctively knew she’d never trod. She’d never before been passionately kissed, never been awakened in this way. He had to wonder about her late husband, and whether she’d been awakened at all.
He held her steady, urging her on, his lips ruthless, just this side of hard. He would have taken her further, much further, but tonight they’d run out of time.
The carriage slowed, then rocked to a halt.
Reluctantly, he released her lips. For one instant, as their breaths mingled, he was tempted . . . then he drew away his hand and let her veil fall. She would reveal herself to him of her own accord. That was one moment he intended to fully savor.
He straightened. She sank against the seat. She tried to speak and almost choked; clearing her throat, she tried again. “Mr. Cynster . . .”
“My name is Gabriel.”
Despite her veil, their gazes locked. She stared at him, her breasts rising and falling beneath her cloak. “I thought you had to consider our next move.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Believe me, I am.”
He waited; when she made no reply but continued to stare at him, he inclined his head. “Until our next meeting.” He reached for the door. “Incidentally, when will that be?”
After a moment, she managed, “I’ll contact you in a day or two.”
She was still breathless; he hid a triumphant smile. “Very well.” Deliberately, he let his gaze harden, pinning her where she sat. “But you will remember what I said. Leave Swales to me.”
Although it was no question, he waited. Eventually, she nodded—one of her usual crisp nods. “Yes. All right.”
Satisfied, he opened the door and stepped down to the pavement. Shutting the door, he signaled to the coachman. The reins flicked; the coach rumbled on.
He watched it roll away, then turned and climbed his steps, a great deal more than merely satisfied with the achievements of the night.
She’d never felt so breathless in her life.
One elbow propped on the dining table, Alathea toyed with her toast and struggled to bring some order to the chaos of her mind. Not a simple task with her senses still reeling.
How naive she’d been to ignore the portent of that first, oh-so-innocent kiss. Sealing a pact, indeed! It hadn’t occurred to her that, with no prickly reaction to stop him, he would most assuredly kiss her again. So now here she was, in a totally unexpected, never-before-experienced fluster. Just the thought of last night’s kiss—series of kisses—was enough to addle her brain. One conclusion, however, was horrifyingly clear. Her errant knight believed she was a married woman—an experienced married woman—one with whom he could freely dally. But she wasn’t. Thus far, he hadn’t suspected that fact, but how far could she travel his road of rewards without giving herself away?
Without having to give herself away?
All that was bad enough, but to top it all, he’d filched the reins from her grasp. God alone knew where her carefully laid plans were now headed.
She should have foreseen his move to take control; he’d always been the leader in their childhood games. But they were no longer children, and for the last ten years she’d been accustomed to command; being summarily relegated to the rank of follower was a little hard to take.
About her, the rest of her family talked, ate, laughed; sunk in her thoughts, she barely heard them. Picking up her toast, she crunched, and decided she’d have to allow at least the appearance of him being in charge. His Cynster self would settle for nothing less; it was pointless beating her head against that wall. That didn’t mean she had to meekly let him make all the decisions, only let him think he was. Which led to the question of how she could ensure that he didn’t forge on and simply leave her in ignorance.
She would have to meet with him regularly, a prospect that made her edgy. Organizing their next meeting was logically her next step, but she’d yet to recover from their last. She’d counted on his deep vein of chivalry in enticing him to her aid—not in her wildest dreams had she imagined he’d extrapolate so fiendishly as to claim a reward.
Even that word was now forever altered in her mind. Now it instantly evoked something illicit. Something exciting, thrilling, tempting—
Seductive.
Her thoughts whirled; her lungs seized. Simply recalling that moment in the carriage when, with typical highhandedness, he’d set his lips to hers still made her dizzy. Remembering what had followed sent color rushing to her cheeks.
Instantly, she banished the mental visions, and the remembered sensations as well. If anything, the latter were worse. Lifting her teacup, she sipped and prayed no one had noticed her blush. She hadn’t blushed in the last five years, possibly not in the last ten. If she suddenly started coloring up over nothing, questions would be asked—speculation would be born. Quite the last thing she needed.
Ruthlessly burying all memories of the drive to his house, she told herself she had no reason to berate herself; she couldn’t have avoided it—any of it—without raising his suspicions. There was no point considering it further, beyond sending heartfelt thanks to her guardian angel—she’d very nearly blurted out his name when he’d released her. “Rupert” had hovered on the tip of her tongue; she’d only just managed to swallow the word. Uttering it would have spelled an immediate end to her charade; she was the only female younger than his mother who persisted in calling him by his given name. He’d told her so himself.
Why she was so stubborn about it she didn’t know—it was like clinging to a simpler time long gone. She’d always thought of him as Rupert.
My name is Gabriel.
His words rang in her mind. Gazing at the windows, she pondered; he was right—he was Gabriel now, not Rupert. Gabriel contained the boy, the youth, the man she’d known as Rupert, but also encompassed more. A greater depth, a greater spectrum of experience—a deeper reserve.
After a moment, she mentally shook herself and finished her tea. As the countess, she would have to remember to call him Gabriel, while Alathea still dubbed him Rupert.
And she would have to find a way to limit the rewards Gabriel would, without doubt, attempt to claim.
“I think we should call on Lady Hertford this morning.” Checking the day’s invitations, Serena looked consideringly at Mary and Alice. “She’s giving an at-home, and I think, if you wear those gowns that were delivered yesterday, it would be a useful venue at which to be seen.”
“Oh, yes!” Mary exclaimed. “Do let’s start going about.”
“Will there be other young ladies there?” Alice asked.
“Naturally.” Serena turned to Alathea. “And you must come, too, my dear, or else I’ll have to spend all my time explaining your absence.”
That was said with a sweet but determined smile; Alathea smiled back. “Of course, I’ll come, if nothing else to lend support.”
Mary and Alice brightened even more. Amid serious discussion of ribbons, bonnets and reticules, they all retired upstairs to prepare for the projected excursion.
It was, indeed, very like a military sortie. An hour later, standing at the side of Lady Hertford’s drawing room, Alathea hid a grin. Serena had led the metaphorical charge into her ladyship’s arena, positioning her troops with keen eye and shrewd judgment. Mary and Alice were engaged with a group of similarly young and inexperienced damsels, chattering animatedly, all initial shyness forgotten. Serena was sitting with Lady Chelmsford and the Duchess of Lewes, both of whom also had under their wings young ladies making their come-outs. Alathea would have wagered a tidy sum that the talk had already veered to which gentlemen might be expected to unearth handkerchiefs to drop this Season.
For herself, she stood quietly at the side of the room, although she knew she’d been noted by all. As Serena had remarked, if she
That suited her very well.
Finishing her tea, she glanced around for a table on which to set her cup. Spying one beyond the chaise on which her hostess sat chatting to one of her bosom-bows, Alathea glided along the wall, passing behind the chaise to set her cup down. She was about to retreat when the words “Central East Africa Gold Company” froze her where she stood.
She stared at the back of Lady Hertford’s frizzy red head.
“An absolutely certain return, my cousin said, so naturally I told Geoffrey. I gave him the name of the man in charge, but Geoffrey’s been hemming and hawing, dragging his feet.” Leaning closer to her friend, Lady Hertford lowered her voice. “You may be sure I pointed out that what with the unexpected costs his heir has incurred at Oxford, he should be eager to better his current standing—I told him plainly that this year, Jane would need not just better gowns but more in her portion as well. But would he be moved?”
Lady Hertford sat poker straight, disapproval for her errant spouse in every line. “I’m convinced,” she hissed, “that it’s only because my dearest cousin Ernest suggested it, and Geoffrey’s never liked Ernest.”
Her friend murmured sympathetically, then turned the conversation to their offspring. Alathea moved away. Clearly, Lord Hertford shared her reaction to the Central East Africa Gold Company—in his case, if her ladyship was to be believed, because of who was “in charge.”
From across the room, a turbaned dowager beckoned; Alathea obeyed the summons. With a serene smile firmly in place, she withstood an intensive inquisition on her obsession for the country and her spinster state. Not, of course, that the words “unfashionable recluse” or “husband” ever featured in the conversation.
Invincible serenity and an adamant refusal to be drawn finally won her her release from Lady Merricks, who snorted and waved her away. “Unconscionable—that’s what it is, miss! Your grandmama would have been the first to say so.”
With that observation ringing in her ears, Alathea gravitated back to the side of the room, and wondered if she dared broach the subject of the Central East Africa Gold Company with her hostess. One glance at Lady Hertford’s round and ruddy countenance put paid to that idea. Her ladyship was unlikely to have any information beyond what she’d already divulged. More to the point, she would be amazed by Alathea’s inquiry. Ladies of her ilk, young or otherwise, should have no interest in such matters—ladies of her ilk were not supposed to know such matters existed.
Which was a definite hurdle, for she could not, on the same count, beard his lordship, either.
Alathea glanced at the door. Did she dare slip out and search Lord Hertford’s study? She debated the likelihood of finding anything helpful; if learning the name of the man behind the company had been enough to cool his lordship’s interest, it seemed unlikely he would have needed to write it down.
The probable return did not seem worth the risk of getting caught searching Lord Hertford’s study. She could just imagine the scandal that would provoke, especially if her reasons for searching ever came out.
And what if Gabriel learned of it?
No. She’d have to be patient. The very word chafed—she trenchantly repeated it. In the matter of the Central East Africa Gold Company, she was the countess and the countess had put her trust in Gabriel.
Patience and trust were all very well, but such virtues did nothing to ease her curiosity or allay the conviction that, if she left him too much to his own devices, Gabriel would either solve the entire matter and then present himself before her expecting to claim some impossible reward, or he’d become mired in some distracting detail and lose the thread entirely. Either was possible. If he had always been the leader, she had always been his eminence grise. It was time to reclaim that position.
They were attending an evening party at Osbaldestone House. Standing by the chaise on which Serena sat conversing with Lady Chadwick, Alathea scanned the crowd gathered to celebrate Lady Osbaldestone’s sixtieth birthday. For her purpose, the setting was perfect.
Two days had passed since their unplanned meeting at Lincoln’s Inn, two days in which Gabriel should have investigated the company’s agent and his place of business. It was time for the countess to ask for a report.
Before her, the flower of the ton mingled and met. There was no dancing, just a string quartet installed in an alcove, vainly striving to be heard over the din. Talk—gossip and repartee—were the primary occupations of the evening, activities at which the guest of honor excelled.
Lady Osbaldestone was sitting on a chaise facing the room’s center. Alathea glanced her way. The old lady thumped her cane on the floor, then pointed it at Vane Cynster, currently standing before her. Vane stepped back as if taking refuge behind the willowy figure of his wife. Alathea had met Patience Cynster in the park a few days before. Patience curtsied with unruffleable calm before her ladyship.
Alathea wished she had a little more patience—her eyes strayed to the clock for the third time in ten minutes. It was not yet ten o’clock; the party had barely begun. Guests were still arriving. Gabriel was already here, but it was too early for the countess to materialize.
The Cynsters were here en masse, Lady Osbaldestone being a connection. Alathea was watching two beauties presently holding court under Gabriel’s oddly unimpressed eye when long fingers wrapped about her elbow.
“Welcome to town, my dear.”
The fingers slid down to tangle with hers and briefly squeeze. Alathea turned, a smile lighting her face. “I wondered where you were.” She ran an appreciative glance over the tall, dark-haired, dark-garbed figure beside her. “Now what am I supposed to call you—Alasdair? Or Lucifer?”
His smile flashed, the pirate beneath the fashionable facade showing briefly. “Either will do.”
Alathea raised a brow. “Both accurate?”
“I do my poor best.”
“I’m sure you do.” She looked across the room. “But what’s he doing?”
Lucifer followed her gaze to his brother. “Guard duty. We take turns.”
Alathea studied the girls and caught the resemblance. “They’re your cousins?”
“Hmm. They don’t have an older brother to watch over them, so we do. Devil’s in charge, of course, but he’s not often in town these days. Very busy taking care of the ducal acres, the ducal purse, and the ducal succession.”
Alathea’s gaze shifted to the tall, striking figure of the Duke of St. Ives. “I see.” Devil was paying amazingly close attention to a haughtily commanding lady standing by his side. “The lady with him . . . ?”
“Honoria, his duchess.”
“Ah!” Alathea nodded; Devil’s intent gaze was now explained. She’d met all Gabriel’s and Lucifer’s male cousins occasionally over the years; she had no difficulty picking them out from the crowd. The family resemblance was definite, their general handsomeness a byword, although they were all identifiably distinct, from Devil’s striking, piratical looks, to Vane’s cool grace, to Gabriel’s classical features and Lucifer’s dark beauty. “I can’t see the other two.” She scanned the crowd again.
“They’re not here. Richard and his witch are resident in Scotland.”
“His witch?”
“Well, his wife, but she truly is a witch of sorts. She’s known as the Lady of the Vale in those parts.”
“Indeed?”
“Mmm. And Demon’s busy escorting his new wife on a prolonged tour of the racetracks.”
“Racetracks?”
“They have a shared interest in racing Thoroughbreds.”
“Oh.” Alathea checked her mental list. “That
Lucifer narrowed his eyes at her. “Et tu, Brute?”
Alathea smiled. “Merely an observation.”
“Just as well, or I might be tempted to point out that those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”
Alathea’s smile didn’t waver. “You know I’ve decided marriage isn’t for me.”
“I know you’ve told me so—what I’ve never understood is why.”
Shaking her head, she looked away. “Never mind.” Her gaze returned to the two blond beauties chatting gaily, studiously ignoring Gabriel’s lounging, deliberately intimidating presence mere yards away. “Your young cousins—are they twins?”
“Yes. This is their second Season, but they are only eighteen.”
“Eighteen?” Alathea glanced at Lucifer, then back at the girls, confirming the modish gowns a touch more elegant than permissable for a girl in her first Season, the more sophisticated hairstyles, the assurance in the girls’ gestures. Considering Gabriel watching over them like a potentially lethal avenging angel, Alathea shook her head. “What on earth does he—you—think you’re doing? If they’re eighteen . . . why”—she swung to look at Mary and Alice talking in a group nearby—“Alice is only seventeen.”
“She is?” Lucifer turned to stare at Mary and Alice. “Good Lord—I didn’t notice they were here.” He frowned, then glanced across the room at his cousins. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Without waiting for an answer, he swooped on Mary and Alice. With effortless charm, he detached them from their circle. One on each arm, he bore them across the room. Alathea watched, the question of what he was doing fading from her mind as the answer presented itself. He introduced her sisters to his cousins—a moment later, he slipped away from the enlarged circle now containing all four young ladies surrounded by a bevy of exceedingly safe, exceedingly careful young gentlemen.