A Secret Love (13 page)

Everything within her stilled. Had his experience with her, of her, hardened him against all women?

Then she remembered the countess. With the countess, he was intent, attentive, certainly not distant and cold. Perhaps distant and cold came later? After . . . ?

Inwardly frowning, she shook aside her thoughts. Looking ahead, she saw the four girls nearing a group of budding dandies. “Perhaps we'd better catch up.”

Celia looked; her gaze sharpened. “Indeed.”

Where in London was he to find a suitable sheep?

Leaving Lucifer and the friends with whom they'd lunched in the smoking room of White's, Gabriel scanned the occupants of the rooms through which he passed. None fitted his bill. It had to be someone with no obvious connection to the Cynsters, yet someone he could trust. Someone sharp enough to play a part but appear vacuous. Someone willing to take orders from him. Someone reliable.

Someone with money to invest and some hope of appearing gullible.

While he had contacts aplenty who would qualify on most counts, that last criterion excused them all. Where was he supposed to find such a someone?

Pausing on the steps of White's, he considered, then strolled down and headed for Bond Street.

It was the height of the Season and the sun was shining—as he'd expected, all the ton and their relatives were strolling the fashionable street. The crowd was considerable, the traffic snarled. He ambled, scanning the faces, noting those he knew, assessing, rejecting, considering alternatives—trying to ignore the female half of the population. He needed a sheep, not a tall lady.

Even if he saw the countess, he doubted he'd know her. Other than her height and her perfume, he knew so little of her. If he kissed her, he'd know, but he could hardly kiss every possible lady on the off-chance she was his houri. Besides, he'd already determined that the fastest way to get the countess precisely where he wanted her was to learn more about the company—and that necessitated finding a sheep.

He was halfway along the street when, immediately ahead, four ladies stepped out of a milliner's shop and congregated on the pavement. In the instant he recognized the Morwellans, Alathea raised her head and looked directly at him. Serena, Mary, and Alice followed her gaze—their faces promptly lit with smiles.

There was nothing for it but to do the pretty. Sliding into his fashionable persona, he shook Serena's hand, exchanged nods with Mary and Alice, and lastly, more stiffly, with Alathea. As all four ladies stepped free of the throng by the shop windows, closer to the curb so they could converse more easily, Alathea hung back, then took up a position a good yard away from him, so that they both had their backs to the congested carriageway with Serena, Mary, and Alice strung between, facing them.

“We met your mother and your sisters only this morning,” Serena informed him.

“In the park,” Mary added. “We strolled—it was such fun.”

“There were some silly gentlemen about,” Alice said. “They had
monstrous
cravats—nothing like yours or Lucifer's.”

He responded easily, in truth without thought. Even though Serena, Mary, and Alice ranked high on his list of people to be kind to, with Alathea three feet away, his senses, as always, slewed to her.

And prickled, and itched.

Even though he'd barely glanced at her, he knew she was wearing a lavender walking dress and a chip bonnet that covered her haloed hair. Under the bonnet, he was certain, would lurk one of those scraps of lace he found so offensive. He couldn't comment, not even elliptically, not with Serena before him . . . on the other hand, if he caught Alathea's eye, she would know what he was thinking.

With that in mind, he glanced her way.

The carriage horse behind her reared, kicking over the traces—

He grabbed Alathea and hauled her to him, swinging around, instinctively shielding her. A hoof whizzed past their heads. The horse screamed, dragged the carriage, then tried to kick again—the rising knee caught him in the back.

He jerked, but stayed upright.

Pandemonium ensued. Everybody yelled. Men ran from all over to help. Others called instructions. One lady had hysterics—another swooned. In seconds, they were surrounded by a noisy crowd; the driver of the green horse was the center of attention.

Gabriel stood motionless on the curb, Alathea locked in his arms. His senses were reeling, his wits no less so. At the edge of his awareness, he heard Serena, Mary, and Alice shrilly scolding the driver—they were incensed but not hysterical. Everyone around them was watching the melee in the road, temporarily ignoring him and Alathea.

He tried to catch his breath, and couldn't. A host of emotions poured through him, relief that she was unhurt not the least. He hadn't been gentle—he'd slammed her against him, then held tight; she was plastered to him from shoulder to knee. She'd gasped, then gasped again as his body had jolted with the horse's kick.

Her gaze was fixed over his shoulder, but from her fractured breathing, he suspected she saw nothing. A light, flowery fragrance rose from her breasts, crushed to his chest; soft whorls of hair peeked from under her bonnet, mere inches from his face.

He felt her catch her breath; a slight shiver went through her. She gathered herself—he could feel steel infuse the fine muscles in her back—then she turned her head and looked into his face.

Their gazes met and held—hazel drowning in hazel. Hers were clouded, so many emotions chasing each other across her eyes that he couldn't identify any of them. Then, abruptly, the clouds cleared and one emotion shone through.

He recognized it instantly, even though it had been years since last he'd seen it. Concern poured from her eyes and warmed him—he'd forgotten how it always had.

“Are you all right?” Her hands, trapped between them, fisted in his coat. “The horse kicked you.”

When he didn't immediately reply she tried to shake him. Her body shifted against his. He caught his breath. “Yes, I'm all right.” But he wasn't. “Only the knee connected—not the hoof.”

She stilled in his arms, open concern for him filling her face. “It must hurt.”

All
of him hurt—he was so aroused he was in agony.

He knew the instant she realized. Flush against him, she couldn't help but know. Her gaze flickered, then her lashes lowered—her gaze fell to his lips, then to his cravat. An instant later, she sucked in a small breath and wriggled—just a little. It was a long ago sign between them; she wasn't attempting to break free—she knew she couldn't—she was asking to be let go.

Forcing his arms to unlock, then setting her back from him was the hardest physical labor he'd ever performed. She immediately fussed with her skirts and didn't look at him.

He felt flustered, awkward, embarrassed . . . he swung on his heel to view the disaster in the road, praying she hadn't noticed the color in his cheeks.

Alathea knew the instant his gaze left her. She couldn't breathe; her wits were reeling so crazily she felt disorientated as well as dizzy. Straightening, she pretended to watch as the fracas was resolved, grateful when it required Gabriel's intervention. Rigid, she waited on the pavement, stiffly inclining her head when the gentleman who'd been in charge of the young horse approached with profuse apologies.

In her mind, she repeated a single refrain: Gabriel hadn't realized.

Not yet.

The question of whether he would suddenly see the light kept her stiff as a poker.

Then Serena bustled up, all matronly concern, both for her and her protector.

“Are you
sure
you're all right?” Uninhibited by age or elegance, Serena grabbed Gabriel's arm and made him swing around.

Alathea allowed herself a fleeting glance at his face as Serena brushed off his coat.

He frowned and all but squirmed. “No harm done.” Freeing himself from Serena's grasp, he gathered Mary and Alice with a glance. “It would be wise to retreat.” He hesitated, then asked Serena, “Is your carriage close?”

“Jacobs is waiting just around the corner.” Serena waved back along the street.

For the first time since he'd let her go, Gabriel looked directly at her; Alathea immediately waved Mary and Alice before her, then turned in the direction of the carriage. The last thing she needed was to stroll on his arm.

He offered his arm to Serena; she was very ready to lean on his strength. She filled the distance back to the carriage with sincere and copious thanks for his prompt and efficient action. Safely separated from him by Mary and Alice, Alathea murmured her agreement, allowing her stepmother's praise to stand in place of her own.

She was grateful—she knew she should thank him. But she wasn't game to get too close to him, not when she'd so recently been in his arms. She had no idea what might trigger a fateful convergence of memories; holding her head high, she walked to the carriage, apprehension crawling along her spine.

By lengthening her stride, she reached the carriage first and climbed in without waiting for his assistance. He shot her a hard glance, then handed the others up. He stepped back and saluted; Jacobs flicked his reins.

At the very last, Alathea turned her head—their gazes met, held . . . she inclined her head and looked forward.

Gabriel watched the carriage rattle away down the side street, his gaze locked on Alathea's chip bonnet, on her shoulders encased in lavender twill. He watched until the carriage disappeared around a corner, then, his expression turning grim, he headed back to Bond Street.

Rejoining the bustling throng, he walked along, his gaze fixed ahead, unseeing. He still felt stunned—poleaxed to be precise. To be so aroused by Alathea. He couldn't understand why it had happened, but he could hardly pretend it hadn't—he was still feeling the definite effects.

He was also feeling rocked, off balance, and hideously uncomfortable. He'd never felt that way about her—they'd always been such close friends,
that
had never raised its head.

He walked on; gradually, his mind cleared.

And the obvious answer presented itself, much to his intense relief.

Not Alathea—the countess. He'd spent all last night plotting the how and where of her ultimate seduction, teasing himself with all the details; this morning, he'd set out to implement his plan. Then fate in the guise of a horse had flung Alathea into his arms. Obvious.

It was hardly surprising that his body had confused the two women—both were tall, although the countess was definitely taller. They were both slender, willowy—very similar in build. They both had the same fine, supple muscles in their backs, but that, he assumed, was to be expected of any very tall, slender woman—an architectural necessity.

The physically obvious, however, was the limit of their similarity. If he dared kiss her, Alathea would tear a verbal strip off him—she certainly wouldn't melt into his arms with that gloriously seductive sensual generosity the countess displayed.

The thought made him smile. His next thought—of what Alathea would make of his reaction once she'd had time to consider it—eradicated all inclination to levity. Then he recalled her long-standing opinion of him and his rakish lifestyle; once again, he smiled. She would doubtless put his reaction down to unbridled lust—and she wouldn't be wrong. But it was the countess he lusted after, his houri of the night.

He wanted her intensely. Somewhat to his surprise, that want went further than the physical. He actually wanted to know her—who she was, what she enjoyed, what she thought, what made her laugh. She was mysterious and intriguing, yet, oddly, he felt very close to her.

She was a puzzle he intended solving—taking apart at every level.

To do that, he needed to press on with his plan . . . Lifting his head, he refocused on his surroundings. He'd nearly reached the end of Bond Street. Crossing the road, he started back, once again scanning the crowds. He still needed a sheep. There had to be
someone
—

“Gracious! And what's got into you?”

The query and the cane levelled at his navel jerked him to attention.

“Going about with your nose in the air in Bond Street! Why, you don't even know who you're cutting.”

Looking into a pair of bird-bright eyes in an old, soft face, Gabriel smiled. “Minnie.” Brushing aside her cane, he dropped a quick kiss on her cheek.

“Humph.” Minnie's tone was unmollified but her eyes twinkled. “Remind me to tell Celia about this, Timms.”

“Indeed.” The tall lady beside Minnie lost her fight to keep her lips straight. “Quite unconscionable, going about Bond Street without due regard.”

Gabriel bowed extravagantly. “Am I forgiven?” he asked as he straightened.

“We'll consider it.” Minnie looked around. “Ah! Here's Gerrard.”

Gabriel watched as Minnie's nephew, Gerrard Debbington, brother to Patience, Vane's wife, crossed the street, the bag of nuts he'd clearly been dispatched to fetch in one hand.

“Here you are.” Handing the bag to Minnie, Gerrard smiled easily.

Gabriel returned the smile. “Still keeping watch on Minnie's pearls?”

“No more threat, thank goodness. I'm staying with Vane and Patience, but I stop by to take a stroll with Minnie now and then.”

Although just eighteen, Gerrard appeared older, his assurance in part due to his brother-in-law's influence; it was Vane's elegant hand Gabriel detected behind Gerrard's fashionable town rig. At close to six feet, Gerrard had the height and breadth of shoulder to carry the austere lines. The rest of his appearance, his easygoing demeanor, his directness and self-confidence, could largely be laid at his sister's door; Patience Cynster was the very epitome of directness.

Gabriel opened his mouth, then quickly shut it. He needed to think. Gerrard was, after all, only eighteen, and there were risks involved. And he was Patience's brother.