A Secret Love (38 page)

Lips compressed, he held her gaze intimidatingly, but didn't.

She nodded. “Exactly. We know each other all too well. In creating the countess, I knew precisely what to say, how to pull the right strings to get you to do as I wished. I'm not so puffed up in my own conceit that I imagine you aren't clever enough to do precisely the same to me. You've decided we should marry, so you'll do whatever you need to to bring our marriage about.”

He looked at her steadily. She'd expected an immediate reaction, possibly an aggressive one. His silent appraisal unnerved her. She could read nothing of his thoughts in his eyes.

Then he sat up. The arm along the back of the sofa slid about her; his other hand rose to frame her face. A split second and she was held, lightly, in his embrace.

“You're right.”

She blinked. Was that a wry smile she saw in his eyes? “About what?”

His gaze lowered to her lips. “That I'll do whatever I must to bring our marriage about.”

Alathea mentally cursed. She hadn't meant to phrase it as a challenge. “I—”

“Tell me,” he murmured. “Do you accept that what's between us is an ‘ardent and undying passion'?”

It was a struggle to draw breath. “Ardent, perhaps, but not undying. Given time, it will fade.”

“You're wrong.” He leaned closer and brushed her lips with his. The contact was too light to satisfy; all it did was make her hungry, too.

His breath was warm on her throbbing lips. “The ardency that flooded you last night when I filled you . . .” His lips touched hers again, another achingly incomplete kiss. “The passion that drove you to open yourself to me, to bestow whatever sensual gift I asked for. Do you think those will fade?”

Never
. Alathea swayed. Her lids were so heavy, all she could see was his lips moving closer. Her hands, on his lapels, should have held him back; instead, her fingers curled, drawing him nearer. Her wits were drowning in a sea of sensual longing. In the instant before his lips completed her conquest, she managed to whisper, “Yes.”

Lips touched, brushed, settled. An instant later, she surrendered on a sigh, giving him her mouth, thrilling to the slow, unhurried claiming. He touched every inch, then deliberately invoked the memory of their joining. Heady passion, ardent longing, had her firmly in their grip when he drew back and whispered against her lips, “Liar.”

“Good morning.”

Alathea looked up, and only just managed not to gape. “What are you doing here?”

Here was her office, her private, personal domain into which others ventured only by invitation. The room she had retreated to, ostensibly to tally the household accounts, in reality to search for some sure, safe, sensible path through her suddenly shifting world. Since their interlude in the gazebo, she was no longer sure what was real and what mere fanciful imaginings. As she watched Gabriel close the door, she resigned herself to making no progress on that front, not with him in the same small room.

“It occurred to me”—he scanned the room as he strolled toward her—“that with the Season at its zenith, we can expect Crowley to call in his promissory notes in about two weeks.” Reaching the desk, he met her gaze. “It's time we started framing our petition to the bench.”

“Only two weeks?”

“He won't wait until the very end. He's more likely to draw in his pigeons at the height of the whirl, when the ton provides maximum distraction. I suggest,” he said, lowering his long limbs into the armchair facing the desk, “that you summon Wiggs. We'll need his input. I've brought Montague's figures.”

Alathea considered him, entirely at his ease in her chair. He smiled at her winningly, his expression studiously mild. With awful calm, she rose and tugged the bell pull. When Crisp answered, she requested him to send for Wiggs. Crisp bowed and departed; she turned back to discover Gabriel eyeing the ledgers on her desk.

“What are you doing?”

“The household accounts.”

“Ah.” A smile flirted about his lips. “Don't let me disturb you.”

Alathea vowed she wouldn't, something much easier said than done. Pen in hand, she forced herself to tally column after column. Despite her intentions, the figures showed a distressing tendency to fade before her eyes. At full stretch, her senses flickered. She bit her lip, clenched her fingers tighter on the pen, and frowned at her neat entries.

“Need any help?”

“No.”

She completed three more columns, then carefully looked up. He was watching her, an expression in his eyes she couldn't place. “What?”

He held her gaze, then slowly lifted one brow.

She blushed. “
Go away!
Go and sit in the drawing room.”

He grinned. “I'm comfortable here, and the scenery's to my liking.”

Alathea glared at him.

The click of the latch had them both turning. Augusta's shining head appeared around the door. “Can I come in?”

Alathea beamed. “Indeed, poppet. But where's Miss Helm?”

“She's helping Mama with the placecards for the dinner.” Shutting the door, Augusta came forward, studying Gabriel with the frank gaze of the young.

“You remember Mr. Cynster. His mama and papa live at Quiverstone Manor.”

Gabriel lay there, a lazy lion relaxed in the chair, then he held out a hand. “That's a big doll.”

Augusta considered, then turned Rose and held her out. “I bet you can't guess her name.”

Gabriel took the doll; propping it on one knee, he studied it. “She used to be called Rose.”

“She still is!” Augusta followed Rose, clambering onto Gabriel's lap.

As he settled her, he looked up—and met Alathea's astonished stare. He grinned and looked down at Augusta. “Did your sister ever tell you about the time Rose got stuck in that big apple tree at the end of your orchard?”

Alathea watched and listened, amazed that he still remembered all the details, and that Augusta, so often shy, had taken so readily to him. Then again, he did have three much younger sisters; he could probably write the definitive thesis on bewitching young girls.

Seizing opportunity, she quickly finished the accounts, then opened another ledger and settled to check through receipts. The activity used only a small part of her brain; the rest grappled with the problem of Gabriel, and what she could and should do about him. The sound of his deep voice, rumbling low as he charmed Augusta, was familiar and oddly comforting.

Two days had passed since they'd met in the gazebo, two days since she'd last been in his arms with his lips on hers. They'd met that evening at a ball; although he'd claimed two waltzes, he'd claimed nothing more. He'd appeared the next morning to stroll through the park by her side. She'd been ready to counter any possessive move he made, any maneuver to demonstrate his claim over her. He hadn't made one. Unfortunately, the understanding in his eyes warned her that he knew how she felt, how she would react; he was simply biding his time until the battlefield better suited his purpose.

Of that purpose there remained not a smidgen of doubt. Marriage. The notion—not of marriage but of marriage to him—deeply unnerved her. Just thinking of him now unnerved her in a way she'd never had to deal with before. Intimacy, and all the emotions wrapped up with it, had thoroughly disrupted her inner landscape. Yet if he'd allowed her to disappear as she'd planned, to fade out of his life, while she might regret the brevity of their association, she would, she felt sure, have remained inwardly steady.

Instead, she was whirling, her stomach often hollow, uncertainty and excitement an unsettling blend. What she felt for him now she couldn't put a name to—was afraid to put a name to, to even study it at all, not while she had to refuse him.

He'd decided to marry her because he desired her and because he wanted her as his wife. The reason behind that want he'd refused to clarify; she felt sure he was motivated by a compulsion to protect her.

The prospect of him marrying her with protection his true aim chilled her. He would be kind, considerate, generous—even a friend—but as time passed, he would cease to be hers alone. He would cease to be her lover. They would grow apart . . .

With a little jerk, she returned to the present, to her office and the ledger open before her, to the rumble of Gabriel's voice and Augusta's piping prattle. Sucking in a breath, she held it, and tidied her pile of receipts.

She was
not
going to marry Gabriel—she couldn't let him sacrifice himself, or her. Turning him from his goal might not be easy, but marrying him would not be right, not for him or for her.

Marking off the last of the receipts, she opened a drawer and placed them in a box, then shut the drawer and shut her ledger. The slap of the pages brought Gabriel's and Augusta's heads up. Alathea smiled. “I have to talk business with Mr. Cynster now, poppet.”

Sliding from Gabriel's lap, Augusta gifted her with a confident smile. “He said I could call him Gabriel. It's his name.”

“Indeed.” Rising and rounding the desk, Alathea hugged Augusta, then set her on her feet. “Off you go now—Miss Helm should be nearly finished.”

Ducking around Alathea's skirts, Augusta waved to Gabriel and sang “Good-bye,” then happily skipped to the door.

As it shut behind her, Alathea felt long fingers tangle with hers. She turned to discover Gabriel studying her hand, now entwined with his.

“What ‘business' do you wish to discuss?” He looked up, invitation in his eyes.

One part of her mind urged her to whisk her hand from his, to whisk herself out of his orbit. The rest of her reveled in the warmth that flooded her as his fingers caressed her palm. Alathea studied the sleepy, languid beckoning in his eyes, and was deceived not at all. She looked at the wall clock. “Wiggs will be another twenty minutes, but we can make a start on a draft without him.”

Looking back at Gabriel, she raised a brow and gently detached her hand. He grimaced but let her go. “All right. But you can write.” He rose as she resumed her seat behind the desk. “We can start by noting the false claims we've identified.”

Unsurprised to find herself his amanuensis, Alathea set a sheet of paper on the blotter. They listed Montague's calculations derived from the figures Crowley had provided Gerrard, comparing them with those Crowley had claimed. Gabriel stated and she transcribed, adding and correcting as they went. He paced back and forth behind her, between the desk and the window, stopping now and then to read over her shoulder. When they reached the end of Montague's findings, Gabriel halted beside her, scanning the list. His hand closed on her shoulder, close by her neck, on skin left bare by her summer morning gown.

His hand nestled there, strong fingers gentle on her skin.

“What next, do you think?”

Her composure shattered, unable to breathe, Alathea heard the mild words and realized with a hot rush horribly akin to mortification that he hadn't meant to discompose her. He'd simply touched her as a close personal friend might, without any sexual intention.

She was the one thinking of sexual intentions.

Before she could gather her wits, he tipped up her face. He studied it; she scrambled wildly to find some expression to mask the truth. Then his gaze turned intent, and she knew it was too late. The fingers at her throat moved again, this time deliberately.

Sensual awareness flared in her eyes. Gabriel saw it. His lips curved. “Perhaps”—he bent over her—“we should try this.”

Her lips parted under his; her hand rose to cradle the back of his as he held her face steady. She gave her mouth freely as she always did; he took and drank and claimed. She was a delight in her sweet helplessness, her total inability to conceal her response, the womanly yearning that lay beneath the confidence of her years. Her tongue tangled with his; her fingers gripped his shoulder. Sliding his hand from her face, he lowered it to her breast, cupping the firm mound, then searching for its peak. Her hand followed his, cradling it still, feeling him knead and pleasure her. In one swift movement, he slipped his hand from under hers and reversed their positions, his hand covering and surrounding hers, pressing her palm to the heated flesh of her breast, guiding her fingers to her ruched nipple and squeezing them tight.

She gasped, swayed—

They both heard the creak of a board outside the door an instant before it opened.

Charlie looked in. “Hello!” He nodded to Gabriel, lounging against the window frame, then transferred his gaze to Alathea. “I'm going to Bond Street—Mama suggested I ask whether there's anything more we need for tomorrow night?”

Her pulse pounding, Alathea shook her head, fervently praying that, with her back to the window, Charlie couldn't see the flush heating her skin. “No. Nothing.” Their ball would be held tomorrow night, formally introducing Mary and Alice to the ton. “All seems in hand.”

“Good-oh! I'll be off then.” With a wave, Charlie departed, shutting the door behind him.

Drawing in a much-needed breath, Alathea turned her head and met Gabriel's gaze. She frowned balefully. “
Stop
thinking about it!” Swinging back to the desk, she picked up her pen. “Aside from anything else, there's no lock on that door.”

She heard his smothered laugh but refused to look his way. “I think,” she said, stabbing the nib into the inkwell, “that next we should note all we've learned about Fangak, Lodwar, and wherever else it was.”

He sighed dramatically. “Kingi.”

Despite her hopes that all was in hand, the next morning saw a host of small commissions that simply
had
to be fulfilled. Leaving Serena in command, with Crisp and Figgs in their element, Alathea bundled Mary and Alice into the small carriage and escaped.

“It's a madhouse!” Face to the window, Alice peered back to where the red carpet was being shaken and swept. “If they put that out now, it'll be a mess by evening.”