Her Secret Affair (41 page)

“No, he is not.”

She sat very still, watching him. “Lord Hathaway … is he truly…?”

I have no father. And should you seek to prove otherwise, I shall never, ever forgive you.

Kern steeled himself. “Yes, darling, Hathaway is your father. I only just discovered the truth before we came to you.” He framed her face in his hands. “Isabel, I’m sorry if that news causes you pain. But I do think if you give him time, he’ll show you that he does care—he always has. He went through a lot of anguish over you.”

She turned her gaze out the window of the coach, where the night rushed past with only the occasional twinkle of candlelight in a cottage or house. “It’s strange. I find … I cannot hate him, after all. He’s given me a sister—the sister I’ve always wanted.” Her voice went husky. “The sister whom I hurt so badly.”

Kern gathered her close. “Helen needs time to realize she and I weren’t right for one another. She’ll understand that when she finds a great passion of her own.”

A sigh whispered from Isabel. She turned fully toward him, pressing her body to the length of him. Her hand burrowed inside his coat, stroking idly up and down his side. With tempting allure, she wriggled into a more comfortable position against him. They were alone in the semidarkness of the coach with many hours of traveling ahead of them. He thought of the nightdress beneath her mantle and the way the gauze clung to her breasts and hips. He had only to part her overgarment and delve inside …

But Isabel had suffered a terrible shock this night. He ought to have more respect for her than take advantage of her vulnerable state.

She caressed his cheek. “Justin, I spoke hastily when I refused your offer. I do want to be your mistress. With all my heart.”

Arousal shimmered through him, along with a deep, abiding love. She didn’t yet know their destination. “There’s something I need to tell you—”

His voice broke off as her fingers brushed intimately against him. She reached inside his breeches to find the buttons hidden there, undoing them one by one. “But if you truly want me, I have certain rules you must abide by,” she continued.

He couldn’t think. “Rules.”

“Yes. You will dedicate your life to me—and any children we might have. You will forsake all other women. No one else shall ever touch you like this.”

When her dainty fingers closed around him, he bit back a groan and struggled to keep his sanity. “Isabel, my love … listen. About you being my mistress—”

“Mmmm. And if you do as I say, I shall devote my life to pleasing you, my lord.” With a suddenness that transfixed him, she slid off his lap and knelt between his legs. All coherent thought fled his mind as her hands gently cupped him. In the darkness, her fingers explored him with slow reverence. “You are mine,” she whispered fiercely. “Mine alone.”

A furnace of heat ignited in his groin. He could feel the warm breath of her parted lips. So near.

Her finger found a glistening drop of liquid and smoothed it over the tip of him. Struck by a bolt of sensation, he clenched his fists to keep from urging her mouth closer. Softly, she went on, “Did you know that sometimes I would listen secretly while my aunts gossiped? I found their stories shocking—yet fascinating. And I never thought I would want to do such things with a man … until I met you.”

She rubbed her cheek against his hard length. And then she turned her head and gave him the most intimate kiss of all.

He very nearly exploded.

Digging his fingers into the cushions, he fought for mastery of himself. His heart thundered in his chest. Fire sizzled through his veins as she loved him with her mouth and hands. Harsh groans hissed through his gritted teeth. When he could bear no more of the exquisite torture, he hauled her onto his lap and frantically hiked the gown and cloak to her waist. His hands sought her smooth backside. Her breathing quick and shallow, she straddled him, clinging to his shoulders.

He touched her in a swift caress, found her moist and ready. With little urging from him, she lowered herself until the heat of her body sheathed him to the hilt. He put his hand between them to stroke her and she moaned with uninhibited pleasure, her hips undulating. Within moments, she cried out his name, her inner muscles convulsing around him. Seized by a rapture of sharp, white intensity, he shared her delirious joy, spilling his seed and his soul into her.

The aftermath released him into perfect contentment. He came back to the gentle rocking of the coach, the fragrance of her rose-scented hair. In a voice raspy with emotion, he said, “I love you, Venus Isabel Darling.”

“And I, you.” Soft and relaxed, Isabel nestled against him. “Mmmm. I don’t think I could ever be happier.”

“You might be if you found out our destination.”

Her fingers skimmed the length of his jaw as if she could not yet believe he was real. “Your estate in Derbyshire, of course. I’m to live in the dower house.”

He shook his head. “Take another guess.”

Isabel straightened slowly. She peered out the window at the blackness of night, pierced only by a faint light cast by the outside lamps. “I can’t imagine. Where?”

“To a little town on the border of Scotland.”

“Scotland!” she exclaimed. “But why…?” Her words trailed off and he sensed her anxiety, the sudden stillness in her.

He could tease her no longer. “We’re off to Gretna Green, my love. It’s the nearest place where we can wed without being bothered by banns or a license.” When she remained silent, unmoving, he went on huskily, “I haven’t officially asked you to be my wife. Will you marry me?”

She did not answer at first. Then with a glad cry, she fell into his arms. “Oh, Justin. I never thought … Of course I will.”

Replete with satisfaction, he wove his fingers through her mussed hair. “Now I have some rules of my own. First and foremost of which is having your promise to stay safe with me and out of trouble.”

“Agreed. I don’t ever want to live apart from you, my dearest.” A tender smile curved her lips. “It feels extraordinary to be so happy. Extraordinary and wonderful.”

“There’s more of that to come.” He brought her face closer for a warm, fervent kiss. “You see, I intend to spend my life making you happy.”

Relishing the steady beat of his heart, Isabel tucked her head into the crook of his shoulder and sighed in pleasure. She felt blessedly free from the secrets of the past. Kern had given her so much—pride in herself and the power of lasting love. Most of all, he had made her believe again in happily-ever-afters.

Turn the page for a sneak peek at

Olivia Drake’s latest book

Stroke of Midnight

Available June 2013 wherever books are sold

Chapter 1

She had no reason to fear the constable.

Holding fast to that thought, Laura followed the burly officer through the graveyard. The cloudy afternoon cast a gloomy pall over the rows of headstones and wooden crosses. A few of the mounds had been carefully tended, though many others showed signs of neglect. Rough masculine laughter came from one of the gin houses in the surrounding slums. It was the only sound besides the squelching of the constable’s boots on the sodden ground and the patter of her own footsteps.

Though any woman in her circumstances might feel a bit nervous, Laura had more reason than most to be wary. She reminded herself that the constable could have no notion of her true identity. A decade had passed since she and her father had fled London. She had been someone else then, leading another life under a different surname. A lady garbed in silk and jewels rather than the drab commoner she was now.

No one in this vast city knew her anymore. Miss Laura Falkner, toast of society, was as dead as the poor souls in this paupers’ cemetery.

The constable glanced over his shoulder, the dark sockets of his eyes boring into her. “Almost there, Miss Brown.”

Laura kept her face expressionless. Had a stray curl escaped her bonnet? She hoped not, for the police surely had a description of her that included mention of her distinctive tawny-gold hair. “You’ve done more than your duty, sir. If you’ll point me in the right direction, you can be on your way.”

“’Tis no trouble to take ye there. No trouble at all.”

His insistence increased her disquiet. He continued onward, his large head moving back and forth to examine the gravestones. What was his name again? Officer Pangborn. She had not wanted an escort, but he’d insisted that no decent female should venture alone into these crime-ridden stews.

Laura had acquiesced only because a refusal might arouse suspicion. She had taken a risk in going to the police in the first place. But she’d needed to learn more about her father’s recent death and also to discover the site of his final resting place.

Papa!

The wind tossed a spattering of icy raindrops at her face. Shivering, she drew the cloak more securely around herself. After so many years in the sunshine of Portugal, she had forgotten the damp chill of an English springtime. Or perhaps it was just that she’d suppressed the memory of her old life before she and Papa had escaped into exile.

Now he lay dead. Murdered by an unknown assailant in an alley near Covent Garden. The shock of it still numbed her. News of the attack had arrived while she’d been tending the garden outside their little cottage in the mountains of Portugal. How contented she’d been that day, trimming the camellias, weeding the arum lilies, while having no inkling of the disaster that was about to shatter her tranquility. Then a boy from the village had delivered a letter from the London police stating that one Martin Brown lay severely injured, that her address had been found in his pocket. She’d departed in a rush, traveling for many days over land and sea, only to learn that her father had succumbed to his wounds shortly after the letter had been posted.

Laura swallowed past the painful lump in her throat. At their last parting, Papa had told her he would be gone for a fortnight on business—she had presumed to Lisbon to buy and sell antiquities, their only source of income. Instead, he must have boarded a ship to England.
Why?

Why would he go back to a place where he would be tried and hanged if captured?

“There ’tis, Miss.”

Constable Pangborn stopped near the low stone wall that marked the perimeter of the cemetery. The middle-aged officer had muttonchop whiskers and the bulky build of a prizefighter. He had been out on patrol when he’d found Papa lying sorely injured in the alleyway. Now, as he pointed his wooden truncheon at a nearby grave site, his speculative gaze remained fixed on Laura.

Her skin prickled. She couldn’t shake the sense that he knew more about her than he let on. Had Papa in a delirium on his deathbed revealed his real identity? Did this officer believe she’d been her father’s accomplice in the jewel theft that had rocked society ten years ago?

She warned herself not to make wild assumptions. More likely, Pangborn’s interest in her was of a carnal nature. Over the years, she’d had ample experience in discouraging such lechers.

Laura leveled a cool stare at him. “Your assistance has been very helpful,” she said in polite dismissal. “I shall bid you good day now.”

His thick Wellington boots remained planted in place. “I have me orders, miss. I’m to guard ye from harm.”

“The sergeant bade you only to escort me to the cemetery. You’ve already done more than enough.”

“There be drunkards and thieves roaming these stews, ready to pounce on a wee creature such as yourself. I’ll see ye home—and that’s that.”

Home
was a cheap lodging house in an area nearly as wretched as this one. Yet Laura would sooner risk the walk alone than let this man learn her temporary place of residence. If the constable really did harbor a suspicion about her true identity, he might search her portmanteau and find the news article about the decade-old robbery that she’d clipped from an English paper. Then he would have proof that she was the notorious Miss Laura Falkner.

She dipped her chin in a pretense of humble acceptance. “That’s very good of you, sir. If I may, I should like a few minutes alone now. Kindly await me at the entrance gate.”

Constable Pangborn scowled as if gauging her sincerity. Then he gave a curt nod and marched away, glancing back several times over his shoulder. The breeze carried the far-off sounds of conviviality along with a fishy stench from the nearby Thames.

She watched until he reached the gate before lowering her gaze to the grave site. Weeds already had sprouted on the freshly turned mound. A small square of stone lay flat on the ground, and a name was chiseled into the surface: MARTIN BROWN.

Heedless of the damp earth, Laura sank to her knees in a billow of gray skirts. Tears blurred her eyes as she reached out to trace the crude letters with a gloved fingertip. “Papa,” she whispered brokenly. “
Papa
.”

The harsh reality of his death struck her anew. She hunched over the grave, weeping, no longer able to stem the tide of sorrow. He had been the very best of fathers, full of good cheer and wise words, concerned more for her happiness than his own. He had treated her as an equal and schooled her as the son he’d always wanted. He didn’t deserve to have suffered such a brutal end—or to lie forgotten in a pauper’s tomb. His memory should be honored with a fine marble headstone carved with haloed angels and a loving tribute.