Love Letters (8 page)

Brendon started to lower his head, when the door opened, light following Elizabeth into the room. “I knew I’d find you two here.
Always sneaking off.”
She shook her head, her blond curls bouncing. “Just as a reminder, you do have guests and they’re currently making their way to this very room.”

Clara grinned, Brendon groaned.

“Come along then.” Elizabeth moved toward the cradle and scooped up Lily, snuggling her close. “We’re going to sing carols.”

Brendon rolled his eyes.

“And you will join in!” She swept out of the room, taking Lily with her.

Clara stood on tiptoe and pressed a quick kiss to her husband’s lips. “I suppose there’s no escape.”

He
grinned
a wicked grin. “Oh, there’s always a way to escape.” He took her hand and pulled her across the room toward the bookshelves.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” He took hold of a gargoyle carved into the corner shelf and pulled down. The bookcase opened, revealing a narrow set of stairs.

“The perfect way for couples to meet unseen.”

Clara grinned.
“Very wicked indeed.”

He jerked her into the small corridor and pulled the door shut. From the other side she could hear Elizabeth and the guests entering the parlor.

“Where did they go now?” Elizabeth’s muffled voice grumbled.

“Oh leave them alone, my dear. I believe they’ve found a better way than singing to entertain each other,” someone replied.

Clara gasped as the muffled voices broke into laughter. Heat shot to her cheeks. “They’ll know!”

Brendon pushed her up against the wall, his warm fingers bringing up her red, velvet skirts. “Do you mind?”

His lips found her neck as his hands brushed against her outer thighs. Clara sighed, sinking into his muscled form. She didn’t mind a bloody thing when he touched her. “No. No, I don’t believe I do.”

“Good.” He dropped her skirts and scooped her up into his arms.

Her skirts rustled as he moved up the steps, surely loud enough to be heard. Clara leaned closer and snuggled her face into that spot where his neck met his shoulder, the spot that held his scent. Giddiness swelled within, threatening to burst her heart. Even now she couldn’t believe her luck, couldn’t believe her life had turned out as it had.

“Where does the staircase lead?” she asked, not really caring, as long as they were alone.

His teeth flashed white as he smiled wickedly down at her.
“To the perfect place, my love.
Our bedchamber.”

********

The End

Meant For Me

A Historical Romance by Lori Brighton

********

Chapter 1

Her reputation was going to be destroyed and all because of her hair.

Red.

The bane of her existence.
Her mother had always cursed Cynthia’s ancient Celtic blood, for Cynthia’s locks were a reminder of her bastard of an Irish father, the man who’d abandoned her mother pregnant and unwed. Aye, they were cursed locks indeed and no moment had proven that more than now.

“Your mask is crooked,” Lady Hogar said in a hushed whisper. Her ice blue eyes glared at Cynthia through a mask of pure white, the mask an angel would wear. How ironic.
  

Cynthia reached up to her own black lace concoction. With her mask in place, hopefully no one would realize her true identity. But they would guess. Yes, they’d guess she was Helen, Lady Hogar’s daughter. And they’d be wrong.
 

“Stand up straight.” Mrs. Hogar followed the order by pinching Cynthia’s side.

She jerked upright, resisting the urge to rub her stinging skin. Her aunt’s long fingers always found the most sensitive of her flesh. How she despised the woman!

“Two dances. Don’t look directly at him. He’ll never know who you really are.”
The woman’s claw grasped Cynthia’s wrist as she jerked her toward a corner where a potted plant half-hid her from view.
The
ton
adored a masked ball for it was the only time when priorities and morals were pushed to their limits. The large room practically vibrated with excitement.

Yet Cynthia found the entire situation ridiculous, and the night would no doubt end in her utter humiliation. Of course she’d brought this to her aunt’s attention.

“Why don’t we merely tell him the truth? That Helen is ill and couldn’t attend?”

She’d been soundly slapped for being cheeky.

Still, now that she was here she felt she must try, at least one more time. “Surely, Aunt, he’ll know I’m not my cousin.”

“He’s met with Helen only thrice, each time rather briefly.” Her aunt took her arm and pulled her across the parquet floor to the next potted palm, the heels of her slippers sliding on the polished wood. The ballroom was a wonder of exotic decorations, with silky curtains of brilliant colors that shimmered in the low candlelight. The guests were just as brilliant, dressed in gowns of gaudy colors that would have normally been shunned.

“Lady Hogar! Lady Hogar!” Mrs. Gold waddled toward them, her excitement almost palpable. The woman’s round form was swathed in a brilliant pink that should have been considered outlandish. Her features were covered with an equally garish pink mask that barely covered her moon-sized face.

She leaned closer to Cynthia’s aunt in a conspiratorial way. “I recognized you because of Helen’s beautiful burnished hair.”

Cynthia realized the woman was talking about her and managed a tight smile. Yes, she and Helen had similar colored hair, although Helen’s seemed far from cursed. And yes, they both had blue eyes. But she was slightly taller, slightly rounder than her cousin. But Lady Gold, a woman who was Helen’s constant admirer, didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps he wouldn’t either.

“Come; do tell me what you think of the décor…quite scandalous! Don’t you agree?”

“Indeed!” Auntie said, slipping into the petty gossip easily and giving Cynthia respite, for at least a moment.

Alone, Cynthia pressed her gloved hand to her bodice, worried her breasts would break free of the tight material.
Ridiculous indeed.
Hugging herself, she peeked around a large marble column. The ballroom was immense, the place crowded with masked guests. How would she ever find him? Helen had told Lord Kennwick she’d be wearing red and so she was.
A gown too tight and too low around the neckline for Cynthia.
She felt exposed; almost indecent.

Releasing a frustrated sigh, she started to turn back toward her aunt when she spotted a tall, dark-haired figure. Cynthia sucked in a breath and froze. It was him! The entire ball room seemed to fade, the music pausing. Although a plain, black mask covered half his face and his evening wear blended with the other black suits, she still knew him. She’d memorized every inch of his muscled form, the way he stood so confident and sure, the way his dark hair curled slightly at his collar. He commanded attention and always admired, he stood with a group of men and women, hanging on his every word.

She watched his mouth move, focusing on that top lip where a light scar gave him a dangerous air. Cynthia could barely breathe. Her legs grew wooden. She leaned her shoulder against the cool, marble column for support. Merely by looking at him her heart slammed in her chest, and an odd, dull ache of need seeped low in her belly. He was lovely, stunning. His jacket hugged his broad shoulders and when he smiled…Lord.

As if he sensed her attention, he glanced her way. Cynthia spun around, hiding behind the column. He would know. He
must
know who she truly was. If he didn’t know she was not Helen, it would mean he’d barely paid Cynthia the least bit of attention the few times they’d met.

Please, let him know.

Oh, how she had paid attention to him! She closed her eyes, dredging up every detail. The way he’d slid
her a
glance when he didn’t think she was looking, or when Helen was discussing something particularly ridiculous. She remembered that conversation they’d had when Helen had been late coming downstairs. They’d talked of silly things, the garden, the weather, but it hadn’t mattered to her. He’d even kissed her hand that one time he’d helped her into the carriage after she and Helen had met him in Hyde Park.

He
would
know her. She certainly knew him. How many letters had she written Gabriel in Helen’s name?

“A letter?
How boring! You write him, Cynthia.”
She could still hear her cousin’s
voice,
remember the words she’d said two years ago.

It wasn’t the first time she’d responded to Helen’s missive. She’d become her personal secretary. And so she had again without much thought. In Helen’s name she’d written to
Gabriel
 
Baston
, The Earl of Kennwick. At first their letters had been polite missives, two people fated to marry since birth, merely attempting to know each other. But a year ago, she’d noticed a change. The letters had become flirtatious, teasing and even heartfelt. She’d fallen for the man in those letters. She’d fallen for her cousin’s fiancé while he had no idea who he poured his heart out to. And at times the guilt was almost unbearable.

“Cynthia? Is that you?”

She snapped her head left. The woman next to her wore a plain blue mask and brown dress but that blonde hair and trim figure was unmistakable, Belinda. She wasn’t surprised her friend recognized her.

“Belle!
Thank God you’re here.” She latched onto her friend’s gloved hand and jerked her behind the column.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” Those soft brown eyes narrowed in confusion. “Why ever are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding, I’m….
I’m
Helen.”

Belle froze, her mouth parted in surprise.
“Umm, no.
I’m quite sure you’re not. For one, Helen wouldn’t speak to me, let alone touch me.”

Cynthia drew her hands back, flustered. How to explain without sounding utterly mad? “Yes, but you’re the only one who knows that.”

Belle glanced behind her, no doubt making sure Lady Williams, her employer, was fully occupied. “Whatever are you talking about?”

Cynthia sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples. She felt a headache coming on. “Helen was ill and refused to attend.” She frowned. “She’s been ill often lately.” She shook her head, scattering her wayward thoughts. “Auntie asked me to pretend to be Helen because she’s heard rumors that Lord Kennwick is losing interested in her daughter.”

Belle laughed. “You aren’t serious?”

She nodded, feeling rather miserable now that the ridiculous plan had been admitted. “She’s worried he’ll forget Helen if she isn’t in attendance.”

Belle shook her head, her blonde curls bouncing. Her friend was beautiful, even dressed in the dowdy brown gown forced upon her.
Too pretty to be a companion to the old and dour Lady Williams.
But as with Cynthia, Belle had no choice.
 

Belle frowned. “She’s ill every day?
How peculiar.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “Your cousin doesn’t have the best of reputations.”

“Yes,” Cynthia sighed, “But what is your point?”

Belle patted her hand. “Cynthia, my dear, sometimes I worry about your innocence.” Her friend looked around,
then
leaned closer. “It sounds as if your cousin is expecting.”