A Secret Love c-5

by Stephanie Laurens

  His fascination was real. Fascination did not, however, lead to marriage.

  As he left the girls and, loose-limbed and confident, strode toward her, Alathea drew calm certainty about her. He was an exceptional practitioner of the sensual arts; he knew how to use his talents to pressure her, to cloud her reason. But she knew him too well-far too well-to swallow the tale that fascination was behind his determination to wed her. She thought too much of him-cared too much for him-to meekly fall in with his plans.

  He reached the gazebo and trod up the steps. Ducking his head beneath the trailing jasmine that covered the small structure, he stepped into the cool shadows. Straightening, he met her gaze. Stillness gripped him. "What?"

  Alathea waved him to the sofa beside her. She'd sent a note to Brook Street asking him to call. She waited while he sat; the wicker sofa was small-it left them shoulder to shoulder. He leaned back, stretching one arm along the sofa's back to ease the crowding. She drew breath and resolutely took the bit between her teeth. "There is absolutely no reason for us to wed. No!" She cut off his immediate retort. "Hear me out."

  He'd tensed; his expression hardened but he held silent.

  Alathea looked out over the lawn to where her stepsisters and stepbrothers chattered gaily. "Only you and I know about the countess. Only we know we've been intimate. I'm twenty-nine. As I keep trying to remind everyone, I've set aside all thoughts of marriage. I did so eleven years ago. I'm accepted as a spinster-your recent attentions notwithstanding, there's no expectation that I'll marry. Short of our liaison becoming common knowledge, which it won't for we're both too wise and too aware of what we owe our families and ourselves to bruit the fact abroad, then there's no need whatever for us to wed."

  "Is that it?"

  "No." She turned her head and met his gaze directly. "Regardless of what you decide is the right thing to do, I will not marry you. There's no reason for you to make such a sacrifice."

  He studied her. "Why," he eventually asked, "do you think I want to marry you?"

  Her lips twisted. She gestured to her stepsiblings, blissfully unaware of the clouds hovering on the family's horizon. "You want to marry me because of that same quality I counted on when, as the countess, I asked for your aid. I knew if I explained the danger to them, then you'd help. I've told you before-you're obsessively protective." He was her knight on a white charger; protectiveness was his strongest suit, and one of his most basic instincts.

  He'd followed her gaze to the girls. "You think I want to marry you to protect you. Out of some notion of chivalry."

  She'd tried to avoid that word; it sounded so melodramatic, even if it was the naked truth. Sighing, she faced him. "I wanted to trap you into helping-I never intended to trap you into marriage."

  Gabriel searched her eyes, hazel pools of absolute sincerity. The vulnerability that had haunted him ever since he'd discovered the countess's identity evaporated.

  She didn't know. She had no idea that he worshipped her, that his fascination was obsession, overwhelming and complete. He'd forgotten her naivete, that despite her age, despite knowing him all her life, in certain areas she was an innocent. She didn't know that she was so very different from all who had gone before.

  He looked back at Mary and Alice while he mentally scrambled to reorient himself. "At the risk of shattering your illusions, that's not why I want to marry you."

  "Why, then?"

  He met her gaze. "You can hardly be unaware that I desire you physically."

  Color touched her too-pale cheeks. She inclined her head. "Desire in our circles doesn't necessitate marriage."

  She looked away, leaving him studying that all-too-revealing line of her jaw. Strength and vulnerability-she was a combination of both.

  His reaction to the sight was immediate but no longer surprising-he now knew how primitive his feelings for her were. Last night, when she was fussing over her hair, trying to fashion it into some arrangement that would pass muster, he'd been visited by a violent urge to haul it all down again and march her through the house, past all Lady Richmond's guests, Chillingworth especially, so all would know that she was his.

  His.

  The powerful surge of possessiveness was achingly familiar. It was the same emotion she'd always evoked in him, the wellspring of that godforsaken tension that had gripped him whenever she was close. The emotion had clarified, crystallized. In unveiling the countess, other veils had been torn aside, too; he could now see his primitive impulse for what it truly was-the instinctive desire to seize his mate. To Have and To Hold was the Cynster family motto; hardly surprising he felt the impulse so keenly.

  But how much was it safe to reveal to her? "How long have we known each other?"

  "Forever-all our lives."

  "Weeks ago, you told Chillingworth that our relationship had been decided for us. I agreed. Do you remember?"

  "Yes."

  "The earliest memory I have of you, you must have been all of two years old. I would have been three. From our cradles, our parents told us we were friends. I was twelve when treating you as a sister started becoming difficult. I never understood why-all I knew was that something was wrong. You knew it, too."

  Her "yes" was a whisper; they were both looking back down the years.

  "Remember that time we had to slip out of old Collinridge's barn by the back window and your habit got caught on a nail? Lucifer was already mounted, holding the horses-I had to catch your hips and hold you up so you could unhook the material."

  He paused; a second later, she reactively shivered.

  "Precisely. All that time, it was a peculiar blend of heaven and hell. I could never understand why I always gravitated to your side, always wanted to be near you, because whenever I was close, I felt… violent. Crazed. As if I wanted to grab hold of you and shake you."

  Her laugh was shaky. "I was never certain you wouldn't."

  "I never dared. I was too afraid laying hands on you-touching you in any way-would drive me mad, that I would behave like some bedlamite. That one dance we shared was bad enough."

  They both gazed blindly over the lawns, then he continued, "What I'm trying to point out is that I've felt… possessive of you for a very long time. I didn't know what the feeling was until after that night at the Burlington, but it isn't something that only recently evolved. It's been there, between us, growing stronger for over twenty years. If our parents hadn't set us up as brother and sister, that feeling would long since have resolved itself in marriage. As it is, your masquerade has opened our eyes and given us a chance to rescript our relationship into what it ought to be." He glanced at her; she was still stubbornly facing the lawn. "I'm more than sexually attracted to you-you're the woman I want as my wife."

  She tilted her head. "How many women have you known?"

  He frowned. "I don't know. I haven't counted."

  She looked at him, one brow high, disbelief in her eyes.

  He gritted his teeth. "All right. I did count at first, but I gave up long ago."

  "What number did you reach before you stopped counting?"

  "That is neither here nor there. What point are you trying to make?"

  "Merely that you seem to like women but, until now, that liking hasn't prompted you to beat a path to the parson's door. Why now? Why me?"

  He saw the trap but was ready to turn the questions to his advantage. "The now is simple-it's time." The fateful words, "Your time will come," resonated in his mind. "I knew that at Demon's wedding. I just didn't know the who. You know how edgy Mama has been getting-much as it pains me to admit it, she's right. It is time for me to marry, to settle, to think of the next generation. As for the 'why you', it isn't, as you seem determined to think, because you're a friend of the family and that because we've been intimate, I think I've ruined you and needs must make reparation."

  His increasingly clipped tone had her glancing his way; he trapped her gaze. "What I'm saying is that you are the woman I want as my wife. Just that-I need no other rea
son." He paused, then continued, "You might have noticed I no longer suffer when I'm close to you. I can sit beside you, more or less at ease, no longer feeling caged to the point of madness, because I know I can take you in my arms and kiss you, that at some point in the not-overly-distant future, you'll lie beneath me again." He let his voice drop. "However, if you're witless enough to try to fight this-all that's between us-if you try to refuse me and smile instead at Chillingworth or any other man, then I can guarantee that what has been between us through the years will be as nothing to what will be."

  She held his gaze steadily. "Is that a threat?"

  "No. It's a promise."

  She considered him, then opened her mouth-

  He laid a finger across her lips. "I'm deeply attached to you, you know that. Now I'm no longer blinded and forbidden by preconception, I can admit it. I desire you sexually, but that's only the half of it. I want you because I can think of no other I would rather share my life with. We suit. We could be successful life-partners. We've never been friends, not really, but with the difficulty between us removed, that's another relationship within our reach."

  Her eyes searched his-she was marshaling her arguments, still stubbornly resisting for all she was worth.

  Releasing her lips, he traced her jaw, then let his hand fall to the sofa back. "Thea, no matter how you struggle to refute it, you know what's between us. It might have been cloaked and veiled for years, but now we've stripped away the disguise, you can see what it is as well as I." He held her gaze. "It's an ardent and undying passion, not just on my part but yours as well."

  Alathea looked away. She didn't know what to do. It wasn't just her head that was spinning. His words had evoked so many emotions, so many long-buried needs and barely recognized dreams. But… drawing herself up, she stated, "You're telling me your emotions are engaged."

  "Yes."

  "That what's between us demands marriage as its proper state-its necessary outcome."

  "Yes."

  When she stared into the distance and said nothing more, he prompted, "Well?"

  "I'm not sure I believe you." Facing him, she hurried to explain, "Not about what's between us so much as why you believe we should marry." She searched his face, then, mentally girding her loins, she spoke bluntly. "We do know each other well-very well. You claim that the feelings that have always plagued us were due to frustrated desire, that what's between us is that-physical desire-and I accept that that's probably so. You've said that your emotions are engaged and I accept that, too. But what I don't know is: Which is the most prominent emotion?"

  A scowl formed in his eyes. "Whichever emotion it is that prompts a man to marriage."

  "That's what I'm afraid of. The emotion that's prompting, pressing, spurring you to marry me is the one dominant emotion you possess. You want to protect me. You've made up your mind that the right way forward is via the chapel and you're always successful once you fix your mind on a goal. Unfortunately, in this case, attaining your goal requires my cooperation, so I'm afraid your record of success is about to end."

  "You think I made all that up."

  "No-I think you were in the main sincere, but I don't believe your conclusions fit your facts. I think you're fudging. And if you want to know whether I think you would lie in pursuit of what you saw as a higher goal, then yes, I think you'd lie through your teeth." With her eyes, she challenged him to deny it.

  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 fluted 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.