A Secret Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her immediate thought was that this wasn’t she—or not the same she. She had a naked man in her arms and they were joined; she was changed forever physically. And emotionally; she couldn’t forget how she’d writhed beneath him, wanton and wanting. She was incontrovertibly altered—she could never go back to who she’d been.

  She waited for the recriminations to start, the dire prophecies, the hysterical outpourings. Nothing came. Instead, she remained at peace, filled with a warm glow she’d never known, never even imagined existed. And she couldn’t regret it.

  It had been no one’s fault; she hadn’t imagined it could happen against a wall, not with them both upright. Her feet had been firmly on the floor. Her head, of course, had been wholly in the clouds, her wits swept away on a tide of pure desire.

  The thought brought the experience back to her—the burgeoning excitement, the scintillating thrill, the pure, unadulterated joy. This, here, with him, would be the only chance she’d ever have of experiencing it—the true magnificence of being a woman, a woman joined with a man. There was no one she was hurting; no one in her life to care. No one who would ever know. She’d been condemned by circumstance to die an old maid; what harm could there be in this, her one taste of glory? It would have to last her the rest of her life.

  Although he’d been inside her before she’d realized his intention, she’d known precisely what she was doing when she’d told him not to stop. She’d had plenty of experience in making decisions; she knew how it felt when she’d decided right. It felt like this.

  In the same way she’d never looked back, never regretted turning her back on London and her Season all those years ago, she would not regret this. No matter what complications arose, she’d experienced and enjoyed—and lusted.

  A gurgle of inner laughter welled up inside her. Sternly quelling it, she tried to shift, only to find it impossible. The movement once more focused her senses on the hard male body pressing hers into the bed. He was heavy, yet oddly, she rather liked the feeling of his weighted limbs pressing her into the mattress. She wasn’t uncomfortable, indeed, quite the opposite, strange though that seemed. Her legs had relaxed from about his waist but were still tangled with his. One of her arms was draped over his shoulder; her other hand lay against his side.

  Him. She couldn’t take it in; her mind kept shying from the thought, from allowing his image to form. In the dark, he’d simply been a magnificent male, one she trusted so deeply the thought that he might physically hurt her had simply not occurred. She’d given herself to him and he’d taken her, swept her up in his arms and introduced her to delights she could still only barely comprehend.

  Yet she knew who he was.

  Didn’t she?

  Frowning, she slipped her hand from his side and, very gently, touched his shoulder. When his breathing continued deep and even, she let her fingers wander, tracing the wide bone, the sleek muscle bands. Spreading her fingers, she explored the side of his chest, then his back, sensing the power in the steely muscles beneath the smooth skin.

  She’d seen his naked chest years before; even then, it had fascinated her, although she’d told herself she was merely curious. Now she could indulge; letting her hands wander, she filled her senses with him.

  Her skin came alive, all over. The sudden rush of sensation made her breath hitch; he was so warm, so male, so vibrantly real. A tide of heady feeling welled and surged through her. The wave reared and crashed—and rocked her, tore her from her moorings and tossed her into a turbulent swell. She caught her breath, quivering, helplessly adrift on an emotional sea whipped by sudden turmoil.

  Rupert?

  No—Gabriel.

  The reality struck to her bones. He was deeply familiar in so many ways, yet in truth he was a man she’d only recently met. She could feel his hands on her, still holding her even in sleep. Those strong, clever hands had loved her, caressed her, brought her untold joy and delight. Their touch was burned into her memory, as was the empty ache that had swept her, the ache only he evoked and only he could ease.

  Shifting her head, she peered at his face, but the darkness defeated her. All she knew was his warm weight, the touch of his hands, and the stream of feeling that welled and poured through her, from her, leaving her shaking inside.

  It took a minute to catch her breath, to steady herself, to reground herself in reality and let the fantasy—and that exultation that left her so vulnerable—fade away.

  He’d be horrified if he knew, if he realized it was she. So why was every instinct she possessed screaming that this was right, so right, when she knew, logically, it was all wrong?

  As she stared into darkness, confusion reigning in her mind, he stirred.

  Then he shifted; she realized he was turning toward her, then the pressure on her chest eased. His warmth was still close, her lower body still pressed heavily into the bed. It took her a moment to realize that he was resting his weight on his elbows.

  She remembered her veil. Propelled by sudden panic, she started to reach . . . then realized he was as blind as she. The darkness was so intense, even though she knew his face was mere inches from hers, she couldn’t see it.

  “That was quite a ride, countess.”

  The lazy, gravelly words drifted down; his breath wafted across her cheek. His lips followed, searching and finding hers, then settling for a long, slow, exceedingly thorough kiss. When he finally brought it to an end and released her lips, she could tell his were curved.

  “How do you feel?”

  Stretched. Still full of him. “Alive.” How true. Her skin was heating again. How could that be?

  As if he could read her thoughts, his lips returned to hers, and he was smiling even more definitely. Another lengthy kiss left her close to conflagration; ending it, he murmured, “Are you game for another gallop?”

  He pressed inward, and she realized that he definitely was. Her hips tilted, inviting him deeper; she concluded she must be, too. She tightened her arms about him, wordlessly urging him closer. He settled upon her, settled his lips on hers, and sank deeply into her—into her mouth, into her body.

  This time, he was in no hurry. Before, he’d been reined, restrained; this time, he savored her, rocking her deeply, pleasuring her well. The heat inside her grew until her bones melted. She drew back from their kiss to drag in a breath. His lips slid down her throat, then, to her surprise, she felt him shift, pull back. He withdrew from her, leaving her suddenly, achingly empty. Sliding lower, he fastened his mouth leisurely over one nipple.

  The scalding heat was a shock; she gasped, then relaxed, then tensed again as he artfully played. The sound she made when he rasped her nipple with his tongue reminded her of a cat; when he grazed the tortured bud with his teeth, she nearly died.

  “Gently.”

  The word was a soothing sigh feathering over her heated flesh as he turned his attention to her other breast, to the neglected peak that was already aching for his touch. When it came, she arched like a puppet whose strings were in his hands. His warm chuckle rewarded her.

  “How old are you?”

  His lips drifted lower, skating over her midriff. “Umm . . . late twenties.”

  “Hmm.” He slid lower, his lips trailing a hot path to her navel. “You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  “I have?”

  He reached one hand up to fondle her breasts; the other slid down and around, stroking over her bottom and along the backs of her thighs. “Oh, yes.”

  He sounded very sure.

  “You may as well start now.”

  She didn’t argue. She was sensing him, seeing him anew—and it was a fascinating insight. This tenderly passionate seducer set a completely new dimension to this male she’d never, it now seemed, completely known. She’d never met him as the sensual adult male—in that guise, he was an enticing creature, cloaked in darkness, maybe, but oh so tempting.

  The world slid away; reality faded as his hands wove their magic.

  “What s
hould I do?”

  He lifted his head from where he was nibbling his way across her stomach, the skin taut and flickering. Her nerves were similarly afflicted.

  “Just lie back.” She could hear a certain male smugness in his voice. “Lie back, relax, and let the pleasure take you.”

  She had no strength, no motivation to do otherwise, so she did. If she’d had any inkling of what he had in mind, she would have summoned strength from somewhere. But she didn’t. So she indulged her senses, and indulged herself with the indescribable pleasure of indulging him.

  The warm, vibrant body arching beneath him held Gabriel’s attention more completely, more effectively, than any woman before. Than anything in his life before.

  Nothing had ever been this compelling. Never before had he experienced such total and abject surrender to the moment, to the worship of shared pleasure. There was something more here, something deeper, more powerful, more fascinating. The connoisseur was enthralled; the man was captivated.

  Whatever new caress, whatever outrageous delight he pressed on her, she accepted—eagerly, gratefully—and, in return, she ravished him with her body, lavished upon him an unrestricted, unrestrained invitation to take, to plunder, to enjoy.

  To search, to plumb, to discover—to know. Completely, absolutely, without barriers or guile. There was no part of her she hid from him, no part of her she denied him. He only had to reach, to wordlessly ask, to be inivited to take, to touch, to sate his hunger in her.

  Her generosity was not limited to the physical. He sensed no reticence, no emotional distance, no private core of feeling she kept screened. Even as he steered her toward the culminating climax, he could sense the vulnerability she didn’t try to hide.

  It was that that ensnared him, focused his attention so completely. He’d opened sensual doors for her; in return, she’d opened a door he’d never imagined existed, a door into a realm of deeper intimacy, far more explicit, more dangerous, more exciting. An abject innocent, she’d shown him how much more there could be in this sphere—a sphere in which he’d thought he’d known it all.

  He’d never known this—this all-consuming passion. She was open, honest, and soul-shatteringly courageous in her giving. Without conditions, she offered the ultimate satiation—something deep inside him shook as, driven, he reached to claim it.

  And then it was his, and they were caught in the tide, buffeted by the glory. The intense release swelled, rose, then washed through them, and he was drowning in the bottomless well of her giving, in the ultimate ecstasy.

  His last thought as he slid beneath the wave was that she was his. Tonight—and forever.

  He woke in the depths of the night. For one instant, he savored the fluid stillness that held them, then reluctantly he disengaged, lifting from her and untangling their limbs, then sinking down beside her and gathering her to him. He would have liked to simply lie there, sharing the contentment, the aftermath of pleasure still warm in their veins, but she woke, too, and turned skittish. Not with any false modesty but with anxiety.

  “I must go.” A reluctance to match his resonated in her words, colored her determination. That last, however, was strong.

  She pushed away and he let her go, shaken by the spike of need that drove him to pull her back. He’d never been possessive; it was, he told himself, simply that he’d enjoyed her so well, that the experience of her was so new to him.

  He listened as she slipped from the bed, tracking her by sound as she rounded the bed to grope by the wall for her gown.

  Rising, he found his trousers, pulled them on, then padded into the sitting room. He returned a moment later, having relighted both lamps. She was in her gown, her veil already down; she was struggling to redo her laces.

  “Here.” Strolling up, he caught her about the waist and turned her. “Let me.”

  Expertly, he did them up, noting the fine tension that had gripped her the instant he’d touched her. He left her drawing on her stockings in the semi-darkness, and quickly finished dressing. By the time he shrugged into his coat, she was fully cloaked and veiled. He wasn’t surprised by her sudden bolt back into secrecy, but he was very tired of that veil.

  She glanced at him. “I’ll see myself out.” The words were slightly breathless.

  “No.” Strolling forward, he stopped by her side. “I’ll see you to your carriage.”

  She considered arguing; he could sense it in her stance. But then she acquiesced with an inclination of her head. Not haughty, but careful.

  Without another word, he escorted her from the room, down the stairs, and through the foyer. The sleepy doorman let them out with barely a glance, too busy stifling a yawn.

  Her black carriage was waiting just along the street. He handed her in, then she turned back to him. He felt her gaze search his face, lit by a nearby street flare, then she inclined her head again.

  “Thank you.”

  The soft words feathered his senses, leaving him very sure that it was not his efforts regarding the company for which she was thanking him.

  She settled into the dark of the carriage; he shut the door and nodded at her coachman. “Drive on.”

  The coach rattled away. Filling his chest with a slow, deep breath, he watched it turn the corner, then he exhaled and headed home. The sense of achievement that suffused him was profound and intensely satisfying. Intensely gratifying.

  Everything—everything—was going very well.

  “Well, miss, and what’s got into you?”

  Alathea snapped to attention. Reflected in the dressing table mirror before her, she saw Nellie shaking out her pillows and airing her bed.

  Nellie caught her eye. “You’ve been staring at that mirror for the past five minutes, and seeing nothing is my guess.”

  Alathea gestured, brushing the query aside, praying she wouldn’t blush, that her face showed no evidence of her thoughts. Heaven forbid.

  “That meeting of yours last night must have been a long one—four o’clock again before you got in. Jacobs said you was in there for all those hours.”

  Alathea picked up her brush. “We had to discuss what we’d learned.”

  “So you’ve found something out about this wretched company—you and Mr. Rupert?”

  “Indeed.” Setting the brush to her hair, Alathea forced her mind to that aspect of the night. “We’ve learned enough to frame our case. All we need do now is assemble the right proofs, and we’ll be free.”

  Easier said than done, no doubt, but she was convinced last night had set their feet on the road to success. Despite her careful words to Gabriel, she’d felt buoyed by their first real gain, the first scent of ultimate victory.

  She’d been careful to hide her elation, aware he’d sense it and take advantage.

  He’d taken advantage anyway.

  So had she.

  “Here, let me.” Nellie lifted the brush from her slack grasp. “Good for nothing, this morning, you are.”

  Alathea blinked. “I was just . . . thinking.”

  Nellie shot her a shrewd look. “Well, I dare say there are lots of facts from this meeting you need chew on.”

  “Hmm.” Facts. Sensations, emotions—revelations. She had a lot to think about.

  Throughout the day, her mind wandered, considering, pondering, reliving the golden moments, carefully fixing each in her memory, storing them away against the cold years ahead. Again and again, she was jerked back to the present—by Charlie asking after one of their tenants, by Alice wanting her opinion on a particular shade of ribbon, by Jeremy frowning over a piece of arithmetic.

  Finally, in the quiet of the afternoon when, after luncheon, all the females of the family repaired to the back parlor for a quiet hour before driving in the park or attending an afternoon tea, Augusta climbed into Alathea’s lap, sitting astride her knees. Placing her soft hands on Alathea’s cheeks, Augusta stared into her eyes. “You keep going away—far away.”

  Alathea looked into Augusta’s large brown eyes.

>   Augusta searched hers. “Where is it you go?”

  To another world, one of darkness, sensation, and indescribable wonder.

  Alathea smiled. “Sorry, poppet, I’ve got lots on my mind just now.” Rose had been dumped in her lap between them; Alathea lifted the doll and studied her. “How is Rose finding London?”

  The distraction worked, not for her but for Augusta. Fifteen minutes later, when Augusta slipped from her lap and went to play with Rose in a splash of sunlight, Alathea exchanged a fond and, she hoped, undisturbingly mild glance with Serena, then quietly left the room.

  She sought refuge in her office.

  Standing arms crossed before the window, she forced herself to concentrate on the company’s plans, all that Crowley had disclosed the previous evening. Despite her senses’ preoccupation, there was nothing requiring thought in all the rest. It had happened—she’d seized and enjoyed the experience, but that was all there was to it. She wouldn’t rescue her family from destitution by dwelling on such matters—on the substance of dreams. Her only major worry arising from her interlude with Gabriel was the difficulty she would experience in facing him as Alathea Morwellan. Knowing him in the biblical sense, and knowing he knew her in the same way but didn’t know it was she, wasn’t going to make her life any easier.

  Despite her charade, she was not a naturally deceitful person; she’d never imagined having to deceive him in this way.

  If he ever found out . . .

  Dragging in a breath, she turned from the window. Sensibility was not her strong suit—whatever leanings she’d had in that direction had been eradicated eleven years ago. Determinedly, she focused on the company and Crowley. It took mere minutes to concede that she could not, no matter how much she wished it, proceed without Gabriel. Quite aside from the fact that dismissing him would probably be more difficult than summoning him in the first place, she could see no way forward without him.

  She couldn’t break in, or even organize to have someone else break in, to Douglas’s mansion. She’d had Jacobs drive her around Egerton Gardens; Folwell had chatted to a street sweeper and discovered which of the large, new houses belonged to Douglas, but breaking in was too risky. Although they might find some of the proofs they needed, the chances of Crowley or Swales realizing their records had been searched and, as Charlie would phrase it, getting the wind up, was high. Then they’d call in the promissory notes and she’d be too busy beating off creditors to press any claim in court.