A Secret Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  He narrowed his eyes. “What the devil . . . ?”

  The muttered question went unanswered as Lord Coleburn, Mr. Henry Simpkins and Lord Falworth, all smiling easily, strolled up.

  “There you are, my dear lady.” Falworth swept Alathea an elegant bow.

  “We thought you might need rescuing,” Henry Simpkins stated, his gaze sweeping over Gabriel before coming to rest on Alathea’s face. “From the crush, don’t you know?”

  “It is indeed horrendous,” Alathea smoothly returned. She waited for Gabriel to excuse himself and move on; instead, he remained planted like an oak at her side. With Wellington immediately to her left, she couldn’t escape; her would-be cavaliers were forced to deploy themselves in a semicircle before her and Gabriel. As if they were on trial. Heaving an inward sigh, she introduced him, quite sure the others would know him at least by reputation.

  That last became rapidly apparent. By dint of various subtle quips, Coleburn, Simpkins, and Falworth all made it plain they thought Gabriel would find better entertainment elsewhere. Alathea was not at all surprised when he shrugged their suggestions aside, looking for all the world as if he was fighting a yawn. He probably was. She certainly was. If she’d wanted to stand by the wall and converse with a gaggle of gentlemen, Coleburn, Simpkins, and Falworth would not have been her choice. She would rather converse with the Devil himself, presently on her right; at least, with him, she was never in danger of mentally drifting away and losing track of the conversation.

  Despite the lack of stimulation, she was distinctly relieved that Gabriel did not decide to enliven proceedings by surgically dissecting Simpkins, who seemed intent on putting himself first in line with his studied and not-quite-nonchalant quips. Lady Castlereagh would not appreciate blood on her ballroom floor.

  “And so Mrs. Dalrymple insisted we ride on, but the oxer at the end of the fourth field forced her to retire. Well”—Falworth spread his hands—“what could I do? We had to do a Brummel and take refuge in a nearby farmhouse.”

  The other gentlemen seemed mildly intrigued by Falworth’s description of his aborted outing with the Cottesmore. All except Gabriel, who was doing a remarkable imitation of a marble statue. An utterly meaningless smile on her lips, Alathea inwardly sighed and let Falworth’s words flow past her.

  Beyond their little circle, a tall gentleman, as tall as Gabriel, strolled nonchalantly by. His idle gaze passed over them, then halted. He stopped, noting Gabriel, then his gaze slid back to her.

  The gentleman smiled; Alathea nearly blinked. Charming did as charming was, but this was something rather more. Her lips had curved in reply before she’d even thought. The gentleman’s smile deepened; he inclined his head. His gaze on her face, he approached with the same easy, loose-limbed prowl that characterized the Cynsters and, Alathea surmised, certain of their peers.

  Gabriel’s reaction was immediate and intense. Alathea barely had time to consider the why before the wherefore was bowing before her.

  “Chillingworth, my dear. I don’t believe we’ve met.” Gracefully straightening, he flicked a glance at Gabriel. “But I’m sure I can prevail upon Cynster here to do the honors.”

  Gabriel let his silence stretch until it was just this side of insulting before grudgingly saying, “Lady Alathea Morwellan—Chillingworth, earl of.”

  Arching a warning brow at him, Alathea gave Chillingworth her hand. “A pleasure, my lord. Are you enjoying her ladyship’s offerings?” There was a string quartet laboring somewhere, and a busy cardroom.

  “To be honest, I’ve found the evening a mite dull.” Releasing her hand, Chillingworth smiled. “A little too tame for my liking.”

  Alathea raised a brow. “Indeed?”

  “Hmm. I count myself lucky to have spotted you in this crowd.” His gaze was filled with appreciation, especially of her height. His lips curved. “Fortunate, indeed.”

  Alathea stifled a gurgle of laughter; beside her, Gabriel stiffened. Eyes dancing, she essayed, “I’m engaged in planning a ball for my stepmother. Tell me, what entertainments would best entice gentlemen such as yourself?”

  The look Gabriel shot her was unmitigatingly censorious; Alathea ignored it.

  So did Chillingworth. “Your fair presence would greatly entice me.”

  She met his gaze with a blank look. “Yes, but beyond that?”

  He nearly choked trying to swallow his laugh. “Ah . . . beyond that?”

  “Come now, Chillingworth. I’m sure, if you concentrate, you’ll remember what it is that brings you to these affairs.” Gabriel’s languid drawl deflected the earl’s attention.

  Chillingworth’s brows rose. Leaning one arm on the pedestal’s top, he frowned. “Let me think.”

  Gabriel snorted softly.

  “Not hordes.” Catching Alathea’s eye, Chillingworth continued, “I can’t think why the cachet of exclusivity isn’t more widely appreciated.”

  His gaze on the guests shifting and shuffling before them, causing the three other gentlemen, now relegated to the outer ranks, to have to constantly give way, then struggle back, Gabriel humphed in agreement. “God knows why they imagine literally rubbing shoulders all evening to be fun.”

  “Because no hostess is game to call the ton’s bluff, so we’re all left to suffer.” Alathea swept the gathering with a resigned eye.

  “At least,” Gabriel muttered, “we can see reasonably well. It must be worse for those who can’t.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Alathea returned. “Mary, Alice, and Serena seem to spend half their time trying to find their way about.”

  Chillingworth had been watching them, taking in this exchange. “Hmm. As to other requirements, while gentlemen such as I—and Cynster here—might be partial to sonatas and airs in their place, having a set of screeching violins set up in a corner merely constitutes unwarranted distraction.”

  “Distraction?” Alathea glanced at him. “Distraction from what?”

  The direct question made Chillingworth blink. He slid a glance at Gabriel.

  Alathea’s lips quirked. “From your customary pursuits?”

  Chillingworth straightened; Gabriel merely threw her a resigned glance. “Don’t mind her,” he advised Chillingworth. “Although perhaps I should warn you it only gets worse.”

  Alathea favored him with a haughty look. “You can’t talk.”

  Glancing from one to the other, Chillingworth stated, “You know each other.”

  Alathea waved dismissively. “From birth—our association was decided for us, not by us.”

  Gabriel’s brows rose. “Nicely put.”

  The puzzled look in Chillingworth’s eyes didn’t entirely evaporate, but he settled beside Alathea again. “Where were we?”

  “The amenities you prefer for your customary pursuits.”

  Alathea was enjoying herself; both Chillingworth and Gabriel sent repressive glances her way.

  “Very well.” Chillingworth accepted the challenge. “Not a dance schedule that includes only two waltzes. Apropos of that, my dear, I believe the orchestra is about to make itself useful and indulge us with a waltz.” Straightening, he smiled, both charming and challenging. “Can I tempt you to brave the floor with me?”

  Alathea returned the smile, perfectly ready to take up his challenge, equally ready to give Gabriel a chance to slope off. They’d been in each other’s company without descending into cutting sarcasm for nearly half an hour; there was no sense in stretching their luck.

  She held out her hand. “Indeed, my lord—I’d be delighted.”

  Gabriel gritted his teeth, held his breath, and willed himself to stillness. God knew, he didn’t want to waltz with Alathea—the mere thought sent itching heat washing over his skin like a rash. But . . . he didn’t want her waltzing with Chillingworth. Or anyone else, but Chillingworth was, typically, the worst choice she could have made of all the gentlemen in the room. Not that she hadn’t chosen quite deliberately; she might be twenty-nine but she still possessed a healthy vein
of minxlike tendencies, victim to a strain of considered recklessness.

  He watched as Chillingworth led her to the floor, then took her lightly in his arms. She laughed at some quip and they began to revolve; as they whirled down the room, Gabriel inwardly snorted. There she went, tempting fate with her eyes wide open.

  Shifting his gaze, he saw Lucifer, still on guard but chatting with two friends while the twins danced. Gabriel located them, each in the arms of a suitably innocuous gentleman.

  Alathea’s words rang in his head; he inwardly humphed. He’d think about it. His gaze drifted over the dancers, and settled again.

  The waltz was nearly over before Alathea identified the peculiar sensation afflicting her. It had started not when Chillingworth first took her into his arms but later, as they’d commenced their second revolution around the room.

  She’d enjoyed the waltz. Despite his predilections, Chillingworth was charming, witty, and a gentleman to his toes. He was very like Lucifer and his Cynster cousins; she’d treated him as she would them—he’d responded in like vein, with a bantering air. She’d relaxed.

  That was when the other sensation had made itself felt, like an intent gaze fixed directly between her shoulder blades. Its very intensity was what finally identified its source.

  When Chillingworth gallantly returned her to the spot beside Wellington’s bust, she was smiling and quietly simmering.

  One look at Gabriel’s face, into his hard hazel eyes, and her temper surged. She’d successfully reached through his armor to prick him about the twins; he was paying her back by watching her instead, simply to discompose her. Sliding into the space beside him, she muttered, “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  He looked at her blankly. “No.”

  It was impossible to shift him, so there he stayed; by the end of the evening, she was ready to commit murder. But in the carriage home, she had to bottle up her spleen and listen encouragingly to Mary and Alice prattle happily of their doings. To her considerable satisfaction, both had found their feet and were attracting the right sort of attention. As they left the carriage and climbed the steps to the front door, Alathea exchanged a speculative glance with Serena. Their campaign was progressing well.

  She was doing less well. By the time she gained her room and Nellie had shut the door behind her, she felt like a human volcano.

  “One of these days,” she informed Nellie through clenched teeth, “he’s going to come up to me when I have a dangerous weapon in my hands, and then I’ll end in the Tower, and it’ll all be his fault!”

  “The Tower?” Nellie was totally confused.

  “Imprisoned for murdering him!” Alathea let the reins of her temper fly free. “You should have seen him! You can’t imagine!” She fell to pacing before the hearth. “He was more impossible than even I would have believed, even for him. Just because I told him—and convinced him, too—that he was wrong to so suffocate the twins, he left off suffocating them, and suffocated me, instead!”

  “Suffocated . . . ?”

  “Watched over me as if I was his sister! Tried to menace and chase away any entertaining gentleman.” She swung about, her skirts shushing furiously. “At least he didn’t succeed with Chillingworth, thank God! But all through supper—!” Words failed her; she threw a rapier-edged glance at the door. “I have never felt so much like a bone with a large dog, teeth-bared, standing over me. And you should have seen his performance over the second waltz! I’d already danced the first with Chillingworth, and saw no reason why I shouldn’t indulge him with the second as well—he is nicely tall, which is such a blessing in a waltz—but Gabriel behaved like a . . . a bloody archbishop! You’d have thought he’d never waltzed with a lady himself in his life!”

  Arms folded, she paced on. “It wasn’t as if he wanted to waltz with me himself—oh, no! He’s never waltzed with me in his life! He just wanted to be difficult! And he’s so hard to counter! I sincerely commisserate with the twins, and can only be glad if I’ve shaken him to his senses over them.”

  She scowled. “Except that he now seems focused on me.” She pondered that, then shrugged. “Presumably he was only doing it for tonight, just to pay me back. Whatever, I’ve had quite enough of the arrogant ways of Mr. Gabriel Cynster.”

  “Who?”

  Alathea plonked herself down on the stool before her dressing table. “Rupert. Gabriel’s his nickname.”

  Nellie let down her hair and started brushing it. Alathea let the familiar, rhythmic tug-and-release soothe her. Her mind reverted to the problem that had earlier consumed her, the problem she’d largely forgotten in the heat engendered by Gabriel’s behavior in the ballroom.

  When she’d been Alathea Morwellan.

  That had been bad enough. His behavior when she was the countess seemed even further beyond her control.

  “This has gone on long enough—I need to take charge.”

  “You do?”

  “Hmm. All very well for him to take the reins, but that’s clearly too dangerous. It’s my problem—he’s my knight—I summoned him. He’s going to have to learn to do my bidding, not the other way about. I’m going to have to make that point plain.”

  She—the countess—was going to have to see him again.

  Alathea frowned. “I need to tell him about the captain.”

  What happened at the Burlington would not happen again. That had simply been an opportunistic event, a combination of location, opportunity, and elation—and her weakness—that he’d sensed, seen, and seized.

  She’d let him seize. She wouldn’t, she swore, be so weak this time. Be so easily swept off her feet and onto a bed.

  No. But it was senseless to take any chances.

  “I can’t risk another meeting in daylight.”

  “Why not? He can’t see your face even then, not if you wear that mask under your veil.”

  “True. But he’ll look more closely, and there’ll be enough of my face showing . . .”

  He might guess. He’d seen her at close quarters frequently enough in the past weeks. His powers of observation were acute when he concentrated, and after their last meeting at the Burlington, she was quite sure he’d be concentrating on the countess. Especially if she proved intent on keeping him at a polite distance.

  Yet distance, polite or otherwise, was imperative.

  “I’ve got to meet with him again.” Frowning, she drummed her fingers on the dressing table. If she could devise a meeting where opportunity was lacking, so he got no chance to seize anything at all, she’d be safe.

  “A letter for you, m’lord—er, sir.” With a flourish, Chance placed the silver salver he’d taken to wielding at every opportunity on the breakfast table at Gabriel’s right.

  “Thank you, Chance.” Setting aside his coffee mug, Gabriel picked up the folded sheet of heavy white parchment and looked for the letter knife.

  “Oh—ah!” Chance jigged and searched his pockets. “Here.” He brandished a small rusty knife. “I’ll do it.”

  “No, Chance, that’s quite all right.” Gabriel held on to the note. “I can manage.”

  “Right-ho.” Swiping up the salver, Chance departed.

  Gabriel broke the seal with his thumbnail. Lips thinning, he opened the note.

  He’d been expecting it for the last four days. He was more than a trifle aggrieved that the countess had taken so long to summon him to another meeting. The delay lay like a blot on his record, an adverse reflection on his skill. At least the note had finally come.

  He scanned the few lines within, then rolled his eyes to the ceiling. A carriage?

  He sighed. Well, she had been a virgin, so what could he expect? She was plainly a novice at arranging lovers’ trysts.

  It was a moonless night. The wind soughed and sighed in the trees lining the carriage drive close by the Stanhope Gate. Waiting impatiently in the shadows, Gabriel resisted the urge to shake his head.

  Midnight at the Stanhope Gate was only a marginal improvement on thre
e o’clock in the porch of St. Georges. The countess had been reading too many gothic novels. In this case, she’d either forgotten that the park gates were locked at sunset, or was counting on him exercising his peculiar talents on the padlock that had secured the wrought iron gates. He’d done so and left the gates wide. It wasn’t unheard of for an open gate to be forgotten.

  At least there wasn’t any mist, only layers of shadows spreading over the parkland, shifting and drifting with the wind. There was just enough light to see by, to make out shapes but not their detail.

  In the distance, a bell tolled, the first note in the midnight chorus. He listened as the other belltowers joined in, then the count was done, and the last note died into the brooding night. Silence returned, and settled.

  The rattle of a carriage wheel was his first intimation that his wait was at an end. There were carriages aplenty rolling around Mayfair, but they were far enough away to ignore. The steady rattle continued, punctuated by the clop of hooves, then the small black carriage, lamps unlit, rolled between the gate posts into the gloom of the park.

  Gabriel stepped onto the verge. The coachman redirected his horses; the carriage slowed and halted. Gabriel opened the door and climbed into a darkness even denser than had prevailed in the bedchamber at the Burlington.

  He sat and felt leather beneath him, and sensed a warm presence beside him.

  “Mr. Cynster.”

  Gabriel grinned into the dark. “Countess.”

  She gasped as she landed in his lap. It took only an instant for his fingers to find her veil, and then his lips were on hers.

  It was a searing kiss—he made sure of that. A kiss to steal her wits, to make her senses reel. A kiss to light her fires, and his.

  Her lips softened the instant his firmed; they parted the second he traced their contours. She melted in his arms as he grew more rigid; he didn’t lift his head until she was dazed and dizzy, too breathless to utter the words her whirling mind couldn’t begin to form.