A Secret Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  The gravelly rasp of his words affected them both; she shot him a shocked, breathless, scandalized glance, then looked away.

  She said nothing more; her feet followed his, her body flowing with his, fitting so neatly, so totally attuned they could both have waltzed for hours without thought. Gabriel grabbed the moments to bring some order to the chaos in his brain. He frowned as he noticed the difference in her height, then recalled the high heels he’d dropped to the carriage floor three nights before.

  Glancing down as they whirled through the next turn, he confirmed his guess. “You never normally wear heels.”

  Her breasts swelled as she drew in a tight breath. “What are you talking about? You’re making less sense than poor Skiffy Skeffington!”

  His hold on his temper snapped. “Indeed? In that case, I suppose there’s no point in asking how long you’d thought to carry on your charade, or in inquiring as to its purpose. You can understand, however, that that last exercises me greatly.” He spoke through clenched teeth, his voice sharpened steel. He let his gaze rake her face; he saw only red. “Did you think to trap me into marriage? Is that what this is about? Surely not—” He tightened his hold as she tried to free her hand until he knew he was crushing her fingers. “You know I’d make your life a living hell, so why? Was it the challenge?” Already stiff, she went rigid. He glanced at her set face. “That sounds nearer the mark.”

  He looked up as they circled, then laughed mirthlessly. “God, when I think of it!—Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Bond Street, Bruton Street.” He paused, then demanded, “Tell me, in Bruton Street, did you flee into the modiste’s because you couldn’t contain your laughter?”

  She reacted—her hand, crushed in his, jerked, the fine tendons in her neck tensed—but she kept her gaze fixed over his shoulder and her lips pressed stubbornly tight.

  “Why did you do it?” She gave him no answer.

  “As the cat’s caught your tongue, let me see if I can guess . . . you missed your chance with your own Season, but given you had to come to London to give Mary and Alice their turn, you thought to enliven your stay by taking a shot at me. Thanks to my fond mama, I’m sure you know my reputation.” His tone lashed. “Is that what you thought? That bringing me to my knees as the mysterious countess would be just the thing to enliven your stay?”

  Pale, her expression stony, she refused to look at him, to meet his eyes, refused to assure him that he’d got it all wrong, that she’d never betray him like that.

  Betrayed was what he felt—not just by her but by her alter ego, too. No matter his devotion, no matter his patience and skill, no matter how deeply he’d come to worship her, the countess would never have revealed her identity to him. As for his dreams . . .

  Bitterness welled, then swelled even higher. She’d struck much deeper than mere dreams. She’d struck straight to his core, just as she always had; she’d stripped away his armor, found his most vulnerable spot and laid it bare. He hadn’t even known he possessed such a weakness until she’d uncovered it. He could only curse her for it—she was the very last woman on earth he would willingly reveal any vulnerability to.

  But even that was not the worst. The most vital wound, the one that left him bleeding inside, was that, despite knowing him so well, she hadn’t trusted him.

  That, of it all, hurt the most.

  “I always wondered when you’d get tired of your life in the country. Tell me, now I’ve opened your eyes to the pleasures to be experienced in the capital, are you thinking of—” He didn’t even hear what he said, as, element by element, he dismembered her character. Many considered his tongue too sharp for safety; he used it like a surgeon’s knife to cut at her, to make her bleed, too. Just as she knew where to strike at him, he knew all her most sensitive spots. Like her height, like the fact she believed herself plain. And too old. He touched on each vulnerable point, savagely rejoicing when she stiffened, when her jaw locked.

  He’d salvaged a tiny portion of his pride by the time the music slowed, and the red mist that had clouded his brain and his vision lifted enough for him to see the tears that stood in her eyes.

  The music ended. They halted. She stood silent and still in his arms, her expression unyielding yet her whole being vibrating with suppressed emotion.

  She met his gaze unflinchingly. Beyond the sheen of her tears, he saw his fury and hurt reflected back at him, over and over again.

  “You do not have the first idea what you are talking about.”

  Each word was distinct, carefully enunciated, underscored with emotion. Before he could react, she pulled roughly from his arms, caught her breath, turned, and swept away.

  Leaving him alone in the middle of the dance floor.

  Still furious. Still hurt.

  Still aroused.

  Alathea sat at the breakfast table the next morning in a state of deadened panic. She knew the axe would soon fall, but she couldn’t summon the strength to run. She felt physically drained; she’d barely slept a wink. Maintaining an outward show of calm was imperative, yet it was all she could do to smile at her family and pretend to nibble her toast.

  Her stomach felt hollow but she couldn’t eat. She could only just manage to sip her weak tea. Her head felt steady enough, yet at the same time strangely vacant, as if blocking out all Gabriel’s hurtful words had blocked off her own thoughts as well.

  She knew she couldn’t think—she’d tried for hours last night, but every attempt had ended in tears. She couldn’t think of what had happened, much less of what might.

  Picking at her toast, she let her family’s cheery talk wash over her and drew a little comfort from its warmth.

  Then Crisp paused beside her and cleared his throat. “Mr. Cynster is here, m’lady, and wishes to speak with you.”

  Alathea looked up. Here? No—he wouldn’t. “Wh—” She stopped and cleared her throat. “Which Mr. Cynster, Crisp?”

  “Mr. Rupert, miss.”

  He would.

  Serena waved a plump hand. “Do ask him if he’s breakfasted yet, Crisp.”

  “No!—I mean, I’m sure he would have.” Rising, Alathea placed her napkin by her plate. “I’m sure he’s not thinking of ham and sausages.”

  “Well, if you’re sure . . .” Serena frowned. “But it seems an odd time to call.”

  Alathea caught her eye. “It’s just a little business matter we need to discuss.”

  “Oh.” Serena mouthed the word, and immediately turned back to her family.

  Slipping out of the breakfast parlor, Alathea reflected that her last words were no deception. All that Rupert—Gabriel—wished to speak about had occurred because of their “little business matter.”

  That wasn’t going to make the coming interview any easier.

  Crisp had shown Gabriel into the back parlor, a quiet room overlooking the rear gardens. On sunny days, the girls liked to gather there, but today, with the clouds closing in and drizzle threatening, it would be a quiet, and private, haven.

  It was unlikely they would be disturbed.

  Alathea considered that and grimaced. She’d dismissed Crisp and come alone. Hand on the doorknob, she drew in a breath, gathered her wilting strength, and refused to think of what she would face on the other side of the door.

  Outwardly calm, she turned the knob and walked in.

  His head turned instantly; their gazes locked. He’d been standing by the windows looking out. He considered her unblinkingly, then, in a low voice said, “Close the door. Lock it.”

  She hesitated.

  “We don’t need any interruptions.”

  She hesitated a moment more, then turned, shut the door, and snibbed the lock. Facing him again, she lifted her head, straightened her spine, and clasped her hands before her.

  He continued to study her, his face unreadable.

  “Come here.”

  Alathea considered, but she felt the tug, the compulsion. The threat. She forced her feet to carry her forward.

  It was the mos
t difficult thing she’d done in her life—crossing the wide parlor under his eye. She kept her head up, her spine rigid, but by the time she reached his side and the light fell full on her face, she was inwardly shaking, her reserves of strength, of resolution, seriously depleted. As she stopped beside him and met his hard gaze, she realized that was precisely as he’d intended.

  He searched her face, his gaze sharp, acute, his features warrior-hard. “Now,” he said, “what the devil’s going on?”

  Barely leashed anger vibrated behind the words. Drawing her gaze from his, she fixed it on the lawn and the enclosing trees. “You know most of it.” She drew in a breath, to gain time, to gain control. “All that I told you as the countess is true, except—”

  “That your supposed late husband is in fact your father, that the youthful Charles is Charlie, Maria is Mary, Alicia is Alice, and Seraphina is Serena. That much I’d guessed.”

  “Well, then.” She shrugged. “That’s it.”

  When he said nothing more, she risked a quick glance. He was waiting—he caught her gaze and held it.

  A moment passed.

  “Try again.”

  His temper reached her clearly. There would be no escape. “What do you want to know?” If she could cling to the straightforward, the matter-of-fact, she might just survive his inquisition.

  “Is the earldom in as dire straits as you portrayed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you create the countess?”

  Straightforward. Matter-of-fact. She returned her gaze to the vista outside. “If I’d written to you or visited you with the story of a suspect note without telling you of the family’s financial plight, would you have undertaken the investigation yourself or handed it to Montague?”

  “If you’d told me the whole story—”

  “Put yourself in my shoes. Would you have told you the whole story? How close to ruin we stood? Still stand.”

  After a moment, he inclined his head. “Very well—I accept that you would have avoided telling me that. But the countess . . . ?”

  She lifted her chin. “It worked.”

  He waited, but she was too used to silence, to being silent with him, for the ploy to have any effect. His realization rang in his tone. “I take it your father and Serena are not aware of your masquerade.”

  “No.”

  “Who does know?”

  “No one—well, only the senior servants.”

  “Your coachman . . . that was Jacobs?” She nodded.

  “Who of the others?”

  “Nellie. Figgs. Miss Helm. Connor. Crisp, of course. And Folwell.” She paused, then nodded. “That’s all.”

  He swore under his breath. “All?”

  She shot him a frown. “They’re devoted to me. There’s no need to imagine anything will come of it. They always do precisely as I say.”

  He looked at her, then one brow quirked higher. “Oh?” His tone had dropped to a whisper. Signaling her to silence, he crossed to the door, then flipped the lock and hauled it open in one movement, revealing Nellie, Crisp, Figgs, Miss Helm . . .

  Alathea simply stared. Then she stiffened and glared. “Go away!”

  “Well, m’lady.” Nellie cast a wary glance at Gabriel. “We were just wondering—”

  “I’m perfectly all right. Now go!”

  They shuffled off. Gabriel closed the door, relocked it, then returned to the window.

  “All right. So much for your masquerade.” He stopped beside her; shoulder to shoulder, they looked out at the trees cloaked in dull shadow. “You can now tell me why you took it upon yourself to rescue your family.”

  “Well—” Alathea stopped, seeing the trap. “It seemed most sensible.”

  “Indeed? Let’s see. A maid found the promissory note, which your father signed but somehow forgot about, and then you, your father, and Serena put your heads together, and they decided and agreed to let you pursue the matter—a matter that might destroy their lives—by yourself. Is that how it went?”

  She regarded the trees stonily. “No.”

  “Well?”

  The word hung in the air, insistent, persistent . . . “I usually handle all the business affairs.”

  “Why?”

  She hesitated. “Papa . . . isn’t very good with money. You know how . . . well, gentle he is. He really has no idea—none at all.” She met his gaze. “My mother managed the estate until her death. My grandmother managed it before her.”

  He frowned. After a moment, he asked, “And so you now handle all the estate business?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Since when?”

  When she looked back at the trees and didn’t answer, he stepped between her and the window, leaving them all but nose to nose. His eyes bored into hers. “When did your father cede his authority to you?”

  Still she said nothing. He searched her eyes. “Would you rather I asked him?” If it had been any other man, she’d have called his bluff. “Years ago.”

  “Eleven years ago?” She didn’t reply.

  “That’s what it was, wasn’t it? That was the reason you left town. Not chicken pox—I never did believe that—but money. Your father had brought the earldom to point non plus; somehow, you found out and took up the reins. You cut short your first Season before it had begun and went home.” He paused. “Is that what happened?”

  Her expression set, she shifted her gaze, staring out over his shoulder.

  “Tell me the details. I want to know.”

  He wouldn’t rest until he knew. She drew in a tight breath. “Wiggs came to the house one afternoon. He looked . . . desperate. Papa saw him in the library. I went to ask if Papa wanted tea brought in. The library door was ajar. I overheard Wiggs pleading with Papa, explaining how deeply in debt the estate was, and how the expense of giving me my Season would quite literally run us aground. Papa didn’t understand. He kept insisting that all would be well, that far from ruining us, my Season would be the earldom’s salvation.”

  “He was counting on you making a good marriage?”

  “Yes. Foolishly so.”

  “It might have worked.”

  She shook her head. “You haven’t considered. I would have had no dowry—quite the opposite. Any successful suitor would have had to rescue the earldom, and the debts were mountainous. I had nothing at all to recommend me except my lineage.”

  “There are more than a few who would disagree.”

  She glanced at him, then looked back at the trees. “You forget—this was eleven years ago. Do you remember what I looked like at eighteen? I was painfully thin, even gawky. There was absolutely no chance I would make the sort of match required to save my family.”

  When she said nothing more, he prompted, “So?”

  “When Wiggs left in despair, I went in and talked to Papa. I spent the night going over the estate records Wiggs had brought.” She paused, then added, “The next morning, we packed and left London.”

  “You’ve been protecting your family—saving them—ever since?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though it cost you your life—the life you should have had.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic.”

  “Me?” He laughed harshly. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black. But if the shoe fits . . .” He caught her eye. “And it fits you.” He stood directly before her, his gaze locked on her face. “You knew what it would mean from the very first—eleven years ago. If you’d shut your ears to your family’s plight and seen out your Season, it’s more than likely you would have married well—not, I grant you, well enough to save the earldom, but well enough to save yourself. You would have had a home, a title, a position—a chance to have your own family. All the things you’d been raised to expect. Your own future was there for the taking. You knew that, yet you chose to return to the country and struggle to resurrect the family fortunes, even if it meant you’d become an old maid. After your aborted Season, your family couldn’t afford to have
you come up again—couldn’t afford to let anyone even guess. They certainly couldn’t afford a respectable dowry, a point in itself too revealing, but you knew how it would be. So it all fell to you. You sacrificed your life—all of it—for them.”

  He sounded angry. Alathea set her chin. “You’re making too much of it.”

  He held her gaze mercilously. “Am I?”

  She couldn’t avoid his eyes, the understanding lighting the hazel depths. The sacrifice of the years swept over her, the loneliness, the pain borne alone in the depths of the country. The mourning for a life she’d never had a chance to live. Dragging in a too-shallow breath, she fought to keep her gaze steady. When she was sure she had her voice under control, she said, “Don’t you dare pity me.”

  His brow quirked in that way that was quintessentially his. “It hadn’t occurred to me. I’m sure you made the decision yourself—you set out to do precisely what you’ve done. I see nothing to pity in that.”

  The dry comment gave her sensitivity, her vulnerability, the shield she needed. After a moment, she looked away. “So now you know it all.”

  Gabriel studied her face and wished that were true. In the hours since he’d learned the truth, he’d been buffeted, shaken, rocked to his soul by a tempest of emotions. Anger, raw fury, a desperate hurt, quenched pride; those were easily identified. Other passions, darker, more turbulent, much harder to define, had swelled the tumult to an ungovernable tide that had scored and ripped its way through him.

  Now, in the aftermath, he felt, not empty, but cleared, as if the inner temple he’d built to house his soul had been smashed by the torrent, swept from its foundations and the bricks left scattered by the subsiding flood. Now he faced the task of building his inner house again. He could choose a simpler structure, one without the posturing, the false glamor, the boredom of which he’d grown so tired in recent months. Which bricks he chose to fashion his future was up to him, but the fact that he had a choice to make was due to her.