A Secret Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  He turned to her—their gazes met. In the folds of her gown their fingers brushed. With a brief nod, he turned and strode away.

  Alathea watched him go, a frown in her eyes, an increasingly insistent question revolving in her mind.

  That question was answered two nights later. The Duchess of Richmond’s gala was one of the highlights of the Season. The Richmonds’ house on the river was thrown open; everyone who was anyone attended. Alathea arrived relatively early with Serena, Mary, and Alice. Her father, out to dinner with friends, would look in later. Leaving Serena on a chaise with Lady Arbuthnot and Celia Cynster, Alathea hovered until the circle about Mary and Alice was established, Esher and Carstairs to the fore, then headed for a quiet nook by the wall.

  Her attempt at self-effacement was frustrated by Lord Falworth, who spotted her in the crowd. Seconds later, her “court” closed in.

  To Alathea’s relief, not five minutes passed before Chillingworth joined them. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, the earl settled by her side, displacing Falworth, who sulkily shifted back. As large as Gabriel, Chillingworth had a similar effect on her admirers; challenged, they exerted themselves to converse intelligently.

  By the time the orchestra struck up for the first dance, Alathea was feeling in considerable charity with the earl, very ready to grant him her hand. He did not, however, solicit it, calmly standing back while Lord Montgomery begged the honor. With no excuse ready, Alathea was forced to accede to his lordship’s fervent plea but as the dance was a cotillion, she was spared most of his pompous declarations.

  When at the end of the dance Lord Montgomery returned her to her circle, she was somewhat surprised to discover Chillingworth patiently waiting. Her gratitude bloomed anew as under his direction, the conversation remained lighthearted and general. Then the musicians struck up a waltz, and she realized why the earl was waiting.

  The look in his eyes as he bowed before her was flatteringly intent. “If you would do me the honor, my dear?” Alathea hesitated, another large gentlemen very clear in her mind. She looked up—and found him watching her, waiting to see what she would do, ready to step in and claim her if she didn’t fall in with his decree. His intent reached her clearly as the circle of her admirers, noticing him, parted like the Red Sea.

  Tamping down a spurt of rebelliousness, accepting she dared not bait Gabriel in his present mood, she glanced at Chillingworth. “I’m afraid, my lord, that I’m already promised. To Mr. Cynster.”

  That last was redundant; Chillingworth’s gaze had fastened on Gabriel’s face. Primitive challenge flashed between them, then Chillingworth bowed. “My loss, my dear, but only a temporary one. There’ll be many more waltzes tonight.” Even more than his words, his tone signalled his intention.

  With a grace to match Chillingworth’s, Gabriel bowed and held out his hand. Alathea placed her fingers in his, conscious to her toes of the restrained strength in his grasp. He drew her to him, turning as she joined him, effectively cutting off her court. The dance floor was only a step away, and then she was whirling in his arms.

  Alathea inwardly frowned. She was aware the outcome of that little scene had pleased him. It hadn’t, however, pleased her. “You’re drawing too much attention to us.”

  “In the circumstances, it’s inevitable.”

  “Then change the circumstances.”

  “How?”

  “Your insistence that I waltz only with you is ridiculous. It’s going to cause comment. It’s hardly something one can explain on the grounds of long-standing acquaintance.”

  “You want me to let you waltz with other men.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  He whirled her through the turn. Alathea gritted her teeth. Why did he imagine he could dictate such things? Because of the hours she’d spent with him in the dark. She bundled the recollections aside. “It isn’t wise to attract the attention of the gabblemongers. People are starting to wonder.”

  “So? They’re not wondering anything that will reflect adversely on you.”

  Yes, they were—if he kept on as he was, the whole ton would soon believe that he and she would marry, but that wasn’t going to happen. By the time they’d dealt with Crowley and his company, Gabriel’s attraction to her would have waned and he’d be off laying seige to his next conquest. Raising expectations destined never to be fulfilled was not a good idea. Worse, these were the sorts of expectations guaranteed to fuel the gossips’ fires. She was too old—far too old—to be eligible.

  Alathea seethed through the rest of the waltz, her temper not improved by the speculative glances thrown their way, or by his continuing—and she was quite sure deliberate—rasping of her senses.

  By the end of the dance, she was ready to be returned to the safety of her court. He, it transpired, had other ideas. The reception rooms opened one into the other; on his arm, he paraded her through them. Only the increasing crush prevented them from being the focus of far too many eyes.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere less crowded.”

  She could hardly argue with the wisdom of that; tall though she was, she was feeling hemmed in. The small salon to which he took her had palms and statues breaking up the space. Consequently, it boasted areas in which one could converse, not private but protected. Gabriel led her to a nook created by a trio of potted palms and an ornamental arch.

  A footman passed with a tray. Gabriel collected two glasses of champagne. “Here—it’s only going to get hotter.”

  Accepting the glass, Alathea sipped, relaxing as the bubbles fizzed down her throat. She scanned the room, then she sensed Gabriel stiffen. When she turned, her gaze collided with Chillingworth’s as he joined them in their retreat.

  “I count myself fortunate to have found you again, my dear.”

  Gabriel snorted derisively. “You followed us.”

  “Actually, no.” Chillingworth snared a glass as the footman hove within reach. He sipped, his gaze on Alathea’s face. “I assumed, after that little display in the ballroom, that Cynster would retreat to some area more conducive to his purpose.”

  “A tactic you would know all about.”

  Chillingworth looked at Gabriel. “That point has been puzzling me. You are, after all, a friend of the family. Your present tack is one I would never have expected.”

  “That’s because you have no idea what my present tack is.”

  Chillingworth smiled tauntingly. “Oh, no, dear boy. I assure you I’m far from being that unimaginative.”

  “Perhaps,” Gabriel returned, sharpened steel beneath the words, “it would be wiser if you were.”

  “What? And leave the field to you?”

  “Hardly the first time you’ve owned to defeat.”

  Chillingworth snorted.

  Glancing from one to the other, Alathea felt giddy. Despite her height, they were talking over her head, arguing over her as if she wasn’t there.

  “It would be more to the point,” Chillingworth opined, “if, given the circumstances, you’d cease your present act and get out of my way.”

  “Which act is that?”

  “Dog in the manger.”

  “Excuse me!” Eyes flashing, Alathea silenced first Gabriel, who’d opened his lips on a retort, doubtless equally graceless, then she rounded on Chillingworth. “You will pardon me if I find this exchange somewhat less than gratifying.”

  They both looked at her. She doubted either blushed readily, but slight color now graced their cheeks. The crude nature of their remarks was out of character for both, far from their usual unfailingly elegant poses.

  “I am appalled.” Glancing from one to the other, she held them silent. “It appears you believe I’m not only unimaginative, but deaf as well! For your information, I’m perfectly well aware of both your ‘acts’—permit me to tell you I approve of neither. Like any lady of my age and experience, I will be the arbiter of my actions; I have no intention of succumbing to the practiced blandishments o
f either of you. What, however, I find unforgivable is your propensity to single-mindedly pursue your own agendas, oblivious to the fact that your attentions are focusing unwanted and unwarranted attention on me!”

  She ended glaring at Chillingworth. He had the grace to look contrite. “My apologies, my dear.”

  Alathea humphed, nodded, and turned to Gabriel. He looked at her for two heartbeats, then his fingers closed about her elbow. He handed his glass to Chillingworth, then took hers and handed that across, too. “If you’ll excuse us, there are a few pertinent details we need to clarify.”

  “By all means,” Chillingworth returned. “Once you’ve clarified the nonexistent nature of your claim, I’ll be able to clarify my position.” He bowed to Alathea.

  Gabriel frowned. “Believe me, in this case, you don’t have one.”

  Before Chillingworth could reply, before Alathea could even see how he reacted, Gabriel drew her forward. Alathea fumed but didn’t try to break free; a steel manacle would have been easier to break than Gabriel’s hold on her arm. He marched her across the room to where a door stood ajar, giving access to a corridor.

  “Where now?” she asked as they stepped through the door.

  “Somewhere private. I want to talk to you.”

  “Indeed? I have a few words to say to you, too.”

  He led her up a flight of stairs, then back along a quiet wing. The door at the end stood open; beyond lay a small parlor, curtains drawn against the night. A fire burned in the grate. Three candelabra shed golden light on satin and polished wood. The room was empty. Drawing her hand from his arm, Alathea swept across the threshold. He followed. Reaching the fireplace, she swung to face him, and heard the lock fall home.

  “This ridiculous situation has got to end.” She fixed him with an irate glance. “The countess is no more. She has faded into the mists, never to return.”

  “You, however, are here.”

  “Yes, me. Alathea-who-you’ve-known-all-your-life. I’m not some delectable courtesan that you have any real interest in seducing. You’re annoyed because as the countess you thought I was—you now know better. And you know perfectly well that once you get over being annoyed, you’ll be off after some other lady, one more suited to your tastes.”

  He’d remained by the door; head tilted, he regarded her. “So my interest in you is fueled by annoyance?”

  “That, and perversity. A response to Chillingworth and the others. It’s almost as if, having relinquished your silly watch on the twins, you’ve transferred your attention to me!”

  “And what’s wrong with that?”

  “You’re obsessively protective! If you’ll only stop and think, you’ll realize there’s no need. I need to be protected even less than the twins. Worse, hovering over me is exceedingly unwise. It calls attention to us—you know what people will make of it. Before you know where you are, the ton will have imagined into existence something that simply isn’t.”

  A moment passed, then he asked, “This something that isn’t—this illusion you claim the ton will think it sees. What, precisely, is that?”

  Alathea huffed out a breath. Across the room, she met his eyes. “They’ll imagine we have an understanding, that in the near future they’ll read an engagement notice in The Gazette. As Chillingworth so sapiently stated, it’s widely known that our families are close, that you and I have known each other for years. No one will imagine any illicit connection—they’ll imagine we’ll wed. Once that idea gains credence, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “Hmm.” He started to walk toward her. “And that’s the bee that’s buzzing in your bonnet?”

  “I have absolutely no desire to spend the rest of the Season explaining to the interested why we aren’t about to marry.”

  “I can guarantee that won’t occur.”

  “Indeed?” She bridled at his patronizing tone. “And how can you be so sure?”

  “Because we are going to marry.” Gabriel halted directly before her. A full minute passed while she stared at him, speechless. Then her eyes clouded.

  “W-what?”

  “I agreed to defer discussion of the matter until after we’d dealt with the company—that, however, is clearly not to be. So it may as well be now. As far as I’m concerned, we’re getting married, and the sooner the better.”

  “But you never had it in mind to marry me. Not when we spoke after Lady Arbuthnot’s ball.”

  “Thankfully, you never did learn to read my mind. I decided to marry you when I knew you as the countess. The morning after Lady Arbuthnot’s ball, I was still adjusting to the startling discovery that it was you I’d decided to make my wife. As you might imagine, that was something of a shock.”

  “But . . . you must have changed your mind. You don’t want to marry me.”

  “Not only do I want to marry you, I am going to marry you, a fact that makes my attitude toward you and other gentlemen perfectly understandable. I might be obsessively protective, but only about those of whom I’m obsessively possessive, such as the lady who will be my wife. The ultimate ramification of your masquerade as the countess will be marriage to me. There is, therefore, no false illusion for the ton to see—the only conclusion society will leap to will be the truth.”

  “As you deem it.”

  “As it will be.” He stepped closer; physical awareness flashed in her eyes. She lifted her chin; he captured her gaze. “This is real. I’m not going to grow out of it, or lose interest and become distracted. Marriage to me is your immediate and irrevocable future. If you hadn’t realized, you’ll need time to adjust, but don’t imagine there’ll be any other outcome.”

  “But . . .” She shook her head dazedly. “I’m not the countess. It was the countess who fascinated you—a lady of mystery and illusion. I don’t fascinate you—you know everything there is to know about me—”

  He kissed her, closed his lips over hers, then closed his arms about her. It was easy to do with her being so tall. Her resistance lasted a heartbeat, then vaporized like mist; she sank against him, her lips parting at his command, her mouth an offering he claimed.

  Alathea clung to her wits. She yielded all else without a fight, knowing any fight would be futile, but she held on to reason. About her, the world whirled; her senses rioted. He’d shocked her with his declaration, but she surprised herself even more.

  She wanted him. Her hunger was too strong, too sharp in its raw newness, for her to ignore or mistake it. The arms locked about her were a welcome cage, the hard body pressed to hers the essence of dreamed delight. He plundered her mouth, ruthless, relentless, not gentle. She took him in, lured him further, to give and take and give again.

  He took and exulted in the taking. She knew it. She sensed the surge of passion, his and hers, and reveled in her power. The heady wave grew into a vortex of heat, swirling about them, flames licking, touching, but not yet consuming. Then, to her surprise, the world steadied.

  He lifted his head.

  She felt him draw breath, his chest swelling against her breasts. It was an effort to lift her lids enough to see his face. Hard, each plane edged with desire, it gave her no clue to his direction. His eyes, glinting gold under lids as heavy as hers, were fixed on her hair.

  His arms shifted. One hand splayed across her back, holding her against him. The other rose . . .

  To her hair.

  “What . . . ?” She felt a brusque tug; satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. Glancing to the side, she saw her beaded cap in his hand. “Don’t you dare throw that in the fire!”

  His gaze returned to her face. “No?” Then he shrugged and tossed the cap to the floor. “As you will.” His hand returned to her hair, rifling the soft mass, searching and plucking. Pins tinkled across the hearth.

  “What are you doing?” She tried to wriggle, but he held her too securely. Then her hair fell free.

  “You appear to have formed a grossly inaccurate opinion of what fascinates me. Arguing with you always was so much wasted breath, so I’l
l demonstrate instead.”

  “Demonstrate?”

  “Hmm.” He speared his free hand through her hair, spreading his fingers, combing through the long tresses, holding them out, watching them drift down as his fingers pulled free. “You never did understand why I hated your caps, did you?”

  Mesmerized by the possessiveness investing his harsh features, Alathea didn’t answer. He played with the silken mass, then he gathered half of it in his fist, tipping her head back.

  “What else?” His gaze fastened on her eyes. “Ah, yes. Your eyes. Have you any idea what it’s like to look into them? Not at them, but into. Whenever I do, I feel like I’ve fallen into some magical pool and lost myself. Certainly lost all sense.” His gaze lowered. “And there’s your lips.” He took them in a swift, achingly incomplete kiss. “But we know why I like those.” The arm about her eased, his hand drifted from her back. He still held her by her hair. “But I don’t believe you have any idea about this.”

  Long fingers feathered her jaw, tracing from her chin to her ear. Then he cupped her face, holding her steady as he bent his head and followed the same line with his lips.

  Alathea shivered.

  “That’s right. Vulnerable.” The word caressed her ear. “Not weak, but definitely vulnerable. Mine to seize.”

  Her lids fell as his lips brushed the sensitive skin beneath her ear, then slid lower, laying heat down the length of her throat. Her mind told her to correct him; she wasn’t his.

  Instead, when he fell to laving the tender spot at the base of her throat, she swayed into him. Her legs weakened. She clutched his lapels as her wits reeled.