A Secret Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  “There’s no reason you couldn’t let me drive you about the park.”

  “I have no intention of letting you declare your hand in such a public fashion.” She shot him a reproving glance. “I’m not going to be swayed by such manuevers.”

  “More fool you. How did you know, anyway?”

  “Your mama is always full of your doings—yours, Lucifer’s, and the rest of your cousins. The fact that none of you drive ladies in the park—ladies other than your wives—is well known to all, I gather.”

  Gabriel had been counting on it. “How does Gretna Green strike you? We could be there in two days.”

  “At present, I have matters to deal with here. As soon as those matters are settled, I intend retiring to the country once again.”

  “Don’t wager your mother’s pearls on it.”

  “Humph! Anyway, what have you learned? I take it you got my note last night?”

  “Yes, but not until this morning. Last night I was busy trying to prise information from certain African dignitaries.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Enough to unofficially confirm that at least four of Crowley’s claims of governmental approvals and permissions are false. I’m working on turning unofficial into official, but no government bureacracy works quickly. We won’t have any official support for our petition by the time we have to lodge it.”

  “And when’s that?”

  “I would advise against waiting longer than next Tuesday.”

  “That soon?”

  “We can’t risk Crowley calling in his notes, and I’d wager my bays he’ll do it late next week.” Gabriel glanced at Alathea, then continued, “The petition’s all but ready. Wiggs’s clerk should have finished it—as far as we’ve gone—by tomorrow. Wiggs will bring it to me. If we have no more to add, with your permission, I’ll ask my solicitor to make an appointment for Tuesday morning with one of the judges of the Chancery Court to submit our case. We don’t dare wait longer—fighting a rearguard action once the promissory note is executed and the call on funds made will leave us in a considerably worse position legally.”

  Alathea grimaced. “If that’s how it must be . . .”

  “I’ll alert Devil, and Vane, too. He’ll bring Gerrard up to town when he’s needed.” His gaze on her face, her profile, Gabriel opened his mouth on the words: “Thea, it’s a big risk,” but left them unsaid. If he had considered all the dangers and alternatives, she would have, too. There was no danger to her—he would marry her in an instant, and rescue both her and her family from penury—she knew that without his stating it. But what of Morwellan Park, and the title, the long unbroken line of Morwellans stretching back through time? What of her family’s pride? That was what she’d set out from the first to protect, and it wasn’t something that could be rescued other than by risking all.

  Her motives needed no explaining to a Cynster. All he could do was stand by her shoulder and do whatever he could to bring about her victory.

  And, perhaps, provide a distraction. “Actually, the reason I came looking for you wasn’t to tell you all that. I’ve tickets for Friday’s performance of The Barber of Seville. I thought you and your family might like to attend.”

  Alathea stared at him. “Friday night’s the last night—it’s to be a gala performance.”

  “So I understand.” The production had taken the ton by storm. The management had decreed the final performance would be a gala event, to thank both cast and patrons.

  “But . . . the gala was sold out within hours of the announcement last week. How on earth did you manage to get tickets for us all?”

  “Never mind how I got the damned tickets! Will you come?”

  “Speaking for myself, of course I’ll come! As for the others, you can ask them yourself.” Alathea waved ahead to where the group were gathered about the Morwellan barouche.

  Gabriel was glad to see that his sisters had already said their good-byes and were heading for his mother’s landau, drawn in to the verge a little way along. Celia saw him and waved but did not beckon him to attend her. Nor did she evince any surprise at seeing him again strolling with Alathea. Those facts declared that Celia, at least, understood his intention and approved; Gabriel knew he could rely on her for support should the need arise.

  Joining the others before the Morwellan carriage, he smoothly issued his invitation, specifically including both Esher and Carstairs. Alathea looked at him curiously but said nothing. She didn’t have to—everyone was eager to attend the gala performance of The Barber of Seville.

  When she arrived with the others at the Opera House on Friday night, Alathea discovered Gabriel had not just secured tickets, but one of the two most sought-after private boxes overlooking the stage. He met them in the foyer, then with her on one arm and Serena on the other, led the way up the stairs and down the plushly carpeted first floor corridor to the gilded door giving onto the box overhanging the left of the stage.

  Eyes swivelled as they took their seats, the tonnish occupants of the less-favored boxes craning to see who had commanded prime place on this, the most celebrated evening of the season. Whispers abounded as, head high, her expression serene, Alathea regally sat in one of the chairs at the front of the box. Serena sat beside her, turning to murmur her thanks to Gabriel as he settled in the chair behind and to the side of Alathea’s.

  Alathea would gladly have boxed his ears, but not in public. As it was, all she could do was smile and return the gracious nods of the ton’s matrons. Mary and Alice, wide-eyed, took the other front-row seats beyond Serena. Esher and Carstairs sat behind them. His lordship leaned forward and engaged Serena in some discussion. Alathea turned to Gabriel, intending to inform him she would box his ears later, only to find him leaning closer, a frown in his eyes.

  “My apologies. I didn’t realize we’d attract this much attention.”

  Alathea grimaced, absolving him of intent. She refrained from acidly informing him that this was the degree of attention he, a Cynster, should expect in declaring his hand. “I take it,” she whispered, glancing briefly at Serena to make sure she was occupied, “that you haven’t heard anything of the captain.”

  “No.” His gaze lifted to her forehead. The frown in his eyes intensified. “Stop worrying. One way or another, we’ll see this through.”

  Willing away all external evidence of her state, Alathea sighed. “I’ve done all I can to be beforehand, just in case . . .” She gestured helplessly. “I’ve paid all the accounts from the ball—the caterers, the milliners, the modistes—even the musicians. They all thought I’d run mad, demanding they submit their accounts immediately.”

  “I dare say. If you’ve paid them all outright, the Morwellans will be the only family in the ton to finish the Season with a clear slate.”

  “I thought it would be better—more ethical, in a way. I’d rather our honest creditors were paid before Crowley and his schemes lay claim to all we have.”

  Gabriel’s fingers closed on her hand. She only just had time to brace herself against the sensation of his lips caressing the backs of her fingers.

  “Relax. Forget the Central East Africa Gold Company. Forget Crowley, at least for tonight.” With a nod, he indicated the stage; the curtain was rising to building applause. “I’ve brought you here tonight, and the only thanks I want is for you to enjoy yourself. So stop worrying, and do.”

  Turning her hand, he brushed her inner wrist with his lips, then released her. Alathea faced the stage as the house lamps were doused, and did as he asked.

  It wasn’t difficult—the production was a tour de force, the singers superb, the sets and orchestra unsurpassed. She had fallen in love with musical performances in those few short weeks when she’d first come to London. She’d felt starved ever since; the efforts of provincial theatres could not compare with the extravagantly superior London events.

  Because of the additional scenes and special arias to be presented as part of the gala, there was to be only one interva
l, occurring after the second act. When the curtain swished down and the lamps flared to life, Alathea sighed contentedly and glanced back at Gabriel.

  He raised a brow, then stirred his long frame. “Time to stretch our legs.”

  Alathea allowed him to draw her to her feet. She turned to Serena.

  Her stepmother flicked open her fan and waved it before her face. “I’m going to rest here—you may all stroll the corridors, but do be back in good time for the next act.” She smiled on them all, Esher with Mary on his arm and Carstairs beside Alice. Gabriel waved the others on ahead, then he and Alathea stepped from the box into a sea of parading humanity. There was nothing they could do but parade along with everyone else.

  “Forget about watching the others,” Gabriel advised. “But tell me, have they spoken yet?”

  “Both have asked leave to call on Papa next Wednesday.” Alathea smiled. “I understand they’re very seriously preparing a joint presentation to win his consent. No one’s had the heart to tell them there’s no need. They’re both dears, each in their own way.”

  “Just leave them to it. Marriage is, after all, a serious business, not something a gentleman should embark on without due consideration.”

  “Indeed? Then might I suggest—”

  “No. You may not. Twenty-nine years of knowing you is consideration enough.”

  A footman in full Beefeater costume appeared before them, flourishing a tray of glasses; they each took one and sipped. Countess Lieven hailed them through the crush; by the time they gained her side and suffered through her observations, the bell summoning the audience back to their seats was pealing.

  Ten minutes later, they regained their box and sank into their seats as the curtain rose. An expectant hush fell over the audience. Gabriel angled his chair so he could see Alathea’s face, illuminated by the light from the stage. Then he settled to watch—not the performance but the expressions animating her features, the signs of joy, of sorrow, of delight evoked by the unfolding story. The performers held the ton in thrall, but for him there was only Alathea.

  The second half of the program exceeded the expectations raised by the first; at the end the audience was on their feet, applauding wildly, flowers raining down as the soloists took their bows. Finally, it was over, and the curtain fell for the last time. Gabriel watched as Alathea heaved a deep sigh and turned to him, a smile in her eyes, her lips curved, all worries temporarily banished.

  Reward enough.

  The others were exclaiming, discussing various highlights. Tilting her head, Alathea studied him. Her smile deepened. “You needn’t pretend you paid attention.”

  “One of the numerous benefits of knowing each other so well—there’s no need to prevaricate.”

  She searched his face. “Why did you do this—go to all this trouble, indulge in what I’m sure will prove a shockingly hideous expense?”

  He returned her gaze steadily. “You like music.”

  It was that simple—he let her read the truth in his eyes. Then she shivered. He reached for the shawl she’d left over her chair and held it up. She hesitated, then turned so he could drape it over her shoulders. Releasing the fine silk, he closed his hands about her shoulders; leaning closer, he murmured, “As with other pleasures, my reward is your delight.”

  The glance she threw him was arrested, her expression not one he could place. But he had no chance to probe in the short time it took to escort her down the private stairway to where their carriages waited.

  As he handed her up to the same black carriage he’d handed the countess into weeks before, she squeezed his hand. Then she ducked and entered the carriage. He shut the door and stepped back as Folwell flicked the reins.

  Alathea sank back in the carriage, frowning now the shadows gave her freedom to do so. Beside her, Alice chatted animatedly with Tony Carstairs, seated opposite. She left them to their dissection of the performance; there was another performance with which she was far more concerned.

  A performance she was starting to think might not be an act at all.

  If there was any possibility that that was so . . .

  It was time to face her fear and the emotion that gave it birth. Both were new to her. She’d pandered to the former, while pretending the latter didn’t exist. She couldn’t do so any longer.

  She remained absorbed through the drive back to Mount Street, absentmindedly responding as, together with Serena and her stepsisters, she bade farewell to Esher and Carstairs in the front hall. She climbed the stairs, murmured her good nights, then surrendered to Nellie’s ministrations, all the while analyzing each of their encounters, trying to see past his warrior’s shield. Finally alone, she hitched a shawl over her nightgown and curled up on the padded seat before her window.

  Morwellan House was over fifty years old, built on the foundations of a much older residence. Morwellans had owned the site for centuries. How much longer they would continue here was in the lap of the gods. Her own life, however, was in her hands. She stared at the old trees at the bottom of the back lawn, then heaved a deep sigh, crossed her arms on the stone window ledge, and settled her chin on her wrists.

  When had she fallen in love with him? Had it been when she was eleven? Had he sensed it—was that what had first made him edgy when near her? Or had it been later? Had love bloomed unknown to her sometime in her teens? Or had a girlish fancy slowly developed into something more?

  Unanswerable questions now. All she knew was that sometime, it had happened. It didn’t, in truth, feel like something new so much as something newly discovered, a vulnerability she hadn’t known she possessed until fate and circumstance had revealed it. That was bad enough, but there was more she’d yet to face. She loved him, but her love had not yet fully blossomed. It was still a bud, newly burgeoning after an extended winter; it had yet to open. She’d yet to experience the full expression of her love, the total spectrum of her need. But she could feel the force, the power swelling within the bud; if freed, it would sweep her will before it—it would become the dominant force in her life.

  That fact only added to her fear.

  The two threads of her worry—her family and her love—were headed for simultaneous resolution. Regardless of what transpired in the Chancery Court, he, she knew, would be there, ready to whisk her to safety be the outcome victory or defeat. If it be victory, he’d push for her surrender; if defeat, he’d wait for no permissions but simply claim her as his. From his point of view, all was straightforward; from hers, it was anything but.

  Her fear she at least understood now that she’d acknowledged the strange notion of loving him. One benefit of being twenty-nine was that she knew herself well. Loving him as she knew she would if she allowed her love free rein would leave her wholly committed, totally enmeshed in their relationship. She wasn’t capable of doing anything by halves—when she gave, she gave completely. If she gave her heart, it would be his, all his, forever. She hadn’t done it yet, hadn’t surrendered her love and her life into his keeping. If she agreed to be his wife, she would do precisely that.

  But what would happen if he didn’t love her?

  The pain she feared flowed from that. She’d faced disappointment, misery and loneliness, the threat of servitude, of destitution, of seeing her loved ones in rags. She’d found strength when she’d needed it, yet she knew in her heart that the pain of his kindness would slay her.

  For he would be kind, considerate, always gentle. Yet if he didn’t love her in the same way she loved him, her love was of the sort that would destroy her from within. She couldn’t contain it, simply hold it inside if there was no one to give it to, to lavish it upon. She’d waited too long for the bud to bloom—it would now bloom in glory, or wither and die. There was no other way. And if it died, so would she, in all ways that mattered.

  Better the swelling bud froze again, and never bloomed.

  She’d been certain he didn’t love her. Not for a minute had she believed fate would be so amenable as to arrange for him
to fall madly in love with her. Life had never been so kind. He cared for her, yes, just as he always had, in that guarded, rational way of his, where every emotion was nicely logical.

  She was annoyed with him for that. How dare he be so logical when she felt so emotional? Yet that difference had seemed to confirm that love as she was coming to know it was not what he felt for her. He was presently in lust with her, he wanted to care for her, to protect her, to marry her, but he didn’t love her. She’d held firm against his proposal, utterly certain she’d read him aright.

  Until tonight.

  It hadn’t been the extravagance of the box, or even the fact that he didn’t, as she well knew, appreciate music. The moment when her certainty had been rocked to its foundations was when he’d whispered, “As with other pleasures, my reward is your delight.”

  It was his tone that had struck her, so accustomed as she was to every nuance, every inflection he used. He’d uttered those words as if it was his soul speaking, not just his mind. The words had resonated within her, as if in that moment, heart spoke to heart.

  Had she been wrong? Did he love her? Could he love her?

  The question was: How to tell?

  Raising her head, she looked up at the stars, at the moon slowly waning in the west. Asking outright was out of the question. If she wasn’t prepared to confess her love for him out aloud, in words, then she could hardly expect him to do so. She felt far too vulnerable to make such a confession; she credited him with sensibility enough to feel much the same way. As for expecting him to go down on his knees and declare his heart . . .

  Lips curving, she uncurled her legs and rose. Sobering, she walked to her bed. She slipped between the sheets, no clever plan of how to prompt his confidence revolving in her head, yet on that she was determined. If there was any chance that fate had at last smiled and sent love to touch them both, she could not live without knowing.

  The next morning dawned leaden, the skies gray, the light gray, all of a piece with her mood. Toying with her toast, conscious of the subdued nature of the conversations around the breakfast table, Alathea struggled to shrug off a deadening sense of aftermath. The triumph of their ball had been eclipsed by persistent worry over the looming prospect of their incomplete case failing to convince the Chancery Court to declare the Central East Africa Gold Company a fraud. The special magic of her night at the opera, with its seductive suggestion that perhaps, possibly, Gabriel, too, might be concealing the true nature of his feelings, had dispersed in the cold light of morning.