A Secret Love (11 page)

He looked sharply at her. “Do you know him?”

She shook her head. “Could Lord Douglas be the chairman of the company?”

Her question effectively answered his. “Unlikely—Archie Douglas cares for nothing beyond wine, women, and cards. Spending money is his forte, not making it. However . . .” He paused, considering how much to reveal. Looking at her veiled face, upturned to his, he inwardly admitted that it was her investigation as much, if not more, than his. “If Swales is the company agent and he's using Archie's home as his base, then there's a very good chance—better than even money—that a good friend of Archie's, who also happens to be in residence at this time, is the real power behind the Central East Africa Gold Company.”

“And who is this friend?”

“Mr. Ranald Crowley.” The name hung heavy on the air, laden with dislike.

“You know him.” It wasn't a question.

“We've never met. We have, however, crossed swords, financially speaking, and I know a great deal of his reputation.”

“Which is?”

“Not good. He's a black-hearted scoundrel. He's been thought to have been involved in a number of less-than-straightforward dealings, but whenever the authorities show any interest, the venture simply evaporates. There's never been any proof against him, but in the . . . shall we say, underworld of business, he's well known.” He hesitated, then added, “And well feared. He's said to be cunning and dangerous—few doubt he would balk at murder if the gain was sufficient.”

She shivered and wrapped her arms about her. “So he's a
clever,
black-hearted scoundrel.” A moment later, she said, “I overheard that Lord Hertford declined to invest in the company purely because of ‘the man in charge.' ”

Focused on her, Gabriel waved dismissively. “Don't worry about Crowley—I'll look into the situation.”

He reached for her—she was in his arms before she knew it. Amazed to find her hands resting on his chest, she looked up. “What—?”

He heard the fluster in her voice, sensed the anticipation that flashed through her. Inwardly, he grinned. “My reward for locating Swales.”

She hauled in a rushed breath. “I never said anything about rewards.”

“I know.” Tightening his arm about her, he brushed her veil aside and lowered his lips to hers, touching them lingeringly once, twice . . . she quivered, then surrendered. He caught his breath as her supple, womanly warmth sank against his much harder frame—a tentative, evocative caress. His lips a mere whisker from hers, he murmured, “You'll need to pay nevertheless.”

She made no effort to deny him—he claimed his due, his lips firming, then hardening on hers. She met him, not proactive but ready to follow his lead, her reactions a mirror reflecting his desire, her giving a reflection of his need. Inch by unconscious inch, her hands stole upward, eventually sliding over his shoulders. She angled her head, inviting him to deepen the kiss.

He did. She sank into his embrace and he tightened his arms, and his hold, on her. Her perfume sank into his brain.

All he asked for, she gave, not just willingly but with an openhearted generosity that was an invitation to plunder. So he plundered, but with no sense of seizing anything that wasn't freely given. If he wanted, she gave—readily, easily, as if she delighted in the giving. Which only made him want more.

He pushed her veil back; with her head tipped up, there was no need to hold it. Sliding his hand down, he found the opening of her cloak. With her arms over his shoulders, he couldn't flick the cloak up and over hers. Instead, he parted it, sliding his palm over the silk of her gown, around to the back of her waist. Supporting her there, he transferred his other hand beneath the heavy cloak; closing both hands about her hips, he drew her nearer.

She obliged without a murmur of dissent—she was so tall, they were nearly hip to hip, her thighs against his, the hollow at their apex a cradle for his erection. If she was aware of it, she gave no sign, not that he gave her time to think. His lips remained on hers, commanding her senses while his sought wilder pleasures.

When he closed his hand about her breast, he wondered if he'd gone too far—the shock that lanced through her was very real. He instinctively soothed, distracting her with his lips, his tongue, with increasingly explicit kisses, but he didn't remove his hand. Moments later, she drew in a shaky breath. Beneath his hand, her breast swelled; against his palm, he felt the furling of her nipple. Only then did he caress the soft flesh, feeling it heat and firm. She was wearing nothing more than two layers of fine silk; the temptation to do away with them, to lower his head and set his mouth to her sweet flesh, grew with every second, with every shared breath.

He let the compulsion grow, caressing, teasing, taunting, kneading, stroking until he knew her breasts were aching, longing for more. Only then did he slip the tiny buttons closing her bodice free. Sliding his fingers across her silken shoulder, he searched, and found the ribbons of her chemise.

She knew what he was doing. Her awareness, focused, heightened, followed his fingers; the fine tension investing the supple muscles along her spine tightened—then locked as he tugged. The tiny bow unraveled; the ribbons slid free. He paused, deliberately easing back from their kiss, giving her a chance to stop him if she would. He knew very well she wouldn't. He searched, found, and tugged again. Her breath shivered against his lips. Smoothly, he drew her chemise down, deliberately dragging the silk over her sensitized flesh.

Then, deliberately, he pressed aside the heavier silk of her bodice and closed his hand, skin to petal-soft skin, about her breast.

Her breathing fractured. His fingers firmed and she gasped.

He took her lips again, too hungry, too needy, even while his senses feasted. She'd never been touched, not as he was touching her, caressing her until she whimpered and clung. Her flesh was warm, her nipples tight buds as she gave herself up to his touch. She was a sensual innocent, as generous with her body as she had been with her lips, every bit as instinctively giving. The hot mounds of her breasts were a sensual delight far too tempting to ignore.

She murmured incoherently when he drew his lips from hers, nudging her head back so he could trace the line of her throat, remembering just in time not to mark her. The sweet flesh filling his hand beckoned; he lowered his head and heard her stifled cry.

It was a warning, one he was too experienced not to heed. He was driving too fast, pushing her relentlessly along a path she'd never trod. So he slowed, introducing her to each sensation, letting her assimilate the glory of each before moving on to the next. Only when she was fully prepared did he draw one aching peak into his mouth. Her fingers sank into his shoulders; she arched in his arms, but not to pull away. She was hot and malleable under his hands, the very essence of sensual woman in the night.

She was fascinating, a houri, a woman of endless temptation—he basked in her warmth, feasted on her bounty, secure in the knowledge that she would eventually be his. Not tonight, but soon. Very soon.

When, at last, he lifted his head, she pressed herself to him, her body afire, helpless in her need. He took the lips she offered, glorying in her eagerness. He sent his hands roaming over her hips, over the smooth swells of her derriere, tracing the hemispheres, then artfully caressing until she shifted her hips sensuously against his, searching instinctively for ease.

He gave her none—not tonight. She might be wondrously responsive, gloriously giving, but tonight would be too far, too fast. She was sensually naive, definitely untutored, even if she could not be precisely innocent. Having known only a much older husband who had clearly failed to appreciate her, that was obviously the case. She was following his lead blind; he knew it. He, however, knew precisely what they were about, knew very well how the timing went, how the play should pan out. And even though he'd restructured the script and advanced her lessons to the point where her ultimate surrender was imminent, that time was not yet.

Thus spake the coldly calculating mind of a highly experienced rake. His body, unfortunately, was far from cold and didn't want to listen; most of his mind was similarly enthralled with the wonder in his arms.

It took iron will and every ounce of his determination even to think of letting her go, to accept that this interlude filled with burgeoning sensuality and such gloriously heady promise had to come to a close. An unfulfilled close. Even when his mind was finally won over, convincing his lips, tongue, arms and hands to comply was a battle.

He finally succeeded in lifting his head. Drawing in a huge breath, feeling her breasts hot and firm against his expanding chest, he stole just one more minute to revel in the feel of her against him, in the trusting way she leaned into him, the soft huff of her breath against his jaw, the heady temptation of her perfume. And her.

She sighed—a shivery exhalation laden with arousal, her breath caressed his check.

His arms, about to relax, tightened instead; he turned his head, his lips seeking hers, his script forgotten—

She stopped him with a hand on his cheek. “Enough.”

For an instant, he teetered on the brink, her injunction at odds with the way she lay, supple and enticing in his arms.

As if she sensed the clash of will and desire, she repeated, “You've had reward enough.”

He caught her hand, held it—unsure even in his own mind what he would do next. Then he drew breath, turned her hand, and placed a kiss in her palm. “For now.”

He straightened, setting her on her feet, supporting her until she was steady.

Her first movement was to raise her hand and—weakly—flip down her veil. He could now see her outline clearly; transparently dazed, she looked down at her gaping bodice. He reached for her. “Here—let me.”

She did. He drew her chemise up, tied the ribbons loosely, then closed her bodice. Her nervousness grew. The instant the last button was secured, she resettled her cloak, then glanced around. “Ah . . .” She was clearly having trouble reassembling her wits. Drawing in another breath, she waved—weakly still—to the house. “You go back first.”

Despite having found her here, he wasn't about to leave her here, alone in the dark. “I'll walk you to the edge of the shrubbery, then I'll go on ahead.”

For one instant, he thought she'd argue, but then she nodded. “Very well.”

He offered his arm and she took it; pacing slowly, he led her out of the gazebo.

She said nothing as they strolled the winding walks, leaving him to reflect on how at ease in her company he felt, and how, despite the sensual flickering of her nerves, she was confident enough, reassured enough, not to invoke conversation's protective screen. Now he thought of it, she'd yet to make an aimless remark. Meaningless patter was not the countess's style.

They reached the last hedge and she stopped. He scanned her veiled face, then inclined his head. “Until next time.”

Turning, he strode across the lawn.

Her pulse still galloping, her head still whirling, Alathea watched her broad-shouldered knight cross to the house, saw him silhouetted by its blazing windows. He went up the terrace steps and in through the open doors without once looking back.

Shrinking back into the darkness, she waited for long minutes while her fevered skin cooled, while her heartbeat steadied, while the exhilaration that had gripped her—the daring, the compulsion, and that frighteningly wild and wanton desire—waned. She tried to think but couldn't. Finally, hugging the shadows, she made her way around to the carriage drive.

Folwell was waiting; she handed him her cloak and veil, and changed her shoes. He slipped away, taking her disguise back to the carriage. Once more herself—at least in appearance—she reentered the house by a side door, then made her way to the withdrawing room.

Luckily, the event wasn't a major ball; the withdrawing room was quiet. Sitting before a table provided with a mirror, she ordered warm water and towel and set about bathing her wrists, temples, and throat, removing all trace of the countess's exotic scent. Then she asked for cold water, dipped in a corner of the towel, and when no other lady was looking, held the cold compress to her swollen lips.

She didn't dare peek, but she was sure he must have marked her. Scalded her, or so it had felt. Thank God nothing showed above her neckline. Just the thought of his mouth on her breasts sent heat rushing to them. She could feel his hands caressing her—she wished they still were.

In the mirror, she met her own eyes. She looked deep for long minutes, then grimaced. Looking down, she dipped the towel into the cold water; after a surreptitious glance around, she reapplied it to her still rosy lips.

She wasn't in the habit of deceiving herself—there was no point pretending that she hadn't known he would claim a reward if he'd uncovered any new facts, and that the likelihood of his having done so had been high. She'd gone to the gazebo knowing her protests would very likely prove too weak to stop him claiming all he wished.

She'd been right about that, but it was too late for regrets. In truth, she wasn't sure she harbored any.

That, however, did not alter the fact that she was now in deep trouble.

He thought they were playing a game—one at which he was an acknowledged expert but which she had never played before. She knew some of the rules, but not all of them; she knew some of the moves, but not enough of them. She'd initiated the charade, but now he'd taken control and was rescripting her role to suit his own needs.

To suit his own desires.

She tried to summon a suitable degree of annoyance; the thought that he desired her wouldn't let annoyance form. The very concept intrigued her, lured her. No serpent had ever been so persuasive; no apple so tempting.

No knight so invincibly demanding.