A Secret Love (29 page)

He'd been looking over the sea of heads; now he steered her toward one side of the room. She forced her feet to move. She could not cause a scene, not here. In his present mood he was capable of anything, even picking her up, tossing her over his shoulder, and stalking off with her. His temper once aroused was a force to contend with; challenging it now would be foolhardy. As they moved toward one wall, she struggled to marshal her wits, her arguments, her denials, bracing herself for what was to come.

She didn't see the door until they stood before it; he opened it and marched her into an unlit and thankfully uninhabited gallery. He didn't stop until they were at the end where a long window, curtains wide, poured moonlight into the narrow room.

Placing her directly in the silver beam, he swung to face her.

His gaze raked her face, devoured her features as if he'd never seen them before. His face was chiseled, harder than stone, every edge sharp. Lips compressed, his jaw set, his heavy lids too low for her to see his eyes, he studied her. His gaze lingered on her jaw, then he lifted his lids and looked into her eyes. For a long moment, he held her gaze, hazel to hazel. Tense beyond bearing, her nerves stretched tight, she wondered what he could see.

“It was you.”

Although laced with wonder, his tone brooked no argument. She raised her brows. “What on earth are you on about?”

His brows rose but his expression didn't waver. “Denial? Surely you can do better than that?”

“I dare say if I knew what misbegotten notion you've taken into your fevered brain I could more specifically address it, but as I don't, denial seems the safest option.” She looked away, too afraid that if she continued to meet his eyes she would see his knowledge of her—his physical knowledge of her—blazoned in the hazel. Then she'd remember, too, and vulnerability would sweep her—and he'd pounce.

The touch of long fingers curving about her face nearly brought her to her knees. His grip firmed; deliberately, he turned her head until her eyes met his again.

“Oh, you
know
—there's no point denying it.” His words were clipped; fury raged beneath them. He hesitated, then added, “Your perfume gave you away.”

Her perfume?

The tweeny. Tidying. Emptying her jewelry box onto the table. Then putting everything back in. Two identical flacons, one in, one out.

Her expression had blanked; her lips started to form an “Oh.” Alathea caught herself and glared. “What about my perfume?”

He smiled, not with amusement. “Too late.”

“Nonsense!” She lifted her chin from his fingers. “It's simply a particular blend—I dare say many ladies use it.”

“Perhaps, but none so tall. So . . . accomplished.”

When she merely raised a weary brow, he supplied, “So capable of picking locks.”

Alathea frowned. “Am I to understand that you're searching for some woman—a tall woman—who wears the same perfume as I and can pick locks?”

“No—you're to understand that I've found her.”

His ringing certainty had her looking up—he trapped her gaze. His eyes narrowed, then his gaze dropped to her lips. Insidious, mesmeric attraction flared between them . . .

He stepped closer. Alathea's breath caught in her throat. Eyes widening, her gaze fixed on his hard face, she quivered—

The door from the ballroom opened; other guests ambled in.

Gabriel glanced around.

Alathea sucked in a breath. “You're completely and absolutely mistaken.”

His head snapped back, but she'd already stepped around him. She swept past the other guests with a regal nod. Head high, in a glide just short of a run, she escaped back into the ballroom.

A
waltz was just starting. Alathea's mad dash nearly sent her into the dancers. She teetered on the edge of the dance floor—

A hard arm collected her, sliding about her waist, swinging her forward, then expertly steadying her. She swallowed a shriek, then fought to catch her breath—and her balance, and her scattered wits, only to lose all three as Gabriel locked his arm around her, trapping her from breast to thigh against him. One hand held fast, he whirled her down the room.

Her body instantly came alive. Her breasts swelled. She fought to hold herself stiffly, but her body molded to his, thighs brushing evocatively at every turn. Their hips swayed together; memories churned.

Within seconds, she'd softened. She refused to meet his eyes, too busy struggling to master her whirling wits, to gather her resolution, to find some way forward. Her composure was all she had left; desperately, she clung to it.

He was holding her very close. As her head continued to whirl, as her body continued to heat with every revolution, she fixed her gaze over his shoulder, and hissed, “You're holding me too close.”

Gabriel looked at her face, so achingly familiar yet . . . had he ever truly seen it before? His temper was up and running, his emotions rioting; he had no idea what he thought or felt. He could barely believe the truth in his arms. His hold on his impulses was tenuous as he let his gaze roam the long slender lines of her throat, the creamy expanse of skin above her neckline, over the rounded swells, now firm, hot and tight, pressed against his chest. “I've held you closer, if you recall.”

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.