A Secret Love (9 page)

He sighed resignedly. “Very well.” Before she could think of some pretext on which to refuse the kiss altogether, he framed her face with one hand, his thumb under the edge of her veil, lifting it from her lips as he covered them with his.

Her lips had parted on a startled exclamation—as he caught them, she stilled. She didn't freeze, didn't panic—she simply sat, warm and alive, and let him fashion his lips to hers. He tilted her chin slightly; her face moved easily—she wasn't stiff. But there was no response as he pressed the caress upon her.

He wasn't having that, but he knew when to be patient. He kissed her lightly, gently shifting his lips on hers, artfully dallying, waiting . . .

Her first surrender was a shiver—piercingly sweet, a ripple of pure sensation. He sensed the hitch in her breathing, the increasing tension in her spine.

Then her lips moved, firming under his, still not giving, but alive. It was as if she was a statue coming to life, cool marble slowly heating, stone carapace melting, giving way to flesh, blood, and life.

He held her face steady and increased the pressure of the kiss. Acutely focused on her, he knew when she lifted one gloved hand from her lap, raising it to where his hand cupped her face. Her fingers hovered, an inch from his hand, then, very gently, almost as if she wasn't sure he—his hand—was real, she touched her fingertips to the backs of his.

The hesitant touch rocked him—it held a wondering innocence that captivated and held him.

Her leather-encased fingertips trailed, tracing the back of his hand; they hesitated for one quivering instant, then settled.

Like a butterfly on the back of his hand.

Her fingers didn't grip, didn't tug—they simply touched. He drew breath—drew her perfume deep—and deepened the caress. Asking—for once in his life, not demanding.

And she gave. Of her own accord, she tipped her face further, swaying toward him as she offered her lips.

He swooped like a conqueror and took, claimed—but immediately reined back when he sensed her sudden skitter. She was unused to being kissed. Strange as that seemed, he knew it for fact—he didn't ponder the cause but set himself to ease her, tease her, encourage her.

She was a quick study—soon she was kissing him back, gently but without reserve. He longed to draw her into his arms, but experience warned against it. Her nervousness was now explained—for whatever reason, she wasn't used to this. His lips on hers, his hand about her face, seemed, at this moment, all she could assimilate, so he set himself to work with that.

Set himself to cajole and tease, to lead her to yield more, to seek more. When she hesitantly parted her lips, he felt he'd won a siege, but he was careful, this time, of taking advantage too quickly—which meant he savored every sweet moment of her surrender, the whole extended like a necklace of precious, individual gems of sensation.

When she tentatively touched his tongue with hers, then slowly, sinuously, caressed him in return, his head very nearly spun.

She was like fine wine—best savored slowly.

He finally drew back as the carriage rumbled around a corner. Chest swelling, he studied her lips, briefly illuminated by a street flare. They were full, deeply rosy, slightly swollen. “Now, for learning Swales's address . . .”

Her lips parted—whether in protest or invitation he didn't wait to learn. He covered them again; they molded easily, this time, to his, and parted fully the instant he touched them with his tongue.

Brook Street couldn't be much farther. The thought spurred him to drink more deeply, to take all she offered—then seek, search, and tempt her further.

She gave—not so much easily as willingly, taking hesitant steps along a path he instinctively knew she'd never trod. She'd never before been passionately kissed, never been awakened in this way. He had to wonder about her late husband, and whether she'd been awakened at all.

He held her steady, urging her on, his lips ruthless, just this side of hard. He would have taken her further, much further, but tonight they'd run out of time.

The carriage slowed, then rocked to a halt.

Reluctantly, he released her lips. For one instant, as their breaths mingled, he was tempted . . . then he drew away his hand and let her veil fall. She would reveal herself to him of her own accord. That was one moment he intended to fully savor.

He straightened. She sank against the seat. She tried to speak and almost choked; clearing her throat, she tried again. “Mr. Cynster . . .”

“My name is Gabriel.”

Despite her veil, their gazes locked. She stared at him, her breasts rising and falling beneath her cloak. “I thought you had to consider our next move.”

His gaze didn't waver. “Believe me, I am.”

He waited; when she made no reply but continued to stare at him, he inclined his head. “Until our next meeting.” He reached for the door. “Incidentally, when will that be?”

After a moment, she managed, “I'll contact you in a day or two.”

She was still breathless; he hid a triumphant smile. “Very well.” Deliberately, he let his gaze harden, pinning her where she sat. “But you will remember what I said. Leave Swales to me.”

Although it was no question, he waited. Eventually, she nodded—one of her usual crisp nods. “Yes. All right.”

Satisfied, he opened the door and stepped down to the pavement. Shutting the door, he signaled to the coachman. The reins flicked; the coach rumbled on.

He watched it roll away, then turned and climbed his steps, a great deal more than merely satisfied with the achievements of the night.

S
he'd never felt so
breathless
in her life.

One elbow propped on the dining table, Alathea toyed with her toast and struggled to bring some order to the chaos of her mind. Not a simple task with her senses still reeling.

How naive she'd been to ignore the portent of that first, oh-so-innocent kiss. Sealing a pact, indeed! It hadn't occurred to her that, with no prickly reaction to stop him, he would most assuredly kiss her again. So now here she was, in a totally unexpected, never-before-experienced fluster. Just the thought of last night's kiss—
series
of kisses—was enough to addle her brain. One conclusion, however, was horrifyingly clear. Her errant knight believed she was a married woman—an
experienced
married woman—one with whom he could freely dally. But she wasn't. Thus far, he hadn't suspected that fact, but how far could she travel his road of rewards without giving herself away?

Without
having
to give herself away?

All that was bad enough, but to top it all, he'd filched the reins from her grasp. God alone knew where her carefully laid plans were now headed.

She should have foreseen his move to take control; he'd always been the leader in their childhood games. But they were no longer children, and for the last ten years she'd been accustomed to command; being summarily relegated to the rank of follower was a little hard to take.

About her, the rest of her family talked, ate, laughed; sunk in her thoughts, she barely heard them. Picking up her toast, she crunched, and decided she'd have to allow at least the appearance of him being in charge. His Cynster self would settle for nothing less; it was pointless beating her head against that wall. That didn't mean she had to meekly let him make all the decisions, only let him think he was. Which led to the question of how she could ensure that he didn't forge on and simply leave her in ignorance.

She would have to meet with him regularly, a prospect that made her edgy. Organizing their next meeting was logically her next step, but she'd yet to recover from their last. She'd counted on his deep vein of chivalry in enticing him to her aid—not in her wildest dreams had she imagined he'd extrapolate so fiendishly as to claim a reward.

Even that word was now forever altered in her mind. Now it instantly evoked something illicit. Something exciting, thrilling, tempting—

Seductive.

Her thoughts whirled; her lungs seized. Simply recalling that moment in the carriage when, with typical highhandedness, he'd set his lips to hers still made her dizzy. Remembering what had followed sent color rushing to her cheeks.

Instantly, she banished the mental visions, and the remembered sensations as well. If anything, the latter were worse. Lifting her teacup, she sipped and prayed no one had noticed her blush. She hadn't blushed in the last five years, possibly not in the last ten. If she suddenly started coloring up over nothing, questions would be asked—speculation would be born. Quite the last thing she needed.

Ruthlessly burying all memories of the drive to his house, she told herself she had no reason to berate herself; she couldn't have avoided it—any of it—without raising his suspicions. There was no point considering it further, beyond sending heartfelt thanks to her guardian angel—she'd very nearly blurted out his name when he'd released her. “Rupert” had hovered on the tip of her tongue; she'd only just managed to swallow the word. Uttering it would have spelled an immediate end to her charade; she was the only female younger than his mother who persisted in calling him by his given name. He'd told her so himself.

Why she was so stubborn about it she didn't know—it was like clinging to a simpler time long gone. She'd always thought of him as Rupert.

My name is Gabriel.

His words rang in her mind. Gazing at the windows, she pondered; he was right—he was Gabriel now, not Rupert. Gabriel contained the boy, the youth, the man she'd known as Rupert, but also encompassed more. A greater depth, a greater spectrum of experience—a deeper reserve.

After a moment, she mentally shook herself and finished her tea. As the countess, she would have to remember to call him Gabriel, while Alathea still dubbed him Rupert.

And she would have to find a way to limit the rewards Gabriel would, without doubt, attempt to claim.

“I think we should call on Lady Hertford this morning.” Checking the day's invitations, Serena looked consideringly at Mary and Alice. “She's giving an at-home, and I
think
, if you wear those gowns that were delivered yesterday, it would be a useful venue at which to be seen.”

“Oh, yes!” Mary exclaimed. “Do let's start going about.”

“Will there be other young ladies there?” Alice asked.

“Naturally.” Serena turned to Alathea. “And you must come, too, my dear, or else I'll have to spend all my time explaining your absence.”

That was said with a sweet but determined smile; Alathea smiled back. “Of course, I'll come, if nothing else to lend support.”

Mary and Alice brightened even more. Amid serious discussion of ribbons, bonnets and reticules, they all retired upstairs to prepare for the projected excursion.

It was, indeed, very like a military sortie. An hour later, standing at the side of Lady Hertford's drawing room, Alathea hid a grin. Serena had led the metaphorical charge into her ladyship's arena, positioning her troops with keen eye and shrewd judgment. Mary and Alice were engaged with a group of similarly young and inexperienced damsels, chattering animatedly, all initial shyness forgotten. Serena was sitting with Lady Chelmsford and the Duchess of Lewes, both of whom also had under their wings young ladies making their come-outs. Alathea would have wagered a tidy sum that the talk had already veered to which gentlemen might be expected to unearth handkerchiefs to drop this Season.

For herself, she stood quietly at the side of the room, although she knew she'd been noted by all. As Serena had remarked, if she hadn't appeared, her whereabouts would have been questioned, but now that the matrons present had confirmed that the earl's eldest daughter—unmarried, which was a mystery, but quite an ape-leader now—was in no way out of the ordinary and was quite comfortable with her stepsisters and stepmother—well, with no grist for the gossip mill to be found, she'd been dismissed from their collective consciousness.

That suited her very well.

Finishing her tea, she glanced around for a table on which to set her cup. Spying one beyond the
chaise
on which her hostess sat chatting to one of her bosom-bows, Alathea glided along the wall, passing behind the
chaise
to set her cup down. She was about to retreat when the words “Central East Africa Gold Company” froze her where she stood.

She stared at the back of Lady Hertford's frizzy red head.

“An absolutely
certain
return, my cousin said, so naturally I told Geoffrey. I gave him the name of the man in charge, but Geoffrey's been hemming and hawing, dragging his feet.” Leaning closer to her friend, Lady Hertford lowered her voice. “You may be sure I pointed out that what with the
unexpected costs
his heir has incurred at Oxford, he should be eager to better his current standing—I told him plainly that this year, Jane would need not just better gowns but more in her portion as well. But would he be moved?”