A Secret Love

Chapter 16

The next morning, Alathea sat in the gazebo tucked to one side of the back garden and watched Gabriel cross the lawn toward her. Bright sunlight struck red and gold glints from his hair; she remembered the feel of it beneath her palms.

Eyes narrowed against the glare, she watched him exchange greetings with Mary and Alice, who were weeding the bed about the fountain. She had excused herself from gardening on the grounds of feeling under the weather. It was the truth; she'd barely slept a wink.

If she'd needed unequivocal proof that Gabriel had read her emotions accurately, the second half of their encounter in Lady Richmond's parlor had provided it. Even now, hours after the fact, just the thought of the suggestions he'd whispered in her ear, of what she'd willingly done and let him do to her, brought color surging to her cheeks. He'd wanted, and she had wanted to give. Last night, he'd introduced her to the ultimate in giving.

She wasn't hypocrite enough to pretend she hadn't enjoyed it, that the bliss she found in giving to him, whenever, however, brought the sweetest, deepest joy she'd ever known. In satisfying him, she found fulfillment. There was no other word, none that came close to describing the breadth and depth of what she felt. He'd labeled her a "giver;" she had to accept he was right. What she didn't-couldn't-accept was his extrapolation.

He was fascinated with her. That had been no act. He of all men would appreciate the irony that he should find her-a woman he'd known from the cradle-so physically enthralling. And despite what he'd said, her age did matter, but not in the way it would matter to the ton. Because she was older and where he was concerned more assured than any other lady he'd seduced, she was more challenging, more demanding of his talents. That, too, he would appreciate.

His fascination was real. Fascination did not, however, lead to marriage.

As he left the girls and, loose-limbed and confident, strode toward her, Alathea drew calm certainty about her. He was an exceptional practitioner of the sensual arts; he knew how to use his talents to pressure her, to cloud her reason. But she knew him too well-far too well-to swallow the tale that fascination was behind his determination to wed her. She thought too much of him-cared too much for him-to meekly fall in with his plans.

He reached the gazebo and trod up the steps. Ducking his head beneath the trailing jasmine that covered the small structure, he stepped into the cool shadows. Straightening, he met her gaze. Stillness gripped him. "What?"

Alathea waved him to the sofa beside her. She'd sent a note to Brook Street asking him to call. She waited while he sat; the wicker sofa was small-it left them shoulder to shoulder. He leaned back, stretching one arm along the sofa's back to ease the crowding. She drew breath and resolutely took the bit between her teeth. "There is absolutely no reason for us to wed. No!" She cut off his immediate retort. "Hear me out."

He'd tensed; his expression hardened but he held silent.

Alathea looked out over the lawn to where her stepsisters and stepbrothers chattered gaily. "Only you and I know about the countess. Only we know we've been intimate. I'm twenty-nine. As I keep trying to remind everyone, I've set aside all thoughts of marriage. I did so eleven years ago. I'm accepted as a spinster-your recent attentions notwithstanding, there's no expectation that I'll marry. Short of our liaison becoming common knowledge, which it won't for we're both too wise and too aware of what we owe our families and ourselves to bruit the fact abroad, then there's no need whatever for us to wed."

"Is that it?"

"No." She turned her head and met his gaze directly. "Regardless of what you decide is the right thing to do, I will not marry you. There's no reason for you to make such a sacrifice."

He studied her. "Why," he eventually asked, "do you think I want to marry you?"

Her lips twisted. She gestured to her stepsiblings, blissfully unaware of the clouds hovering on the family's horizon. "You want to marry me because of that same quality I counted on when, as the countess, I asked for your aid. I knew if I explained the danger to them, then you'd help. I've told you before-you're obsessively protective." He was her knight on a white charger; protectiveness was his strongest suit, and one of his most basic instincts.

He'd followed her gaze to the girls. "You think I want to marry you to protect you. Out of some notion of chivalry."

She'd tried to avoid that word; it sounded so melodramatic, even if it was the naked truth. Sighing, she faced him. "I wanted to trap you into helping-I never intended to trap you into marriage."

Gabriel searched her eyes, hazel pools of absolute sincerity. The vulnerability that had haunted him ever since he'd discovered the countess's identity evaporated.

She didn't know. She had no idea that he worshipped her, that his fascination was obsession, overwhelming and complete. He'd forgotten her naivete, that despite her age, despite knowing him all her life, in certain areas she was an innocent. She didn't know that she was so very different from all who had gone before.

He looked back at Mary and Alice while he mentally scrambled to reorient himself. "At the risk of shattering your illusions, that's not why I want to marry you."

"Why, then?"

He met her gaze. "You can hardly be unaware that I desire you physically."

Color touched her too-pale cheeks. She inclined her head. "Desire in our circles doesn't necessitate marriage."

She looked away, leaving him studying that all-too-revealing line of her jaw. Strength and vulnerability-she was a combination of both.

His reaction to the sight was immediate but no longer surprising-he now knew how primitive his feelings for her were. Last night, when she was fussing over her hair, trying to fashion it into some arrangement that would pass muster, he'd been visited by a violent urge to haul it all down again and march her through the house, past all Lady Richmond's guests, Chillingworth especially, so all would know that she was his.

His.

The powerful surge of possessiveness was achingly familiar. It was the same emotion she'd always evoked in him, the wellspring of that godforsaken tension that had gripped him whenever she was close. The emotion had clarified, crystallized. In unveiling the countess, other veils had been torn aside, too; he could now see his primitive impulse for what it truly was-the instinctive desire to seize his mate. To Have and To Hold was the Cynster family motto; hardly surprising he felt the impulse so keenly.

But how much was it safe to reveal to her? "How long have we known each other?"

"Forever-all our lives."

"Weeks ago, you told Chillingworth that our relationship had been decided for us. I agreed. Do you remember?"

"Yes."

"The earliest memory I have of you, you must have been all of two years old. I would have been three. From our cradles, our parents told us we were friends. I was twelve when treating you as a sister started becoming difficult. I never understood why-all I knew was that something was wrong. You knew it, too."

Her "yes" was a whisper; they were both looking back down the years.

"Remember that time we had to slip out of old Collinridge's barn by the back window and your habit got caught on a nail? Lucifer was already mounted, holding the horses-I had to catch your hips and hold you up so you could unhook the material."

He paused; a second later, she reactively shivered.

"Precisely. All that time, it was a peculiar blend of heaven and hell. I could never understand why I always gravitated to your side, always wanted to be near you, because whenever I was close, I felt… violent. Crazed. As if I wanted to grab hold of you and shake you."

Her laugh was shaky. "I was never certain you wouldn't."

"I never dared. I was too afraid laying hands on you-touching you in any way-would drive me mad, that I would behave like some bedlamite. That one dance we shared was bad enough."

They both gazed blindly over the lawns, then he continued, "What I'm trying to point out is that I've felt… possessive of you for a very long time. I didn't know what the feeling was until after that night at the Burlington, but it isn't something that only recently evolved. It's been there, between us, growing stronger for over twenty years. If our parents hadn't set us up as brother and sister, that feeling would long since have resolved itself in marriage. As it is, your masquerade has opened our eyes and given us a chance to rescript our relationship into what it ought to be." He glanced at her; she was still stubbornly facing the lawn. "I'm more than sexually attracted to you-you're the woman I want as my wife."

She tilted her head. "How many women have you known?"

He frowned. "I don't know. I haven't counted."

She looked at him, one brow high, disbelief in her eyes.

He gritted his teeth. "All right. I did count at first, but I gave up long ago."

"What number did you reach before you stopped counting?"

"That is neither here nor there. What point are you trying to make?"

"Merely that you seem to like women but, until now, that liking hasn't prompted you to beat a path to the parson's door. Why now? Why me?"

He saw the trap but was ready to turn the questions to his advantage. "The now is simple-it's time." The fateful words, "Your time will come," resonated in his mind. "I knew that at Demon's wedding. I just didn't know the who. You know how edgy Mama has been getting-much as it pains me to admit it, she's right. It is time for me to marry, to settle, to think of the next generation. As for the 'why you', it isn't, as you seem determined to think, because you're a friend of the family and that because we've been intimate, I think I've ruined you and needs must make reparation."

His increasingly clipped tone had her glancing his way; he trapped her gaze. "What I'm saying is that you are the woman I want as my wife. Just that-I need no other reason." He paused, then continued, "You might have noticed I no longer suffer when I'm close to you. I can sit beside you, more or less at ease, no longer feeling caged to the point of madness, because I know I can take you in my arms and kiss you, that at some point in the not-overly-distant future, you'll lie beneath me again." He let his voice drop. "However, if you're witless enough to try to fight this-all that's between us-if you try to refuse me and smile instead at Chillingworth or any other man, then I can guarantee that what has been between us through the years will be as nothing to what will be."

She held his gaze steadily. "Is that a threat?"

"No. It's a promise."

She considered him, then opened her mouth-

He laid a finger across her lips. "I'm deeply attached to you, you know that. Now I'm no longer blinded and forbidden by preconception, I can admit it. I desire you sexually, but that's only the half of it. I want you because I can think of no other I would rather share my life with. We suit. We could be successful life-partners. We've never been friends, not really, but with the difficulty between us removed, that's another relationship within our reach."

Her eyes searched his-she was marshaling her arguments, still stubbornly resisting for all she was worth.

Releasing her lips, he traced her jaw, then let his hand fall to the sofa back. "Thea, no matter how you struggle to refute it, you know what's between us. It might have been cloaked and veiled for years, but now we've stripped away the disguise, you can see what it is as well as I." He held her gaze. "It's an ardent and undying passion, not just on my part but yours as well."

Alathea looked away. She didn't know what to do. It wasn't just her head that was spinning. His words had evoked so many emotions, so many long-buried needs and barely recognized dreams. But… drawing herself up, she stated, "You're telling me your emotions are engaged."

"Yes."

"That what's between us demands marriage as its proper state-its necessary outcome."

"Yes."

When she stared into the distance and said nothing more, he prompted, "Well?"

"I'm not sure I believe you." Facing him, she hurried to explain, "Not about what's between us so much as why you believe we should marry." She searched his face, then, mentally girding her loins, she spoke bluntly. "We do know each other well-very well. You claim that the feelings that have always plagued us were due to frustrated desire, that what's between us is that-physical desire-and I accept that that's probably so. You've said that your emotions are engaged and I accept that, too. But what I don't know is: Which is the most prominent emotion?"

A scowl formed in his eyes. "Whichever emotion it is that prompts a man to marriage."

"That's what I'm afraid of. The emotion that's prompting, pressing, spurring you to marry me is the one dominant emotion you possess. You want to protect me. You've made up your mind that the right way forward is via the chapel and you're always successful once you fix your mind on a goal. Unfortunately, in this case, attaining your goal requires my cooperation, so I'm afraid your record of success is about to end."

"You think I made all that up."

"No-I think you were in the main sincere, but I don't believe your conclusions fit your facts. I think you're fudging. And if you want to know whether I think you would lie in pursuit of what you saw as a higher goal, then yes, I think you'd lie through your teeth." With her eyes, she challenged him to deny it.

Lips compressed, he held her gaze intimidatingly, but didn't.

She nodded. "Exactly. We know each other all too well. In creating the countess, I knew precisely what to say, how to pull the right strings to get you to do as I wished. I'm not so puffed up in my own conceit that I imagine you aren't clever enough to do precisely the same to me. You've decided we should marry, so you'll do whatever you need to to bring our marriage about."

He looked at her steadily. She'd expected an immediate reaction, possibly an aggressive one. His silent appraisal unnerved her. She could read nothing of his thoughts in his eyes.

Then he sat up. The arm along the back of the sofa slid about her; his other hand rose to frame her face. A split second and she was held, lightly, in his embrace.

"You're right."

She blinked. Was that a wry smile she saw in his eyes? "About what?"

His gaze lowered to her lips. "That I'll do whatever I must to bring our marriage about."

Alathea mentally cursed. She hadn't meant to phrase it as a challenge. "I-"

"Tell me," he murmured. "Do you accept that what's between us is an 'ardent and undying passion'?"

It was a struggle to draw breath. "Ardent, perhaps, but not undying. Given time, it will fade."

"You're wrong." He leaned closer and brushed her lips with his. The contact was too light to satisfy; all it did was make her hungry, too.

His breath was warm on her throbbing lips. "The ardency that flooded you last night when I filled you…" His lips touched hers again, another achingly incomplete kiss. "The passion that drove you to open yourself to me, to bestow whatever sensual gift I asked for. Do you think those will fade?"

Never. Alathea swayed. Her lids were so heavy, all she could see was his lips moving closer. Her hands, on his lapels, should have held him back; instead, her fingers curled, drawing him nearer. Her wits were drowning in a sea of sensual longing. In the instant before his lips completed her conquest, she managed to whisper, "Yes."

Lips touched, brushed, settled. An instant later, she surrendered on a sigh, giving him her mouth, thrilling to the slow, unhurried claiming. He touched every inch, then deliberately invoked the memory of their joining. Heady passion, ardent longing, had her firmly in their grip when he drew back and whispered against her lips, "Liar."

"Good morning."

Alathea looked up, and only just managed not to gape. "What are you doing here?"

Here was her office, her private, personal domain into which others ventured only by invitation. The room she had retreated to, ostensibly to tally the household accounts, in reality to search for some sure, safe, sensible path through her suddenly shifting world. Since their interlude in the gazebo, she was no longer sure what was real and what mere fanciful imaginings. As she watched Gabriel close the door, she resigned herself to making no progress on that front, not with him in the same small room.

"It occurred to me"-he scanned the room as he strolled toward her-"that with the Season at its zenith, we can expect Crowley to call in his promissory notes in about two weeks." Reaching the desk, he met her gaze. "It's time we started framing our petition to the bench."

"Only two weeks?"

"He won't wait until the very end. He's more likely to draw in his pigeons at the height of the whirl, when the ton provides maximum distraction. I suggest," he said, lowering his long limbs into the armchair facing the desk, "that you summon Wiggs. We'll need his input. I've brought Montague's figures."

Alathea considered him, entirely at his ease in her chair. He smiled at her winningly, his expression studiously mild. With awful calm, she rose and tugged the bell pull. When Crisp answered, she requested him to send for Wiggs. Crisp bowed and departed; she turned back to discover Gabriel eyeing the ledgers on her desk.

"What are you doing?"

"The household accounts."

"Ah." A smile fluted about his lips. "Don't let me disturb you."

Alathea vowed she wouldn't, something much easier said than done. Pen in hand, she forced herself to tally column after column. Despite her intentions, the figures showed a distressing tendency to fade before her eyes. At full stretch, her senses flickered. She bit her lip, clenched her fingers tighter on the pen, and frowned at her neat entries.

"Need any help?"

"No."

She completed three more columns, then carefully looked up. He was watching her, an expression in his eyes she couldn't place. "What?"

He held her gaze, then slowly lifted one brow.

She blushed. "Go away! Go and sit in the drawing room."

He grinned. "I'm comfortable here, and the scenery's to my liking."

Alathea glared at him.

The click of the latch had them both turning. Augusta's shining head appeared around the door. "Can I come in?"

Alathea beamed. "'Indeed, poppet. But where's Miss Helm?"

"She's helping Mama with the placecards for the dinner." Shutting the door, Augusta came forward, studying Gabriel with the frank gaze of the young.

"You remember Mr. Cynster. His mama and papa live at Quiverstone Manor."

Gabriel lay there, a lazy lion relaxed in the chair, then he held out a hand. "That's a big doll."

Augusta considered, then turned Rose and held her out. "I bet you can't guess her name."

Gabriel took the doll; propping it on one knee, he studied it. "She used to be called Rose."

"She still is!" Augusta followed Rose, clambering onto Gabriel's lap.

As he settled her, he looked up-and met Alathea's astonished stare. He grinned and looked down at Augusta. "Did your sister ever tell you about the time Rose got stuck in that big apple tree at the end of your orchard?"

Alathea watched and listened, amazed that he still remembered all the details, and that Augusta, so often shy, had taken so readily to him. Then again, he did have three much younger sisters; he could probably write the definitive thesis on bewitching young girls.

Seizing opportunity, she quickly finished the accounts, then opened another ledger and settled to check through receipts. The activity used only a small part of her brain; the rest grappled with the problem of Gabriel, and what she could and should do about him. The sound of his deep voice, rumbling low as he charmed Augusta, was familiar and oddly comforting.

Two days had passed since they'd met in the gazebo, two days since she'd last been in his arms with his lips on hers. They'd met that evening at a ball; although he'd claimed two waltzes, he'd claimed nothing more. He'd appeared the next morning to stroll through the park by her side. She'd been ready to counter any possessive move he made, any maneuver to demonstrate his claim over her. He hadn't made one. Unfortunately, the understanding in his eyes warned her that he knew how she felt, how she would react; he was simply biding his time until the battlefield better suited his purpose.

Of that purpose there remained not a smidgen of doubt. Marriage. The notion-not of marriage but of marriage to him-deeply unnerved her. Just thinking of him now unnerved her in a way she'd never had to deal with before. Intimacy, and all the emotions wrapped up with it, had thoroughly disrupted her inner landscape. Yet if he'd allowed her to disappear as she'd planned, to fade out of his life, while she might regret the brevity of their association, she would, she felt sure, have remained inwardly steady.

Instead, she was whirling, her stomach often hollow, uncertainty and excitement an unsettling blend. What she felt for him now she couldn't put a name to-was afraid to put a name to, to even study it at all, not while she had to refuse him.

He'd decided to marry her because he desired her and because he wanted her as his wife. The reason behind that want he'd refused to clarify; she felt sure he was motivated by a compulsion to protect her.

The prospect of him marrying her with protection his true aim chilled her. He would be kind, considerate, generous-even a friend-but as time passed, he would cease to be hers alone. He would cease to be her lover. They would grow apart…

With a little jerk, she returned to the present, to her office and the ledger open before her, to the rumble of Gabriel's voice and Augusta's piping prattle. Sucking in a breath, she held it, and tidied her pile of receipts.

She was not going to marry Gabriel-she couldn't let him sacrifice himself, or her. Turning him from his goal might not be easy, but marrying him would not be right, not for him or for her.

Marking off the last of the receipts, she opened a drawer and placed them in a box, then shut the drawer and shut her ledger. The slap of the pages brought Gabriel's and Augusta's heads up. Alathea smiled. "I have to talk business with Mr. Cynster now, poppet."

Sliding from Gabriel's lap, Augusta gifted her with a confident smile. "He said I could call him Gabriel. It's his name."

"Indeed." Rising and rounding the desk, Alathea hugged Augusta, then set her on her feet. "Off you go now-Miss Helm should be nearly finished."

Ducking around Alathea's skirts, Augusta waved to Gabriel and sang "Good-bye," then happily skipped to the door.

As it shut behind her, Alathea felt long fingers tangle with hers. She turned to discover Gabriel studying her hand, now entwined with his.

"What 'business' do you wish to discuss?" He looked up, invitation in his eyes.

One part of her mind urged her to whisk her hand from his, to whisk herself out of his orbit. The rest of her reveled in the warmth that flooded her as his fingers caressed her palm. Alathea studied the sleepy, languid beckoning in his eyes, and was deceived not at all. She looked at the wall clock. "Wiggs will be another twenty minutes, but we can make a start on a draft without him."

Looking back at Gabriel, she raised a brow and gently detached her hand. He grimaced but let her go. "All right. But you can write." He rose as she resumed her seat behind the desk. "We can start by noting the false claims we've identified."

Unsurprised to find herself his amanuensis, Alathea set a sheet of paper on the blotter. They listed Montague's calculations derived from the figures Crowley had provided Gerrard, comparing them with those Crowley had claimed. Gabriel stated and she transcribed, adding and correcting as they went. He paced back and forth behind her, between the desk and the window, stopping now and then to read over her shoulder. When they reached the end of Montague's findings, Gabriel halted beside her, scanning the list. His hand closed on her shoulder, close by her neck, on skin left bare by her summer morning gown.

His hand nestled there, strong fingers gentle on her skin.

"What next, do you think?"

Her composure shattered, unable to breathe, Alathea heard the mild words and realized with a hot rush horribly akin to mortification that he hadn't meant to discompose her. He'd simply touched her as a close personal friend might, without any sexual intention.

She was the one thinking of sexual intentions.

Before she could gather her wits, he tipped up her face. He studied it; she scrambled wildly to find some expression to mask the truth. Then his gaze turned intent, and she knew it was too late. The fingers at her throat moved again, this time deliberately.

Sensual awareness flared in her eyes. Gabriel saw it. His lips curved. "Perhaps"-he bent over her-"we should try this."

Her lips parted under his; her hand rose to cradle the back of his as he held her face steady. She gave her mouth freely as she always did; he took and drank and claimed. She was a delight in her sweet helplessness, her total inability to conceal her response, the womanly yearning that lay beneath the confidence of her years. Her tongue tangled with his; her fingers gripped his shoulder. Sliding his hand from her face, he lowered it to her breast, cupping the firm mound, then searching for its peak. Her hand followed his, cradling it still, feeling him knead and pleasure her. In one swift movement, he slipped his hand from under hers and reversed their positions, his hand covering and surrounding hers, pressing her palm to the heated flesh of her breast, guiding her fingers to her ruched nipple and squeezing them tight.

She gasped, swayed-

They both heard the creak of a board outside the door an instant before it opened.

Charlie looked in. "Hello!" He nodded to Gabriel, lounging against the window frame, then transferred his gaze to Alathea. "I'm going to Bond Street-Mama suggested I ask whether there's anything more we need for tomorrow night?"

Her pulse pounding, Alathea shook her head, fervently praying that, with her back to the window, Charlie couldn't see the flush heating her skin. "No. Nothing." Their ball would be held tomorrow night, formally introducing Mary and Alice to the ton. "All seems in hand."

"Good-oh! I'll be off then." With a wave, Charlie departed, shutting the door behind him.

Drawing in a much-needed breath, Alathea turned her head and met Gabriel's gaze. She frowned balefully. "Stop thinking about it!" Swinging back to the desk, she picked up her pen. "Aside from anything else, there's no lock on that door."

She heard his smothered laugh but refused to look his way. "I think," she said, stabbing the nib into the inkwell, "that next we should note all we've learned about Fangak, Lodwar, and wherever else it was."

He sighed dramatically. "Kingi."

Despite her hopes that all was in hand, the next morning saw a host of small commissions that simply had to be fulfilled. Leaving Serena in command, with Crisp and Figgs in their element, Alathea bundled Mary and Alice into the small carriage and escaped.

"It's a madhouse!" Face to the window, Alice peered back to where the red carpet was being shaken and swept. "If they put that out now, it'll be a mess by evening."

"Crisp will see to it." Alathea sank back against the squabs and closed her eyes. She'd been up since daybreak, and had already met with the caterers and the florist. All the major components for the evening were thankfully falling into place. Opening her eyes, she scanned the list she clutched in one hand. "Gloves first, stockings next, and then the ribbons."

The carriage bore them home an hour and a half later. Mary and Alice were bubbling with excitement; Alathea watched them with joy in her heart. No matter how tiring the day might be, tonight would be its own reward.

As they turned into Mount Street, she glanced out of the window-and saw Jeremy's head almost in line with hers. "What…?"

Jerking forward, she stared, then leaned out of the window the better to view her youngest brother, laughing uproariously, arms flailing, seated atop a pedestrian curricle propelled full tilt down the pavement by Charlie and Gabriel.

She forebore to scream.

The carriage pulled up before their front steps. Mary and Alice tumbled out, paused but an instant to view Jeremy and company, then giggled and ran indoors.

Alathea descended from the carriage more slowly, then drew herself up and waited for the miscreants to arrive before her. They did so in an ungainly rush; for one instant she watched, horrified, expecting to see her worst nightmare unfold as, hauled to a halt, the unstable contraption slewed sideways, tipping Jeremy off the high seat-

Reaching forward, Gabriel caught him, swinging him clear, then setting him on his feet while Charlie neatly righted the curricle. Charlie and Gabriel grinned at her-Jeremy did his best to appear inconspicuous.

Alathea fixed her gaze on him. "I believe I had your promise on no account to ride this machine in town?"

Eyes downcast, Jeremy squirmed.

Gabriel heaved a sigh. "It was my fault."

Alathea looked at him. "Yours?"

"I arrived just as your footman was taking delivery and offered to show them how it was done."

"You rode it?"

The look he bent on her was dismissively superior. "Of course. It's easy. Would you like me to demonstrate?"

She nearly said yes. The notion of seeing him, hideously elegant as always, precariously perched on the awkward machine riding up and down the tonnish street was almost too good to pass up. But… "No." She transferred her gaze to Jeremy. "That's not the point."

"Ah, but it is, because once I'd ridden to the corner, I simply put Jeremy on the seat and told him to hang on. It didn't occur to me that the machine had been bought for him but that he'd been forbidden to ride it."

Alathea caught the swift upward glance Jeremy shot her. She pressed her lips together, then explained, "The agreement I used to gain Serena's approval to buy the curricle was that Jeremy would only ride it on the lawns at the Park. He's prone to broken bones-to date, we've survived three broken arms and a broken leg. A collarbone in three pieces would never be welcome, but it would be even less welcome today."

Jeremy glanced up again; Alathea caught his eye. "You are extremely lucky that it was I who took Mary and Alice to the shops, and not your mama-she would have swooned had she seen your performance."

Jeremy shuffled his feet, but his eyes sparkled. A small smile played on his lips, just waiting to dawn. "But she didn't see it-you did. Wasn't it grand!" His smile broke free.

Alathea twisted her lips in an effort to hold back her own. "Potentially grand-you could do with a bit of practice, but don't you dare ride it here again."

"What about the back lawn?" Charlie asked. "That's thick-he wouldn't break anything if he fell on that."

"It's got a nice slope to it, too," Gabriel put in. "And I promise I won't let him career into the rhododendrons."

Faced with three male faces ranging in age from twelve to thirty but all with the same little-boy-pleading expression, Alathea threw up her hands. "Very well-I'll go and prepare Serena." She caught Gabriel's eye as she turned to the steps. "At least it'll keep you all out from under our feet."

His grin would have done his namesake proud.

Leaving them wheeling the curricle around to the back gate, Alathea crossed the threshold and entered a world of pandemonium. She first sought out Serena and reassured her of Jeremy's safety, embroidering on Gabriel's promise without a second thought as soon as she realized Serena was happy to place her trust in him.

For the next hour she was fully occupied dealing with queries from the caterers, the florist, and most importantly the draper. Her novel idea to decorate the huge ballroom with swaths of cerulean blue muslin, which could later be given as presents to the female servants here and at the Park, had been given form and style by the earnest young draper-the white-and-gilt ballroom looked like a vision of heaven.

"Perfect." With a brisk nod, she turned away from the sight. "Please send in your account promptly, Mr. Bobbins-we will only be in town for another few weeks."

Mr. Bobbins bowed low, incoherently assuring her that his account would be presented forthwith.

Alathea checked the supplies of salmon and shrimp with Figgs, then she and Crisp descended to the cellar. By the time they'd finished selecting the wines for the formal dinner preceding the ball, it was past noon. Retiring to her office, intending to do no more than catch her breath and check her lists for the next most pressing item, Alathea found herself drawn to the window.

On the lawn behind the house, Jeremy, Charlie and Gabriel were totally absorbed in the new toy. Gabriel had stripped off his coat; together with Charlie, he was coaching Jeremy in the difficult process of gaining his balance on the awkward machine. Alathea watched, quietly amazed at the patience Gabriel showed. None knew better than she that he was naturally impatient, yet in dealing with Jeremy he displayed both tact and steady encouragement, exactly what Jeremy needed. Under Gabriel's eye, he bloomed. Before she turned away, Alathea saw him free-wheel down the lawn, managing to steer the curricle away from the thick bushes.

As she left her office and plunged back into the melee, she reflected that, while he was not long on patience, Gabriel's second name could have been persistence, a fact she would do well to remember.

Half an hour later, he found her supervising the positioning of the trestles in the parlor they were converting into a supper room. Surveying the scene, he raised his brows. "How many cards did you send out?"

"Five hundred," Alathea absentmindedly replied. "God knows how we'll manage if they all arrive at once."

Gabriel studied her face, then calmly took her arm. Ignoring her resistance and her distracted scowl, he towed her to the side of the room. "Where's the petition."

"The petition?" She stared at him. "You can't mean to work on that now?"

"I can work on it. I can write, you know." Her frown suggested she wasn't convinced of it; he ignored that, too. "I'll take it home and continue framing our arguments." He glanced at the footmen and maids scurrying frantically about. "It's too noisy here."

She didn't look happy, but nodded. "It's in the top drawer of my desk."

"I'll take it." Gabriel started to leave, then halted. Ignoring the many about them, he caught her chin. "Don't run yourself ragged. I'll see you at dinner."

Before she could react, he ducked his head, kissed her quickly, and left.

"Lady Alathea-is this where you wanted this table?"

"What? Oh… yes, I suppose…"

Inwardly grinning, Gabriel headed downstairs.