A Secret Love

Chapter 4

She'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?"

Lady Hertford sat poker straight, disapproval for her errant spouse in every line. "I'm convinced," she hissed, "that it's only because my dearest cousin Ernest suggested it, and Geoffrey's never liked Ernest."

Her friend murmured sympathetically, then turned the conversation to their offspring. Alathea moved away. Clearly, Lord Hertford shared her reaction to the Central East Africa Gold Company-in his case, if her ladyship was to be believed, because of who was "in charge."

From across the room, a turbaned dowager beckoned; Alathea obeyed the summons. With a serene smile firmly in place, she withstood an intensive inquisition on her obsession for the country and her spinster state. Not, of course, that the words "unfashionable recluse" or "husband" ever featured in the conversation.

Invincible serenity and an adamant refusal to be drawn finally won her her release from Lady Merricks, who snorted and waved her away. "Unconscionable-that's what it is, miss! Your grandmama would have been the first to say so."

With that observation ringing in her ears, Alathea gravitated back to the side of the room, and wondered if she dared broach the subject of the Central East Africa Gold Company with her hostess. One glance at Lady Hertford's round and ruddy countenance put paid to that idea. Her ladyship was unlikely to have any information beyond what she'd already divulged. More to the point, she would be amazed by Alathea's inquiry. Ladies of her ilk, young or otherwise, should have no interest in such matters-ladies of her ilk were not supposed to know such matters existed.

Which was a definite hurdle, for she could not, on the same count, beard his lordship, either.

Alathea glanced at the door. Did she dare slip out and search Lord Hertford's study? She debated the likelihood of finding anything helpful; if learning the name of the man behind the company had been enough to cool his lordship's interest, it seemed unlikely he would have needed to write it down.

The probable return did not seem worth the risk of getting caught searching Lord Hertford's study. She could just imagine the scandal that would provoke, especially if her reasons for searching ever came out.

And what if Gabriel learned of it?

No. She'd have to be patient. The very word chafed-she trenchantly repeated it. In the matter of the Central East Africa Gold Company, she was the countess and the countess had put her trust in Gabriel.

Patience and trust were all very well, but such virtues did nothing to ease her curiosity or allay the conviction that, if she left him too much to his own devices, Gabriel would either solve the entire matter and then present himself before her expecting to claim some impossible reward, or he'd become mired in some distracting detail and lose the thread entirely. Either was possible. If he had always been the leader, she had always been his eminence grise. It was time to reclaim that position.

They were attending an evening party at Osbaldestone House. Standing by the chaise on which Serena sat conversing with Lady Chadwick, Alathea scanned the crowd gathered to celebrate Lady Osbaldestone's sixtieth birthday. For her purpose, the setting was perfect.

Two days had passed since their unplanned meeting at Lincoln's Inn, two days in which Gabriel should have investigated the company's agent and his place of business. It was time for the countess to ask for a report.

Before her, the flower of the ton mingled and met. There was no dancing, just a string quartet installed in an alcove, vainly striving to be heard over the din. Talk-gossip and repartee-were the primary occupations of the evening, activities at which the guest of honor excelled.

Lady Osbaldestone was sitting on a chaise facing the room's center. Alathea glanced her way. The old lady thumped her cane on the floor, then pointed it at Vane Cynster, currently standing before her. Vane stepped back as if taking refuge behind the willowy figure of his wife. Alathea had met Patience Cynster in the park a few days before. Patience curtsied with unruffleable calm before her ladyship.

Alathea wished she had a little more patience-her eyes strayed to the clock for the third time in ten minutes. It was not yet ten o'clock; the party had barely begun. Guests were still arriving. Gabriel was already here, but it was too early for the countess to materialize.

The Cynsters were here en masse, Lady Osbaldestone being a connection. Alathea was watching two beauties presently holding court under Gabriel's oddly unimpressed eye when long fingers wrapped about her elbow.

"Welcome to town, my dear."

The fingers slid down to tangle with hers and briefly squeeze. Alathea turned, a smile lighting her face. "I wondered where you were." She ran an appreciative glance over the tall, dark-haired, dark-garbed figure beside her. "Now what am I supposed to call you-Alasdair? Or Lucifer?"

His smile flashed, the pirate beneath the fashionable facade showing briefly. "Either will do."

Alathea raised a brow. "Both accurate?"

"I do my poor best."

"I'm sure you do." She looked across the room. "But what's he doing?"

Lucifer followed her gaze to his brother. "Guard duty. We take turns."

Alathea studied the girls and caught the resemblance. "They're your cousins?"

"Hmm. They don't have an older brother to watch over them, so we do. Devil's in charge, of course, but he's not often in town these days. Very busy taking care of the ducal acres, the ducal purse, and the ducal succession."

Alathea's gaze shifted to the tall, striking figure of the Duke of St. Ives. "I see." Devil was paying amazingly close attention to a haughtily commanding lady standing by his side. "The lady with him…?"

"Honoria, his duchess."

"Ah!" Alathea nodded; Devil's intent gaze was now explained. She'd met all Gabriel's and Lucifer's male cousins occasionally over the years; she had no difficulty picking them out from the crowd. The family resemblance was definite, their general handsomeness a byword, although they were all identifiably distinct, from Devil's striking, piratical looks, to Vane's cool grace, to Gabriel's classical features and Lucifer's dark beauty. "I can't see the other two." She scanned the crowd again.

"They're not here. Richard and his witch are resident in Scotland."

"His witch?"

"Well, his wife, but she truly is a witch of sorts. She's known as the Lady of the Vale in those parts."

"Indeed?"

"Mmm. And Demon's busy escorting his new wife on a prolonged tour of the racetracks."

"Racetracks?"

"They have a shared interest in racing Thoroughbreds."

"Oh." Alathea checked her mental list. "That leaves only you two still unwed."

Lucifer narrowed his eyes at her. "Et tu, Brute?"

Alathea smiled. "Merely an observation."

"Just as well, or I might be tempted to point out that those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."

Alathea's smile didn't waver. "You know I've decided marriage isn't for me."

"I know you've told me so-what I've never understood is why."

Shaking her head, she looked away. "Never mind." Her gaze returned to the two blond beauties chatting gaily, studiously ignoring Gabriel's lounging, deliberately intimidating presence mere yards away. "Your young cousins-are they twins?"

"Yes. This is their second Season, but they are only eighteen."

"Eighteen?" Alathea glanced at Lucifer, then back at the girls, confirming the modish gowns a touch more elegant than permissable for a girl in her first Season, the more sophisticated hairstyles, the assurance in the girls' gestures. Considering Gabriel watching over them like a potentially lethal avenging angel, Alathea shook her head. "What on earth does he-you-think you're doing? If they're eighteen… why"-she swung to look at Mary and Alice talking in a group nearby-"Alice is only seventeen."

"She is?" Lucifer turned to stare at Mary and Alice. "Good Lord-I didn't notice they were here." He frowned, then glanced across the room at his cousins. "If you'll excuse me?"

Without waiting for an answer, he swooped on Mary and Alice. With effortless charm, he detached them from their circle. One on each arm, he bore them across the room. Alathea watched, the question of what he was doing fading from her mind as the answer presented itself. He introduced her sisters to his cousins-a moment later, he slipped away from the enlarged circle now containing all four young ladies surrounded by a bevy of exceedingly safe, exceedingly careful young gentlemen.

The pleased-with-himself look on Lucifer's face as he slid into the crowd had Alathea shaking her head, not in wonder so much as resignation. She'd been the recipient of the protectiveness of Cynster males often enough to recognize the impulse. Knowing she was supposed to approve, although she wasn't at all sure she did, she smiled in reply to Lucifer's questioning glance.

Lucifer headed for Gabriel. Smoothly, Alathea joined the circle about Serena's chaise. From the comer of her eye, she watched Lucifer explain his new arrangement; Gabriel nodded and passed the watch to Lucifer. Lucifer pulled a face but acquiesced, taking Gabriel's place by the wall.

Alathea darted a glance at the clock. Perfect. Lucifer's maneuvers were going to prove unexpectedly helpful; for the next hour she felt sure she could rely on him and his fair cousins to keep Mary and Alice happily occupied. And any minute now…

Majestic, yet blending into the glittering scene, Lady Osbaldestone's butler cleaved through the crowd. He stopped before Gabriel and presented a silver salver. Gabriel lifted a note from the salver, dismissing the butler with a nod. Opening the folded sheet, he scanned it, then refolded it and slipped it into his pocket.

The entire proceedings had taken no more than a minute-unless one had been watching Gabriel specifically, in the crush, nothing would have been seen. Not a flicker of expression betrayed his thoughts-on anything.

Trusting he'd respond to the instructions in the note, Alathea looked away, giving her attention to Serena and her neighbors until it was time for her next move.

She reached the gazebo five minutes early, already slightly breathless. She told herself it was because she'd hurried, because she'd kept trying to watch in every direction at once to make sure no one saw her slip away. The vise locked about her lungs owed nothing to the fact that she was soon to meet Gabriel-not Rupert, but his far more dangerous alter ego-once more in the dark of night.

Folwell had been waiting as instructed in the thick bushes lining the carriage drive. He'd brought her cloak, veil and high-heeled shoes, and her special perfume. Drawing in a deep breath-steeling herself-Alathea let the exotic scent wreathe through her brain. She was the countess.

In her disguise, she actually felt like someone else-not Lady Alathea Morwellan, spinster, ape-leader. It was as if her anonimity and the seductive perfume brought out another side of her-she had little difficulty sliding into her role.

The gazebo stood tucked away at the end of the shrubbery-she'd remembered it from years ago. It was far enough from the house to be safe from the risk of others chancing by, and so overhung by trees and rampant shrubs that she need not fear any stray beam of light, a pertinent consideration as she'd been unable to change her gown.

Outside, gravel crunched. A sudden thrill shot through her; tingles of excitement raced over her skin. Facing the archway, she drew herself up, head erect, hands clasped before her. Anticipation slid, insidiously compelling, through her veins. Ruthlessly quelling a reactive shiver, she drew in a tight breath. Tonight, she was determined to hold her own.

He appeared, a black silhouette filling the doorway, her sworn knight come to report. He was a dark presence, intensely masculine, achingly familiar yet so unnervingly unknown. Pausing on the threshold, he located her in the dark; he hesitated-she felt his gaze rake her, felt an inexplicable urge to turn and flee. Instead, she stood still, silent and challenging.

He strolled forward.

"Good evening, my dear."

She was a creature of night and shadow, discernible only as a darker shape in the dense gloom within the gazebo. Her height, her veil and cloak-Gabriel could see nothing beyond that, but his senses had abruptly focused; he was sure it was she. Halting directly before her, he studied her, very conscious of the alluring perfume that rose from her flesh. "You didn't sign your note."

Despite not being able to see it, he knew she raised a haughty brow. "How many ladies send you messages to meet them in dark gazebos?"

"More than you'd care to count."

She stilled. "Were you expecting someone else?"

"No." He paused, then added, "I was expecting you." Not here at Osbaldestone House, under his very nose, but he hadn't imagined she'd calmly sit in her drawing room and wait for a week before contacting him again. "I expect you'd like to know what I've learned?"

He heard the purr in his voice, and sensed her wariness.

"Indeed." She lifted her chin; he could feel the challenge in her gaze.

"Swales doesn't live at that address on the Fulham Road-it's a public house called the Onslow Arms. Henry Feaggins is the proprietor. He holds the mail for Swales."

"Does Feaggins know where Swales lives?"

"No-Swales simply stops by every few days. There was no mail to be collected, so I sent a letter-a blank sheet. Swales came in this morning and picked it up. My man followed him-Swales went to a mansion in Egerton Gardens. It seems he lives there."

"Who owns the mansion?"

"Lord Archibald Douglas."

"Lord Douglas?"

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.

That last made her sigh-changing direction was impossible. She'd started the charade; she'd have to play her part. Her options were severely limited.

She studied her reflection, then, with her usual deliberation, decided: While alone with him, she wasn't Lady Alathea Morwellan but his mysterious countess. It was the countess he'd kissed and the countess who'd responded.

Not her.

There'd been no harm done; none would be done.

She lowered the towel. He'd seemed to find her kisses-and the rest of her-quite satisfactory as a reward. She'd sensed his hunger-his appetite; she was certain that was not something he would fabricate. Their interaction was in no way harming him, and while it might be unsettling-even eye-opening-it wasn't hurting her.

And the fact that her kisses were enough to satisfy one of the ton's most exacting lovers was an invisible feather she'd proudly wear in her spinster cap-the cap she'd wear for the rest of her life.

Refocusing on the mirror, she critically surveyed her face and lips. Almost normal.

Her lips twisted wryly. Impossible to play the hypocrite and pretend that she hadn't enjoyed it-that she hadn't felt a thrill, an excitement beyond anything she'd previously known. In those long minutes when he'd held her in his arms, claiming her, she'd felt a woman whole for the first time in her life.

Indeed, he made her feel like a woman other than herself-or did he simply make her feel things she shouldn't, compulsions she'd had no idea she could experience. She was twenty-nine, on the shelf, very definitely an old maid. In his arms, she hadn't felt old at all-she'd felt alive.

Driven by necessity, she'd set aside all hope of ever knowing what it was to be a woman with a man. She'd had her longings, but she'd locked them away, telling herself they could never be fulfilled. And they never could be-not all of them, not now. But if, in protecting her family again as she was, the chance was offered to experience just a little of what she'd had to forgo, wasn't that merely justice?

And if she knew she was playing with fire? Tempting fate beyond the bounds of all sanity?

Setting down the towel, she stared into her eyes, then she stood and turned toward the door.

She couldn't turn her back on her family, which meant she couldn't walk away from Gabriel.

Whether she wished it or not, she was trapped in her charade.