A Secret Love (45 page)

A gust of laughter had them both looking to where Charlie and Jeremy stood on the lawn, teasing Mary and Alice, seated on a rug.

“They're safe enough. While you remain within the ton, you'll all be safe—that's not an arena Crowley can move within without attracting immediate attention.” Looking at Alathea, Gabriel squeezed her hand. “Promise me you'll take care.”

Alathea looked into his eyes. She saw urgency and an unaccustomed softness in the hazel depths. “I'll be careful, but if—”

“No buts,
no
ifs.” In a blink, all softness vanished from his face. Her knight-protector all but glared at her. “
Promise
.”

A demand, no plea. Alathea glared back. “I'll be careful. I won't do anything silly. With that, you'll have to be content. I've never been yours to rule.”

His expression, the granite hardness in his gaze, gave credence to his low growl, “You're treading on thin ice.”

Yes, but what was underneath? Desperate to know, once and for all, Alathea returned his gaze haughtily. “I am my own person—
not
yours.”

Hazel eyes fell into hazel. A long moment passed, then he looked away. His expression hardened as he gazed at Jeremy and Alice, Augusta and Mary. “Let me tell you what's going to happen after we gain our judgment against the Central East Africa Gold Company.

“First, we're getting married. Not in any hole-and-corner fashion, but right here, in the heart of the ton. St. Georges Church one fine June morning. After that, we'll divide our lives between London and Somerset—the Season in London, and various trips as required for business, but we'll spend most of the year at Quiverstone Manor. Aside from anything else, from there you and I can keep an eye on Morwellan Park and lend a hand if Charlie needs it. And you'll be there to watch Jeremy and Augusta grow. We can sponsor Augusta for her come-out, and while in London you'll be able to catch up with Mary and Esher, and Alice and Carstairs.

“In between, you can learn about those of the Manor's tenants you don't already know, and help Mama with all the thousand and one things she does about the estate, so you'll be ready to step in when she eventually flags. And there are Heather, Eliza, and Angelica, who, as you well know, will be thrilled to call you sister. You could try teaching them not to giggle—God knows, Mama hasn't managed it yet.

“The east wing will have to be redecorated, too. I never did more than order the old furniture cleaned. I don't even know the state of half of it, although my bed there is sound enough.”

Alathea swallowed the question, “Sound enough for what?” The answer was not long in coming.

“And if all that doesn't keep you sufficiently amused, I have a number of other distractions planned—at least three sons and any number of daughters.” Turning his head, he met her gaze. “Yours and mine. Ours. Our future.”

She held his gaze steadily, and prayed he couldn't see how much the thought tugged at her heart.

“Picture it—us sitting under the old oak on the south lawn, watching our children play. Hearing the shrill voices, the laughter, the cries. Picking them up to soothe them, to comfort them, or perhaps just to hold them.” He searched her eyes, his own hard as agates. “You've always liked children, you always expected to have a tribe of your own. That was always your dream, your destiny. You gave it up for your family, but now fate's handing it back to you.” His gaze raked her face, then, as if satisfied with what he saw, he sat back and looked across the lawn. “I know you too well to believe you'd turn your back on that dream a second time.”

His confidence tweaked Alathea's temper, but she shrugged the temptation to ire aside. His words—his
pronouncement
—should have chilled her; there'd been no loverlike softness in his words. He'd been all warrior—logical, practical—her knight-protector carrying her off to a new beginning, for which she should be duly grateful and acquiesce to all his decrees.

It was enough to make her laugh, but she didn't. If he'd been charming, presenting his arguments with the light, airy touch of which she knew he was capable, her heart would have sunk without trace. That was how he behaved in matters that did not touch him deeply. Instead, he'd presented her with his warrior side, all impenetrable granite and impregnable shield. She had to wonder what he was shielding. Lifting her chin, she fixed her gaze on his profile. “And what about us? You and me. The two of us together. How do you see us?”

The question hit a nerve. His swift frown, an infinitesimal tensing of muscles otherwise under rigid control, told her so.

“I see us in bed,” he growled, “and in a few other places, too. Do you want to know the details?”

“No. I'm quite imaginative enough to supply my own.”

“Well, then.” But his tone had softened, as if in thinking of her question, he'd seen more than he'd expected. “I imagine we'll ride like we used to, every day. You always liked riding—do you still ride a lot?”

After an instant's hesitation, she said, “I sold all the horses years ago.”

He nodded. “So we'll ride every day. And, I just realized, you can help me with the estate accounts, which will leave more time for riding. And investing—studying the news, weeding out the rumors, checking with Montague and my other contacts. I manage all the Cynster funds. You've dabbled to good effect with the Morwellan treasury, such as it was, but I play a more aggressive hand.”

“I'm not particularly good at aggression.”

“You can take an interest in the defensive side, then—the bonds and capital.” He gestured expansively. “That's how I see us.”

Alathea waited a moment, then softly said, “You know perfectly well that's not what I meant. I wanted to know what you see
between
us.”

His head whipped around and he scowled at her. “Thea—stop resisting. We'll be married soon. All I just said
is
going to happen—you know it is.”

“I know nothing of the sort. Why do you imagine I'll agree to your dictates?”

He hesitated, his narrowed gaze locked with hers. Then he said, “You'll agree because you love me.”

Alathea felt her lips part, felt her jaw drop. Horrified, she searched his eyes. The comprehension she saw horrified her even more. How
could
he know? She snapped her lips shut and fixed him with a militant glare. “
I'll
be the judge of whether I love you or not.”

“Are you saying you don't?” His tone was a warning.

“I'm saying I haven't yet made up my mind.”

With a disgusted snort, he looked away. “Pull the other one.”

Although he'd muttered, Alathea heard him. “You
don't
know that I love you—you
can't
know!”

He looked her in the eye. “I do.”

“
How?
”

After a moment, he looked away; this time, his gaze fastened on the jasmine, blooming in profusion over the gazebo, filling the arches, fragrant white blossoms nodding in the breeze. Catching a spray, he snapped it off. Looking down, he turned it in his hands, long fingers caressing the velvet-soft blooms. “How many men have you allowed to make love to you?”

Alathea stiffened. “You know perfectly well—”

“Precisely.” He nodded, his gaze on the jasmine. “Only me. You don't know—”

Alathea waited; after a long moment, he drew breath and met her gaze. “I know you love me because of the way you give yourself to me. The way you are when you're in my arms.”

“Well!” She fought down an urge to bluster. “As you're the only lover I've yet known—”

“Tell me,”—his steely words cut her off—“can you imagine being as you are with me, if it wasn't me with you but some other man?”

She stared at him. She couldn't begin to even form a mental picture; the idea was utterly foreign.

So foreign, she suddenly realized she'd lost sight of her agenda. “You're avoiding my point.” It was a wrench to drag her mind from the avenues into which he'd lead it, to consider instead that if he knew she loved him, he'd be even more chivalrously inclined to wed her regardless of any other motive. The realization fueled a fresh rush of emotions, hope and frustration equally represented. Hope that the reason for his self-protective shield was a heart as vulnerable as hers; frustation over convincing him to lower his guard long enough for her to know.

She felt like clenching her fists, screwing her eyes shut, drumming her heels, and
demanding
he tell her the truth. Instead, she fixed her eyes on his and carefully enunciated, “I will not marry you until you tell me why you want to marry me, and place your hand on your heart and swear you've told me all—
every last one
—of your reasons.”

Those who thought him the epitome of a civilized gentleman would never have recognized the harshly primitive warrior who now faced her. Luckily, she'd encountered him often enough not to quake.

“
Why?
”

The very air shivered beneath that one word, so invested with suppressed passions—anger, frustration, and barely leashed desire.

Alathea didn't blink. “Because I need to know.”

He held her gaze for so long, she began to feel giddy, then he wrenched his gaze from hers and abruptly stood.

He looked out over the lawns, then glanced down at her. His expression was impassive. With a flick of his fingers, he tossed the sprig of jasmine into her lap.

“Don't you think we've wasted enough years?”

His gaze rose, touched hers, then he turned and strode down the steps.

Alathea sat in the gazebo mentally replaying their exchanges, wondering, if she had the chance, if she would say anything different, do anything different, or manage to achieve anything more.

At the end of an hour, she lifted the jasmine and inhaled the heady scent. She focused on the sprig, then, with a self-deprecating grimace, tucked it into her cleavage.

For luck.

She'd diced with fate for her sisters and won. She'd just played for her own future—had she told him she wasn't aggressive? She'd risked everything on a last throw.

She'd do it again in a blink.

With a sigh, she rose and headed for the house.

S
unday evening. Gabriel let himself into his house with his latchkey. As he closed the door, Chance materialized from the back of the hall.

Gabriel handed him his hat and cane. “Is there brandy in the parlor?”

“Indeed, sir.”

Gabriel waved a dismissal. “I won't need anything more tonight.” He stopped with his hand on the parlor doorknob. “One thing—did Folwell bring his report?”

“Aye, sir—it's on the mantelshelf.”

“Good.” Entering the parlor, Gabriel shut the door and headed straight for the sideboard. He poured himself two fingers of brandy, then, glass in hand, lifted Folwell's missive from the mantelpiece and slumped into his favorite armchair. He took a long sip, his gaze on the folded sheet, then, setting both glass and note down on a side table, he pressed his hands to his eyes.

God, he was tired. Over the last week, aside from the time he'd spent with Alathea and a few restless hours' sleep, he'd devoted every waking minute to trying to shake formal statements—statements with legal weight—from a score of civil servants and foreign ambassadors' aides. To no avail. It wasn't that the gentlemen didn't want to be helpful; it was simply the way of governmental authority the world around. Everything had to be checked and triple-checked, and then authorized by someone else. Time, it seemed, was measured on a different scale in Whitehall and foreign parts both.

Sighing deeply, Gabriel stretched out his legs and leaned his head back, eyes closed. It wasn't his failure on the foreign front that was worrying him.

He'd called on Captain Aloysius Struthers that afternoon. Even from that short interview, it was clear that the captain was indeed the savior Alathea had thought him. His testimony, even in the absence of any further facts beyond those they'd already gleaned, would prompt the most reticent judge to a speedy and favorable decision. The problem was the captain had embarked on a crusade with all flags flying. He'd already contacted acquaintances in search of maps and mining leases.

Gabriel wasn't at all sure that was the way to sling a noose around Crowley's neck. Stealth might have been wiser.

He'd spent half an hour urging Struthers to caution, but the man hadn't wanted to listen. He was fixated on bringing Crowley down. In the end, Gabriel had accepted that and left, trying to ignore the presentiment of danger resonating, clarionlike, in his mind.

As long as Struthers appeared at Chancery Court on Tuesday morning, all would be well. Until then, however, the investigation and his nerves would teeter on a knife edge. One wrong move . . .

Opening his eyes, he straightened, reached for his glass, and grimly sipped. There was nothing more he could do tonight to bolster the Morwellan cause. It was, however, time and past that he attended to the other matter on his plate.