A Secret Love (46 page)

He was a coward.

A difficult fact for a Cynster to face, but face it he must.
She
had given him no choice.

He hadn't seen Alathea since their meeting in the gazebo the previous afternoon. Indeed, he didn't
want
to see her, not until he'd decided what to do, how to respond to her ultimatum. She made him feel so . . .
primitive
, so stripped of all his elegant attitudes, the patina of his social charm. With her, he felt like a caveman, one who had suddenly discovered heaven on earth was beyond the ability of his club to provide. He'd painted the details of their future life intending to lure her into admitting how desirable it would be, to show her how easily their lives would mesh. Instead, he'd opened his own eyes to how desperately
he
wanted all that he'd described.

He hadn't considered the details before—he'd known he wanted her as his wife and that had been enough. But now that he'd conjured up such visions in all their glory, they haunted him.

And pricked and prodded at his cowardice.

Was he going to risk that future—the glorious future that should be theirs—simply because he couldn't find the words to tell her what she wanted to know? Because the mere thought of what she truly meant to him closed his throat and rendered him incapable of speech?

But there
were
no words to encompass all she was to him, so how the devil
could
he tell her?

He swallowed a mouthful of brandy, and brooded on that fact. But he had to tell her, and soon. Patience had never been his strong suit—patience that entailed concommitant abstinence was utterly foreign to his nature. He'd endured more than a week without her; his stock of patience was stretched vanishingly thin. He certainly wasn't about to let the court case run its course and risk her slipping back to the country. If she did, he'd have to hie after her, and just think how revealing
that
would be to the now all-too-interested ton.

No—he had to speak before Tuesday morning. God knew how things would pan out after that, Struthers or no. And if, by some hellish twist of fate, things went awry and the decision went against them . . . if he waited until then to drum up his courage and speak, it might take forever to convince her he wasn't simply doing his all to whisk her into his protection. He'd probably go insane before he succeeded. Best to strike now, when their case looked strong, so she had less justification to attribute all his motive to his admittedly obsessive protective instinct. He wasn't sorry for that instinct—he wouldn't dream of apologizing for it—but he could see that in this case, it was going to get in his way.

So—how to tell her what she insisted on knowing before Tuesday morning?

He couldn't see himself doing the deed via a formal morning call, and trying to talk to her in the park would be insane. Reaching for Folwell's note, he scanned the list of Alathea's engagements. As he'd supposed, the next time he and she would unavoidably meet was at the Marlboroughs' ball tomorrow night.

They'd meet at Chancery Court the next morning.

Gabriel grimaced. How, between appearing in court and now, did fate expect him to declare his hand, let alone his heart?

“Send Nellie up to me, Crisp. I may as well get ready.”

“Indeed, Lady Alathea. I believe Nellie's with Figgs. I'll inform her immediately.” Crisp sailed on through the green baize door.

Alathea climbed the stairs, doggedly ignoring her constantly vacillating emotions. On the one hand, she felt almost hysterical with relief, buoyed to the point of frivolity over having the sword that had hung over the family's future for the past months all but effectively removed. The captain's testimony would carry the day against Ranald Crowley. There were moments when she had to concentrate to keep a silly grin from her face.

She had mentioned to her father and Serena that matters were looking up. A superstitious quirk had stopped her from assuring them that the family was finally safe. That she would do later in the week, the instant the judge handed down his decision.

But they were safe. She knew it in her heart.

Her heart, unfortunately, was otherwise engaged, not at all inclined to share in her imminent joy. On a matter that had, to her considerable surprise, come to mean more to her than even her family, her heart was troubled. Uneasy. Unfulfilled.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she released her skirts and sighed.

What was he up to?

She hadn't seen him, or heard from him since he'd left her in the gazebo, his harsh words “Don't you think we've wasted enough years?” ringing in her ears. So what now? Did he imagine she'd weaken and meekly acquiesce?

“Hah!” Lips compressing, she swept down the wing and flung open the door to her room. Nellie's footsteps came pattering after her.

“I want that ivory and gold gown—the one I was saving for a special occasion.”

“Oooh!” Nellie darted to the wardrobe. “What's the occasion, then?”

Alathea sat before her dressing table; in the mirror, she considered the militant light in her eyes. “I haven't yet decided.”

She wasn't going to do it—weaken and give in. She was going to be tenacious, stubborn—she was utterly determined. As far as she could see,
she
was the one who had taken all the risks thus far—in demanding his sworn motives, in being so naively transparent. It was time he did his part and told her the full truth.

A tap on the door heralded her bathwater. While Nellie oversaw the preparations, Alathea unpinned and brushed her hair, then wound it in a simple knot. Nellie came to fetch her usual bath salts; she mumbled through lips clamped about hairpins, “No—not those. The French sachets.”

Nellie's brows rose, but she hurried to the drawer where the expensive birthday present from Serena was secreted. A moment later, a lush scent reminiscent of the countess's perfume wreathed through the room.

Nellie's face was gleefully alight; without further direction, she assembled all required to turn Alathea out at her finest—at her most seductive.

It was nearly an hour later before they were done. As she settled a gold cap on her hair, Alathea studied her reflection, trying to see herself through his eyes. Her hair shone, her eyes were wide and bright. Her complexion—something she rarely considered—was flawless. The years had erased all traces of youth from both face and figure, leaving both honed, refined. She touched her fingers lightly to her lips, then smiled. Swiftly, she scanned the expanse of her shoulders and breasts revealed by the exquisite gown, one Serena had forced on her earlier in the Season.

Sending heartfelt thanks winging her stepmother's way, Alathea stood. The gown rustled as the stiff silk fell straight, the gold embroidery at neckline and hem glittering. Stepping back, she turned, studying her outline, the way the gown caressed her hips. Determination glowed in her eyes.

As far as she was concerned the next move was Gabriel's, especially given he'd been so helpful as to make her declaration for her. Being naively transparent was bad enough—having one's transparency explained to one was infinitely worse.

She wasn't going to budge. He was going to have to convince her, utterly, completely, beyond a shadow—“Here!” Nellie turned from the door to which a tap had summoned her. “Look what's come.” Alerted by the wonder in Nellie's voice, Alathea looked around.

Reverently holding a white-and-gilt box, Nellie gazed delightedly on what it contained. Then she beamed at Alathea. “It's for you—and there's a note!”

Alathea's heart leaped; her lungs seized. She sank back down on her dressing stool. As Nellie approached with the box, Alathea realized the reason for her awestruck expression. The box wasn't white—it was glass lined with white silk. It wasn't gilt, either—the decorations at corners, hinge and latch were all pure gold.

As Nellie gave it into her hands, Alathea could not imagine anything more exquisite. What on earth did it contain?

She didn't need to open it to find out. The lid was not lined. Through it, she saw a simple posy.

Simple, yes; in all other respects the posy was a match for the box. A group of five white flowers of a kind she'd never seen were secured with a ribbon of gold filigree. The posy nestled amid the white silk, all but hiding the note beneath. The petals of the flowers were lush, thick, velvety, the green of their stems a sharp contrast.

It was the most elaborate, expensive, extravagant come-out posy Alathea had ever seen.

Swivelling on the stool, she set the box on her dressing table and raised the lid. A drift of perfume reached her, sensual and heavy. Once inhaled, it didn't leave her. Carefully sliding her fingers beneath the flowers, she lifted the posy and set it aside. Then she drew out the note. Barely breathing, she opened it.

The message was simple—a single line in his bold, aggressive hand.

You have my heart—don't break it
.

She read the words three times and still couldn't tear her eyes away. Then her vision misted; she blinked, swallowed. Her hand began to shake. Quickly folding the note, she laid it down.

And concentrated on dragging in her next breath.

“Oh, dear,” she finally managed, and even that wavered. Blinking frantically, she stared at the posy. “Oh,
heavens
. What on earth am I to do?”

“Why you'll carry it, of course. Very nice, I must say.”

“No, Nellie, you don't understand.” Alathea put her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, how
like
him to make it complicated!”

“Him, who? Master Rupert?”

“Yes. Gabriel. He's called that now.”

Nellie sniffed. “Well, I can't see why you can't carry his flowers, even if he is using some other name.”

Alathea swallowed a hysterical laugh. “It's not his
name
, Nellie, it's
me
. I can't carry a girl's come-out posy.”

He'd known, of course. She'd never had her come-out, never received a come-out posy, never had the opportunity to carry one.

“Damn the man!” She felt like weeping with happiness. “What am I to do?” She'd never felt so flustered in her life. She wanted to carry the flowers, to pick them up, rush out of the door like an eager young girl, and hurry to the ball just so she could show him—her lover—that she understood. But . . . “The scandalmongers are watching us as it is.” If she carried the posy, they'd be the
on-dit
of the night. Possibly the whole Season.

“Maybe I can wear them as a corsage?” She tried it, angling the flowers this way, then that, at her right, her left, in the center of her neckline.

“No.” She sighed. “It won't do.” One flower wasn't enough against the gold embroidery, but three, the number needed to balance the spray, was too much, too large. Far too visible. Aside from anything else, the spray would be in her constant vision—facing him over it, spending the evening with him by her side with his flowers so blatantly between them would be impossible. She'd never maintain her composure.

“I can't.” Dismayed, she gazed at the beautiful blooms—at the favor her warrior had sent her as a token of his heart. She desperately wanted to carry them, but didn't dare. “Fetch a vase, Nellie.”

With a disapproving humph, Nellie left.

Alathea cradled the posy in her hands, and let all that it meant wash through her. Then she heard Mary's and Alice's voices; blinking, sniffing, she gently laid the posy back in the box and set it to one side of the table. In a daze, she finished her toilette, clasping her mother's pearls about her throat, placing the matching drops in her ears, lavishly dabbing on the countess's perfume.

“Allie? Are you ready?”

“Yes. I'm coming!” Her wits whirling, she rose. Her gaze on the posy, cradled in its delicate box, she breathed in, exhaled, then picked up her reticule and turned.

“Hurry! The coach is here!”

“I'm coming.” Reaching the threshold, Alathea lingered. Her hand on the door, she looked back at the delicate box he'd used to send her his heart.

Her gaze lifted to the mirror beyond, to her own reflection.

A moment later, she blinked. Leaving the door, she recrossed the room.

Halting before the dressing table, she picked up his note. She reread his message, then looked again at her reflection. Her lips twisted, lifted. Tucking the note into her jewelry box, she raised her hands to her cap.

It took a moment to ease out the pins. Alathea ignored the chorus of calls wafting along the corridor. This time, her family could wait.

Laying aside the cap, she quickly unwound the posy. She wrapped the ribbon around the tight bun on the top of her head and tied it in a simple knot, the trailing ends interleaving with the surrounding curls. Fingers shaking, she separated three luscious blooms from the arrangement. By the time she'd threaded the stems into her thick hair and secured them with pins, she was smiling, her heart soaring, her face mirroring her joy.

Nellie rushed in, vase in hand, and abruptly halted. “Oh,
my
! Well, now! That's better!”

“Put the others in water. I have to rush.” Whirling, Alathea squeezed Nellie's arm, then, breathless, ran to the door.

Brows high, Nellie watched her go, then, a broad smile wreathing her face, she bustled to the dressing table. She placed the two remaining blooms in the vase, then carefully carried it to the table beside the bed. Nellie wiped her hands and returned to the dressing table to tidy Alathea's combs and brush. She was about to turn away when the folded note poking out from Alathea's jewelry box caught her eye.

Nellie cast a glance at the door, then lifted the lid of the jewelry box and took out the note. She unfolded it, read it, then refolded it and replaced it. And chuckled delightedly. “You'll do, my lad. You'll do.”

Gabriel saw his flowers in Alathea's hair the instant she appeared in the archway giving onto Lady Marlborough's ballroom. The sight transfixed him; joy, relief, and something far more primal locked his lungs. Pausing with her family at the top of the stairs, Alathea looked down, over the ballroom, but didn't immediately see him. His gaze didn't leave her as she slowly descended the broad sweep, one hand lightly skimming the balustrade as she searched the throng.