A Secret Love

Chapter 13

A waltz was just starting. Alathea's mad dash nearly sent her into the dancers. She teetered on the edge of the dance floor-

A hard arm collected her, sliding about her waist, swinging her forward, then expertly steadying her. She swallowed a shriek, then fought to catch her breath-and her balance, and her scattered wits, only to lose all three as Gabriel locked his arm around her, trapping her from breast to thigh against him. One hand held fast, he whirled her down the room.

Her body instantly came alive. Her breasts swelled. She fought to hold herself stiffly, but her body molded to his, thighs brushing evocatively at every turn. Their hips swayed together; memories churned.

Within seconds, she'd softened. She refused to meet his eyes, too busy struggling to master her whirling wits, to gather her resolution, to find some way forward. Her composure was all she had left; desperately, she clung to it.

He was holding her very close. As her head continued to whirl, as her body continued to heat with every revolution, she fixed her gaze over his shoulder, and hissed, "You're holding me too close."

Gabriel looked at her face, so achingly familiar yet… had he ever truly seen it before? His temper was up and running, his emotions rioting; he had no idea what he thought or felt. He could barely believe the truth in his arms. His hold on his impulses was tenuous as he let his gaze roam the long slender lines of her throat, the creamy expanse of skin above her neckline, over the rounded swells, now firm, hot and tight, pressed against his chest. "I've held you closer, if you recall."

The gravelly rasp of his words affected them both; she shot him a shocked, breathless, scandalized glance, then looked away.

She said nothing more; her feet followed his, her body flowing with his, fitting so neatly, so totally attuned they could both have waltzed for hours without thought. Gabriel grabbed the moments to bring some order to the chaos in his brain. He frowned as he noticed the difference in her height, then recalled the high heels he'd dropped to the carriage floor three nights before.

Glancing down as they whirled through the next turn, he confirmed his guess. "You never normally wear heels."

Her breasts swelled as she drew in a tight breath. "What are you talking about? You're making less sense than poor Skiffy Skeffington!"

His hold on his temper snapped. "Indeed? In that case, I suppose there's no point in asking how long you'd thought to carry on your charade, or in inquiring as to its purpose. You can understand, however, that that last exercises me greatly." He spoke through clenched teeth, his voice sharpened steel. He let his gaze rake her face; he saw only red. "Did you think to trap me into marriage? Is that what this is about? Surely not-" He tightened his hold as she tried to free her hand until he knew he was crushing her fingers. "You know I'd make your life a living hell, so why? Was it the challenge?" Already stiff, she went rigid. He glanced at her set face. "That sounds nearer the mark."

He looked up as they circled, then laughed mirthlessly.

"God, when I think of it!-Lincoln's Inn Fields, Bond Street, Bruton Street." He paused, then demanded, "Tell me, in Bruton Street, did you flee into the modiste's because you couldn't contain your laughter?"

She reacted-her hand, crushed in his, jerked, the fine tendons in her neck tensed-but she kept her gaze fixed over his shoulder and her lips pressed stubbornly tight.

"Why did you do it?"

She gave him no answer.

"As the cat's caught your tongue, let me see if I can guess… you missed your chance with your own Season, but given you had to come to London to give Mary and Alice their turn, you thought to enliven your stay by taking a shot at me. Thanks to my fond mama, I'm sure you know my reputation." His tone lashed. "Is that what you thought? That bringing me to my knees as the mysterious countess would be just the thing to enliven your stay?"

Pale, her expression stony, she refused to look at him, to meet his eyes, refused to assure him that he'd got it all wrong, that she'd never betray him like that.

Betrayed was what he felt-not just by her but by her alter ego, too. No matter his devotion, no matter his patience and skill, no matter how deeply he'd come to worship her, the countess would never have revealed her identity to him. As for his dreams…

Bitterness welled, then swelled even higher. She'd struck much deeper than mere dreams. She'd struck straight to his core, just as she always had; she'd stripped away his armor, found his most vulnerable spot and laid it bare. He hadn't even known he possessed such a weakness until she'd uncovered it. He could only curse her for it-she was the very last woman on earth he would willingly reveal any vulnerability to.

But even that was not the worst. The most vital wound, the one that left him bleeding inside, was that, despite knowing him so well, she hadn't trusted him.

That, of it all, hurt the most.

"I always wondered when you'd get tired of your life in the country. Tell me, now I've opened your eyes to the pleasures to be experienced in the capital, are you thinking of-" He didn't even hear what he said, as, element by element, he dismembered her character. Many considered his tongue too sharp for safety; he used it like a surgeon's knife to cut at her, to make her bleed, too. Just as she knew where to strike at him, he knew all her most sensitive spots. Like her height, like the fact she believed herself plain. And too old. He touched on each vulnerable point, savagely rejoicing when she stiffened, when her jaw locked.

He'd salvaged a tiny portion of his pride by the time the music slowed, and the red mist that had clouded his brain and his vision lifted enough for him to see the tears that stood in her eyes.

The music ended. They halted. She stood silent and still in his arms, her expression unyielding yet her whole being vibrating with suppressed emotion.

She met his gaze unflinchingly. Beyond the sheen of her tears, he saw his fury and hurt reflected back at him, over and over again.

"You do not have the first idea what you are talking about."

Each word was distinct, carefully enunciated, underscored with emotion. Before he could react, she pulled roughly from his arms, caught her breath, turned, and swept away.

Leaving him alone in the middle of the dance floor.

Still furious. Still hurt.

Still aroused.

Alathea sat at the breakfast table the next morning in a state of deadened panic. She knew the axe would soon fall, but she couldn't summon the strength to run. She felt physically drained; she'd barely slept a wink. Maintaining an outward show of calm was imperative, yet it was all she could do to smile at her family and pretend to nibble her toast.

Her stomach felt hollow but she couldn't eat. She could only just manage to sip her weak tea. Her head felt steady enough, yet at the same time strangely vacant, as if blocking out all Gabriel's hurtful words had blocked off her own thoughts as well.

She knew she couldn't think-she'd tried for hours last night, but every attempt had ended in tears. She couldn't think of what had happened, much less of what might.

Picking at her toast, she let her family's cheery talk wash over her and drew a little comfort from its warmth.

Then Crisp paused beside her and cleared his throat. "Mr. Cynster is here, m'lady, and wishes to speak with you."

Alathea looked up. Here! No-he wouldn't. "Wh-" She stopped and cleared her throat. "Which Mr. Cynster, Crisp?"

"Mr. Rupert, miss."

He would.

Serena waved a plump hand. "Do ask him if he's breakfasted yet, Crisp."

"No!-I mean, I'm sure he would have." Rising, Alathea placed her napkin by her plate. "I'm sure he's not thinking of ham and sausages."

"Well, if you're sure…" Serena frowned. "But it seems an odd time to call."

Alathea caught her eye. "It's just a little business matter we need to discuss."

"Oh." Serena mouthed the word, and immediately turned back to her family.

Slipping out of the breakfast parlor, Alathea reflected that her last words were no deception. All that Rupert-Gabriel-wished to speak about had occurred because of their "little business matter."

That wasn't going to make the coming interview any easier.

Crisp had shown Gabriel into the back parlor, a quiet room overlooking the rear gardens. On sunny days, the girls liked to gather there, but today, with the clouds closing in and drizzle threatening, it would be a quiet, and private, haven.

It was unlikely they would be disturbed.

Alathea considered that and grimaced. She'd dismissed Crisp and come alone. Hand on the doorknob, she drew in a breath, gathered her wilting strength, and refused to think of what she would face on the other side of the door.

Outwardly calm, she turned the knob and walked in.

His head turned instantly; their gazes locked. He'd been standing by the windows looking out. He considered her unblinkingly, then, in a low voice said, "Close the door. Lock it."

She hesitated.

"We don't need any interruptions."

She hesitated a moment more, then turned, shut the door, and snibbed the lock. Facing him again, she lifted her head, straightened her spine, and clasped her hands before her.

He continued to study her, his face unreadable.

"Come here."

Alathea considered, but she felt the tug, the compulsion. The threat. She forced her feet to carry her forward.

It was the most difficult thing she'd done in her life-crossing the wide parlor under his eye. She kept her head up, her spine rigid, but by the time she reached his side and the light fell full on her face, she was inwardly shaking, her reserves of strength, of resolution, seriously depleted. As she stopped beside him and met his hard gaze, she realized that was precisely as he'd intended.

He searched her face, his gaze sharp, acute, his features warrior-hard. "Now," he said, "what the devil's going on?"

Barely leashed anger vibrated behind the words. Drawing her gaze from his, she fixed it on the lawn and the enclosing trees. "You know most of it." She drew in a breath, to gain time, to gain control. "All that I told you as the countess is true, except-"

"That your supposed late husband is in fact your father, that the youthful Charles is Charlie, Maria is Mary, Alicia is Alice, and Seraphina is Serena. That much I'd guessed."

"Well, then." She shrugged. "That's it."

When he said nothing more, she risked a quick glance. He was waiting-he caught her gaze and held it.

A moment passed.

"Try again."

His temper reached her clearly. There would be no escape. "What do you want to know?" If she could cling to the straightforward, the matter-of-fact, she might just survive his inquisition.

"Is the earldom in as dire straits as you portrayed?"

"Yes."

"Why did you create the countess?"

Straightforward. Matter-of-fact. She returned her gaze to the vista outside. "If I'd written to you or visited you with the story of a suspect note without telling you of the family's financial plight, would you have undertaken the investigation yourself or handed it to Montague?"

"If you'd told me the whole story-"

"Put yourself in my shoes. Would you have told you the whole story? How close to ruin we stood? Still stand."

After a moment, he inclined his head. "Very well-I accept that you would have avoided telling me that. But the countess…?"

She lifted her chin. "It worked."

He waited, but she was too used to silence, to being silent with him, for the ploy to have any effect. His realization rang in his tone. "I take it your father and Serena are not aware of your masquerade."

"No."

"Who does know?"

"No one-well, only the senior servants."

"Your coachman… that was Jacobs?"

She nodded.

"Who of the others?"

"Nellie. Figgs. Miss Helm. Connor. Crisp, of course. And Folwell." She paused, then nodded. "That's all."

He swore under his breath. "All?"

She shot him a frown. "They're devoted to me. There's no need to imagine anything will come of it. They always do precisely as I say."

He looked at her, then one brow quirked higher. "Oh?" His tone had dropped to a whisper. Signaling her to silence, he crossed to the door, then flipped the lock and hauled it open in one movement, revealing Nellie, Crisp, Figgs, Miss Helm…

Alathea simply stared. Then she stiffened and glared. "Go away!"

"Well, m'lady." Nellie cast a wary glance at Gabriel. "We were just wondering-"

"I'm perfectly all right. Now go!"

They shuffled off. Gabriel closed the door, relocked it, then returned to the window.

"All right. So much for your masquerade." He stopped beside her; shoulder to shoulder, they looked out at the trees cloaked in dull shadow. "You can now tell me why you took it upon yourself to rescue your family."

"Well-" Alathea stopped, seeing the trap. "It seemed most sensible."

"Indeed? Let's see. A maid found the promissory note, which your father signed but somehow forgot about, and then you, your father, and Serena put your heads together, and they decided and agreed to let you pursue the matter-a matter that might destroy their lives-by yourself. Is that how it went?"

She regarded the trees stonily. "No."

"Well?"

The word hung in the air, insistent, persistent… "I usually handle all the business affairs."

"Why?"

She hesitated. "Papa… isn't very good with money. You know how… well, gentle he is. He really has no idea-none at all." She met his gaze. "My mother managed the estate until her death. My grandmother managed it before her."

He frowned. After a moment, he asked, "And so you now handle all the estate business?"

"Yes."

His eyes narrowed. "Since when?"

When she looked back at the trees and didn't answer, he stepped between her and the window, leaving them all but nose to nose. His eyes bored into hers. "When did your father cede his authority to you?"

Still she said nothing. He searched her eyes. "Would you rather I asked him?"

If it had been any other man, she'd have called his bluff. "Years ago."

"Eleven years ago?"

She didn't reply.

"That's what it was, wasn't it? That was the reason you left town. Not chicken pox-I never did believe that-but money. Your father had brought the earldom to point non plus; somehow, you found out and took up the reins. You cut short your first Season before it had begun and went home." He paused. "Is that what happened?"

Her expression set, she shifted her gaze, staring out over his shoulder.

"Tell me the details. I want to know."

He wouldn't rest until he knew. She drew in a tight breath. "Wiggs came to the house one afternoon. He looked… desperate. Papa saw him in the library. I went to ask if Papa wanted tea brought in. The library door was ajar. I overheard Wiggs pleading with Papa, explaining how deeply in debt the estate was, and how the expense of giving me my Season would quite literally run us aground. Papa didn't understand. He kept insisting that all would be well, that far from ruining us, my Season would be the earldom's salvation."

"He was counting on you making a good marriage?"

"Yes. Foolishly so."

"It might have worked."

She shook her head. "You haven't considered. I would have had no dowry-quite the opposite. Any successful suitor would have had to rescue the earldom, and the debts were mountainous. I had nothing at all to recommend me except my lineage."

"There are more than a few who would disagree."

She glanced at him, then looked back at the trees. "You forget-this was eleven years ago. Do you remember what I looked like at eighteen? I was painfully thin, even gawky. There was absolutely no chance I would make the sort of match required to save my family."

When she said nothing more, he prompted, "So?"

"When Wiggs left in despair, I went in and talked to Papa. I spent the night going over the estate records Wiggs had brought." She paused, then added, "The next morning, we packed and left London."

"You've been protecting your family-saving them-ever since?"

"Yes."

"Even though it cost you your life-the life you should have had."

"Don't be melodramatic."

"Me?" He laughed harshly. "That's the pot calling the kettle black. But if the shoe fits…" He caught her eye. "And it fits you." He stood directly before her, his gaze locked on her face. "You knew what it would mean from the very first-eleven years ago. If you'd shut your ears to your family's plight and seen out your Season, it's more than likely you would have married well-not, I grant you, well enough to save the earldom, but well enough to save yourself. You would have had a home, a title, a position-a chance to have your own family. All the things you'd been raised to expect. Your own future was there for the taking. You knew that, yet you chose to return to the country and struggle to resurrect the family fortunes, even if it meant you'd become an old maid. After your aborted Season, your family couldn't afford to have you come up again-couldn't afford to let anyone even guess. They certainly couldn't afford a respectable dowry, a point in itself too revealing, but you knew how it would be. So it all fell to you. You sacrificed your life-all of it-for them."

He sounded angry. Alathea set her chin. "You're making too much of it."

He held her gaze mercilously. "Am I?"

She couldn't avoid his eyes, the understanding lighting the hazel depths. The sacrifice of the years swept over her, the loneliness, the pain borne alone in the depths of the country. The mourning for a life she'd never had a chance to live. Dragging in a too-shallow breath, she fought to keep her gaze steady. When she was sure she had her voice under control, she said, "Don't you dare pity me."

His brow quirked in that way that was quintessentially his. "It hadn't occurred to me. I'm sure you made the decision yourself-you set out to do precisely what you've done. I see nothing to pity in that."

The dry comment gave her sensitivity, her vulnerability, the shield she needed. After a moment, she looked away. "So now you know it all."

Gabriel studied her face and wished that were true. In the hours since he'd learned the truth, he'd been buffeted, shaken, rocked to his soul by a tempest of emotions. Anger, raw fury, a desperate hurt, quenched pride; those were easily identified. Other passions, darker, more turbulent, much harder to define, had swelled the tumult to an ungovernable tide that had scored and ripped its way through him.

Now, in the aftermath, he felt, not empty, but cleared, as if the inner temple he'd built to house his soul had been smashed by the torrent, swept from its foundations and the bricks left scattered by the subsiding flood. Now he faced the task of building his inner house again. He could choose a simpler structure, one without the posturing, the false glamor, the boredom of which he'd grown so tired in recent months. Which bricks he chose to fashion his future was up to him, but the fact that he had a choice to make was due to her.

Only she could have caused such an upheaval.

His life from now on depended on what he did next, what he chose next. He'd come here, his anger still raging, fully intending to ring a peal over her. Now that he'd learned the whole story and finally understood what she'd been doing all along, his anger had resolved into something quite different, something intensely protective.

"What's the current state of the earldom's finances?"

She shot him a glance, then grudgingly offered a figure. 'That's the underlying security. The income from the farms adds to that."

"What's that amount to per year?"

Bit by bit he drew the details from her, enough to confirm that not even his genius, not even Devil's touch with management, Vane and Richard's experience, not even Catriona's power could have done more to bail out the Morwellans.

I wish you had come to me earlier-all those years ago.

Thus spake his heart; he knew better than to utter the words.

"So there's nothing more that can be done there. Your family's as secure as it can be in the circumstances." He ignored her offended stare. "What about this man of yours-Wiggs? Is he reliable?"

"I've always found him so." Stiffly, she added, "If it hadn't been for his intercession with the banks, we would have sunk long ago."

That had to be true. "What's he think of your masquerade-or haven't you told him?"

She didn't meet his eye. "He was very relieved when I told him I'd consulted you."

"So he doesn't know you've been consulting in disguise." He caught the look she threw him. "I need to know-I'm bound to meet the man sometime over this."

She blinked, arrested; at first, he didn't understand, then he did.

His jaw set. He felt like throttling her. "I am not going to walk away and leave you to deal with this alone."

Her relief was obvious, even though, sensing his reaction, she tried to hide it. The look in her eyes as they searched his made it clear she didn't understand his response.

Neither did he-not entirely. It was one of the long, vital list of things he didn't yet know, along with what he felt for her. Even now, standing no more than a foot from her, he had no idea what his feelings truly were. He had no intention of touching her-not yet. He couldn't yet contemplate dealing with the force that he knew would be unleashed when next he did, when next he took her in his arms. The time would come, but not yet, not until he'd realigned his mind and his senses to the new reality. The reality where he could stand so close to her and sense nothing beyond her warmth, a sensual, womanly, highly tempting warmth. No overtense, flickering nerves, no prickling uncomfortableness disturbed him. Their decades-old affliction had died last night when he'd hauled her into his arms and waltzed her down Lady Arbuthnot's ballroom.

While he hadn't yet got a firm hold on what he felt, he had even less idea of what she felt about it all.

Some hint of what was in his mind must have shown in his eyes. Hers widened; sudden uncertainty flared.

He held her gaze ruthlessly; he made no attempt to hide his thoughts. She'd given herself to him, albeit in disguise. She was going to have to cope with the outcome.

"What are you thinking?"

Deliberately, he raised a brow.

She actually blushed. Her eyes widened even more, frantically searching his.

"I suggest," he said, the words clipped and precise, "that given the seriousness of the threat the Central East Africa Gold Company poses we set aside further discussion of the ramifications of your masquerade until we've successfully dealt with the company."

He could almost see her feathers subside. A moment later, she nodded. "Agreed." She turned away. "Not that there'll be any ramifications."

He shot out a hand and shackled her wrist. She froze. The eyes that met his when he turned his head were wide. "Don't pretend." After a moment, he continued, his tone less forceful, "I said we'd defer discussion of the matter, not that we'd ignore it."

"There's nothing to ignore." Her tone was breathless; her other hand rose to her breast.

Turbulent emotion swelled, threatening to sweep him away. Jaw set, he held it back, but allowed it to infuse his eyes. "Don't tempt me."

The words, dark and low, vibrated with a power Alathea could sense; it gripped her, shook her, then held her, but lightly. If she tried to fight, the grip would tighten, would seize and pin her. For now, he was content to simply hold. Dragging in a shaky breath, she forced herself to look away.

She was immeasurably grateful when, an instant later, his fingers slid from her wrist.

"Have you learned anything since last we discussed the matter?"

The question gave her something to cling to, to respond to sensibly. "Wiggs." Dragging in another breath, she lifted her head. "I asked him to find out the legal procedure involved in getting the note declared invalid. He sent a message yesterday saying he had an appointment with one of the Chancery Court judges tomorrow morning to discuss the possibilities."

"Good. Anything else?"

She grew calmer. "I've been looking for maps of the area to check the locations Crowley mentioned."

"Detailed maps of that area are hard to find."

"True, but I finally found one in a biography. It shows those three towns Crowley mentioned-Fangak, Lodwar, and Kafia. They're small, but there."

"What did the biographer say about them?"

She hesitated. "I don't know. I didn't read the text."

He sighed through his teeth.

"I will! I only found it two days ago. Anyway, what have you been doing? Have you located the captain?"

"No." Gabriel frowned. "It's not that simple. He's definitely not with any of the major shipping lines. There are scores of others to check, so we're checking. I've nosed about White's but no one remembers him. Incidentally, who saw him-Charlie?"

"No, Papa. But he doesn't remember anything beyond what I've told you. And I've made him promise to bring the captain home if he sees him again."

"Hmm. I've got people searching, but it's possible he's no longer in London. Most of the senior seamen come ashore, then head off to visit family, often out of London, returning only a day or so before they're due to sail again."

"So we might not see the captain again."

"Not if we simply wait to see him. There are other possibilities I'm following up." He glanced at the mantelpiece clock. "Speaking of which, I have to be elsewhere." He met Alathea's gaze. "Are we agreed that we'll pool all information so we can settle this business as expeditiously as possible?"

Alathea nodded.

"Good." He held her gaze for an instant, then he raised his hand.

Alathea's breath suspended; lost in the hazel depths of his eyes, she inwardly quivered as his fingers traced, then cradled her jaw. The pad of his thumb brushed slowly over her lips. She felt her eyes flare, her lips soften. Her wits whirled.

"And then," he stated, "we'll settle the rest."

She was tempted to raise a brow; caution stepped in and prevented it. When she simply held his gaze, he nodded.

"I'll call on you tomorrow."

She'd never been afraid of Gabriel; after careful consideration, Alathea concluded she still wasn't. It wasn't fear that tightened her nerves when she caught sight of him while strolling in the park; it was anticipation, but of what she wasn't sure.

Together with Mary, Alice, Heather, and Eliza, she'd been strolling for twenty minutes. Lord Esher and his friend Mr. Carstairs, of the Finchley-Carstairs, young gentlemen of impeccable credentials, had joined the group, his lordship to chat with Mary, while Mr. Carstairs manfully engaged the others, although his gaze strayed frequently to Alice's face.

Ambling in the rear, Alathea had watched the budding romances with an approving eye, until she saw Gabriel approaching. After that, she saw nothing beyond him, severely elegant in morning coat, buckskin breeches, and Hessians, the breeze ruffling his chestnut locks. His expression easy, he greeted her sisters and his with brotherly familiarity, appraised the suddenly tense young men, and nodded his approval. Then his gaze slid to her. Deserting the younger crew, he strolled to her side.

Alathea locked both hands on her parasol handle and prayed he wouldn't commandeer one.

His eyes met hers, then his brow quirked. "I don't bite," he murmured, as he halted beside her. "At least," he amended, voice deepening, "not in public."

Awareness swept her; she felt her blush rise. He viewed the sight, his brow quirked again, then he turned and surveyed the group moving far ahead of them. "I suppose we'd better keep them in sight."

"Indeed." Alathea stepped out; he fell in beside her.

"Have you heard from Wiggs yet?"

"No-his appointment was scheduled for eleven." It was only just past noon.

"Will you be at the Clares' ball tonight?"

"Yes."

"Good-I'll meet you there."

Alathea nodded. That was one benefit of the countess's unmasking; they could now easily meet to exchange information. "I read that explorer's book, at least the relevant parts."

As she jiggled her parasol and dug into her reticule, she felt Gabriel's gaze on her face.

"Burning the midnight oil?"

She flicked him a glance. She didn't need him to tell her she had rings under her eyes. "When else would I get time to read?"

The tartness of the reply had no discernible effect. "Running yourself ragged isn't going to help. What's this?" He took the sheet she thrust at him.

"That's the description the explorer gave of those three towns."

He perused it as they strolled; his brows gradually rose. "How very interesting. When was this explorer in these parts?"

"Only early last year. The book's just been published." Alathea leaned closer, peering at the sheet. She tapped one paragraph. "As I recall, Crowley said the company had purchased a large building in Fangak from some French government agency to house the workers involved in the construction of the company's mines. According to the explorer, Fangak is 'a collection of flimsy wooden huts far from civilization'."

"Crowley also said Lodwar was on a major road. Instead, it appears to be a tiny settlement halfway up a rugged mountainside, 'well away from the beaten track'."

Alathea glanced at his face. "It's evidence, isn't it?"

He looked at her, then nodded. Folding the note, he slipped it into his pocket. "But we'll need more." He looked at the group ahead of them. "How's that shaping?"

"Promisingly. Esher becomes more definite by the day, while Carstairs…" Tilting her head, Alathea considered the young gentleman. "I think he's trying to screw his courage to the sticking point, but is having a hard time believing that it's actually happened to him."

Gabriel snorted. "Poor bugger."

Alathea pretended not to hear.

They strolled on, following the others, then Gabriel halted. "I'll leave you here."

Alathea turned to him, only to feel his fingers close about hers. He raised her hand and considered it, slim fingers trapped by his. Then he lifted his gaze to her eyes.

She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He was close; because of her height, her parasol shaded them both, creating an illusion of privacy in the middle of the park. They never exchanged the routine pleasantries, touching hands, bowing, but now he held her hand, and her, too; she wondered what he meant to do.

His lips twisted, wry and taunting both. "I'll see you tonight."

He pressed her hand briefly, then released it. With a nod, he left her.

Alathea stood still, breathing evenly, and watched him stride away. Part of her mind noted that he'd left just before their ambling stroll would have brought them into view of the carriage drive, presently lined with the carriages of the ton's matrons, including those of his mother and aunt. The rest of her mind was engrossed with the burning question of what he thought he was about, what tack he intended to take with her.

The situation between them had changed, yet he still wanted her, even though he now knew who she was. He still intended to have her, to continue their illicit liaison; amazing though that seemed, that much was clear.

Very little else was.

With the countess's unmasking, all control of their interaction had passed to him. She was completely in his power, a power she knew better than to imagine he wouldn't, if provoked, wield.

The little group she was watching were drawing ahead. Straightening her parasol, she set out in their wake.

What he had in mind she couldn't begin to guess, any more than she could be sure of his motives. Given their encounters in Bond Street and Bruton Street, let alone the rest, he might well wish to punish her. His present conduct might be a facade, adopted to ease their way while they pursued the company. He was more than honorable enough to put aside his own feelings until they'd dealt with the threat. Then he might consider retribution.

Luckily, he rarely held a grudge. By the time their investigations were complete, it was possible, even likely, that his interest in her would have waned, that he would have grown bored and shifted his sights to his next conquest.

A frown in her eyes, Alathea climbed the slope to the carriage drive, and wondered why the prospect of him growing bored with her and thus abandoning any notion of retribution did not bring her any sense of ease.