His.
The powerful surge of possessiveness was achingly familiar. It was the same emotion she’d always evoked in him, the wellspring of that godforsaken tension that had gripped him whenever she was close. The emotion had clarified, crystallized. In unveiling the countess, other veils had been torn aside, too; he could now see his primitive impulse for what it truly was—the instinctive desire to seize his mate. To Have and To Hold was the Cynster family motto; hardly surprising he felt the impulse so keenly.
But how much was it safe to reveal to her? “How long have we known each other?”
“Forever—all our lives.”
“Weeks ago, you told Chillingworth that our relationship had been decided for us. I agreed. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“The earliest memory I have of you, you must have been all of two years old. I would have been three. From our cradles, our parents told us we were friends. I was twelve when treating you as a sister started becoming difficult. I never understood why—all I knew was that something was wrong. You knew it, too.”
Her “yes” was a whisper; they were both looking back down the years.
“Remember that time we had to slip out of old Collinridge’s barn by the back window and your habit got caught on a nail? Lucifer was already mounted, holding the horses—I had to catch your hips and hold you up so you could unhook the material.”
He paused; a second later, she reactively shivered.
“Precisely. All that time, it was a peculiar blend of heaven and hell. I could never understand why I always gravitated to your side, always wanted to be near you, because whenever I was close, I felt . . . violent. Crazed. As if I wanted to grab hold of you and shake you.”
Her laugh was shaky. “I was never certain you wouldn’t.”
“I never dared. I was too afraid laying hands on you—touching you in any way—would drive me mad, that I would behave like some bedlamite. That one dance we shared was bad enough.”
They both gazed blindly over the lawns, then he continued, “What I’m trying to point out is that I’ve felt . . . possessive of you for a very long time. I didn’t know what the feeling was until after that night at the Burlington, but it isn’t something that only recently evolved. It’s been there, between us, growing stronger for over twenty years. If our parents hadn’t set us up as brother and sister, that feeling would long since have resolved itself in marriage. As it is, your masquerade has opened our eyes and given us a chance to rescript our relationship into what it ought to be.” He glanced at her; she was still stubbornly facing the lawn. “I’m more than sexually attracted to you—you’re the woman I want as my wife.”
She tilted her head. “How many women have you known?”
He frowned. “I don’t know. I haven’t counted.”
She looked at him, one brow high, disbelief in her eyes.
He gritted his teeth. “All right. I did count at first, but I gave up long ago.”
“What number did you reach before you stopped counting?”
“That is neither here nor there. What point are you trying to make?”
“Merely that you seem to like women but, until now, that liking hasn’t prompted you to beat a path to the parson’s door. Why now? Why me?”
He saw the trap but was ready to turn the questions to his advantage. “The now is simple—it’s time.” The fateful words, “Your time will come,” resonated in his mind. “I knew that at Demon’s wedding. I just didn’t know the who. You know how edgy Mama has been getting—much as it pains me to admit it, she’s right. It is time for me to marry, to settle, to think of the next generation. As for the ‘why you,’ it isn’t, as you seem determined to think, because you’re a friend of the family and that because we’ve been intimate, I think I’ve ruined you and needs must make reparation.”
His increasingly clipped tone had her glancing his way; he trapped her gaze. “What I’m saying is that you are the woman I want as my wife. Just that—I need no other reason.” He paused, then continued, “You might have noticed I no longer suffer when I’m close to you. I can sit beside you, more or less at ease, no longer feeling caged to the point of madness, because I know I can take you in my arms and kiss you, that at some point in the not-overly-distant future, you’ll lie beneath me again.” He let his voice drop. “However, if you’re witless enough to try to fight this—all that’s between us—if you try to refuse me and smile instead at Chillingworth or any other man, then I can guarantee that what has been between us through the years will be as nothing to what will be.”
She held his gaze steadily. “Is that a threat?”
“No. It’s a promise.”
She considered him, then opened her mouth—
He laid a finger across her lips. “I’m deeply attached to you, you know that. Now I’m no longer blinded and forbidden by preconception, I can admit it. I desire you sexually, but that’s only the half of it. I want you because I can think of no other I would rather share my life with. We suit. We could be successful life-partners. We’ve never been friends, not really, but with the difficulty between us removed, that’s another relationship within our reach.”
Her eyes searched his—she was marshaling her arguments, still stubbornly resisting for all she was worth.
Releasing her lips, he traced her jaw, then let his hand fall to the sofa back. “Thea, no matter how you struggle to refute it, you know what’s between us. It might have been cloaked and veiled for years, but now we’ve stripped away the disguise, you can see what it is as well as I.” He held her gaze. “It’s an ardent and undying passion, not just on my part but yours as well.”
Alathea looked away. She didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t just her head that was spinning. His words had evoked so many emotions, so many long-buried needs and barely recognized dreams. But . . . drawing herself up, she stated, “You’re telling me your emotions are engaged.”
“Yes.”
“That what’s between us demands marriage as its proper state—its necessary outcome.”
“Yes.”
When she stared into the distance and said nothing more, he prompted, “Well?”
“I’m not sure I believe you.” Facing him, she hurried to explain, “Not about what’s between us so much as why you believe we should marry.” She searched his face, then, mentally girding her loins, she spoke bluntly. “We do know each other well—very well. You claim that the feelings that have always plagued us were due to frustrated desire, that what’s between us is that—physical desire—and I accept that that’s probably so. You’ve said that your emotions are engaged and I accept that, too. But what I don’t know is: Which is the most prominent emotion?”
A scowl formed in his eyes. “Whichever emotion it is that prompts a man to marriage.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. The emotion that’s prompting, pressing, spurring you to marry me is the one dominant emotion you possess. You want to protect me. You’ve made up your mind that the right way forward is via the chapel and you’re always successful once you fix your mind on a goal. Unfortunately, in this case, attaining your goal requires my cooperation, so I’m afraid your record of success is about to end.”
“You think I made all that up.”
“No—I think you were in the main sincere, but I don’t believe your conclusions fit your facts. I think you’re fudging. And if you want to know whether I think you would lie in pursuit of what you saw as a higher goal, then yes, I think you’d lie through your teeth.” With her eyes, she challenged him to deny it.
Lips compressed, he held her gaze intimidatingly, but didn’t.
She nodded. “Exactly. We know each other all too well. In creating the countess, I knew precisely what to say, how to pull the right strings to get you to do as I wished. I’m not so puffed up in my own conceit that I imagine you aren’t clever enough to do precisely the same to me. You’ve decided we should marry, so you’ll do whatever you need to to bring our marriage about.”
He looked at her steadily. She’d expected an immediate reaction, possibly an aggressive one. His silent appraisal unnerved her. She could read nothing of his thoughts in his eyes.
Then he sat up. The arm along the back of the sofa slid about her; his other hand rose to frame her face. A split second and she was held, lightly, in his embrace.
“You’re right.”
She blinked. Was that a wry smile she saw in his eyes? “About what?”
His gaze lowered to her lips. “That I’ll do whatever I must to bring our marriage about.”
Alathea mentally cursed. She hadn’t meant to phrase it as a challenge. “I—”
“Tell me,” he murmured. “Do you accept that what’s between us is an ‘ardent and undying passion’?”
It was a struggle to draw breath. “Ardent, perhaps, but not undying. Given time, it will fade.”
“You’re wrong.” He leaned closer and brushed her lips with his. The contact was too light to satisfy; all it did was make her hungry, too.
His breath was warm on her throbbing lips. “The ardency that flooded you last night when I filled you . . .” His lips touched hers again, another achingly incomplete kiss. “The passion that drove you to open yourself to me, to bestow whatever sensual gift I asked for. Do you think those will fade?”
Never. Alathea swayed. Her lids were so heavy, all she could see was his lips moving closer. Her hands, on his lapels, should have held him back; instead, her fingers curled, drawing him nearer. Her wits were drowning in a sea of sensual longing. In the instant before his lips completed her conquest, she managed to whisper, “Yes.”
Lips touched, brushed, settled. An instant later, she surrendered on a sigh, giving him her mouth, thrilling to the slow, unhurried claiming. He touched every inch, then deliberately invoked the memory of their joining. Heady passion, ardent longing, had her firmly in their grip when he drew back and whispered against her lips, “Liar.”
“Good morning.”
Alathea looked up, and only just managed not to gape. “What are you doing here?”
Here was her office, her private, personal domain into which others ventured only by invitation. The room she had retreated to, ostensibly to tally the household accounts, in reality to search for some sure, safe, sensible path through her suddenly shifting world. Since their interlude in the gazebo, she was no longer sure what was real and what mere fanciful imaginings. As she watched Gabriel close the door, she resigned herself to making no progress on that front, not with him in the same small room.
“It occurred to me”—he scanned the room as he strolled toward her—“that with the Season at its zenith, we can expect Crowley to call in his promissory notes in about two weeks.” Reaching the desk, he met her gaze. “It’s time we started framing our petition to the bench.”
“Only two weeks?”
“He won’t wait until the very end. He’s more likely to draw in his pigeons at the height of the whirl, when the ton provides maximum distraction. I suggest,” he said, lowering his long limbs into the armchair facing the desk, “that you summon Wiggs. We’ll need his input. I’ve brought Montague’s figures.”
Alathea considered him, entirely at his ease in her chair. He smiled at her winningly, his expression studiously mild. With awful calm, she rose and tugged the bell pull. When Crisp answered, she requested him to send for Wiggs. Crisp bowed and departed; she turned back to discover Gabriel eyeing the ledgers on her desk.
“What are you doing?”
“The household accounts.”
“Ah.” A smile flirted about his lips. “Don’t let me disturb you.”
Alathea vowed she wouldn’t, something much easier said than done. Pen in hand, she forced herself to tally column after column. Despite her intentions, the figures showed a distressing tendency to fade before her eyes. At full stretch, her senses flickered. She bit her lip, clenched her fingers tighter on the pen, and frowned at her neat entries.
“Need any help?”
“No.”
She completed three more columns, then carefully looked up. He was watching her, an expression in his eyes she couldn’t place. “What?”
He held her gaze, then slowly lifted one brow.
She blushed. “Go away! Go and sit in the drawing room.”
He grinned. “I’m comfortable here, and the scenery’s to my liking.”
Alathea glared at him.
The click of the latch had them both turning. Augusta’s shining head appeared around the door. “Can I come in?”
Alathea beamed. “Indeed, poppet. But where’s Miss Helm?”
“She’s helping Mama with the placecards for the dinner.” Shutting the door, Augusta came forward, studying Gabriel with the frank gaze of the young.
“You remember Mr. Cynster. His mama and papa live at Quiverstone Manor.”
Gabriel lay there, a lazy lion relaxed in the chair, then he held out a hand. “That’s a big doll.”
Augusta considered, then turned Rose and held her out. “I bet you can’t guess her name.”
Gabriel took the doll; propping it on one knee, he studied it. “She used to be called Rose.”
“She still is!” Augusta followed Rose, clambering onto Gabriel’s lap.
As he settled her, he looked up—and met Alathea’s astonished stare. He grinned and looked down at Augusta. “Did your sister ever tell you about the time Rose got stuck in that big apple tree at the end of your orchard?”
Alathea watched and listened, amazed that he still remembered all the details, and that Augusta, so often shy, had taken so readily to him. Then again, he did have three much younger sisters; he could probably write the definitive thesis on bewitching young girls.
Seizing opportunity, she quickly finished the accounts, then opened another ledger and settled to check through receipts. The activity used only a small part of her brain; the rest grappled with the problem of Gabriel, and what she could and should do about him. The sound of his deep voice, rumbling low as he charmed Augusta, was familiar and oddly comforting.
Two days had passed since they’d met in the gazebo, two days since she’d last been in his arms with his lips on hers. They’d met that evening at a ball; although he’d claimed two waltzes, he’d claimed nothing more. He’d appeared the next morning to stroll through the park by her side. She’d been ready to counter any possessive move he made, any maneuver to demonstrate his claim over her. He hadn’t made one. Unfortunately, the understanding in his eyes warned her that he knew how she felt, how she would react; he was simply biding his time until the battlefield better suited his purpose.
Of that purpose there remained not a smidgen of doubt. Marriage. The notion—not of marriage but of marriage to him—deeply unnerved her. Just thinking of him now unnerved her in a way she’d never had to deal with before. Intimacy, and all the emotions wrapped up with it, had thoroughly disrupted her inner landscape. Yet if he’d allowed her to disappear as she’d planned, to fade out of his life, while she might regret the brevity of their association, she would, she felt sure, have remained inwardly steady.
Instead, she was whirling, her stomach often hollow, uncertainty and excitement an unsettling blend. What she felt for him now she couldn’t put a name to—was afraid to put a name to, to even study it at all, not while she had to refuse him.
He’d decided to marry her because he desired her and because he wanted her as his wife. The reason behind that want he’d refused to clarify; she felt sure he was motivated by a compulsion to protect her.
The prospect of him marrying her with protection his true aim chilled her. He would be kind, considerate, generous—even a friend—but as time passed, he would cease to be hers alone. He would cease to be her lover. They would grow apart . . .
With a little jerk, she returned to the present, to her office and the ledger open before her, to the rumble of Gabriel’s voice and Augusta’s piping prattle. Sucking in a breath, she held it, and tidied her pile of receipts.
Marking off the last of the receipts, she opened a drawer and placed them in a box, then shut the drawer and shut her ledger. The slap of the pages brought Gabriel’s and Augusta’s heads up. Alathea smiled. “I have to talk business with Mr. Cynster now, poppet.”
Sliding from Gabriel’s lap, Augusta gifted her with a confident smile. “He said I could call him Gabriel. It’s his name.”
“Indeed.” Rising and rounding the desk, Alathea hugged Augusta, then set her on her feet. “Off you go now—Miss Helm should be nearly finished.”
Ducking around Alathea’s skirts, Augusta waved to Gabriel and sang “Good-bye,” then happily skipped to the door.
As it shut behind her, Alathea felt long fingers tangle with hers. She turned to discover Gabriel studying her hand, now entwined with his.
“What ‘business’ do you wish to discuss?” He looked up, invitation in his eyes.
One part of her mind urged her to whisk her hand from his, to whisk herself out of his orbit. The rest of her reveled in the warmth that flooded her as his fingers caressed her palm. Alathea studied the sleepy, languid beckoning in his eyes, and was deceived not at all. She looked at the wall clock. “Wiggs will be another twenty minutes, but we can make a start on a draft without him.”
Looking back at Gabriel, she raised a brow and gently detached her hand. He grimaced but let her go. “All right. But you can write.” He rose as she resumed her seat behind the desk. “We can start by noting the false claims we’ve identified.”
Unsurprised to find herself his amanuensis, Alathea set a sheet of paper on the blotter. They listed Montague’s calculations derived from the figures Crowley had provided Gerrard, comparing them with those Crowley had claimed. Gabriel stated and she transcribed, adding and correcting as they went. He paced back and forth behind her, between the desk and the window, stopping now and then to read over her shoulder. When they reached the end of Montague’s findings, Gabriel halted beside her, scanning the list. His hand closed on her shoulder, close by her neck, on skin left bare by her summer morning gown.