His hand nestled there, strong fingers gentle on her skin.
“What next, do you think?”
Her composure shattered, unable to breathe, Alathea heard the mild words and realized with a hot rush horribly akin to mortification that he hadn’t meant to discompose her. He’d simply touched her as a close personal friend might, without any sexual intention.
She was the one thinking of sexual intentions.
Before she could gather her wits, he tipped up her face. He studied it; she scrambled wildly to find some expression to mask the truth. Then his gaze turned intent, and she knew it was too late. The fingers at her throat moved again, this time deliberately.
Sensual awareness flared in her eyes. Gabriel saw it. His lips curved. “Perhaps”—he bent over her—“we should try this.”
Her lips parted under his; her hand rose to cradle the back of his as he held her face steady. She gave her mouth freely as she always did; he took and drank and claimed. She was a delight in her sweet helplessness, her total inability to conceal her response, the womanly yearning that lay beneath the confidence of her years. Her tongue tangled with his; her fingers gripped his shoulder. Sliding his hand from her face, he lowered it to her breast, cupping the firm mound, then searching for its peak. Her hand followed his, cradling it still, feeling him knead and pleasure her. In one swift movement, he slipped his hand from under hers and reversed their positions, his hand covering and surrounding hers, pressing her palm to the heated flesh of her breast, guiding her fingers to her ruched nipple and squeezing them tight.
She gasped, swayed—
They both heard the creak of a board outside the door an instant before it opened.
Charlie looked in. “Hello!” He nodded to Gabriel, lounging against the window frame, then transferred his gaze to Alathea. “I’m going to Bond Street—Mama suggested I ask whether there’s anything more we need for tomorrow night?”
Her pulse pounding, Alathea shook her head, fervently praying that, with her back to the window, Charlie couldn’t see the flush heating her skin. “No. Nothing.” Their ball would be held tomorrow night, formally introducing Mary and Alice to the ton. “All seems in hand.”
“Good-oh! I’ll be off then.” With a wave, Charlie departed, shutting the door behind him.
Drawing in a much-needed breath, Alathea turned her head and met Gabriel’s gaze. She frowned balefully. “Stop thinking about it!” Swinging back to the desk, she picked up her pen. “Aside from anything else, there’s no lock on that door.”
She heard his smothered laugh but refused to look his way. “I think,” she said, stabbing the nib into the inkwell, “that next we should note all we’ve learned about Fangak, Lodwar, and wherever else it was.”
He sighed dramatically. “Kingi.”
Despite her hopes that all was in hand, the next morning saw a host of small commissions that simply had to be fulfilled. Leaving Serena in command, with Crisp and Figgs in their element, Alathea bundled Mary and Alice into the small carriage and escaped.
“It’s a madhouse!” Face to the window, Alice peered back to where the red carpet was being shaken and swept. “If they put that out now, it’ll be a mess by evening.”
“Crisp will see to it.” Alathea sank back against the squabs and closed her eyes. She’d been up since daybreak, and had already met with the caterers and the florist. All the major components for the evening were thankfully falling into place. Opening her eyes, she scanned the list she clutched in one hand. “Gloves first, stockings next, and then the ribbons.”
The carriage bore them home an hour and a half later. Mary and Alice were bubbling with excitement; Alathea watched them with joy in her heart. No matter how tiring the day might be, tonight would be its own reward.
As they turned into Mount Street, she glanced out of the window—and saw Jeremy’s head almost in line with hers. “What . . . ?”
Jerking forward, she stared, then leaned out of the window the better to view her youngest brother, laughing uproariously, arms flailing, seated atop a pedestrian curricle propelled full tilt down the pavement by Charlie and Gabriel.
She forebore to scream.
The carriage pulled up before their front steps. Mary and Alice tumbled out, paused but an instant to view Jeremy and company, then giggled and ran indoors.
Alathea descended from the carriage more slowly, then drew herself up and waited for the miscreants to arrive before her. They did so in an ungainly rush; for one instant she watched, horrified, expecting to see her worst nightmare unfold as, hauled to a halt, the unstable contraption slewed sideways, tipping Jeremy off the high seat—
Reaching forward, Gabriel caught him, swinging him clear, then setting him on his feet while Charlie neatly righted the curricle. Charlie and Gabriel grinned at her—Jeremy did his best to appear inconspicuous.
Alathea fixed her gaze on him. “I believe I had your promise on no account to ride this machine in town?”
Eyes downcast, Jeremy squirmed.
Gabriel heaved a sigh. “It was my fault.”
Alathea looked at him. “Yours?”
“I arrived just as your footman was taking delivery and offered to show them how it was done.”
“You rode it?”
The look he bent on her was dismissively superior. “Of course. It’s easy. Would you like me to demonstrate?”
She nearly said yes. The notion of seeing him, hideously elegant as always, precariously perched on the awkward machine riding up and down the tonnish street was almost too good to pass up. But . . . “No.” She transferred her gaze to Jeremy. “That’s not the point.”
“Ah, but it is, because once I’d ridden to the corner, I simply put Jeremy on the seat and told him to hang on. It didn’t occur to me that the machine had been bought for him but that he’d been forbidden to ride it.”
Alathea caught the swift upward glance Jeremy shot her. She pressed her lips together, then explained, “The agreement I used to gain Serena’s approval to buy the curricle was that Jeremy would only ride it on the lawns at the Park. He’s prone to broken bones—to date, we’ve survived three broken arms and a broken leg. A collarbone in three pieces would never be welcome, but it would be even less welcome today.”
Jeremy glanced up again; Alathea caught his eye. “You are extremely lucky that it was I who took Mary and Alice to the shops, and not your mama—she would have swooned had she seen your performance.”
Jeremy shuffled his feet, but his eyes sparkled. A small smile played on his lips, just waiting to dawn. “But she didn’t see it—you did. Wasn’t it grand?” His smile broke free.
Alathea twisted her lips in an effort to hold back her own. “Potentially grand—you could do with a bit of practice, but don’t you dare ride it here again.”
“What about the back lawn?” Charlie asked. “That’s thick—he wouldn’t break anything if he fell on that.”
“It’s got a nice slope to it, too,” Gabriel put in. “And I promise I won’t let him career into the rhododendrons.”
Faced with three male faces ranging in age from twelve to thirty but all with the same little-boy-pleading expression, Alathea threw up her hands. “Very well—I’ll go and prepare Serena.” She caught Gabriel’s eye as she turned to the steps. “At least it’ll keep you all out from under our feet.”
His grin would have done his namesake proud.
Leaving them wheeling the curricle around to the back gate, Alathea crossed the threshold and entered a world of pandemonium. She first sought out Serena and reassured her of Jeremy’s safety, embroidering on Gabriel’s promise without a second thought as soon as she realized Serena was happy to place her trust in him.
For the next hour she was fully occupied dealing with queries from the caterers, the florist, and most importantly the draper. Her novel idea to decorate the huge ballroom with swaths of cerulean blue muslin, which could later be given as presents to the female servants here and at the Park, had been given form and st
yle by the earnest young draper—the white-and-gilt ballroom looked like a vision of heaven.
“Perfect.” With a brisk nod, she turned away from the sight. “Please send in your account promptly, Mr. Bobbins—we will only be in town for another few weeks.”
Mr. Bobbins bowed low, incoherently assuring her that his account would be presented forthwith.
Alathea checked the supplies of salmon and shrimp with Figgs, then she and Crisp descended to the cellar. By the time they’d finished selecting the wines for the formal dinner preceding the ball, it was past noon. Retiring to her office, intending to do no more than catch her breath and check her lists for the next most pressing item, Alathea found herself drawn to the window.
On the lawn behind the house, Jeremy, Charlie and Gabriel were totally absorbed in the new toy. Gabriel had stripped off his coat; together with Charlie, he was coaching Jeremy in the difficult process of gaining his balance on the awkward machine. Alathea watched, quietly amazed at the patience Gabriel showed. None knew better than she that he was naturally impatient, yet in dealing with Jeremy he displayed both tact and steady encouragement, exactly what Jeremy needed. Under Gabriel’s eye, he bloomed. Before she turned away, Alathea saw him free-wheel down the lawn, managing to steer the curricle away from the thick bushes.
As she left her office and plunged back into the melee, she reflected that, while he was not long on patience, Gabriel’s second name could have been persistence, a fact she would do well to remember.
Half an hour later, he found her supervising the positioning of the trestles in the parlor they were converting into a supper room. Surveying the scene, he raised his brows. “How many cards did you send out?”
“Five hundred,” Alathea absentmindedly replied. “God knows how we’ll manage if they all arrive at once.”
Gabriel studied her face, then calmly took her arm. Ignoring her resistance and her distracted scowl, he towed her to the side of the room. “Where’s the petition.”
“The petition?” She stared at him. “You can’t mean to work on that now?”
“I can work on it. I can write, you know.” Her frown suggested she wasn’t convinced of it; he ignored that, too. “I’ll take it home and continue framing our arguments.” He glanced at the footmen and maids scurrying frantically about. “It’s too noisy here.”
She didn’t look happy, but nodded. “It’s in the top drawer of my desk.”
“I’ll take it.” Gabriel started to leave, then halted. Ignoring the many about them, he caught her chin. “Don’t run yourself ragged. I’ll see you at dinner.”
Before she could react, he ducked his head, kissed her quickly, and left.
“Lady Alathea—is this where you wanted this table?”
“What? Oh . . . yes, I suppose . . .”
Inwardly grinning, Gabriel headed downstairs.
The formal dinner preceding a come-out ball was, in social terms, even more important than the ball itself. The earl, Serena, and Alathea had agreed that this dinner should be the most glittering affair regardless of cost, one by which the assembled leaders of the ton would remember the Morwellans. Alathea had personally overseen every detail, from the guest list Serena had organized and the stiff white stationery on which the invitations had been inscribed, to the gleaming crystal, the silver service, the Meissen dinner service, and the crisp white damask. The dishes in all twelve courses had been carefully chosen to complement one another in a parade of culinary delight. The wine was superb. Not one of the fifty guests seated about the long table would entertain the slightest suspicion of the economies normally practiced at Morwellan House.
From her seat midway down the table, Alathea watched the sixth course being laid out. All was proceeding smoothly, the babel prevailing on all sides—conversations, laughter, the constant clink of porcelain and silverware—a reassuring testament. Her father, presiding over the event from the table’s head, looked magnificent; Serena, resplendent in navy silk at the other end, was his match. Opposite Alathea, spread between their guests, Mary and Alice conversed with simple charm. Charlie was seated farther along the table to her right. All three were dressed to perfection, each a paragon of tonnish expectations. In her amber silk gown, a beaded cap perched atop her coiffed hair, Alathea contributed her part to their sartorial facade.
Her heart lifted as she gazed about her. They’d done it—they’d come to London and, despite the difficulties, claimed their rightful place in society. As if to illustrate their success, Sally Jersey caught her eye and smiled and nodded. Seated further along, Princess Esterhazy had already regally signaled her approval. Only as she followed Sally Jersey’s gaze to Serena did it occur to Alathea to wonder what it was both patronnesses were complimenting her upon. Their appreciation of the dinner and company they conveyed to Serena, of course. So what was it she’d done to attract their approbation?
She turned to Gabriel, seated on her left. She’d been so absorbed with the dinner itself she hadn’t registered his appearing at her side to escort her into the dining room as anything odd. She’d grown accustomed to having him near, to resting her hand on his arm and letting him steer her through crowds. It wasn’t until she’d caught Lucifer’s questioning look halfway through the fourth course that she’d realized. One glance at Celia’s face, at her intrigued expression, confirmed that their sudden penchant for each other’s company had not escaped notice.
The suspicion that their ease in each other’s company was not escaping anyone’s notice suddenly assailed her. Before she had a chance to frame the question: “Did you plan this?” in any form likely to get an answer, Gabriel glanced at her and saw the frown in her eyes.
“Relax. Everything’s going well.” He indicated a dish of game. “This is excellent—what’s in the sauce?”
Alathea looked at the dish. “Muscat grapes and pomegranate syrup.” There was no point wrangling over how he’d come to be sitting beside her. He was there. She might as well take advantage. “How’s the petition?”
He shrugged noncommittally. “We’ve made a good start.”
“But not enough to be certain of a favorable judgment.”
His lips twisted; he didn’t answer.
Alathea forged on, her tone barely a whisper as she considered a dish before her. “Everything we have is open to argument—there’s nothing cut and dried, no absolute and obvious falsehood. All our claims rely on the word of others, others we can’t call on to verify the facts. Without a bona fide witness—without Captain Struthers—all Crowley need do is deny our claims. The burden of proof will rest on us.” She helped herself to beans in white sauce and passed the dish along. “We have to find the captain, don’t we?”
Gabriel glanced at her. “The case would be certain with him. Without him, it’s going to be difficult.”
“There must be something more we can do.”
Again she felt his gaze on her face. “We’ll find him.” Beneath the table his hand closed about hers. His thumb stroked her palm. “But tonight, enjoy your success. Leave the captain and Crowley for tomorrow.”
Unable to meet his eyes, she nodded and prayed her blush didn’t show. His hand wrapped around hers had evoked a sensual memory of his body wrapped around hers, stroking hers . . . When his hand slid away, she determinedly lifted her head and drew a steadying breath, looking along the table rather than at him.
“I take it Esher and Carstairs are both in earnest?”
Alathea refocused on Mary. Beside her, Lord Esher was quietly and persistently attentive, Mary sweetly appreciative. A similar scenario was playing out toward the other end of the table, where Mr. Carstairs sat beside Alice. “We believe so. Their parents were clearly pleased to be invited tonight.” With a nod, Alathea indicated Lady Esher and Mrs. Carstairs; their husbands were farther down the table.
Gabriel followed her gaze, then transferred his attention to the dish she passed him. “Esher has a neat little property in Hampshire. He does well, and pays attention to his land. He’s
a likable chap with a sense of humor, but sensible and steady. From all I can gather, he’s in a position to please himself—I doubt he’ll cavil over Mary’s lack of dowry.”
“She does have a dowry.”
“She does?” He hesitated, then asked, “How much?”
Alathea calmly told him.
“Just enough to ensure not even the most censorious raise a brow. You have covered all the cracks.”
She inclined her head.
“Well, if Esher’s unlikely to be concerned about money, Carstairs is even less likely to give it a second thought. While Esher’s old money, well established, Carstairs is both old and new. They met at Eton and have been firm friends ever since, which should suit Mary and Alice admirably.”
“They are very close.”
“Carstairs’s estate is just south of Bath—within easy visiting distance of Morwellan Park. His maternal grandfather had an interest in shipping, which Carstairs inherited. He’s gaining a reputation as having a cautious interest in the right sort of ventures. He’s ambitious in that area, and not about to become a silent partner.”
The approval in his tone was clear; Alathea shot him a glance. “A useful contact for you, perhaps?”
Gabriel met her gaze. “Perhaps.”
“How did you find out all this—about Carstairs and Esher?”
“I asked around. Quietly. I didn’t think your father would have the right contacts to find out for you.”
“He hasn’t.” Alathea hesitated, then inclined her head. “Thank you.”
She looked away, along the table, ostensibly scanning the guests, in reality letting her gratitude flare, then fade. The reprobate beside her—he who knew her far too well—needed no encouragement. She tried not to dwell on how much easier her life was with him beside her, supplying the reassurances she needed but could not gain for herself. Having his shoulder to lean on was a far too seductive proposition.