“I took the liberty of tidying, miss. Nellie said as how I had to dust and tidy every day.”
After one stunned glance at the tweeny’s hopeful face, Alathea looked back at the box. “Yes—well. That’s all right.”
Except that now she hadn’t a clue where her pearl earrings were, let alone the matching pendant. Spearing her fingers into the piles, scattering and disarranging as she went, Alathea unearthed the earrings. Standing, she leaned closer to the mirror and quickly fitted them.
“Allie? Are you ready?”
“Open the door,” Alathea instructed the maid. As soon as the door swung wide, she called, “I’m coming!” And fell to ransacking her jewelry box again.
In one corner, she noted the Venetian glass flacon that contained the countess’s perfume. After her recent mistake, she’d decided to take no further chances—the flacon was one of an identical pair. The other bottle contained her customary perfume; she’d left that out on the table. Her searching fingers finally touched the gold chain she sought; drawing the gold and pearl pendant free, she held the chain around her neck. “Hurry.”
The tweeny’s fingers were sure; the clasp closed as Mary came rushing to the door.
“The carriage is pulling up! Mama says we have to go now!”
“I’m coming.” Grabbing the flacon on her table, Alathea liberally sprinkled, then whirled—“Oh, no! Not that reticule—the small gold one!”
The tweeny dived for her armoire; shawls and reticules went flying. “This one?”
Grabbing her shawl from the bed, Alathea headed for the door. “Yes!”
Waving the reticule, the tweeny chased her down the corridor. Settling her shawl over her elbows, Alathea grabbed the reticule, checked it contained a handkerchief and pins, then lengthened her stride, took the stairs two at a time, raced through the tiled foyer, out the door Crisp held wide, pattered down the steps and dove into the carriage.
Folwell shut the door behind her, and the carriage lurched into motion.
The crowd in Lady Arbuthnot’s ballroom was unbearably dense. Having arrived as late as he dared, Gabriel inwardly girded his loins, then stepped off the stairs and plunged in. Prevented from propping his shoulders against the wall—there was no spare wall left—he circulated through the crowd, keeping an eagle eye out for those who most wished to see him, intent on seeing them first, and avoiding them.
High on his list of people to be missed were ladies such as Agatha Herries. He didn’t see her early enough; she placed herself directly in his path. With no alternative offering, he halted before her. She smiled archly up at him and laid a hand on his sleeve.
“Gabriel, darling.”
He nodded. “Agatha.”
His tone was the very essence of unencouraging. Despite that, Lady Herries’s smile deepened. Calculation gleamed in her eyes. “I wonder if, perhaps, we might find a quiet spot.”
“For what?”
She studied him, then let her lids veil her eyes and slowly stroked her hand down his arm. “Just a little proposition I’d like to put to you. A personal matter.”
“You can tell me here. In this din, it’s unlikely anyone will overhear.”
The idea didn’t suit, but she knew him too well to push.
“Very well.” She glanced around, then looked up at him. “It seems you’re destined to choose a wife soon. I wanted to make sure you were fully acquainted with all your options.”
“Indeed?”
“My daughter, Clara—I dare say you might remember her. She’s been well trained to be an accommodating wife, and while our estate and lineage might not measure up to that of the Cynsters, there would, of course, be compensations.”
The purr in her voice, the lascivious gleam in her eyes, left no doubt as to what those “compensations” might be.
Gabriel looked at her coldly, then he let his mask slip, let his contempt and revulsion show. Lady Herries paled and stepped back—then had to apologize to the lady she’d backed into.
When she looked back at Gabriel, his expression was impassive once more. “You were misinformed. I am not presently searching for a wife.” He inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Stepping around Lady Herries, Gabriel continued on his way, searching, not for a wife, but for a widow. When he found her, after he’d wrung her neck and administered a few other physical torments, he’d turn his mind to marrying her.
First, he had to find her.
She ought to be here. Almost everyone of note was. She was of his circle—that he did not doubt—so where was she?
Behind his elegantly aloof facade, he felt decidedly grim. He’d been sure he’d get one of her countessly summonses the evening following their midnight drive. But he hadn’t. He’d spent the whole evening with Chance popping in and out of the parlor like a Jack-in-the-box, wondering why he’d stayed in. Reining in his impatience—not easy after that midnight interlude and the tempest of emotions she’d unleashed—he’d waited at home the following night, with no greater success.
Now he was hungry—ravenous—not just for her, but even more to know she was his, to know where she was, to know he could put his hand on her whenever he wished. He was tense, wound tight with a need to possess far greater than any he’d previously experienced in all the years of his rakish career. He had to find out who she was, where she lived, where she was.
His copy of Burke’s Peerage had started to exert a hypnotic tug. He’d caught himself considering the leather bound tome on a number of occasions. But he’d promised . . . given his word . . . the word of a Cynster.
He’d spent all last night, alone again, trying to devise some way around that promise. His Aunt Helena would know who the countess was—she always knew who was whose son, who had recently died, who married a young bride. Unfortunately, Helena would immediately inform his mother of his inquiry, and that he could do without. For hours he’d toyed with the notion of throwing himself on Honoria’s mercy and asking for her aid. She’d give it, but it would come at a price; nothing was more certain. The present duchess of St. Ives was not one to pass up a never-to-be-repeated advantage. It was a measure of his desperation that he even contemplated asking her.
In the end, he’d concluded that his promise—the promise the countess had so artfully phrased—bound him too tightly and left him no room to manuever. Thrown back on his own devices, he had come here tonight for the sole purpose of tracking her down.
Her—his houri—the woman who had captured his soul.
Raising his head, he scanned the room. The one feature she could not conceal was her height. There were a number of tall ladies present, but he knew them all—not one was an elusive countess. Alathea, he noted, was presently on the dance floor, partnered by Chillingworth. He looked away. At least the dance was only a cotillion, not a waltz.
“There you are. At last!”
Lucifer struggled free of the crowd. Gabriel raised a questioning brow.
His brother stared at him. “Well, the twins, of course!”
Gabriel looked around, and spotted his fair cousins on the dance floor. “They’re dancing.”
“I know that,” Lucifer stated through his teeth. “But it’s more than time for you to take the watch.”
Gabriel studied the twins for one second more, then looked back at Lucifer. “Not anymore. They don’t need watching. Just as long as we’re here if they need us.”
Lucifer’s jaw nearly dropped. “What? You can’t be serious.”
“Perfectly. They’re halfway through their second Season. They know the ropes. They’re not ninnyhammers.”
“I know that—God knows, they’re sharp as tacks. But they’re female.”
“I’d noticed. I’ve also noticed that they don’t appreciate our endeavors.” Gabriel paused, then added, “And they might have reasonable cause to accuse us of excessive interference in their lives.”
“Alathea’s spoken to you, hasn’t she?”
“She’s spoken to you, too.”
br />
“Well, yes . . .” Lucifer turned and surveyed the twins. After a minute, he asked, “Do you really think it’s safe?”
Gabriel considered the two bright heads spinning in the dance. “Safe or not, I think we must.” After a moment, he glanced at Lucifer. “I don’t know about you, but I have other fish to fry.”
“Indeed?” One of Lucifer’s black brows quirked. “And here I thought your exceedingly unmellow mood was due to enforced abstinence and an overfamiliarity with your own hearth.”
“Don’t start,” Gabriel all but snarled. His exceedingly thin facade threatened to crack.
Lucifer sobered. “Who is she?”
With a definite snarl, Gabriel swung away, moving into the crowd, leaving Lucifer with his brows riding high and real concern in his eyes.
Whoever she was, she had to be here somewhere. Clinging to that conviction, Gabriel started to quarter the room.
Alathea was taking the long way back from the withdrawing room whence she’d retreated to escape her increasingly persistent cavaliers, when she came upon Gabriel in the crowd. As making any headway through the throng required constant tacking, despite being so tall, neither had any warning of the other’s approach.
Suddenly, they were face to face—and very close.
They both jumped, tensed, Gabriel with his habitual reaction to her, instantly masked. Alathea saw it and prayed that he thought her reaction merely simple surprise, not the ground-shaking shock it had been. Her breathing had seized; her eyes had flown wide. She kept them locked on his. They were so close, she could sense his strength through every pore, could almost feel the shocking heat of that large body against hers. Wrapped intimately about hers, sunk deep into hers. She swayed slightly toward him, then caught herself. Heaven help her! Would it always be like this from now on?
His eyes narrowed. Dragging in a desperate breath, she stiffened her spine and lifted her head. His gaze rose to her beaded hairnet; she tilted her chin even higher and clung to her customary haughtiness.
“It might be gold, but . . .”
Temper came to her rescue. “It is not tawdry. If you dare say it is . . .” She held his gaze for an instant longer—long enough to realize that she had to get away. “I have nothing to say to you—I doubt you have anything civil to say to me. I have better things to do than stand here crossing swords with you.”
“Indeed?”
That was accompanied by an infuriating lift of one brow.
“Indeed—and I don’t wish to hear your opinion of anyone else, either.”
“Because it might be true?”
“Regardless of their accuracy, to me, your opinions are neither here nor there.” With that, she tried to step around him but the crowd was so tight-packed she couldn’t get past unless he gave way.
He didn’t immediately. His gaze skimmed her face, searching—she prayed not seeing. Then he inclined his head and shifted. “You will, as always, go to the devil in your own way.”
She bestowed a look of regal indifference upon him, then pushed past. Her breast brushed his arm, one thigh touched his. The tremor that rocked her nearly buckled her knees. Lungs locked, she held her spine rigid and forged on and away. She didn’t dare look back.
Inwardly shaking his head, Gabriel waited for the muscles that had seized at her touch to relax. They’d touched little over the years but her effect on him hadn’t waned. As his chest eased, he dragged in a huge breath—
She was close.
Instantly, he scanned the surrounding crowd. Not one woman in sight was tall enough, but he couldn’t mistake that perfume. It was the essence of her, the scent that wreathed his dreams. He breathed in again. The perfume was still strong, but dispersing. She’d been very . . . close . . .
His muscles locked like stone. Slowly, he turned, and stared at the slender back of the exceptionally tall woman who had, just a moment before, stood very close to him.
It couldn’t be.
For one finite moment, his mind flatly rejected what his senses were screaming.
Then reality fractured.
Alathea felt Gabriel’s gaze on her back, like a knife between her shoulder blades. Her lungs seized; panic clutching her stomach she shot a glance behind.
He was tacking through the crowd in her wake. His eyes met hers, their expression primitive. For an instant, the sight paralyzed her. Then she whirled and tried to go faster, to slip through the crowd and escape.
The crowd only got denser. Lady Hendricks called and waved—Alathea had to stop, smile, touch fingers. Then she was on her way again, breathlessly dodging, weaving, desperately seeking an easier path through the crush—
Hard fingers locked around her elbow.
She froze. In the instant her panicked wits reengaged, he bent his head and murmured, “Don’t bother.”
His lips brushed her ear. Suppressing a shiver, she stiffened. He stood at her right shoulder, her elbow in a viselike grip; even without his warning, she knew that grip would be unbreakable. And he was furious. Past furious. The anger pouring from him scorched her. What had given her away?
“This way.”
He’d been looking over the sea of heads; now he steered her toward one side of the room. She forced her feet to move. She could not cause a scene, not here. In his present mood he was capable of anything, even picking her up, tossing her over his shoulder, and stalking off with her. His temper once aroused was a force to contend with; challenging it now would be foolhardy. As they moved toward one wall, she struggled to marshal her wits, her arguments, her denials, bracing herself for what was to come.
She didn’t see the door until they stood before it; he opened it and marched her into an unlit and thankfully uninhabited gallery. He didn’t stop until they were at the end where a long window, curtains wide, poured moonlight into the narrow room.
Placing her directly in the silver beam, he swung to face her.
His gaze raked her face, devoured her features as if he’d never seen them before. His face was chiseled, harder than stone, every edge sharp. Lips compressed, his jaw set, his heavy lids too low for her to see his eyes, he studied her. His gaze lingered on her jaw, then he lifted his lids and looked into her eyes. For a long moment, he held her gaze, hazel to hazel. Tense beyond bearing, her nerves stretched tight, she wondered what he could see.
“It was you.”
Although laced with wonder, his tone brooked no argument. She raised her brows. “What on earth are you on about?”
His brows rose but his expression didn’t waver. “Denial? Surely you can do better than that?”
“I dare say if I knew what misbegotten notion you’ve taken into your fevered brain I could more specifically address it, but as I don’t, denial seems the safest option.” She looked away, too afraid that if she continued to meet his eyes she would see his knowledge of her—his physical knowledge of her—blazoned in the hazel. Then she’d remember, too, and vulnerability would sweep her—and he’d pounce.
The touch of long fingers curving about her face nearly brought her to her knees. His grip firmed; deliberately, he turned her head until her eyes met his again.
“Oh, you know—there’s no point denying it.” His words were clipped; fury raged beneath them. He hesitated, then added, “Your perfume gave you away.”
Her perfume?
The tweeny. Tidying. Emptying her jewelry box onto the table. Then putting everything back in. Two identical flacons, one in, one out.
Her expression had blanked; her lips started to form an “Oh.” Alathea caught herself and glared. “What about my perfume?”
He smiled, not with amusement. “Too late.”
“Nonsense!” She lifted her chin from his fingers. “It’s simply a particular blend—I dare say many ladies use it.”
“Perhaps, but none so tall. So . . . accomplished.”
When she merely raised a weary brow, he supplied, “So capable of picking locks.”
Alathea frowned. “Am I to understand th
at you’re searching for some woman—a tall woman—who wears the same perfume as I and can pick locks?”
“No—you’re to understand that I’ve found her.”
His ringing certainty had her looking up—he trapped her gaze. His eyes narrowed, then his gaze dropped to her lips. Insidious, mesmeric attraction flared between them . . .
He stepped closer. Alathea’s breath caught in her throat. Eyes widening, her gaze fixed on his hard face, she quivered—
The door from the ballroom opened; other guests ambled in.
Gabriel glanced around.
Alathea sucked in a breath. “You’re completely and absolutely mistaken.”
His head snapped back, but she’d already stepped around him. She swept past the other guests with a regal nod. Head high, in a glide just short of a run, she escaped back into the ballroom.
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.”