He was a Cynster in love.
Letting her smile deepen, she reached up and brushed aside the lock of hair hanging over his forehead. “All right. I love you, and I’ll marry you. There—is there anything more I need say to get you to go faster?”
She only just glimpsed his victorious smile as he bent to kiss her, but see it she did. She made him pay for his smugness by demanding more and even more of his expertise.
She nearly drove them both insane with wanting.
But it was worth it.
Later, when they lay wrapped in his sheets, not asleep but too deeply sated to move, Alathea lay with her head on his shoulder and hazily considered a lifetime filled with such peace.
For it was peace that filled her, an unutterable sense of having found her true home, her true place—her true love. That his love surrounded her, and hers him, she had not the smallest doubt. Only that, a deeply shared love, could fill her heart to this extent, so that she could not imagine any joy more fulfilling than lying naked in his naked arms, his breath a soft huff in her ear, his arm heavy about her waist, his hand splayed possessively over her bottom.
They were so alike. They would need to go slowly into their future, eyes open, careful not to step on each other’s toes. There would be adjustments to be made by both of them—that was implicit in their natures. Yet while that future beckoned, rising like a new sun on their horizon, she was too comfortable, too sensually sated, to attend to it just yet.
She was comfortable, yes, and that was a discovery. That even now, fully aware of the latent strength in the body beneath hers, in the muscled arms that yet held her so gently, in the steel-sinewed limbs that pressed all along her length, even now, she was soothed, relaxed. Aware of the crisp hair beneath her cheek, exquisitely aware of his hair-dusted limbs tangled with hers. Aware to her soul of the warmth within her, of the firm member angled against her thigh. The entire reality left her deeply content.
Profoundly happy.
In bliss.
She closed her eyes and indulged.
He eventually stirred, his arms tightening about her, tension returning to his limbs. He held her close, then pressed his lips to her temple. “I’m never going to let you forget what you said.”
Alathea smiled. Was she surprised?
“So.” He shook her fractionally. “When are we getting married?”
They had, apparently, arrived at the church.
Opening her eyes, she dutifully turned her mind to weddings. “Well, there’s Mary and Esher, and Alice and Carstairs, too. A joint wedding might be best.”
His snort said no. “They may be your stepsisters, but they’re sweet, innocent, and full to bursting with the usual romantic notions. They’ll take months to decide on the details. I have absolutely no intention of waiting on their decisions. You and I are getting married first.” He tightened his grip on her. “As soon as possible.”
Alathea grinned. “Yes, my lord.”
Her teasing tone earned her a finger in her ribs. She gasped and squirmed; he sucked in a breath. He settled her again, his touch converted to caress, idly fanning her hip.
“I’ve already spoken to your father.”
Alathea blinked. “You have? When?”
“Yesterday. I saw him at White’s. I’d already arranged to send you the flowers.”
His hand continued its slow stroking, soothing, subtly calming.
Alathea looked into the future, the future he was so swiftly carrying her into. “They’ll miss me. Not just the family but the household—Crisp, Figgs and the rest.”
The slow stroking continued. “We’ll be close—only a few miles away. You’ll be able to watch over them until Charlie takes a bride.”
“I suppose . . .” After a moment, she added, “Nellie will come with me, of course, and Folwell. And Figgs is your housekeeper’s sister, after all.
“Tweety’s sister?”
“Hmm. So I’ll certainly hear of any problems.”
“We’ll hear of any problems. I’ll want to know, too.”
She lifted her head to look into his face. “Will you?”
He trapped her gaze. “Anything that happens in your life from now on, I want to share.”
She studied his eyes, read his feelings on the years gone by, on the question that would always be with him—could he have saved them those eleven years if he’d known, if he’d opened his eyes and truly looked at her?
She lifted her hand to his cheek. “I don’t think anything serious will happen, not with both of us watching.”
Stretching up, wantonly undulating in his embrace, she pressed her lips to his. He lifted her and settled her, stomach to ridged abdomen, then filled her mouth with caresses that stirred her to her toes.
She was simmering when he drew back. Brushing his lips across her forehead, he murmured, “I fantasized for weeks about having the countess reveal herself to me.” His palms skimmed down her naked back to cup her bottom, making it abundantly clear just how forthcoming he’d wanted the countess to be.
“Are you disappointed?”
His hands closed possessively. He shifted her, then rocked his hips, his erection parting her curls, impressing her belly. Alathea caught her breath.
He chuckled. “The revelations I’ve suffered were better by far than any fantasy.” She looked up; he trapped her gaze. “I love you.” The words were simple and clear. He searched her eyes, then his lips relaxed. “And you love me. As revelations go, those are hard to beat.”
Alathea tucked her head into the hollow of his shoulder so he couldn’t see her eyes as the words slid through her, into her heart. After a moment, she sighed. “I still can’t quite believe that our troubles are all over, that Crowley is dead. We don’t need to worry about him anymore—I don’t have to worry about the family’s finances any more.”
Abruptly, she stiffened and went to sit up; Gabriel restrained her. She lifted her head. “The notes! Charlie has ours, but all the rest . . . we left them in Chillingworth’s carriage.”
Gabriel started to stroke her again. “He’ll send them around. Don’t worry. Stop worrying. You’ve been worrying for the past eleven years. You don’t need to worry about anything anymore.”
Alathea subsided back into his arms. “That’s not going to come easily, you know.”
“I’m sure I can find any number of engrossing subjects with which to distract you.”
“But you manage your own estate—there won’t really be anything for me to do estate officewise.”
“You can help. We’ll be partners.”
“Partners?” The idea was strange enough to have her lifting her head to look into his face.
He continued to stroke her bare back. “Hmm.”
She frowned. “I suppose . . .” Turning over, she settled comfortably, wrapping her arms over the hand he splayed over her waist. “I’ll do the household accounts, of course. Or does your mother do those?”
“No—by all means, you can do them.”
“And if you like, I can do the estate tallies. Or does your father do those?”
“Papa handed over the Manor estate to me two years ago. Neither he nor Mama is any longer involved.”
“Oh.” Alathea wriggled. “So it’s just the two of us, then?”
“Mmm. We can divide the duties any way we like.”
She drew in a breath. Held it. “I’d like to continue actively managing my own investments. As I did with my family’s funds.”
Gabriel shrugged. “I can’t see why not.”
“You can’t?” She tried to look up at him but he held her fast. “I thought you’d disapprove?”
“Why? From all I saw, you’re good at it. I’d disapprove if you weren’t. But if we’re going to be partners generally, there’s no reason we can’t be real partners in that sphere, too.”
Alathea relaxed. After a moment, she murmured, “Who knows? We might even be friends.”
Gabriel closed his arms about her. “Who knows? Even th
at.” It was a peculiarly attractive thought. “I’d enjoy that, I think.”
Another moment passed, then she murmured, “So would I.”
Lips curving, Gabriel tightened one arm about her, splaying his other hand over the smooth curve of her belly. “Given our present circumstances, I suggest we concentrate on the most pertinent—the most immediate—aspect of our partnership.”
She sucked in a breath as he slid his fingers further, twining through the springy curls to reach the softness they shielded. With one broad finger, he stroked. She shuddered.
“I really think you need to pay more attention to this.” With a grin, he rolled and lifted to come over her. She reached for him and found him. It was his turn to groan.
“Convince me.”
The words were a challenge—precisely the sort she knew his Cynster soul delighted in. He threw himself into meeting it, heart and soul.
When she was writhing beneath him, hot and ready and yearning, he filled her with one long thrust. Braced above her, he watched her face as, eyes closed, head thrown back, she arched and took him in. His flowers still glowed against the rich brown of her hair. He withdrew and thrust slowly again, just to watch her accept him, to see the flowers quiver, then he settled to a steady, easy rhythm, rocking her relentlessly, taking the longest route he knew to heaven.
She gasped, clung, but there was a subtle smile flirting about her lips. He bent his head and laved one furled nipple, then nipped it. “By the time Jeremy and Augusta have grown, I can guarantee that if you pay attention to this aspect of our partnership, you’ll have a tribe of your own to watch over in their stead.”
Her lids lifted fractionally; she seemed to be weighing his words. “A tribe?”
She sounded intrigued.
“Our own tribe,” he gasped as she tightened about him.
Alathea grinned. Reaching up, she curved her hand about his neck and lifted her lips to his. “Just as long as that’s an iron-clad guarantee.”
The laughter started in his chest, erupted in his throat, then spilled over to her. They shook and clung, giddy as children. Then abruptly the laughter was gone; something much stronger swirled wildly about them, through them, then closed upon them and lifted them from the world.
Finally they settled to sleep, the city silent about them, the future settled, their hearts at peace.
Alathea slid into Gabriel’s waiting arms and felt them close about her. Whatever the future, they’d create it together, manage it together, live it together. That was so much more future than she’d ever thought she’d have.
She slid her arms about him, hugged him once, then relaxed, content in his embrace.
The next morning, Lucifer stood on the front steps of the Brook Street house and watched the departure of the lady who, somewhat to her surprise, had spent the night warming his bed. And him. Raising a hand in salute as her carriage rumbled off, he turned inside, letting his victorious smile show. She’d proved a challenge but he’d persevered and, as usual, triumphed.
Success had proved very sweet.
Replaying honeyed memories, he headed for the dining room. Breakfast was just what he needed.
Courtesy of Chance, the door was ajar. Lucifer pushed it wide; it swung open noiselessly.
On a scene guaranteed to freeze the blood in his veins.
Gabriel sat at his usual place at the head of the table, sipping coffee. On his right sat Alathea Morwellan, dreamily staring straight ahead, a tea cup in one hand, a piece of nibbled toast growing cold in the other.
She looked radiant. And a trifle flushed. As if . . .
Stunned, Lucifer looked again at Gabriel. His brother appeared a great deal too well fed for someone just about to tuck in.
The dread conclusion hovering in his mind grew weightier, steadily taking on substance.
Gabriel sensed the draft from the door and looked up. He met Lucifer’s astonished gaze with one of transparent unconcern, raising a querying brow as he gestured to Alathea. “Come welcome your sister-in-law-to-be.”
Lucifer plastered a smile on his face and stepped across the threshold. “Congratulations.” Alathea, he noted, still looked a trifle lightheaded, but then, he knew his brother. “Welcome to the family.” Leaning down, he gave her a brotherly buss. He couldn’t help muttering as he straightened, “Are you sure you haven’t both run mad?”
It was Alathea who frowned him down. “We were never the ones to run mad, as I recall.”
Lucifer abandoned that tack, along with any hope of ever understanding. He made all the right noises, said all the right words, while he floundered to make sense of any of it. Alathea and Gabriel? He knew he wasn’t the only one who had never thought it. Which just went to show.
“The wedding,” Gabriel informed him, “will be as soon as we can arrange it, certainly before we or the Morwellans, or indeed, the rest of the ton, desert the capital.”
“Hmm,” Lucifer returned.
“You will be there, won’t you?”
At Alathea’s pointed look, Lucifer summoned a smile. “Of course.”
He’d be there to see his brother, the last of his confreres still free, take up the shackles of matrimony. After that, he’d leave.
He was going to disappear.
London—indeed, the ton in its broadest sense—was far too dangerous for the last unmarried member of the Bar Cynster.
The Season ended as it always did, with a rash of tonnish weddings, but this year, amid the many, one stood out, very definitely “the wedding of the Season.” The tale of how Lady Alathea Morwellan had turned her back on her own prospects to help her family in the country, only to return eleven years later to tame the most distantly aloof member of the Bar Cynster, fired the romantic imagination of the ton.
St. Georges Church off Hanover Square was filled to bursting on the day Lady Alathea took her vows. The crowd outside the church was just as dense, those not invited to the festivities finding reason to be passing at the time. Everyone craned to catch a glimpse of the bride, regally radiant in ivory and gold, three unusual flowers anchoring her long veil. As she appeared at the top of the church steps on the arm of her proud husband, flanked by a troop of imposing Cynster males and a bevy of beautiful Cynster wives, the crowd let out a communal sigh.
It was just the sort of fairytale romance the ton and all of London delighted in.
At three o’clock, long after the crowds had retreated to savor all they’d seen, to recount the details and embellish their memories, Gabriel was still giving thanks that they’d managed to fight clear of the crowd of well-wishers before the church and repair to Mount Street for the wedding breakfast.
Standing by a window in the drawing room of Morwellan House, he peered through the fine curtains, reconnoitering the street. There was a small crowd waiting to watch them leave, but it was manageable.
“Almost free?”
Gabriel turned as Demon strolled up. His cousin looked disgustingly pleased with himself; Gabriel reasoned that Demon was yet too newly wed for his expression to ease into the deeply content expressions Devil and Vane now habitually wore. Richard was harder to read, but the glow in his eyes when they rested on Catriona was equally revealing. Gabriel knew a vain hope that he would not be quite so easy to read. “Almost.” He turned back to the window. “Add the guests inside and it’ll still be a goodly crowd, but hopefully we’ll make it away in reasonable time.”
“Where are you headed? Or is it a secret?”
“Only from Alathea.” Briefly, Gabriel outlined his plans to whisk Alathea off on a quick tour of the shires, visiting cities like Liverpool and Sheffield that she’d never visited before but that featured prominently in his business dealings.
“We’ll end by going directly to Somersham for this summer celebration our mamas have planned.”
“Miss that at the risk of your life—or worse.”
Gabriel grinned. “Richard’s obviously taking no chances.” He nodded to where his cousin’s black head was bent o
ver his wife’s fiery locks.
“Not on any count,” Demon agreed. “He says they’ll be on the road north the day after the celebrations. He’s not at all sanguine about having Catriona traveling in the condition she’ll be in then.”
“I’m sure Catriona will have everything precisely planned. Even if she hasn’t, she’ll just pass a decree and matters will fall out as she wishes—comes of being Lady of the Vale.”
“Hmm. Still, I can understand Richard’s feelings.”
Gabriel glanced at Demon, wondering if that meant . . .
Before he could form a suitable question, Alathea appeared.
She swept into the room, and his heart stopped. She’d changed into a traveling gown of watered mulberry silk, the high upstanding collar a frame for her hair, rich and lustrous in the afternoon light. Her mother’s pearls were coiled about her throat, the matching drops in her ears. She wore no other decoration, acquiescing to his anathema toward anything covering the glory of her hair. No other decoration except for the three white blooms fixed in a spray trailing over one breast, a filigree gold ribbon looped between.
They were the flowers from her veil, the flowers he’d sent her that morning, with another note even simpler than his last.
I love you.
That was all he’d wanted to say, but he knew as only a Cynster could that he’d be looking for ways to tell her that for the rest of his life.
She scanned the room, saw him, and immediately smiled. Her fine eyes bright, she glided to his side.
Gabriel raised a brow as she slid her hand onto his arm. “Ready?”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “We have to give Augusta and Jeremy a few more minutes.”
Not even that news could dim his anticipation; he knew his wife well enough to know the younger Morwellans would not have stepped over the line. All he wanted to do was to leave, and have her to himself again.
Flick, Demon’s young wife, joined them in a froth of blue skirts, face animated, her eyes lit with an inner glow—an inner glow, Gabriel suddenly realized, now he’d grown accustomed to the sight in Alathea’s eyes, that all the Cynster brides shared.
Interesting.