Stephanie Laurens - A Secret Love

She stared at him, then scooted further over as he turned and sat beside her. The carriage rocked into motion.

After an instant's fraught silence, she said, "I wasn't aware I had offered you a ride."

Gabriel considered her veiled face. "No doubt you would have-I thought I'd save you the trouble."

He heard a small spurt of laughter, instantly suppressed. Lips curving, he faced forward. "After all, we need to consider our next move." He'd already mapped out several; all could be attempted in a closed carriage rolling through the night.

"Indeed." Her tone was equable.

"But first, a point I should have made plain at the outset. You asked for my help and I agreed to give it. You also asked for my promise not to seek out your identity."

She stiffened. "Have you?"

His lightheartedness evaporated. "I promised. So no. I haven't." Each word was clipped, each sentence definite. "But if you want me to play your game any further-if we're to continue our alliance and save your stepfamily from ruin-you'll have to promise to abide by my rules."

Her silence lasted for a good fifty yards. Then, "Your rules?"

He could feel her gaze on the side of his face; he continued to look forward.

"And what are they? These rules of yours."

"Rule number one-you must promise never again to act without my knowledge."

She stirred slightly. "Your knowledge!"

Gabriel hid a cynical smile; he'd dealt with women long enough not to label it "permission."

"If you and I act independently, especially in such a delicate affair as this, there's a good chance we'll cross tracks to disastrous effect. If that happens, and we reveal our interest to the company too early, then all you've worked for will go for nought. And you are not sufficiently au fait with how matters are dealt with in the City to appreciate all the ramifications of what we might learn, which is, after all, why you sought my help in the first place."

She had none of her sex's usual wariness of silence; again, she claimed it to calculate, to consider. As they swayed around a corner, she asked, "These rules-what are the others?"

"There are only two-I've told you one."

"And the second?"

He turned his head and looked at her. "For each piece of information we gather, I get to claim a reward."

"A reward?" Wariness had crept into her tone.

He suppressed a wolfish smile. "Reward-a customary token of gratitude given in return for services rendered."

She knew precisely what he meant, her knowledge clear in the fine tension that gripped her. After a moment, she cleared her throat. "What reward do you want?"

"For locating Thurlow and Brown-a kiss."

She went still-so still he wondered if he'd shocked her. But she could hardly be surprised-she knew very well who and what he was. From behind her veil, she stared at him, but if she was flustered, there was no sign of it-her hands, folded in her lap, remained still. "A kiss?"

"Hmm." This time, he couldn't stop his lips curving, couldn't suppress the seductive purr that entered his voice. "Without the veil. Take it off."

"No." Calm-absolute.

Arrogantly, he raised his brows.

She shifted on the seat. "No. The veil… I…"

He sighed resignedly. "Very well." Before she could think of some pretext on which to refuse the kiss altogether, he framed her face with one hand, his thumb under the edge of her veil, lifting it from her lips as he covered them with his.

Her lips had parted on a startled exclamation-as he caught them, she stilled. She didn't freeze, didn't panic-she simply sat, warm and alive, and let him fashion his lips to hers. He tilted her chin slightly; her face moved easily-she wasn't stiff. But there was no response as he pressed the caress upon her.

He wasn't having that, but he knew when to be patient.

He kissed her lightly, gently shifting his lips on hers, artfully dallying, waiting…

Her first surrender was a shiver-piercingly sweet, a ripple of pure sensation. He sensed the hitch in her breathing, the increasing tension in her spine.

Then her lips moved, firming under his, still not giving, but alive. It was as if she was a statue coming to life, cool marble slowly heating, stone carapace melting, giving way to flesh, blood, and life.

He held her face steady and increased the pressure of the kiss. Acutely focused on her, he knew when she lifted one gloved hand from her lap, raising it to where his hand cupped her face. Her fingers hovered, an inch from his hand, then, very gently, almost as if she wasn't sure he-his hand-was real, she touched her fingertips to the backs of his.

The hesitant touch rocked him-it held a wondering innocence that captivated and held him.

Her leather-encased fingertips trailed, tracing the back of his hand; they hesitated for one quivering instant, then settled.

Like a butterfly on the back of his hand.

Her fingers didn't grip, didn't tug-they simply touched. He drew breath-drew her perfume deep-and deepened the caress. Asking-for once in his life, not demanding.

And she gave. Of her own accord, she tipped her face further, swaying toward him as she offered her lips.

He swooped like a conqueror and took, claimed-but immediately reined back when he sensed her sudden skitter. She was unused to being kissed. Strange as that seemed, he knew it for fact-he didn't ponder the cause but set himself to ease her, tease her, encourage her.

She was a quick study-soon she was kissing him back, gently but without reserve. He longed to draw her into his arms, but experience warned against it. Her nervousness was now explained-for whatever reason, she wasn't used to this. His lips on hers, his hand about her face, seemed, at this moment, all she could assimilate, so he set himself to work with that.

Set himself to cajole and tease, to lead her to yield more, to seek more. When she hesitantly parted her lips, he felt he'd won a siege, but he was careful, this time, of taking advantage too quickly-which meant he savored every sweet moment of her surrender, the whole extended like a necklace of precious, individual gems of sensation.

When she tentatively touched his tongue with hers, then slowly, sinuously, caressed him in return, his head very nearly spun.

She was like fine wine-best savored slowly.

He finally drew back as the carriage rumbled around a corner. Chest swelling, he studied her lips, briefly illuminated by a street flare. They were full, deeply rosy, slightly swollen. "Now, for learning Swales's address…"

Her lips parted-whether in protest or invitation he didn't wait to learn. He covered them again; they molded easily, this time, to his, and parted fully the instant he touched them with his tongue.

Brook Street couldn't be much farther. The thought spurred him to drink more deeply, to take all she offered-then seek, search, and tempt her further.

She gave-not so much easily as willingly, taking hesitant steps along a path he instinctively knew she'd never trod. She'd never before been passionately kissed, never been awakened in this way. He had to wonder about her late husband, and whether she'd been awakened at all.

He held her steady, urging her on, his lips ruthless, just this side of hard. He would have taken her further, much further, but tonight they'd run out of time.

The carriage slowed, then rocked to a halt.

Reluctantly, he released her lips. For one instant, as their breaths mingled, he was tempted… then he drew away his hand and let her veil fall. She would reveal herself to him of her own accord. That was one moment he intended to fully savor.

He straightened. She sank against the seat. She tried to speak and almost choked; clearing her throat, she tried again. "Mr. Cynster…"

"My name is Gabriel."

Despite her veil, their gazes locked. She stared at him, her breasts rising and falling beneath her cloak. "I thought you had to consider our next move."

His gaze didn't waver. "Believe me, I am."

He waited; when she made no reply but continued to stare at him, he inclined his head. "Until our next meeting." He reached for the door. "Incidentally, when will that be?"

After a moment, she managed, "I'll contact you in a day or two."

She was still breathless; he hid a triumphant smile. "Very well." Deliberately, he let his gaze harden, pinning her where she sat. "But you will remember what I said. Leave Swales to me."

Although it was no question, he waited. Eventually, she nodded-one of her usual crisp nods. "Yes. All right."

Satisfied, he opened the door and stepped down to the pavement. Shutting the door, he signaled to the coachman. The reins flicked; the coach rumbled on.

He watched it roll away, then turned and climbed his steps, a great deal more than merely satisfied with the achievements of the night.

She'd never felt so breathless in her life.

One elbow propped on the dining table, Alathea toyed with her toast and struggled to bring some order to the chaos of her mind. Not a simple task with her senses still reeling.

How naive she'd been to ignore the portent of that first, oh-so-innocent kiss. Sealing a pact, indeed! It hadn't occurred to her that, with no prickly reaction to stop him, he would most assuredly kiss her again. So now here she was, in a totally unexpected, never-before-experienced fluster. Just the thought of last night's kiss-series of kisses-was enough to addle her brain. One conclusion, however, was horrifyingly clear. Her errant knight believed she was a married woman-an experienced married woman-one with whom he could freely dally. But she wasn't. Thus far, he hadn't suspected that fact, but how far could she travel his road of rewards without giving herself away?

Without having to give herself away?

All that was bad enough, but to top it all, he'd filched the reins from her grasp. God alone knew where her carefully laid plans were now headed.

She should have foreseen his move to take control; he'd always been the leader in their childhood games. But they were no longer children, and for the last ten years she'd been accustomed to command; being summarily relegated to the rank of follower was a little hard to take.

About her, the rest of her family talked, ate, laughed; sunk in her thoughts, she barely heard them. Picking up her toast, she crunched, and decided she'd have to allow at least the appearance of him being in charge. His Cynster self would settle for nothing less; it was pointless beating her head against that wall. That didn't mean she had to meekly let him make all the decisions, only let him think he was. Which led to the question of how she could ensure that he didn't forge on and simply leave her in ignorance.

She would have to meet with him regularly, a prospect that made her edgy. Organizing their next meeting was logically her next step, but she'd yet to recover from their last. She'd counted on his deep vein of chivalry in enticing him to her aid-not in her wildest dreams had she imagined he'd extrapolate so fiendishly as to claim a reward.

Even that word was now forever altered in her mind. Now it instantly evoked something illicit. Something exciting, thrilling, tempting-

Seductive.

Her thoughts whirled; her lungs seized. Simply recalling that moment in the carriage when, with typical highhandedness, he'd set his lips to hers still made her dizzy. Remembering what had followed sent color rushing to her cheeks.

Instantly, she banished the mental visions, and the remembered sensations as well. If anything, the latter were worse. Lifting her teacup, she sipped and prayed no one had noticed her blush. She hadn't blushed in the last five years, possibly not in the last ten. If she suddenly started coloring up over nothing, questions would be asked-speculation would be born. Quite the last thing she needed.

Ruthlessly burying all memories of the drive to his house, she told herself she had no reason to berate herself; she couldn't have avoided it-any of it-without raising his suspicions. There was no point considering it further, beyond sending heartfelt thanks to her guardian angel-she'd very nearly blurted out his name when he'd released her. "Rupert" had hovered on the tip of her tongue; she'd only just managed to swallow the word. Uttering it would have spelled an immediate end to her charade; she was the only female younger than his mother who persisted in calling him by his given name. He'd told her so himself.