A Secret Love Read Free Page B

yes, I’ll help you.”
    If he’d expected gushing thanks, he’d have been disappointed—luckily, he’d had no such expectation. She stood still, studying him. “And you’ll swear . . . ?”
    Stifling a sigh, he raised his right hand. “Before God, I swear—”
    â€œOn your name as a Cynster.”
    He blinked at her, then continued, “On my name as a Cynster, that I will not seek to identify you or your family. All right?”
    Her sigh fell like silk in the night. “Yes.” She relaxed, losing much of her stiff tension.
    His increased proportionately. “When gentlemen reach an agreement, they usually shake hands.”
    She hesitated, then extended one hand.
    He grasped it, then changed his hold, fingers sliding about hers until his thumb rested in her palm. Then he drew her to him.
    He heard her in-drawn breath, felt the sudden leaping of her pulse, sensed the shock that seared her. With his other hand, he tipped up her chin, angling her lips to his.
    â€œI thought we were going to shake hands.” Her words were a breathless whisper.
    â€œYou’re no gentleman.” He studied her face; the glint of her eyes was all he could see through the fine black veil, but with her head tipped up, he could discern the outline of her lips. “When a gentleman and a lady seal a pact, they do it like this.” Lowering his head, he touched his lips to hers.
    Beneath the silk, they were soft, resilient, lush—pure temptation. They barely moved under his, yet their inherent promise was easy to sense, very easy for him to read. That kiss should have registered as the most chaste of his career—instead, it was a spark set to tinder, prelude to a conflagration. The knowledge—absolute and definite—shook him. He lifted his head, looked down on her veiled face, and wondered if she knew.
    Her fingers, still locked in his, trembled. Through his fingers under her chin, he felt the fragile tension that had gripped her. His gaze on her face, he raised her hand and brushed a kiss on her gloved fingers, then, reluctantly, he released her. “I’ll find out where Thurlow and Brown hang their plaque and see what I can learn. I assume you’ll want to be kept informed. How will I contact you?”
    She stepped back. “I’ll contact you.”
    He felt her gaze scan his face, then, still brittlely tense, she gathered herself and inclined her head. “Thank you. Good night.”
    The mists parted then reformed behind her as she descended the porch steps. And then she was gone, leaving him alone in the shadows.
    Gabriel drew in a deep breath. The fog carried the sounds of her departure to his ears. Her shoes tapped along the pavement, then harness clinked. Heavier feet thumped and a latch clicked, then, after a pause, clicked again. Seconds later came the slap of reins on a horse’s rump, then carriage wheels rattled, fading into the night.
    It was half past three in the morning, and he was wide awake.
    Lips lifting self-deprecatingly, Gabriel stepped down from the porch. Drawing his cloak about him, he set out to walk the short distance to his house.
    He felt energized, ready to take on the world. The previous morning, before the countess’s note arrived, he’d been sitting morosely over his coffee wondering how to extract himself from the mire of disaffected boredom into which he’d sunk. He’d considered every enterprise, every possible endeavor, every entertainment—none had awakened the smallest spark of interest.
    The countess’s note had stirred not just interest but curiosity and speculation. His curiosity had largely been satisfied; his speculation, however . . .
    Here was a courageous, defiant widow staunchly determined to defend her family—stepfamily, no less—against the threat of dire poverty, against the certainty of becoming poor relations, if not outcasts. Her enemies were the