Her Secret Lover E-Book

Sara Bennett

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 432

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

To save her reputation, lovely heiress Antoinette Dupre flees from London to Devon and Wexmoor Manor, a country estate. But she flies from one danger to another when she encounters a masked stranger, who, with one touch, arouses Antoinette's own insatiable hunger. Gabriel Langley is no saint, he wants what he wants — a letter in Antoinette's possession — and nothing, even the scandal of seducing her can stand in his way, especially since he finds her impossible to resist. Provocative and sultry, they embark on a dangerous game; in the moonlit shadows everything is laid bare. But when Gabriel's identity comes to light, the consequences could destroy their chances at forever.

Leseprobe

HER SECRET LOVER

APHRODITE’S CLUB

BOOK TWO

SARA BENNETT

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Her Secret Lover

Copyright © 2008 by Sara Bennett

Ebook ISBN: 9781641972734

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

121 W. 27th St., Suite 1201, NY 10001, New York.

http://www.nyliterary.com

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

Also by Sara Bennett

About the Author

CHAPTER1

June 1851 The road to Wexmoor Manor, Devon

Antoinette Dupre closed her eyes behind her spectacles, shielding them from the flickering light as the sun dipped lower through the trees. Not far to go now. Lord Rudyard Appleby’s manor was isolated, well off the main highway, which was one reason she was riding in a coach instead of traveling by steam train.

The other reason was that she was a prisoner.

She didn’t want to go but she had no choice; she was completely in the power of Lord Appleby. And the most frustrating thing about that was she’d finally discovered a way to destroy him once and for all, but before she could put her plan into practice, he had sent her away into deepest Devon, to his house, Wexmoor Manor.

She put a hand to her bodice, feeling the reassuring crackle of paper. The letter was still there, safe. Her ticket to freedom, and more importantly, the freedom of her younger sister, Cecilia.

Thinking of Cecilia made her smile despite her dire situation. Her sister, three years younger than Antoinette, would think this a great adventure—traveling alone in a coach to an unknown destination—but then Cecilia, tall and fair and vivacious, was very different from Antoinette. Antoinette, small in stature, with glossy brown hair and brown eyes, was by nature serious and rather bossy and took her responsibilities to heart. Always as neat as a pin, still she struggled with a figure that was definitely more hourglass-shaped—dumpy if you were being unkind—than the fashionable ideal of slender and willowy. She did have one weakness, a compulsion she couldn’t seem to resist and which she blamed on her ancestress, a mistress of King Charles II. Fine undergarments. Silk and lace and satin, frilly and feminine. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like, to hold a man in thrall, to give yourself over entirely to the sensual side. But, as it seemed unlikely Antoinette would ever know the answers to those questions, she contented herself with indulging in her secret wicked pleasure.

She took off her spectacles and pressed her fingers to her eyes.

The worst of it was she had no one to talk to, no one to trust. Cecilia was safely tucked away in Surrey with her governess, Miss Bridewell, and other than those two, Antoinette had no one else she dared unburden herself to. These past few weeks in London she’d been watched continually by Lord Appleby’s servants, and she didn’t expect Wexmoor Manor to be any different—worse, because at least in London she’d been able to go about, even attending the opening of the Great Exhibition, and enjoying the new sights and sounds.

But that was before she’d understood Lord Appleby’s true intention in inviting her to his Mayfair house.

Suddenly the coach lurched. Antoinette dropped her spectacles. Outside there was a popping noise, followed by shouts from the coachman and his boy. She leaned forward to grasp the window frame, just as a galloping horse drew alongside the coach. The rider wore black, everything black, including a black mask covering the upper half of his face. He kept pace with the coach, and although her poor eyesight made him appear blurry, there was something almost mesmerizing about him. And then he leaned down and stared at her through the dusty glass.

And smiled the smile of a dangerous predator spying his prey.

He was there for only a heartbeat, and then he’d spurred his horse on, but it was long enough. Antoinette felt as if his regard had burned itself into her skin. As if he had left a brand upon her.

Confused, startled, her heart thudding, she pressed herself back into the soft leather of the seat. She told herself that this was England in the reign of Queen Victoria, and highwaymen belonged to an earlier and more lawless age. Or was this isolated corner of Devon yet to catch up with the more civilized parts of the country?

But if she was imagining things, then so was the coachman. Antoinette clung to the strap, bracing herself against the wildly rocking vehicle as the driver attempted to outrun the highwayman. Her straw bonnet slipped off as they tipped dangerously around a corner, and there was a loud bang as the coachman’s boy fired his blunderbuss. Antoinette squeaked, trying to see beyond the window, but it was all a blur of trees and earth and sky. And then the coach began to slow until eventually it shuddered to a halt.

Antoinette sat a moment and caught her breath, wishing she could loosen her stays beneath the tight-fitting bodice of her tan taffeta and emerald green velvet traveling dress. Her hair, a moment ago neatly pinned and parted, was hanging down, hampering her movements, and her skirts and petticoats were tossed and tangled, displaying far too much silk-stockinged leg above her lace-up boots.

What now? she asked herself. Was she to cower inside and await her fate? Practical, sensible Antoinette had never cowered in her life. Bad enough that she’d been sent into the country to a place she didn’t know by Lord Appleby, a man she detested, but to be trapped inside her coach by an anachronism? No, she wouldn’t have it.

Antoinette released the catch on the window and after a brief struggle forced it down.

Cold, moist air wafted in, and with it the pungent sting of gunpowder. Undeterred, Antoinette stuck her head out of the coach. The scene before her was chaotic. The coachman and his boy were on the ground, hands in the air, and the masked man on the horse was pointing a brace of pistols at them. “Be silent,” she heard him order in a gruff voice as the coachman began to argue.

Antoinette’s mind worked furiously. Was he after her money and her valuables? She’d brought so little with her. Most of her luggage was still in London, and her scant pieces of jewelry were locked in Lord Appleby’s safe.

The two men had turned their backs to the highwayman, and—she peered hard with her naked eyes, trying to make out the scene—he began to tie their hands. This was ridiculous. Antoinette turned away, searching for her spectacles, telling herself that if she could see him properly she would feel braver. She did not for a moment imagine she might be physically unsafe, or in any danger of being molested.

Unlike Cecilia, Antoinette was not the sort of woman men glanced at twice. Well, not usually.There was the time when Mr. Morrissey developed a strange obsession with her, and began to write very bad poetry in her honor, but everyone knew he was a little odd, and besides, he soon forgot her when the vicar’s lovely wife arrived in the village . . .

The coach door was flung open. Her thoughts froze; Antoinette gasped. He was leaning in, looking at her, and despite the lack of clarity in her vision—or perhaps because of it—he was even bigger than she’d thought. He cut out the light and filled the door space, his hands gripping the frame, a pistol dangling casually from his fingers.

What did you say to a highwayman? For some reason the proper form of address escaped her.

“Give it to me,” he said in a deep voice.

“Give it . . . ?” she echoed in a whisper.

His tipped his head, and she knew he was taking in her disarray. She sat up straighter, brushing down her skirts and pushing back a long strand of hair. When she looked at him again he was smiling, but it wasn’t the sort of smile a gentleman would give a lady.

“I know you have it,” he said in that same deep, slightly husky voice. “The letter. Give it to me.”

Shock froze her. He knew! She only just prevented herself from reaching up and clutching the letter against her skin in its hiding place inside her bodice.

“Who—who sent you?” she demanded shakily.

“Who do you think?” he mocked.

Lord Appleby. She hadn’t been so clever after all. He knew she had in her possession the letter that could destroy him, and he’d sent this man after her to fetch it back. What better way to dispose of the evidence and her chance to use it than to stage a robbery? Oh, he was very clever.

But she couldn’t allow this to happen. It was Cecilia’s future that was at stake, as much as her own.

The big man was climbing into the coach, and his broad shoulders blocked out the light. There was something very menacing about him, she thought, as she blinked up at him, her mind racing as fast as her heart, searching for a way out. He slipped the pistol into his belt and drew off his gloves, slowly, while she watched. When he was finished he casually reached forward and put a hand on her knee.

His skin was hot, his bare fingers thick and blunt. It was his touch as much as the unexpectedness of it that shocked her. She jumped back, pressing herself into the farthest corner.

His masked face loomed closer, and she could see the glitter of his pale eyes through the slits. His mouth was no longer smiling now but held in a straight line, grim and determined.

“Give me the letter. Don’t make me search every inch of you, because I will. Every inch.”

The threat was no idle one, and Antoinette knew the sensible thing to do would be to hand over the letter. But she didn’t feel sensible. She was desperate and frightened, and the letter represented her one last chance of escape. Lord Appleby had already destroyed her reputation and ruined her good character. What did it matter what this man did to her?

He was watching her closely, trying to read her thoughts. She tipped up her chin and stared back at him. “I don’t believe that even a man as low as you would molest a lady who had done you no harm,” she said, with barely a tremor in her voice.

He gave a soft, breathy laugh. “Wouldn’t I, my little brown sparrow?” He flicked at a fold of her tan skirt. “Believe me, Miss Dupre, I would do anything to get that letter back.”

He knew her name!

If she had been in any doubt before, then she was no longer. Lord Appleby was behind this. Strangely, with cold, hard certainty came a reduction in her fear. Antoinette knew she could not allow him to take the letter, not willingly anyway, and whatever he did to her, she would have to bear in brave silence.

Antoinette shook her head, her refusal in her expression and the stubborn jut of her chin.

He didn’t try to talk her out of her stance; perhaps he knew it would do no good. Instead he lurched across the space toward her, grasping her arms, his big body heavy as he pressed upon her smaller form. She struggled with him frantically. Her straw bonnet, still dangling around her neck by its ribbons, was crushed between them.

He gripped at the cloth of her bodice.

She felt him tense and tug. Violently. There was a ripping sound. Shocked, she stared down. The tan taffeta with green velvet trimmings was hanging open. Her peach silk chemise, also torn, gaped open, too, disclosing the crisp lace of her corset, while over the top spilled a great deal of her bosom.

“There,” he said breathlessly. “I warned you.”

The letter! Where was it? Antoinette dared not look. Perhaps it had fallen down into the folds of her skirt, or behind the cushions of the seat. He must not find it. Nothing else mattered . . . nothing . . .

“Do your worst,” she heard herself say. “Search every inch of me, if you must. I will never give up the letter.”

He gritted his jaw and she tensed, preparing herself for what he’d do next. Then he reached out both hands and planted them full on her breasts.

She gave a little scream.

Hastily he withdrew. “Tell me and I’ll leave you be, ”she said in a shaky voice, “I’m not afraid of you.”

His mouth curled. “Liar.”

He lifted his hands, watching her, and moved forward. She held her breath, every sense alert, every nerve tingling with what was about to come. As his hands closed over her tender flesh once more, she made a sound in her throat. He groaned, softly.

Cautiously she flicked him a look from beneath her lashes. He looked disconcerted, as if he’d surprised himself. Then his broad chest rose and fell heavily, and his pale gaze lifted to hers from behind the black mask. He looked younger than she’d imagined him to be, only a couple of years above her twenty. She saw something that caught and held her; he seemed familiar in a way that she knew was impossible and yet was undeniable.

And in that moment a dangerous spark began to burn between them.

Color tinted her skin. Warmth curled in her belly and climbed higher, suffusing her breasts where his palms rested, making her flesh tingle. There was a delicious sense of delight about his touch, a wicked wantonness, that was entirely new to Antoinette. The fact that no respectable young lady would allow such a thing to happen, and certainly not enjoy it, didn’t matter at all—she had long ago decided she was out of step with the rest of society. Somewhere within the turmoil of sensations a cool voice—the voice of her wicked ancestress—said: So this is what it feels like.

“Tell me.” His voice was strained, deeper than ever. “Don’t push me, sparrow. I really am capable of anything.”

She shook her head.

He cursed. “Where is it?” he said, his jaw bunched tight. His hands tightened on her breasts, as if he couldn’t help it, and then slid down over her ribs to the narrow band of her waist, feeling for anything hidden beneath her clothing. For a moment he was distracted by the remains of her chemise, the silken peach cloth and fine French lace. He flicked at it with a fingertip.

“A plain brown sparrow on the outside, and a bird of paradise underneath,” he murmured. “No lady wears undergarments like this, Miss Dupre. You give yourself away.” He leaned closer. “Do you wear perfume, too?” His nose was all but buried in her bosom; Antoinette felt his warm breath on her skin. “The scent of woman,” he mumbled. “I wonder what else I will find?”

Antoinette felt as if she should say something courageous but she’d run out of words. Instead she turned her face away, refusing to answer him or look at him. She heard that breathy laughter. And then his hands lifting her skirts.

Such intimacy from a stranger was unthinkable in a world where no woman even dared to show her bare arms in public during the day. As Antoinette held herself tense, waiting for what would come next, she felt his hand brush lightly over her uncovered knee.

“Silk stockings,” he murmured. “Very fine. Now these were made to be seen.”

“You are insolent,” she managed with a dry throat. Her gloved fingers clenched.

He cupped her thigh, ran his hand along it, as if searching for the letter hidden in her drawers. He did the same with her other leg. “Very nice,” he said. “Does Lord Appleby buy you these pretty things to wear? Does it give him pleasure to unwrap you, slowly, like a bonbon, and find your soft center?”

Antoinette swallowed. His large hands were at her hips, and she noticed they made her troublesome curves appear less dumpy, while at the same time his touch was sending a maelstrom of conflicting sensations through her. One of them was certainly pleasure, but heightened beyond anything she’d felt before. It worried her . . . frightened her. She had to force herself to be still when she wanted to jump up and run. But was she running from him, or herself?

He made a sound of approval, as if her shape pleased him. Those pale eyes were glittering. He drew his hands downward and his fingers accidentally brushed her most intimate place; or was it on purpose? Antoinette squeaked and jammed her legs together, trapping his hand like a vise. He looked surprised, and then he stared down at his hand, hidden in the folds of cloth, cozy between her thighs, and grinned.

“Go away,” she gasped, self-preservation finally tipping the balance on her need to be courageous.

Reaching to pull the rags of her bodice about her, she said, “You’ve searched me and found nothing, now leave me alone.”

“I can search you again.” There was a hopeful note in his voice.

Antoinette fixed her brown eyes on the pale gleam behind his mask. Was he teasing? Her voice came out louder than she meant: “No!”

He sat back. His hair was wheat fair, with a curl that made it seem to dance around his head in the fading sunlight streaming in the open coach door. When she found herself wondering what it would feel like to run her fingers through it, Antoinette knew she must get him out of her coach.

“Please go . . .”

His smile hardened and his gaze dropped to her thighs. “You are holding me captive, Miss Dupre, and while I am enjoying it very much, it is making it difficult for me to go anywhere.”

His hand was still held in that intimate embrace. Antoinette opened her legs and wriggled away from him, pushing down her skirts. “How dare you?” she managed, her voice trembling as much as her hands.

“How dare I?” he repeated, and there was something in his voice that warned her to be careful. “Oh, I dare, little sparrow. I am a man who dares anything.”

“A man who manhandles helpless women!” she said shrilly, her composure cracking.

He laughed and said, “There’s nothing helpless about you. Perhaps the truth is you are enjoying yourself a little too much, Miss Dupre.”

The blood rushed to her head—she had to stop him. Antoinette flung herself at him.

He caught her wrists, easily restraining her. Her hair whipped about as she pushed forward again. He grunted and wrapped his strong arms around her, holding her tightly against him, her face buried so deeply into his chest that she could hardly breathe. But still she wriggled and struggled, fighting him and railing against the entire situation she found herself in.

He was too strong. The muscles in his shoulders and arms bunched, and she knew with frustration that he was holding back so as not to hurt her. That was when she gave up.

“Hush, sparrow.”

His voice was a deep rumble as he slipped his arm around her waist, supporting her, while he stroked her untidy hair from her face, and then smoothed her damp cheeks with the back of his hand. Until then she didn’t realize she was crying. Shattered, feeling like the only survivor of some dreadful shipwreck, she lifted her heavy lids and looked up.

He was bent over her, and now he groaned. She felt his mouth on hers, warm and passionate, exploring her lips and molding them to his, tasting her own salty tears. This forbidden desire had struck like lightning, and sensible, practical Antoinette didn’t know how to halt it. Worse, she didn’t want to.

She heard him sigh. “You are wasted on Lord Appleby.”

The coach door closed, softly, and when she dared to look again the highwayman was gone.

Trembling, frantic, she began to search about for the letter. She found it tucked behind her, crumpled but safe. She clutched it to her, relieved beyond words.

Does that mean he’ll come looking for it again?

The voice—her ancestress’s voice—made her start guiltily, because instead of being afraid at the prospect of another run-in with the highwayman, she was looking forward to it.

CHAPTER2

She was still sitting there, stunned, when the coachman reached her, rubbing his freed hands, worry in his eyes as he took in her disheveled state.

“Are ye all right, me lady?”

Antoinette looked up at him. She hadn’t thought of this man as her friend, not after he had caught her trying to sneak out of the second-from-last coaching inn and unceremoniously bundled her back into the coach. “Don’t even think of running off, me lady,” he’d warned her. “I have orders to shoot, and so I will.”

“You’d shoot me?” she’d said in angry surprise.

“Aye.” His eyes had narrowed, he had bared his teeth, and she had believed him.

Now, far from being a monster, he looked tired and shaken.

“Me lady?”

“I believe I am in one piece, thank you.” If the highwayman expected her to faint or have a fit of hysterics, then he was mistaken; she was made of sterner stuff.

She’d had to be.

Her parents had died when she was barely five and Cecilia just turned two, leaving them to the guardianship of their uncle Jerome, a dreamy, otherworldly man. They had loved him dearly, but he had never been much of a guardian when it came to practical matters. As she grew older Antoinette had taken over the reins of their household and their lives, and so it had been until six months ago when their uncle died, and Lord Appleby stepped into their midst.

At first Antoinette quite liked him. Appleby was a self-made man and proud of it, and she found his conversation interesting, although sometimes overly concerned with himself. His manufacturing company was involved in the building of the Paxton-designed Great Exhibition building, and when it opened on May 1 she had hoped to visit London and wander through the many rooms of displays from all corners of the world.

Her uncle Jerome claimed Lord Appleby as an old friend, but Antoinette wondered if they were really little more than acquaintances. They seemed to have met at one of the London clubs, and then Appleby arrived to visit when Uncle Jerome was in his last illness. After that he seemed to be always there, and after Uncle Jerome died, he came to call upon Antoinette and Cecilia, offering in some measure to take the place of their relative.

Cecilia, always eager to believe the best of people, insisted Lord Appleby was just being kind, but Antoinette was more cautious. Money, especially a fortune as large as the Dupre girls’ fortune, could cause people to do wicked things. But, as Cecilia pointed out, Lord Appleby, with his London house and country properties and manufacturing business, was already a wealthy and influential man. His latest venture, supplying the cast-iron components for the Great Exhibition building, had made him a household name. Why would he want their money?

When he invited Antoinette to come to London and be his guest at the opening of the Great Exhibition, she’d agreed. As well as the pleasure she expected from attending such an event, she thought it would be a good chance to get to know Lord Appleby better.

And now she knew him better.

Dusk was on the verge of night as the coach began to slow. Antoinette huddled within her fur-lined cloak, fetched from her luggage by the coachman, and peered through the window. She could see a long driveway down into a valley, and there, at the bottom, soft lights shining from many windows. Wexmoor Manor appeared to be a stone building of three stories, old and a little forbidding.

She was here at last.

As they drew closer, servants came out onto the cobbled forecourt and stood silhouetted against the flare of torches. No London gaslights here. The coachman jumped down from his seat and opened the door for her, and as she stepped down, he touched the brim of his hat. In the flickering light he seemed almost shamefaced, as if the holdup had been his fault.

“I hope you’ll put what happened out of your mind, me lady,” he said quietly. “It were just some lad on a prank, I reckon. Best forgotten.”

Amazed, Antoinette blinked at him behind her spectacles. “You could have been shot!”

“Oh well, I weren’t, so no harm done,” was his answer to that, and he shuffled his feet.

But of course! Antoinette realized with a sense of betrayal. The coachman was in on the plot. Lord Appleby would not have risked his man getting shot. The whole thing was staged for her benefit. Probably the servants at Wexmoor Manor were aware of it, too. Well, she would know the answer soon enough.

“Miss Dupre?”

Antoinette turned to face the figure at the open door, silhouetted against the light; a big woman with a cloud of white hair. “I’m Mrs. Wonicot, the cook and housekeeper here at the manor. Do come inside.” Her voice was authoritative as she led the way.

Flaring candles did little to relieve the effect of dark wood paneling and gloomy Jacobean furnishings. A moth fluttered about a vase of sweet roses, the spent petals scattered on the polished floor. Antoinette breathed in a combination of flowers, wood polish and . . . mutton stew. Her stomach rumbled.

“Miss Dupre? This is Wonicot, my husband.”

Mrs. Wonicot was trying to capture her attention. She was a big, motherly-looking woman, but there was something cold and suspicious in her eyes, and her mouth had such a disapproving look that Antoinette knew she could expect no welcome here. Her husband, a small man with a balding head, murmured a greeting without looking up from his boots.

“We didn’t know you was coming until yesterday. Lord Appleby’s letter didn’t reach us till then.” Mrs. Wonicot’s voice was growing chillier by the minute, as if the tardiness of the post was Antoinette’s fault. “We’ve done our best to prepare, of course, but we’re a long way from London here. I hope you’re not expecting all the comforts you’re used to, miss.”

“I’m sure there will be no need to—”

“Sally . . .” Wonicot interrupted, and touched his wife’s arm in what could have been a comforting gesture or one of warning. He colored when he saw Antoinette watching and went back to staring at his boots.

“We’re only poor ignorant country folk here,” Mrs. Wonicot finished triumphantly.

Antoinette drew her cloak around her and decided that she was too tired to be bothered with haughty housekeepers. Tomorrow, maybe, they might be able to find some common ground.

“My room . . . ?” she hinted, watching a couple of burly servants carrying her luggage up the oak staircase. There was a small landing at the top, and candlelight illuminated a portrait, a man wearing dark clothing and white lace, glaring down at her.

Lord Appleby’s ancestors? But surely not. He was a self-made man and the first of his family to have more than two farthings to jingle together in his pocket, as he was so fond of telling anyone who would listen.

“Your room’s up here. This way.” Sally Wonicot waddled ahead, puffing as she mounted the stairs, head held high. Wonicot remained in the hall, but as Antoinette followed the housekeeper, she was certain she felt his eyes lift from his boots and fasten on her back.

She was deep in enemy territory here. She could trust no one.

An ache gripped her heart. She missed her home in Surrey. She missed her sister and Miss Bridewell, far more of a friend and confidante than a mere governess. It was Miss Bridewell who had sent her the letter, after discovering Lord Appleby’s dark secret. It was Miss Bridewell who had warned her of the dangers of her situation, making Antoinette aware that it was unlikely Lord Appleby would accept the loss of her fortune without a fight. Tread carefully, she had written. Trust no one.

How right she had been! “This is it.” Mrs. Wonicot’s sour tones interrupted Antoinette’s thoughts as she opened the door at the end of a short passage.

The bedchamber was clean, with a faint trace of lemon polish. The reflected gleam on old wooden surfaces and the scent of newly washed draperies spoke of much effort to ready the room in time. An old four-poster bed with time-dulled red velvet curtains stood in pride of place.

“King Charles slept in that bed when he was at war with Parliament,” Mrs. Wonicot offered, noting Antoinette’s interest. “Him that had his head chopped off.”

The grate was empty and cold, but the evening was mild enough not to require a fire. Candles flickered in a draft from the window, and Mrs. Wonicot hurried to shut the casement, muttering about the dangers of the night air.

“Oh please don’t, I enjoy the night air.” Antoinette spoke before she could stop herself.

Mrs. Wonicot turned and gave her a disapproving stare. “Be it on your own head then,” she warned. “I won’t take responsibility if you sicken and die while you’re here.”

“I’m sure no one would expect you to,” Antoinette assured her, and removed her cloak, turning to lay it over a chair. From behind her came a gasp. She looked over her shoulder. Mrs. Wonicot was staring at her, mouth open, hand pressed to her generous bosom.

“Your clothes! Goodness gracious me, child, whatever happened?”

Her tone was so different from the earlier chilly one that for a moment Antoinette was too surprised to answer her. She’d completely forgotten the state of her dress, but now she looked down at the torn bodice ruefully. “We were held up along the road by a highwayman.”

The woman swallowed, shook her head. “You must be mistaken.”

Angrily Antoinette asserted, “I assure you I am not! A man in a mask held us up at pistol point and demanded . . . Well, he was searching for . . . for jewelry. He tore my clothing and—and manhandled me.” She felt her face color.

Mrs. Wonicot appeared to be genuinely shocked, but a moment later her expression hardened and she pursed her lips. “I’m sure it was nothing of the kind,” she said firmly, as if daring Antoinette to argue with her. “Just a lad having a lark, that’ll be what it was, Miss Dupre. You’re not used to our country ways.”

“Are these country ways?” Antoinette retorted angrily, gesturing at her torn clothing. “This was no lark, Mrs. Wonicot.”

“If you say so.” She seemed determined not to believe Antoinette.

“I want it reported to the local magistrate.”

The woman’s eyes widened, and now there was fear in them as well as defiance. “Whatever for? You’re not hurt, are you?”

There was something very wrong about this conversation, Antoinette decided. Mrs. Wonicot was trying to put her off, and the only reason she would do that was if she knew exactly who had held up the coach and was protecting him. Antoinette smelled a conspiracy. As if the housekeeper realized she’d blundered, she turned away, hastily making for the door and murmuring about sending up a supper tray.

A moment later Antoinette was alone.

The room was very quiet. Antoinette wished Mrs. Wonicot hadn’t told her about King Charles sleeping here, because now she felt as if he were watching her, with or without his head. But of course he wasn’t, and even if he was, Antoinette knew she had more to fear from the living than from ghosts.

She went to the window and stared out into the darkness. Lord Appleby’s London house was in Mayfair, where she had truly felt at the heart of a big and bustling city. London never slept. Now all she could hear were the country noises; the murmur of farm animals and the hoot of owls, punctuated by the rustle of the garden.

Was Cecilia looking out over the park back at their home in Surrey? Antoinette prayed she was safe, and that Lord Appleby was too busy in London to think of her.

She remembered the threatening note in his voice when she refused to marry him and hand over her fortune.

“You know, if anything were to happen to you, dear Antoinette, your sister would be the sole heir to your family fortune. I’m sure she wouldn’t turn me down. A little persuasion, a reminder of what can happen to young women who are too independent, and she’d soon agree to be my bride. What do you think?”

Antoinette shivered. Appleby was wrong. Cecilia would fight him, just as she had, and that was what had worried her ever since she’d read Miss Bridewell’s letter. She knew now what His Lordship did to women who stood up to him.

There was a flickering light through the trees. Thick woods, like a dark bulwark, sheltered the house to the north, and the light seemed to come from within those woods. Was it another house? A neighbor or a tenant? Then she heard the scrape of boots on the cobbles below, and looking down at the forecourt saw the dull glow of a lantern, swinging in the hand of someone walking toward the woods.

For some reason she thought she recognized Wonicot, perhaps the gleam of light on his bald head. Whoever it was, he was certainly in no hurry. Antoinette wondered if he was heading toward the village for his nightly ale, with the added bonus of an hour or two away from Mrs. Wonicot.

She yawned. She was tired; the journey had been an eventful one. She needed to sleep so that she could be alert tomorrow and ready for anything Lord Appleby’s servants might have in store for her. Antoinette removed the precious letter from inside her stays and slipped it under her pillow. Tomorrow she must find somewhere safer to hide it.

Until she escaped and made her way back to London.

CHAPTER3

Gabriel tore off his mask and threw it into the corner. Frustration and anger, mostly with himself, made him want to smash something. Or someone. Lord Rudyard Appleby would do. How he would love to have Appleby before him now, his prisoner, in chains and groveling for forgiveness.

It was a nice image, but Gabriel doubted Appleby was the kind to grovel. He probably thought he’d done nothing wrong in stealing Gabriel’s rightful inheritance. He probably thought himself clever because he’d made Wexmoor Manor his, and left Gabriel with a hole in his heart.

He sank down in the chair in front of the fire and rested his head in his hands. A clock ticked on the kitchen dresser. The cottage was still furnished with his aunt Priscilla’s belongings, although she had been dead for many years now. When she’d lived here, and Gabriel was a boy, he’d been fascinated by her. She knew about herbs and incantations, and he was certain she was a witch. Sometimes the girls from the village came and had their fortunes told, although his grandfather didn’t encourage it.

“What about my fortune?” Gabriel asked her one day, when he was watching her crush some pungent herb with her mortar and pestle.

She’d looked at him, her pale blue eyes—so like Gabriel’s—seeing inside his skull. And then she smiled. “Your fortune? I don’t know about that, but I can see your fate. A bird, that’s your fate, my boy. A little brown sparrow will be your fate.”

Gabriel groaned into his hands and shook himself like a dog.

Was his aunt’s prediction finally coming true?

No, it was coincidence, that was all. Antoinette Dupre reminding him of a brown sparrow meant nothing, just another problem to bedevil him. Why did nothing go as planned? The holding up of the coach certainly hadn’t. Although the coachman and his boy had played their parts well, and Antoinette Dupre had been there, just as he’d been told she would be, he hadn’t been able to get the letter from her.

He knew she had it. A few crumpled pages, written in his mother’s sloping hand, the key to regaining his inheritance. All he had to do was take it—by force if necessary. And he’d been prepared to use force, right up until the moment he flung open the coach door.

She’d stared back at him, her big brown eyes filled with a steady defiance, her hair down around her shoulders, her legs visible beneath her tousled skirts. She was small and shapely, the perfect pocket Venus, exactly the type of woman he found most attractive. And his wits went wandering.

Somehow he’d played his part, but the threats he offered in such a menacing voice failed to work. Lord Appleby, he thought, must have promised her a great deal to keep the letter safe. And what better hiding place was there than snug and cozy against his mistress’s bosom?

He’d torn her clothing. He’d touched her soft, warm skin. He’d breathed in her scent and memorized her curves, all the while his wits forming images of hot desire. And still no letter.

Gabriel rubbed his hands over his eyes again and sighed.

He hadn’t wanted to stop. Antoinette Dupre, voluptuous, her skin creamy all over, her long brown hair a veil about her, her eyes heavy-lidded and her coral lips parted. She was perfect and he wanted her.

Gabriel shifted uncomfortably, his body responding to his thoughts. Pointless pain, he told himself. The woman was Appleby’s mistress—he’d seen her in the man’s arms with his own eyes. It followed that she was his possession, loyal to him. So how could it be that when he’d flung open the coach door and seen her, knowing all he knew, he’d momentarily forgotten where and what and why he was there?

Instead he’d thought about her and Appleby, and a hot wave of jealousy had washed over him, scalding him, urging him on. Take her from him, said the deceptively reasonable voice in his head. Appleby’s mistress for your inheritance; that’s fair. Was that why he’d kissed her? Even now he remembered the feel of her lips and the sweet promise of her mouth.

His holdup plan was risky, Gabriel knew that, but he felt he had no choice. Once Appleby’s powerful friends tracked him down and found him, he’d have to leave the country. He had his escape already organized, but once he was over the channel he’d no longer be able to fight for his inheritance. Appleby would have won and he’d be reading English newspapers in a foreign land and dreaming of home.

“Curse it, no!”

He’d die before it came to that.

He must find that letter. The mistress had it and he would find it, even if he had to strip her completely bare to do so.

She deserved to be punished for what she was, grasping and manipulative, out for all she could get. Why else would a woman like her align herself to a bastard like Appleby? Gabriel would take what he wanted from her, and when he had the letter, and his fill of her lush body, he’d vanish like a shadow in the moonlight.

“Master?”

Gabriel jumped up and spun toward the door. It was Wonicot, his sparse hair windblown from the walk through the woods to the cottage, his chest heaving. Sometimes he forgot the servants weren’t as young as they used to be; they were so much a part of Wexmoor Manor. Just as he was.

“Wonicot,” he said. “What is the matter?”

The old man was carrying a basket, and whatever was in it smelled delicious.

“Sally sent me,” he said, setting the basket down on the table. “Me legs aren’t what they were, master; forgive me for taking so long.”

Gabriel watched him for a moment, but the old servant seemed to be studiously avoiding his eyes.

“Have you seen her?” he said sharply.

“Her?”

“You know who I mean. Miss Dupre. Lord Appleby’s mistress.”

“Yes, sir, she’s in her chamber. Says she’s tired out, but I reckon Sally’s welcome didn’t encourage her to stay downstairs any longer.” He looked up, his eyes curious. “You didn’t hurt her, did you, master?”

“I was looking for the letter,” Gabriel said, but even to himself it sounded like an excuse. “She refused to hand it over.”

“I see, master,” Wonicot replied levelly. “That would account for it then.”

Gabriel picked up a slice of bread and dipped it into the bowl of mutton stew.

“Sally said to tell you that Lord Appleby sent down his man o’ business last week,” Wonicot went on, producing a bottle of claret from the basket, with a glass—one of his grandfather’s good ones.

“Did he now?” growled Gabriel.

“Told us he was intending to sell. Saw no reason to hang on to it, he said, a poorly place like this. Needs too much money to put it right, he said. Might be best all round if it were pulled down and leveled.”

Although Gabriel didn’t reply—he didn’t trust himself to—the older man seemed to sense his feelings. “No need to worry yourself, sir,” he soothed. “You’ll find a way to get the manor back again, and then everything will be right as rain. Your grandfather used to say that things had a way of sorting themselves out for the best.”

“You have more confidence in me than I have in myself, Wonicot. I can’t even frighten a weak and feeble woman into giving me the letter.”

“That’s ’cause you’re a gentleman, master,” Wonicot explained. “You’ve been brought up to be kind to women, so it goes against your grain to frighten them. And I wouldn’t call Miss Dupre weak and feeble. She’s got a look in her eye, that one.”

Gabriel grinned.

Pleased to see his spirits recovered, Wonicot fussed about the table, pouring the claret.

“Sally wants to know if you’ll be coming over to the manor for breakfast in the morning, Master Gabriel?”

“Tell her I will. I wouldn’t miss her cooking for anything.”

“She’ll be pleased. Although . . . are you sure Miss Dupre won’t recognize you, master?”

“I’m sure, Wonicot. I’m looking forward to ‘meeting’ her.” He chuckled.

Wonicot appeared doubtful but he didn’t argue. “Very good, master.”

“And remember who I am, for God’s sake. No ‘master’ in front of the minx.”

“As you say, ma—” He stopped himself.

Gabriel watched him totter to the door. Appleby was going to sell his birthright, his inheritance, his life. As long as he could remember, he’d seen himself as the master of Wexmoor Manor, carrying on the long tradition of Langleys who had resided here. The monetary worth of the place was immaterial—Gabriel wasn’t a poor man—but in other ways it was priceless. But it wasn’t just he who would be affected; there was Wonicot and his wife and all the others who depended upon Gabriel for home and hearth.

Just as Wonicot opened the door to leave, someone else came rushing in. They collided.

“Gabriel—” the name burst out of her before she realized it was Wonicot she’d sent reeling back. She stopped, embarrassed. Young, slim, and pretty, Mary Cooper had light hair and a sweet smile, and she’d been in love with Gabriel ever since he could remember. He had a fair idea what she was doing here and he wished she wasn’t.

Wonicot was frowning at her, blocking her way into the cottage. “What are ye doing here, Mary Cooper?” he scolded. “This is no place for a girl alone.”

“I was finished,” she retorted sulkily, “and Mrs. Wonicot herself said I could go.”

“Go to bed, I’d reckon, not out into the night.”

“I wanted to see master,” she said, with a shy glance at Gabriel.

Thank God Wonicot was here, he told himself. Times had changed. Gabriel remembered how, when he was many years younger, he’d thought no girl could be lovelier than Mary Cooper. They had kissed and cuddled and whispered sweet nothings, but fortunately his grandfather had seen what was happening and informed Gabriel in no uncertain terms that he would not countenance his grandson ruining the servants. Later, when he went to school and to London, he’d met and kissed many other women, and his childish infatuation was forgotten. But Mary had never forgotten; she still loved him.

He supposed it was flattering to be the subject of such single-minded and unswerving affection. Gabriel tried to be kind and patient, but sometimes he wished she’d find someone else to lavish her affection on.

“Mary,” he said with a smile, “I thank you for thinking of me, but Wonicot is right. You must go back and—”

“I’m to be her maid, you know,” Mary interrupted, with a little bob of a curtsy and a giggle.

“Miss Dupre’s maid?” Gabriel said, raising his eyebrows.

“Aye, her.” Her expression became earnest. “I’ll unpack her luggage, and I’ll search every inch of it for you, master. If that letter is there, then you can be sure I’ll find it.”

“Thank you, Mary, I’m grateful, but you must be—”

“I’d do anything for you, Master Gabriel.” And she gave him a look so piercing as to be unnerving in its intensity.

Seeing Gabriel’s discomfort, Wonicot clicked his tongue and, taking the girl’s arm, turned her about. “Good night, master,” he said firmly, and closed the door behind them. Gabriel could hear their footsteps receding, and Mary’s high voice as she made her protests, and then there was silence again. Not even the wind was stirring the trees in the wood tonight.

Gabriel sank down in his chair and turned his claret to reflect the candlelight. Mary might search Antoinette Dupre’s baggage, but Gabriel knew she would find nothing. What he was seeking was kept closer to her person. Warm against her skin. And he was going to find it, yes he was, even if he had to seduce her.

He smiled and raised his glass in a toast. “To seduction,” he said, “and the luscious Miss Antoinette Dupre.”

CHAPTER4

His hand on her shoulder was warm, heavy with promise, as he smiled into her face. “Antoinette,” he murmured in his deep, husky voice, “I knew the moment I saw you that you were the one for me.”

“How could you know?” she whispered. “No one can know for sure.”

“Because you make my heart sing, little sparrow.”

In the dream it sounded wonderful, but as Antoinette began to wake she was thinking such words coming from the highwayman’s mouth were very unlikely and a little odd. She never expected to make any man’s heart sing.

Antoinette was the sort of woman who would run a household capably and well, keep within her budget, and organize her servants so that nothing ever went amiss. People respected her and were a little intimidated by her. Her husband, if she ever married, would appreciate her for those qualities, knowing that she would make his life comfortable and easy. But no, she could not imagine herself being the subject of any heart singing.

She blinked and opened her eyes, and gave a gasp.

Someone was peering down at her, and for a moment her dream and the face became confused. A heartbeat later she realized it wasn’t the man in the mask hanging over her but a pretty young woman in a mobcap that barely restrained her blond ringlets. The expression in her dark eyes was so intent it sent a chill through Antoinette.

When she saw Antoinette was awake, the girl’s expression changed in an instant. “Forgive me, miss,” she said, apologetic. “Mrs. Wonicot sent me up to ask if you was ready for your breakfast tray, but you was sleeping so deep I couldn’t wake you.”

“I had an eventful journey.”

With a smothered yawn Antoinette sat up. The chilly morning light was gleaming through a chink in the drapes, but today there was a welcoming fire burning in the hearth. Antoinette watched the flames dancing, the tension leaving her. Until she remembered where she was: Wexmoor Manor, Lord Appleby’s isolated property, and deep in enemy territory.

“What is your name?”

“Mary Cooper, miss,” the servant introduced herself. “I’m to help you dress and look after your clothes, and I’m a fair needlewoman. I don’t do hair, though Mrs. Wonicot says she can do your hair, if you’d like.”

“I can manage my own hair, thank you,” Antoinette said pleasantly, hiding a shudder at the thought of Mrs. Wonicot tugging at her locks. “Besides, I thought Mrs. Wonicot was the cook and housekeeper?”

“Well, she used to be some sort of lady’s maid in London,” Mary Cooper replied disingenuously. “She can name you all the great folk, and all the scandals. Then she decided to turn her back on that, marry Mr. Wonicot, and live at Wexmoor Manor.”

So all the talk about the lack of polish here at the manor was nonsense. Mrs. Wonicot was playing games, and Antoinette was more than ever determined not to trust her.

“Will you have your breakfast tray now, miss?”

“No. I think I’ll come down, thank you, Mary.”

“Oh.” The girl looked startled. She chewed her lip. “I don’t know what Mrs. Wonicot will say to that, miss. She was certain you’d want a tray.”

Antoinette gave her a conspiratorial smile. “Let’s surprise her then, shall we?”

“Very well, miss.” She went to leave, only to hesitate by the pile of luggage. “I’ll unpack these for you. Shake the creases out. Do you want me to find something for you to wear now, before I go?”

“No, Mary, thank you. I’ll manage for now.”

Mary had picked up the tan dress Antoinette had tossed over a chair back the night before, and now she stared wide-eyed at the torn bodice. “My goodness, whatever happened here, miss!”

Antoinette climbed out of bed. There was warm water waiting, thanks to Mary, and soft towels and a scented ball of soap. “I was held up on the journey here, Mary. A ruffian tried to rob me.”

“Oh, miss.” Her eyes were perfectly round.

“I don’t know if even your expertise as a needlewoman would be enough to mend that. It is only fit for a rag now.”

Mary glanced up at her, and there was something in her face, a flash of emotion that Antoinette could not place before she dropped her gaze once more. “I’ll see what I can do anyway, miss.”