Her Secret Lover (Aphrodite's Club 2)

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.”