Her Secret Lover (Aphrodite's Club 2)

The idea depressed her, but she forced herself to be practical and shrug it off.

No, she must not begin to think of love. They were using each other. Soon enough she would find a way to escape, and then she would never see him again.

But all the same, the woman’s name—Marietta—lodged in her chest like a stone. Uncomfortable, immovable, and unbearable.

Chapter 19

Gabriel woke suddenly in the growing dawn. The air was cool against his bare skin, and he shivered and turned his head, wincing as the ties on his mask tightened on a caught strand of his hair. Antoinette lay curled up beside him, her hand under her cheek, her loose hair across her face. He reached out and gently smoothed it back. She looked young and innocent, not at all the kept woman who slept with men like Appleby for the comfort and wealth they provided her.

Sir James had said something of the sort, he remembered. And his reply? He’d warned Sir James that she could play any part necessary to get what she wanted and could not be trusted. Gabriel knew he should take heed of his own advice, but things had come too far.

He climbed out of the bed and stretched, yawning. His body was relaxed and replete, but in contrast his feelings were raw. Confused. And he didn’t want to delve into them too deeply. He’d been dreaming about Aphrodite’s Club and his half sister, Marietta. In his dream she’d been crying, begging him to save her inheritance, and he’d promised he would.

“All you care about is that woman,” she retorted.

“I’m seducing her to gain control over her,” he explained. It was half true, but Marietta didn’t understand.

Ironically, Antoinette would probably understand his motives only too well. For all her eagerness, he guessed she had her own secrets where he was concerned, keeping him too occupied to care about the letter being a big one of them. Well, he was in her bedchamber now; why didn’t he make a search? Prove to himself he hadn’t forgotten his real purpose in being here.

Prowling about the room, he could see no obvious papers lying about. He began to peer inside furniture, rifling through neatly folded clothing. There were some truly breathtaking undergarments, constructed of the finest silk, in a mouthwatering array of colors. But no letter. He could also swear the letter wasn’t concealed on her person—he’d caressed every part of her. His conclusion was she’d hidden it somewhere in the manor, and the only way to get her to give up her secret was to persuade her to hand it over to him.

Next time…

Gabriel pulled on his clothing, leaving his shirt unfastened and his feet bare, and carefully opened the door. When he found himself pausing to glance back for one last look, he knew, with self-disgust, that he really was in trouble.

Mary saw him leave the house, stopping to pull on his boots before striding away into the woods. His head was bent, his face pensive, and he didn’t even notice her standing outside the stillroom.

Her own face felt stiff and taut, and a headache was still throbbing behind her reddened eyes. She knew where he’d been; with her. The knowledge of their affair was like a torment that never left her. At night she tossed and turned, tears on her cheeks, and during the day she could barely function. Her hatred and anger were eating her up, and she knew there was only one thing she could do to stop it.

Rid them of Antoinette Dupre.

It was clear to her—or as clear as possible in her sleepless, frenzied state—that once Antoinette Dupre was gone, then Master Gabriel would return to her. He would be able to see again, and the first thing he would see was Mary. She had been his love once, and she would be again.

She’d even visualized the scene.

He would gasp and smile and call her name, and she would turn expectantly, and then she would be in his arms, held so tightly she could barely breathe. “Mary, Mary,” he would cry, “how could I have been so blind? Will you forgive me and forever be my wife?” And of course she would forgive him and they would walk about the garden hand in hand, making plans for their future here at the manor. Then, in time, there would be children and gray hairs and…But it was usually around this point that Mary foundered. She sometimes wondered, too, what they would talk about in the evenings. Gabriel was an educated gentleman who knew the world, and she was a fishing village girl with little education and little experience. Would he smile and look at her as if she was funny and quaint? Or would he grow impatient with her, and stop talking?

Mary didn’t want that, but somewhere deep in her heart she already knew her hopes weren’t practical. Lord Appleby owned Wexmoor Manor now, and Gabriel was a fugitive. Besides, educated gentlemen didn’t marry lowly serving girls—they might do other things to them but they didn’t marry them. But she refused to accept her dreams were just that, dreams. “We’ll jump that hurdle when we come to it,” she told herself firmly. “Gabriel will know what to do.” She believed in him; she must trust him. Yes, once Antoinette Dupre was gone everything would fall into place.

She’d sent the letter.

Mary remembered the long hours she’d spent over the wording, before copying them out on a sheet of Lord Appleby’s writing paper in her best handwriting. Still she wasn’t completely satisfied. Her attendance at the village school had been brief and she knew such things didn’t come easily to her, but she did her best. As soon as Lord Appleby understood the urgency of the situation here at Wexmoor Manor, he’d leave London and travel full tilt to Devon, she had no doubt about it. And then…

She smiled as much as her aching head would allow.

…Then Gabriel would be hers again.

By the time Antoinette woke the morning was well advanced. She didn’t usually sleep late—she was an early riser—but after last night she could understand why she was so tired. Sexual connection, it seemed, was better than hot milk and honey when it came to guaranteeing a good night’s rest.

The sky was clear and bright, and she decided it was the perfect day to go horse riding. Quickly she rose and washed and dressed, hurrying downstairs and startling Mrs. Wonicot, who was just on her way up.

“Miss Dupre?” she said. “I was coming to wake you. Miss Dupre!” her voice grew more strident as Antoinette strode by, heading for the door. “Don’t you want your breakfast?”

“Later.” Antoinette waved her hand airily and kept going, smiling at the thought of Mrs. Wonicot’s furious expression.

At first glance the stable building appeared to be empty. She made her way toward the stall where the mare she rode last time was watching her over the door, and then she heard a sound. There was Coombe in one of the far stalls with a pitchfork, cleaning out the mucky straw and replacing it with clean.

“I’m going riding, Coombe,” she called.