A Secret Love (Cynster 5)

Still furious. Still hurt.

Still aroused.

Alathea sat at the breakfast table the next morning in a state of deadened panic. She knew the axe would soon fall, but she couldn't summon the strength to run. She felt physically drained; she'd barely slept a wink. Maintaining an outward show of calm was imperative, yet it was all she could do to smile at her family and pretend to nibble her toast.

Her stomach felt hollow but she couldn't eat. She could only just manage to sip her weak tea. Her head felt steady enough, yet at the same time strangely vacant, as if blocking out all Gabriel's hurtful words had blocked off her own thoughts as well.

She knew she couldn't think-she'd tried for hours last night, but every attempt had ended in tears. She couldn't think of what had happened, much less of what might.

Picking at her toast, she let her family's cheery talk wash over her and drew a little comfort from its warmth.

Then Crisp paused beside her and cleared his throat. "Mr. Cynster is here, m'lady, and wishes to speak with you."

Alathea looked up. Here! No-he wouldn't. "Wh-" She stopped and cleared her throat. "Which Mr. Cynster, Crisp?"

"Mr. Rupert, miss."

He would.

Serena waved a plump hand. "Do ask him if he's breakfasted yet, Crisp."

"No!-I mean, I'm sure he would have." Rising, Alathea placed her napkin by her plate. "I'm sure he's not thinking of ham and sausages."

"Well, if you're sure…" Serena frowned. "But it seems an odd time to call."

Alathea caught her eye. "It's just a little business matter we need to discuss."

"Oh." Serena mouthed the word, and immediately turned back to her family.

Slipping out of the breakfast parlor, Alathea reflected that her last words were no deception. All that Rupert-Gabriel-wished to speak about had occurred because of their "little business matter."

That wasn't going to make the coming interview any easier.

Crisp had shown Gabriel into the back parlor, a quiet room overlooking the rear gardens. On sunny days, the girls liked to gather there, but today, with the clouds closing in and drizzle threatening, it would be a quiet, and private, haven.

It was unlikely they would be disturbed.

Alathea considered that and grimaced. She'd dismissed Crisp and come alone. Hand on the doorknob, she drew in a breath, gathered her wilting strength, and refused to think of what she would face on the other side of the door.

Outwardly calm, she turned the knob and walked in.

His head turned instantly; their gazes locked. He'd been standing by the windows looking out. He considered her unblinkingly, then, in a low voice said, "Close the door. Lock it."

She hesitated.

"We don't need any interruptions."

She hesitated a moment more, then turned, shut the door, and snibbed the lock. Facing him again, she lifted her head, straightened her spine, and clasped her hands before her.

He continued to study her, his face unreadable.

"Come here."

Alathea considered, but she felt the tug, the compulsion. The threat. She forced her feet to carry her forward.

It was the most difficult thing she'd done in her life-crossing the wide parlor under his eye. She kept her head up, her spine rigid, but by the time she reached his side and the light fell full on her face, she was inwardly shaking, her reserves of strength, of resolution, seriously depleted. As she stopped beside him and met his hard gaze, she realized that was precisely as he'd intended.

He searched her face, his gaze sharp, acute, his features warrior-hard. "N