He was a coward.
A difficult fact for a Cynster to face, but face it he must. She had given him no choice.
He hadn't seen Alathea since their meeting in the gazebo the previous afternoon. Indeed, he didn't want to see her, not until he'd decided what to do, how to respond to her ultimatum. She made him feel so… primitive, so stripped of all his elegant attitudes, the patina of his social charm. With her, he felt like a caveman, one who had suddenly discovered heaven on earth was beyond the ability of his club to provide. He'd painted the details of their future life intending to lure her into admitting how desirable it would be, to show her how easily their lives would mesh. Instead, he'd opened his own eyes to how desperately he wanted all that he'd described.
He hadn't considered the details before-he'd known he wanted her as his wife and that had been enough. But now that he'd conjured up such visions in all their glory, they haunted him.
And pricked and prodded at his cowardice.
Was he going to risk that future-the glorious future that should be theirs-simply because he couldn't find the words to tell her what she wanted to know? Because the mere thought of what she truly meant to him closed his throat and rendered him incapable of speech?
But there were no words to encompass all she was to him, so how the devil could he tell her?
He swallowed a mouthful of brandy, and brooded on that fact. But he had to tell her, and soon. Patience had never been his strong suit-patience that entailed concommitant abstinence was utterly foreign to his nature. He'd endured more than a week without her; his stock of patience was stretched vanishingly thin. He certainly wasn't about to let the court case run its course and risk her slipping back to the country. If she did, he'd have to hie after her, and just think how revealing that would be to the now all-too-interested ton.
No-he had to speak before Tuesday morning. God knew how things would pan out after that, Struthers or no. And if, by some hellish twist of fate, things went awry and the decision went against them… if he waited until then to drum up his courage and speak, it might take forever to convince her he wasn't simply doing his all to whisk her into his protection. He'd probably go insane before he succeeded. Best to strike now, when their case looked strong, so she had less justification to attribute all his motive to his admittedly obsessive protective instinct. He wasn't sorry for that instinct-he wouldn't dream of apologizing for it-but he could see that in this case, it was going to get in his way.
So-how to tell her what she insisted on knowing before Tuesday morning?
He couldn't see himself doing the deed via a formal morning call, and trying to talk to her in the park would be insane. Reaching for Folwell's note, he scanned the list of Alathea's engagements. As he'd supposed, the next time he and she would unavoidably meet was at the Marlboroughs' ball tomorrow night.
They'd meet at Chancery Court the next morning.
Gabriel grimaced. How, between appearing in court and now, did fate expect him to declare his hand, let alone his heart?
"Send Nellie up to me, Crisp. I may as well get ready."
"Indeed, Lady Alathea. I believe Nellie's with Figgs. I'll inform her immediately." Crisp sailed on through the green baize door.
Alathea climbed the stairs, doggedly ignoring her constantly vacillating emotions. On the one hand, she felt almost hysterical with relief, buoyed to the point of frivolity over having the sword that had hung over the family's future for the past months all but effectively removed. The captain's testimony would carry the day against Ranald Crowley. There were moments when she had to concentrate to keep a silly grin from her face.
She had mentioned to her father and Serena that matters were looking up. A superstitious quirk had stopped her from assuring them that the family was finally safe. That she would do later in the week, the instant the judge handed down his decision.
But they were safe. She knew it in her heart.
Her heart, unfortunately, was otherwise engaged, not at all inclined to share in her imminent joy. On a matter that had, to her considerable surprise, come to mean more to her than even her family, her heart was troubled. Uneasy. Unfulfilled.
Reaching the top of the stairs, she released her skirts and sighed.
What was he up to?
She hadn't seen him, or heard from him since he'd left her in the gazebo, his harsh words "Don't you think we've wasted enough years?" ringing in her ears. So what now? Did he imagine she'd weaken and meekly acquiesce?
"Hah!" Lips compressing, she swept down the wing and flung open the door to her room. Nellie's footsteps came pattering after her.
"I want that ivory and gold gown-the one I was saving for a special occasion."
"Oooh!" Nellie darted to the wardrobe. "What's the occasion, then?"
Alathea sat before her dressing table; in the mirror, she considered the militant light in her eyes. "I haven't yet decided."
She wasn't going to do it-weaken and give in. She was going to be tenacious, stubborn-she was utterly determined. As far as she could see, she was the one who had taken all the risks thus far-in demanding his sworn motives, in being so naively transparent. It was time he did his part and told her the full truth.
A tap on the door heralded her bathwater. While Nellie oversaw the preparations, Alathea unpinned and brushed her hair, then wound it in a simple knot. Nellie came to fetch her usual bath salts; she mumbled through lips clamped about hairpins, "No-not those. The French sachets."
Nellie's brows rose, but she hurried to the drawer where the expensive birthday present from Serena was secreted. A moment later, a lush scent reminiscent of the countess's perfume wreathed through the room.
Nellie's face was gleefully alight; without further direction, she assembled all required to turn Alathea out at her finest-at her most seductive.