Her Secret Lover (Aphrodite's Club 2)

“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.”

Antoinette was glad when the maid was gone, carrying the torn dress in her arms, and she could consider her plans for the day. She drew the drapes back and looked out at the first day of her captivity in Devon. The untidy remains of what had once been a formal garden lay beyond the cobbled courtyard, and to one side a rather amazing overgrown hedge. Or was it a maze? Wexmoor Manor must once have been quite something.

A pity she didn’t intend to be here long enough to appreciate it.

In order to escape Antoinette knew she needed to know as much as she could about Wexmoor Manor and the people who lived here. Of course they mustn’t know her plans; she’d have to lull them into believing she was content to remain here. But Antoinette had no intention of staying. She nee

ded to get back to London and put an end to Lord Appleby’s evil plot.

The letter was safe for now, but all depended upon her putting the information to use. If she lost it…if it was stolen…Antoinette knew that must not happen.

Dressed in a dark green morning dress, with a scarlet shawl about her shoulders and her spectacles firmly in place, Antoinette made her way downstairs. The hall was even gloomier than last night—no sunlight penetrated here, and without the glow of the candles it felt depressing. She hesitated, wondering which room was set aside for breakfast, and then she heard voices drifting along the passageway from the back of the house, where no doubt the servants had their quarters.

Antoinette was used to running her own house and going wherever she pleased in it, but she was well aware Mrs. Wonicot would not appreciate her poking her nose into the areas of Wexmoor Manor where she reigned supreme. Still, she’d determined she would not be intimidated by the Wonicots. With quick, purposeful steps, she set off to seek out her enemies.

Gabriel cut up his sausage with his knife and fork, nodding a compliment at Mrs. Wonicot as he chewed. “Delicious,” he said. “You are a fine cook, Sally.”

She blushed with pleasure, disguising it by fussing about the stove, shifting pans and pots. “That madam upstairs doesn’t think so,” she said darkly. “Hardly ate a thing on the supper tray I sent up last night.”

“That’s ’cause you scared the poor girl half to death,” her husband interrupted.

“I doubt anything could scare that one,” Sally retorted. “She’s far too sure of herself. Cunning, that’s her. You can see it in her eyes. Well, she’d have to be, wouldn’t she? To catch and hold on to a slippery character like Lord Appleby.”

“She didn’t want a breakfast tray, neither,” Mary chimed in from her perch on the stool by the end of the big kitchen table. “After Mrs. Wonicot offered an’ all! Insulting, I call it. Instead she said she’d come downstairs.”

Mrs. Wonicot sniffed. “If she thinks she’s going to sit in state in the breakfast room, all by herself, then she can wait until I’m ready.”

Mary, enjoying herself, held up the torn dress with a little smirk at Gabriel. “She says this is only fit for the ragbag now, master. I reckon I could have it for myself. The cloth is very fine, don’t you think? Although brown is such a dreary color.”

Gabriel swallowed his sausage. “Brown can be rather becoming,” he replied at last, thoughtfully, remembering Antoinette Dupre’s dishabille, her brown hair tangled about her, her brown eyes wide. She’d been like a trapped animal, something half wild and desperate hiding behind the veneer of a lady. He’d wanted to kiss her, to taste her. To tame her.

He still did.

“She don’t seem like the sort to be Lord Appleby’s mistress,” Mary’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Nor anyone’s mistress, come to that. She looks like a governess.”

“But that’s a front, don’t you see?” Sally Wonicot said with relish. “Underneath all that she’s a clever little minx who knows just what to do to make a man her slave.”

Gabriel’s imagination took flight. He’d enjoy finding out just what clever little tricks Antoinette Dupre did know. He wanted to delve behind her bland exterior and find the wildness hiding inside. Anyone who wore such finely made and exquisite undergarments was not the epitome of a conventional woman, that was for certain.

The door opened.

The woman he’d just been fantasizing about stepped into the kitchen as if she had every right to be there.

Surprise sent Gabriel hunching forward in his chair, and he put a hand up to his face for good measure. Wonicot stumbled to his feet, moving to block his master from the newcomer’s gaze, while Sally put her hands on her hips and glared.

“The breakfast room is through the door opposite the stairs,” she said frostily.

“Oh? I thought I’d save you the bother and come and join you,” Antoinette said with a meaningless smile. She came farther into the room, her wide green skirts sweeping the floor. The sunlight shone through the windows high on the back wall, while the door was open into the kitchen garden, and bright light and herbal smells filled the large, friendly kitchen. Antoinette looked about her and gave a little nod, as if the room met with her approval.

Gabriel watched her sauntering about from the corner of his eye—the gentle sway of her hips, the way the light gleamed on her neatly pinned hair, the elegant curve of her throat, and the swell of her breasts beneath the tight-fitting green bodice and scarlet shawl. He gritted his teeth, remembering perfectly what she looked like without her clothes.

Wonicot shuffled his feet anxiously and cast Gabriel a quick glance over his shoulder. Gabriel thought he was worrying unnecessarily. He was dressed as a groom, the cap on his head hiding his hair and with a few swatches of coarse black horse hair attached to it for good measure, and the hunch of his shoulders disguising his normally straight posture. Antoinette would look at him and see a groom. But just in case, he’d found himself an extremely smelly jacket—Mrs. Wonicot had insisted he leave it outside—that would drive away even the most tenacious ladies.

He took another sideways glance at her and noticed something he hadn’t before.