The Secret of Love

by Wright, Cynthia

  Setting down the glass of champagne, Gabriel gathered her onto his lap. Tenderly, he spoke to her.

  “That night in Morlaix, you described the abandonment you felt at school. You dreamed your father and mother would come for you, take you home to London with them, and your family would begin treating one another with love and kindness…”

  Softly, Isabella began to cry, her tears soaking the collar of his shirt.

  “But instead, your parents were killed on their way to visit you,” Gabriel continued. “No doubt your deep, natural longing for a loving family has never left you. You had hope for George, but then he disappointed you as well. He might as well have died himself when he was exiled to the Continent.”

  His arms tightened around her and she reveled in the knowledge that he understood her. “Yes! That’s exactly how I felt.”

  “How could I blame you for wanting to save him, for feeling that you might be the one who could help him change?”

  “But that’s over,” she said, drawing back to meet his eyes in the waning candlelight. “George has to save himself, or it won’t be real. And I couldn’t hide behind that awful secret any longer. I had to come into the light and face the truth.”

  Gabriel cupped the side of her soft face with his hand. “Tell me.”

  “I love you.” A wave of emotion sent hot blood rushing to Isabella’s face and made her heart jump. “When I was locked in that room, I realized that I must claim the truth—even though I feared you would turn away, that it all might end in crushing pain.”

  “I know.” He kissed her slowly, lingeringly, in a way that said more than words. “I also resisted surrendering to love…until now. I told myself you were nobility, that you should marry another aristocrat, and hadn’t I designed a future of freedom and adventure? But of course, those were just cowardly excuses.” Gabriel smiled down at her, melting her heart all over again. “Perhaps you think that everything changed at Château du Soleil, when I discovered so many links to the ancestral lords of St. Briac…”

  “So it seemed,” she murmured, feeling more contented by the moment.

  “In truth, the secret was finding the courage to open my heart to love, without reservation. The fire had to come from within—and the evidence at Château du Soleil merely fanned the flames.” He stroked the curls back from her brow and pressed soft kisses to her temples. “That’s what kept me moving forward after your brother abducted you and I couldn’t sleep, worrying for your safety. I knew we were meant to be together.”

  Isabella basked in his words and caresses. “You forgive me, then?”

  “Never doubt it.” He held her fast against his warm, hard-muscled body. “Isabella, you can always rely on my love—no matter what.”

  In the last moment before sleep covered her like a soft blanket, she murmured, “No matter what.”

  * * *

  Isabella awoke in the pre-dawn darkness. Still clad in her nightgown, she found herself in the big canopy bed, covered by fresh linens that smelled faintly of violets. Her face was cradled by Gabriel’s strong, bare shoulder, and she could hear the steady beating of his heart. He was turned slightly toward her, so that one arm encircled her waist, his fingers splayed over her hip.

  Feeling rested and euphoric, Isabella rose on an elbow to search Gabriel’s sleeping face. Tears welled in her eyes as it came to her that she had longed for this moment since the night she first saw him.

  Even as she had grown older, believing in her art and the viability of an independent life, this had always been her secret dream—to be loved and accepted for herself, even with the shadows in her soul, and to share life’s challenges with a man like Gabriel St. Briac.

  “Cherie.”

  His husky whisper broke the silence. Reaching for her free hand, he brought it to his face, holding it against the curve of his cheekbone. His eyes were molten sapphire in the darkness.

  “It’s like a beautiful dream,” Isabella said softly.

  “It’s our dream. At last.” Gabriel turned her into the down pillows and slowly drew the thin batiste nightgown over her head.

  As she felt the night air sweep over her body, she saw that he was already naked. With her fingertips, Isabella touched the crisp hair on his chest, the muscled surface of his belly, and then, in the shadows, she saw his sex, waiting.

  “I want to show you how much I love you.” He took her hand again, pressing it over his heart. “Will you give yourself to me?”

  Gabriel moved her hand lower and her heart raced with excitement. As her slim fingers closed around the warm thickness of him, she yearned to open her body as she had opened her heart a few hours earlier.

  Arousal blossomed between Isabella’s thighs and over her breasts. “Oh, yes. Please…” The words came out half-whisper, half-moan.

  He lowered his powerful body over hers, and just the sensation of that full contact between them was bliss. Isabella wrapped her arms around his wide back, drinking him in, and when he began to kiss her, she thought she might die of pleasure.

  His warm mouth was like a drug, his tongue leisurely yet insistent as it fenced with hers. Since the time when she had blossomed into womanhood, when she had only Mouette Raveneau to whisper with about the changes to their bodies, Isabella had burned for this. Even as a woman, as she had lain in her bed and attempted to pleasure herself, all too often she had helped things along by imagining a mad scene like this one.

  Now it was real.

  He held her with one arm as they kissed, while his other hand explored her naked body, grazing sensitive places she hadn’t realized existed. The insides of her wrists and elbows, the nape of her neck, the hollow of her throat, until finally his thumb brushed one of her nipples. Isabella flinched, moaning, and Gabriel lifted his head.

  “You must feel free to tell me what you like,” he said.

  Tell him? She was waiting for him to show her, but still, it was thrilling to have him say the words, thrilling that he wanted to know.

  And she did lift her breast to him. He stroked her nipple with his warm tongue, and then as he fastened his mouth there and began to kiss, Isabella surrendered to another current of mad, tingling pleasure.

  What of Gabriel’s pleasure? “Will you not allow me to kiss and caress you?” she managed to ask. “I would not be a selfish lover.”

  He gave one of his soft laughs, the one she had noticed he kept only for her. “We have a lifetime ahead of us for loveplay. I promise that you will have many turns at pleasuring me, but tonight is special. It is your first time.”

  “I am quite old for a virgin,” she managed to say, blushing. He had moved to her other breast, driving her mad with the things he was doing, and his hand had stolen between her legs. “Twenty-four.”

  “That’s nonsensical. You are the most beautiful woman in existence.”

  “I have always been told I am not slender enough…” She put a hand over the soft curve of her belly, but he removed it instantly and shocked her a little by kissing her there. The heat between her legs increased.

  “I adore your body. Every inch of it.” Recklessly, he kissed lower. When she felt his warm breath touch her most sensitive place, she sank her fingers into his hair.

  She was shocked, yet her hips seemed to arch nearer of their own volition. The tip of his tongue found her swollen, aching bud and—Dear God!—she nearly screamed aloud. Once, twice, three times, Isabella felt the deft, fiery stroke of his tongue before the waves of an astonishingly powerful climax overtook her. Even as pleasure surged out from her loins, Gabriel’s fingers entered her, pressing strategically. The sensations intensified and Isabella threw her head back on the pillows, moaning.

  When at last the storm subsided, she managed to focus on Gabriel, tanned and magnificent against the snowy linens. He was holding her again, and she found that she was still hungry for him, but in a different way.

  “Are you still conscious?” he teased gently.

  “I never imagined…” Even as she spoke,
she ran her hands over the hard planes of his buttocks, then his hips, until she found his erection.

  “You are a minx.” His breath was warm against her ear as he added, “Irresistibly so.”

  Isabella opened her thighs and guided him there. “This. Please.”

  “Slowly, love.” A half-smile touched his mouth. “You’ll thank me later.”

  The violet-tinged Paris dawn softly illuminated the bed as Isabella watched him enter her. The pain was little enough compared to the extraordinary sight of their bodies coming together for the first time, and something primal happened to her as she began to meet his thrusts, finding her rhythm.

  When the moment of Gabriel’s own release was at hand, his eyes met hers. Isabella saw in them a naked vulnerability that took her breath away, shaking her to the core. In the afterglow of lovemaking, they clung together, their hearts pounding in unison.

  “Isabella, I love you.” He drew back just enough to look searchingly at her, tenderly brushing the damp curls back from her brow. “I may have said it before, but I vow that never before did I understand what the words really meant.”

  She blinked back tears, repeating the words he had spoken earlier. “I open my heart to you, without reservation.”

  “Now that’s the true secret,” Gabriel whispered against the pulse that beat at her throat.

  “The true secret…?” For once, Isabella allowed herself to float on a cloud of pure happiness, without worrying that it might be too good to be true.

  “Yes.” His kiss was intoxicatingly persuasive. “The secret of love.”

  Chapter 33

  On their last morning in Paris, Isabella paused on her way down to breakfast to survey her belongings that were stacked at the foot of the stairs. It had been easy enough for her to pack her things, because she had almost nothing to pack.

  For their journey back to Roscoff, Gabriel had purchased a serviceable landaulet from an elderly marquis so that Isabella might travel in comfort. She only needed enough space for her art box and some luggage, including a small, leather-bound trunk to carry Leonardo da Vinci’s portrait of King François I.

  Madame Le Brun had made a gift to Isabella of two simple muslin gowns and a periwinkle-blue woven summer shawl. She wore one of the gowns this morning, with a pretty lilac spencer she’d found in a Paris shop. Adelaide had woven a thin violet-striped scarf through her upswept golden curls, and the effect was charming.

  “In just two days, you are transformed,” Gabriel said as he greeted her in the doorway. Glancing around to be certain no servants were watching, he gathered Isabella into an intimate embrace. “You are glowing and I must take the credit.”

  “Adelaide is certain that her madeleines are responsible for my restored health,” she teased.

  His brow flew up at that, but before he could respond, Adelaide herself called to them from the diningroom. “Lady Isabella, I have baked your favorite brioche, studded with currents, and it is still warm.”

  “Merci! We will be there momentarily,” Isabella called, feeling a pang upon hearing Adelaide’s use of her title. She caught Gabriel’s sleeve and looked up into his face. “If we marry, I want only to be Madame St. Briac. I never have cared for being addressed as Lady Isabella.”

  “If we marry?” He drew her into a corner and pressed her against the wall, kissing her soundly. “You mean when. I can assure you, my lady, that I never would have taken your virtue if I had even the slightest hesitation about making you my wife. And as for your title—no doubt my brother would delight in stirring up trouble over that, but it doesn’t bother me in the least. We are meant to be together and that is what matters.”

  A blissful shiver ran down her spine. “I am so happy that sometimes I wonder if I am dreaming.”

  “You have my word,” he murmured, pressing his lean hips nearer, so that she could feel his desire for her. “This is no dream, but the very best of life…and we can choose to create a future that is just as happy.”

  Just then, the front door opened, letting in a wave of breezy sunshine along with the animated figure of Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun. On this warm June morning, Madame wore a simple yet fashionable muslin gown. In one hand, she carried a pretty rose-striped sunshade, while holding an embroidered reticule in her other. Her curly hair, now threaded with silver, was caught up in a green silk toque.

  “Ah, the two lovebirds are still at it!” She gave them an irrepressible smile, adding as her gaze fell upon the stack of luggage, “I perceive that you are about to make your farewells. How sad! But first, you must join me for breakfast. I have news to share!”

  Isabella savored every aspect of the meal, realizing that she would soon say goodbye to both Paris and Madame Le Brun. Windows were thrown open to admit bright sunbeams and the scent of roses from the courtyard garden.

  Adelaide proudly served the beautiful fluted brioche, accompanied by thin-sliced ham and eggs cooked with fresh herbs.

  “I have just paid a visit to Vivant Denon,” Madame announced when her servant had left them.

  Gabriel and Isabella had been enjoying rich dark coffee mixed with sugar and hot milk, but at her declaration, they both set down their cups and stared.

  “What? Why didn’t you tell us you were going?” asked Gabriel.

  “I wanted to surprise you!”

  “How brave you are, Madame!” said Isabella.

  “Pas du tout. He has known me for so many years, it would not occur to him to guard his tongue with me.” She paused for a moment to savor a bite of brioche, spread with raspberry jam made from her own berries. “Ah, so delicious! If my dear Adelaide baked like this every day, I would not be able to fit through the door.”

  Gabriel glanced at her over the rim of his coffee cup. “Will you not enlighten us about your meeting with Denon?”

  “You might allow me to enhance my story with a bit of suspense!” She picked up her silver fork and speared a piece of ham. “Eh bien. He showed me his newest masterpiece…a long-lost portrait of King François I, painted by Leonardo da Vinci nearly three centuries ago. Vivant is bursting with pride!”

  Isabella covered her mouth with her serviette, astonished. “He believes it is authentic, then? My humble copy, made in haste, under the most trying of circumstances?

  “I saw it myself,” said Madame. “It is quite impressive, even next to the treasures Vivant has amassed. You are gifted, though you may not believe it yourself.”

  “Actually, I do believe it, much more than I used to,” she said. “But to compare my work with that of Leonardo da Vinci seems absurd.”

  Madame shrugged and gave her a fond smile. “You are right about one thing. Vivant will doubtless look at it with a more critical eye one day soon, but for now it has not occurred to him that his portrait of the King could be a forgery. He is too pleased with himself to entertain such thoughts just yet.”

  The trio shared conspiratorial smiles. “All the more reason for us to leave Paris and return to England,” said Gabriel, “just in case Denon or Wicar realize what’s happened and manage to connect us to the plot.”

  Madame Le Brun nodded. “As it happens, I am leaving Paris myself, perhaps for the rest of the summer. I am going to Switzerland to visit my friend Germaine de Staël, who was banished from France by the Emperor himself. You may recall that she is a novelist of some renown.”

  “I’m glad that you will be away for several weeks,” Gabriel said thoughtfully. “It is wise for all of us to remove ourselves from the notice of M’sieur Denon.”

  “I can’t help thinking of George,” said Isabella, feeling a familiar ache in her heart. “I would feel so much better if I knew that he was safe.”

  “As it happens, I do have one bit of news about your brother,” Madame said.

  Isabella felt her eyes sting with tears. “You are an angel.”

  “I mentioned him to Vivant, asking very casually if that was indeed the Marquess of Caverleigh I had seen in the rotunda during my last visit. I mentioned that I
had known his late mother a decade ago. Vivant was so preoccupied, removing the worn old frame from his painting, that he paid me little mind. He remarked that Caverleigh has returned to live in Italy again.” Madame gave Isabella a tender smile. “He added that your brother is an incurable gambler and drunkard, but he has come into enough money to carry on for now.”

  As Isabella began to weep, Gabriel turned toward her, grasped her by the waist, and lifted her onto his lap. His embrace gave her such comfort that she rested her face against the shoulder of his finely tailored coat.

  “I am so sorry!” she told them both. “I’m not certain why I am crying.”

  “You love your brother,” Gabriel whispered. “As you should.”

  “I—I know he must change, but I do worry for his safety.”

  “Now you know that you needn’t, dear Izzie,” said Madame. “Caverleigh has taken his payment for the painting and returned to Rome. He will be safe there.”

  “That’s right,” said Gabriel. “And even when Denon and Wicar finally realize that the painting they paid for is not authentic, they may be angry, but they weren’t personally swindled. Your brother’s payment came from the coffers of the empire.”

  Listening to them, Isabella felt much better. She kissed Gabriel’s cheek and returned to her own chair. “How grateful I am to have two such wonderful friends.”

  “All of us are fortunate. Let us celebrate with one more surprise,” said Madame Le Brun. Now she was opening her reticule while smiling at Gabriel. “I watched Vivant taking the old, original frame off his new painting, which Izzie had so carefully applied to her copy of the King—”

  “Only so that it would seem even more authentic,” interjected Isabella.