by Sara Bennett
“Consider, Gabriel. This woman is Appleby’s mistress. She thinks with her head, not her heart, but she is still a woman. What if you woo her, seduce her, show her what she is missing? You are a man who can persuade women to do anything, Gabriel. She will melt like butter in your hands, and then you can persuade her that it is in her best interests to give up her secret to you.”
“Madame…”
“You don’t believe me? This woman may be Appleby’s mistress, but you are young and handsome, everything he is not. Of course she will be attracted to you. And then, if you accustom her to being made love to by a lusty younger man, she will very soon do whatever you want her to.”
Aphrodite had said much the same at their last meeting, but even then Gabriel had thought it an unlikely scenario. As it turned out he was right; Antoinette was not a woman easily persuaded.
He could spend a lifetime with her and never grow bored.
After he’d fled from the terrible confrontation with Lord Appleby, Gabriel had gone straight to Aphrodite’s Club and taken shelter there to lick his wounds. Aphrodite, Sir Adam’s former lover and mother to Gabriel’s half sister, Marietta, was someone he’d always known and liked. His was a strangely tangled family, but having grown up with it, Gabriel didn’t give it much thought. Although Aphrodite now had her own life, happy with her true love, Jemmy Dobson, he’d known she would welcome him.
And so she did.
“I have many friends, Gabriel, and they are happy to help me out when I need it. One of those friends has a son who just happens to be Lord Appleby’s secretary.”
“That’s very useful, Madame.”
“Extremely. I asked Jemmy to call upon him last night, to explain matters to him so he understood he would be doing me a tremendous favor. He was eager to help—I do not think he is very happy in His Lordship’s employ. So this morning he bribed one of the servants to let me into Lord Appleby’s house—with a little acting, of course.”
“Of course. Why?”
“I wanted to see for myself. I can tell you that Appleby hates me. He is revenging himself for past slights, real and imagined, and he will not stop. We are in a great deal of trouble, mon ami.”
She then told him that the secretary had told her that Lord Appleby did indeed have the letter written by Gabriel’s mother, and that he was very secretive about it. The letter had been on his desk the day before, and by evening it was gone.
“Gone where?”
“There is a woman living in Lord Appleby’s house in Mayfair. Rumor has it she is his mistress. Very shocking, oui?”
“But…I saw her!”
“So did I. And it so happens she had a letter hidden down the front of her bosom.” She placed a hand lightly against her own chest and smiled. “Appleby is clever; he will know we are seeking the letter and will do anything to get it back. What better place to hide a secret than upon your mistress’s body?”
Gabriel had laughed, he remembered, not realizing then what was to come. “What do you intend to do, Madame?”
And she’d told him. Once Appleby’s misbehavior reached royal ears, he would need to send his mistress away for a time. Aphrodite would see to it that his secretary whispered the name Wexmoor Manor in his ear. “Isolated and safe from the prying eyes of his enemies,” she mocked. “It will seem to him the perfect solution, and a little amusing joke, too, to be using your home, Gabriel.”
Gabriel sipped his brandy and stared into the fire. His wet clothing had begun to steam nicely, and he felt warm and sleepy on the outside, but inside the familiar brooding anger was bubbling away.
Appleby hated him. He had no doubt about that. His mother believed it was because he’d wanted his son with him, and if he couldn’t have that, then he’d hate him instead and punish them both. Aphrodite, on the other hand, believed Appleby knew Gabriel wasn’t his son after all, and that was why he hated him.
“You are a Langley through and through,” she declared. “Do not doubt it.”
He felt like a Langley. He desperately wanted to believe it. Whenever he began to doubt he felt his heart turn to lead. His grandfather John had believed he was a Langley and raised him to inherit Wexmoor Manor and love it as his own.
If he ever escaped the mess he was in, he’d do just that. Wexmoor would become his home, and he’d repair the crumbling stones and bring the rooms back to life. The garden would bloom again, and the old maze would be tamed. He’d live here content, happy, and never give Antoinette Dupre another thought.
But he knew in his heart he was lying.
He was a Langley, and the Langleys were notoriously attracted to dangerous women. His ancestor had fallen in love with the king’s mistress and married her, although it nearly ruined him, and now Gabriel was heading down a similar path.
And there was an inevitability about it, a sense of fate. As if he’d set his course on having Antoinette and nothing could now alter it.
Chapter 18
Two nights later Antoinette heard the soft click of the door in the darkness behind her, and smiled. She was standing by the window looking out at the clear night. The moon hung, half full, over the woods. She hadn’t been able to sleep. There were too many things to think about, too many doubts and questions, and a strange tingling happiness that had been with her ever since she found the cottage in the woods. And now here he was.
Her secret lover.
He slipped his arms about her waist and nuzzled her hair, as if enjoying her scent. She leaned back against him and wondered how it could be that she felt so comfortable in his arms. So safe. When had she forgotten that this man was her enemy?
“Antoinette,” he murmured, kissing the curve of her neck.
She felt the hard texture of his mask. “Can’t you take that off?” she whispered. “Does it matter if I see your face?”
He hesitated, and then she felt him shake his head. “Better not,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“I think you understand more than you’re willing to admit.”
Well, what did that mean? Antoinette turned to ask, but he bent and kissed her instead, and the heat of his mouth and his body made her dizzy with her newly discovered need of him. Who would have thought she could so quickly become such a sensual woman? Or had this side of her nature always been there, waiting, hoping to be allowed out?
Perhaps the man kissing her was more important to her metamorphosis from staid miss to woman of the world than someone of her independent character wanted to believe. Her flesh tingled and her blood burned when she was in his arms. She melted and ached, but only he could soothe her heated body. And as for the soaring pleasure…it was beyond words.
Would she feel this way with someone else?
At the last moment her mind skittered away from the question. This was not an affair of the heart, she told herself. There was no question that she felt anything more than desire. And just as well, because this was Appleby’s man and she could not trust him. Not for one single moment.
He bent her over his arm, arching her neck and back, and rained kisses on her throat and bosom. Antoinette had the curious sensation that this had happened before, but the memory eluded her, until he said:
“The first time I ever saw you, you were being held like this.”
She pulled away from him. In the moonlight his face was still and his expression unreadable behind the mask. “You were there that night in Mayfair?” she whispered. “You were there!”
His smile had no humor in it. “Yes.”
She tried to force herself to think, to remember the faces of all the guests, but there were so many of them, and later events had driven most of her recollection of the evening from her mind. He could have been one of the gentleman in evening wear—he spoke like one—or was he one of the tribe of faceless servants that Appleby employed to run his house?
Something else occurred to Antoinette. After she’d rushed upstairs to rage and weep over Appleby’s perfidy and the destruction of her rep
utation, there had been an incident downstairs. Something had happened to Appleby, because the next morning his nose was reddened and bruised and his eyes bloodshot.
Someone had struck him.
“A private disagreement,” he’d said shortly, when he saw her staring, and she didn’t dare ask more.
They’d had little to say to each other that morning anyway, but Antoinette remembered wishing that whoever had hit him, had hit him harder. And more than once. If she’d taken boxing lessons she might have done it herself.
But Lord Appleby’s nose couldn’t have had anything to do with the highwayman, who was his man, after all.
No, the highwayman was probably one of the servants. She could imagine him watching her all along, his eyes secretly lusting after the proper lady he’d thought her—or the improper lady, seeing he appeared to believe she truly was Appleby’s mistress. Then when His Lordship gave him this task, to fetch the letter from her, it would have been the perfect opportunity to taste the forbidden fruit.
But it still didn’t seem to fit. The highwayman didn’t have the air of a servant; he was an independent man, a man more used to giving orders than taking them, and with a gentleman’s manner.
“Who are you?” she said. “What are you?”
He was watching her, reading the expressions flitting over her face, but he didn’t answer.
“Why are you living in the witch’s cottage in the woods? Are you hiding from someone?”
“Witch’s cottage,” he said with a laugh. “Who told you that?”
“Mary.”
“Priscilla was a wise woman, perhaps a white witch, but she only ever helped the people who came to her.”
“You sound as if you knew her?” Antoinette said.
“Curious little sparrow,” he mocked. “Careful what you ask; you may not like the answer.”
There was a mystery here, and she longed to have it resolved.
But before she could ask any more questions, he reached out and ran his finger across the swell of her breasts beneath her nightgown, and then all sensible thought left her as physical sensation took over. He hooked his finger over the neckline of her gown and drew her toward him, slowly, inexorably.
“That night when I saw you in his arms,” he murmured, “I knew then I had to have you.”
“I don’t understand…”
“You don’t have to understand. Just feel…”
He cupped her breasts, pushing them up, and bent to plant openmouthed kisses on them through the cloth. She trembled as he unfastened the nightgown and slipped it from her shoulders, exposing her upper body to the cool night air drifting in the window. Her nipples peaked and hardened, and he bent and took one of them in his mouth. She caught her breath, stroking his hair with her fingers, drawing him closer.
He finished what he was doing, leaving her in a state of aching need, and demanded in a low voice, “Does Appleby do this to you? Does he make you feel like this?”
Confused, she didn’t know whether to answer him or not. Should she tell him the truth, that he was her first-ever lover, and Appleby had touched her only once? Or should she prevaricate and allow him to believe the worst, as he already did? Confiding in him suddenly seemed far too dangerous—she felt as if it might open a door she did not want to go through. No, it was better to say nothing.
His fingers were sliding up her thigh almost roughly, and then he cupped his hand between her legs, stroking her slickness, brushing back and forth against her swollen bud while she clung to his shoulders, trembling and trying not to scream.
“Does he?” he growled. “Answer me.”
She shook her head feverishly. “No. No, he doesn’t…”
That seemed to please him because he gentled his touch, fingers moving up inside her now, filling her. She wrapped her arms about his neck and clung as her knees buckled, shamelessly opening her legs to the delights he offered. Behind his mask his eyes glittered.
“Tell me you want me.” It was an order.
“I want you,” she mewed, her mouth seeking his.
He broke the kiss with a triumphant laugh and picked her up in his arms, carrying her to the bed. The mattress dipped beneath them. He knelt above her and stripped off his shirt, and then began to unbutton his trousers, but Antoinette sat up and brushed his fingers aside.
“Let me help,” she murmured, with a smile upward. Her smile broadened when he immediately acquiesced. The buttons came free one by one, and she slipped her hand inside, feeling the velvet steel of his body. She made a sound in her throat, a purr of anticipation, and his warm flesh quivered in her hand.
She bent close, breathing in his musky scent, and licked the tip like a cat lapping cream. She licked again, and made a murmur of pleasure. He cupped her head in his hands, and she opened her mouth and took him inside. He jerked and groaned, as if she’d hurt him, but when she made as if to stop, he said, “Please, Antoinette…” in such a husky, pleasure-filled voice, she ached with desire.
Was this what a real mistress would do? Imagining Lord Appleby in the place of this man made her go cold. But then a real mistress would have to be a good actress because she’d be playing a part and concealing her true feelings. Antoinette knew, as she caressed and sucked at him, that she couldn’t do that.
Gently he lifted her head and kissed her deeply. He lowered her backward onto the bed, his body following hers down, and entered her with a single deep thrust. Her body spasmed, clenching around him, and he stilled, letting her settle, before he moved again. He was drawing out the pleasure, building the sensations, making her wait.
She could feel his naked body sliding against hers, hard where she was soft, rough where she was smooth. Her breasts ached, her nipples incredibly sensitive, and when he clasped the globes of her bottom and tilted her slightly, so that he could go deeper still inside her, she knew she would never feel this for another man.
Highwayman, stranger, servant, gentleman…it didn’t matter what he was. Something old and primeval inside her recognized him and claimed him as her own.
“Tell me,” he whispered in her ear.
Was he able to read her mind now? Antoinette gasped, fingers clenching on his back, not caring if her nails cut his skin.
“Tell me,” he insisted, and thrust harder, deeper, pushing her toward a place she had never been before.
“There’s never been anyone like you.”
The clenching spasms took her then, the pleasure so great she lost awareness of everything but her own body and his. She felt him thrust once, twice, and then arch above her, his head thrown back, his mouth open as he cried out.
After a moment he rolled over on his side and took her with him, still inside her, his arms holding her close, his lips soft against her hair. Limp, replete, Antoinette closed her eyes and went to sleep.
Gabriel listened to the sound of her breathing. Something had happened between them, but he didn’t want to think about it. The truth was he knew he’d never felt like this before. He’d forced Antoinette to say something of the sort, although she probably would have said anything to get him to give her release, but it was Gabriel who was changed.
And now he was trapped and it was his own fault.
There had been women before, plenty of them. He was a healthy young man, and women enjoyed his company, and certain types of women were willing to share his bed, some for payment but others simply for the pleasure it gave them. He’d never fallen in love with any of them, not even a little bit. Physical pleasure was one thing, emotional attachment another, and the two sides of the coin were just that—separate. Until now.
Antoinette Dupre was different. He found her attractive, surprisingly so. Not because she wasn’t a lovely woman but because she was different. True, she was a pocket Venus, but her hair was glossy brown rather than the fair he favored, and her eyes were brown not blue, and she wore spectacles and gazed at him in a steady, fearless manner rather than simpering and flirting. And yet he found everything about her made hi
m want her more.
He was like a climber in the Swiss Alps, standing beneath an avalanche and watching it rumbling toward him and yet unable to run. In a moment he’d been overtaken, overcome, swallowed up. And he couldn’t wait.
Gabriel groaned softly and stared up at the canopy of the bed above him. King Charles’s bed had a lot to answer for. He remembered his grandfather telling him that it was here he’d begun his married life with Gabriel’s grandmother, and afterward he never looked at another woman. Perhaps he should blame the furniture for his predicament?
No, there was no one to blame but himself. He’d set out to seduce Antoinette to recover his mother’s letter, and now he was the one seduced.
Antoinette woke sometime later, replete, and found him still naked beside her, deeply asleep, lying on his back with his masked face turned to hers and his arm outflung.
Antoinette half sat up, watching him, and enjoying being able to do so without his being aware of it. He was well made, and she didn’t think it was her lack of experience that made her think so. Even when he was clothed, he put her other male acquaintances in the shade. Although, to be fair, she hadn’t seen his face properly, not without the black mask. For all she knew he might be hideously scarred…
The urge came to her. She hesitated, excited and yet oddly reluctant. What if he was hideously scarred? What if he awoke and caught her?
Just then he let out a little snore, and she made up her mind. Antoinette leaned over him and felt at the back of the mask. There were fastenings, thin leather ties, that were used to secure it around his head. With great care she began to undo them, expecting him any moment to wake and demand to know what she was doing.
But he didn’t.
Suddenly the mask loosened, and carefully, holding her breath, she eased it from his face and laid it on the pillow.
The bedchamber was too dark. She slipped from the bed and went to the window, drawing the curtains apart. The moonlight was still bright, and when she turned back to the bed, her heart thudding, she could see him almost as well as in daylight.