She held his gaze steadily. "Is that a threat?"
"No. It's a promise."
She considered him, then opened her mouth-
He laid a finger across her lips. "I'm deeply attached to you, you know that. Now I'm no longer blinded and forbidden by preconception, I can admit it. I desire you sexually, but that's only the half of it. I want you because I can think of no other I would rather share my life with. We suit. We could be successful life-partners. We've never been friends, not really, but with the difficulty between us removed, that's another relationship within our reach."
Her eyes searched his-she was marshaling her arguments, still stubbornly resisting for all she was worth.
Releasing her lips, he traced her jaw, then let his hand fall to the sofa back. "Thea, no matter how you struggle to refute it, you know what's between us. It might have been cloaked and veiled for years, but now we've stripped away the disguise, you can see what it is as well as I." He held her gaze. "It's an ardent and undying passion, not just on my part but yours as well."
Alathea looked away. She didn't know what to do. It wasn't just her head that was spinning. His words had evoked so many emotions, so many long-buried needs and barely recognized dreams. But… drawing herself up, she stated, "You're telling me your emotions are engaged."
"Yes."
"That what's between us demands marriage as its proper state-its necessary outcome."
"Yes."
When she stared into the distance and said nothing more, he prompted, "Well?"
"I'm not sure I believe you." Facing him, she hurried to explain, "Not about what's between us so much as why you believe we should marry." She searched his face, then, mentally girding her loins, she spoke bluntly. "We do know each other well-very well. You claim that the feelings that have always plagued us were due to frustrated desire, that what's between us is that-physical desire-and I accept that that's probably so. You've said that your emotions are engaged and I accept that, too. But what I don't know is: Which is the most prominent emotion?"
A scowl formed in his eyes. "Whichever emotion it is that prompts a man to marriage."
"That's what I'm afraid of. The emotion that's prompting, pressing, spurring you to marry me is the one dominant emotion you possess. You want to protect me. You've made up your mind that the right way forward is via the chapel and you're always successful once you fix your mind on a goal. Unfortunately, in this case, attaining your goal requires my cooperation, so I'm afraid your record of success is about to end."
"You think I made all that up."
"No-I think you were in the main sincere, but I don't believe your conclusions fit your facts. I think you're fudging. And if you want to know whether I think you would lie in pursuit of what you saw as a higher goal, then yes, I think you'd lie through your teeth." With her eyes, she challenged him to deny it.
Lips compressed, he held her gaze intimidatingly, but didn't.
She nodded. "Exactly. We know each other all too well. In creating the countess, I knew precisely what to say, how to pull the right strings to get you to do as I wished. I'm not so puffed up in my own conceit that I imagine you aren't clever enough to do precisely the same to me. You've decided we should marry, so you'll do whatever you need to to bring our marriage about."
He looked at her steadily. She'd expected an immediate reaction, possibly an aggressive one. His silent appraisal unnerved her. She could read nothing of his thoughts in his eyes.
Then he sat up. The arm along the back of the sofa slid about her; his other hand rose to frame her face. A split second and she was held, lightly, in his embrace.
"You're right."
She blinked. Was that a wry smile she saw in his eyes? "About what?"
His gaze lowered to her lips. "That I'll do whatever I must to bring our marriage about."
Alathea mentally cursed. She hadn't meant to phrase it as a challenge. "I-"
"Tell me," he murmured. "Do you accept that what's between us is an 'ardent and undying passion'?"
It was a struggle to draw breath. "Ardent, perhaps, but not undying. Given time, it will fade."
"You're wrong." He leaned closer and brushed her lips with his. The contact was too light to satisfy; all it did was make her hungry, too.
His breath was warm on her throbbing lips. "The ardency that flooded you last night when I filled you…" His lips touched hers again, another achingly incomplete kiss. "The passion that drove you to open yourself to me, to bestow whatever sensual gift I asked for. Do you think those will fade?"
Never. Alathea swayed. Her lids were so heavy, all she could see was his lips moving closer. Her hands, on his lapels, should have held him back; instead, her fingers curled, drawing him nearer. Her wits were drowning in a sea of sensual longing. In the instant before his lips completed her conquest, she managed to whisper, "Yes."
Lips touched, brushed, settled. An instant later, she surrendered on a sigh, giving him her mouth, thrilling to the slow, unhurried claiming. He touched every inch, then deliberately invoked the memory of their joining. Heady passion, ardent longing, had her firmly in their grip when he drew back and whispered against her lips, "Liar."
"Good morning."
Alathea looked up, and only just managed not to gape. "What are you doing here?"
Here was her office, her private, personal domain into which others ventured only by invitation. The room she had retreated to, ostensibly to tally the household accounts, in reality to search for some sure, safe, sensible path through her suddenly shifting world. Since their interlude in the gazebo, she was no longer sure what was real and what mere fanciful imaginings. As she watched Gabriel close the door, she resigned herself to making no progress on that front, not with him in the same small room.
"It occurred to me"-he scanned the room as he strolled toward her-"that with the Season at its zenith, we can expect Crowley to call in his promissory notes in about two weeks." Reaching the desk, he met her gaze. "It's time we started framing our petition to the bench."
"Only two weeks?"
"He won't wait until the very end. He's more likely to draw in his pigeons at the height of the whirl, when the ton provides maximum distraction. I suggest," he said, lowering his long limbs into the armchair facing the desk, "that you summon Wiggs. We'll need his input. I've brought Montague's figures."
Alathea considered him, entirely at his ease in her chair. He smiled at her winningly, his expression studiously mild. With awful calm, she rose and tugged the bell pull. When Crisp answered, she requested him to send for Wiggs. Crisp bowed and departed; she turned back to discover Gabriel eyeing the ledgers on her desk.
"What are you doing?"
"The household accounts."
"Ah." A smile fluted about his lips. "Don't let me disturb you."
Alathea vowed she wouldn't, something much easier said than done. Pen in hand, she forced herself to tally column after column. Despite her intentions, the figures showed a distressing tendency to fade before her eyes. At full stretch, her senses flickered. She bit her lip, clenched her fingers tighter on the pen, and frowned at her neat entries.
"Need any help?"
"No."
She completed three more columns, then carefully looked up. He was watching her, an expression in his eyes she couldn't place. "What?"
He held her gaze, then slowly lifted one brow.
She blushed. "Go away! Go and sit in the drawing room."