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."
/> He grinned. "I'm comfortable here, and the scenery's to my liking."
Alathea glared at him.
The click of the latch had them both turning. Augusta's shining head appeared around the door. "Can I come in?"
Alathea beamed. "'Indeed, poppet. But where's Miss Helm?"
"She's helping Mama with the placecards for the dinner." Shutting the door, Augusta came forward, studying Gabriel with the frank gaze of the young.
"You remember Mr. Cynster. His mama and papa live at Quiverstone Manor."
Gabriel lay there, a lazy lion relaxed in the chair, then he held out a hand. "That's a big doll."
Augusta considered, then turned Rose and held her out. "I bet you can't guess her name."
Gabriel took the doll; propping it on one knee, he studied it. "She used to be called Rose."
"She still is!" Augusta followed Rose, clambering onto Gabriel's lap.
As he settled her, he looked up-and met Alathea's astonished stare. He grinned and looked down at Augusta. "Did your sister ever tell you about the time Rose got stuck in that big apple tree at the end of your orchard?"
Alathea watched and listened, amazed that he still remembered all the details, and that Augusta, so often shy, had taken so readily to him. Then again, he did have three much younger sisters; he could probably write the definitive thesis on bewitching young girls.
Seizing opportunity, she quickly finished the accounts, then opened another ledger and settled to check through receipts. The activity used only a small part of her brain; the rest grappled with the problem of Gabriel, and what she could and should do about him. The sound of his deep voice, rumbling low as he charmed Augusta, was familiar and oddly comforting.