Her Secret Lover Read online

  Sara Bennett

  Her Secret Lover

  This book is for May Chen, my editor at Avon, for her enthusiasm and cheerfulness, and always with the right word to say when I need it. Thank you!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Antoinette Dupre closed her eyes behind her spectacles, shielding them…

  Chapter 2

  She was still sitting there, stunned, when the coachman reached…

  Chapter 3

  Gabriel tore off his mask and threw it into the…

  Chapter 4

  His hand on her shoulder was warm, heavy with promise,…

  Chapter 5

  It was nighttime, and the house that had seemed so…

  Chapter 6

  Weakly, his legs barely holding him up, Gabriel leaned against…

  Chapter 7

  Antoinette propped her chin on her hand and stared into…

  Chapter 8

  The ride from Wexmoor Manor had brought a flush to…

  Chapter 9

  Antoinette woke to the touch of a man’s hand in…

  Chapter 10

  Gabriel strode away from the manor house and into the…

  Chapter 11

  Mary stood still, watching as Miss Dupre made her way…

  Chapter 12

  The books were where she remembered, just out of reach…

  Chapter 13

  “Gabriel”

  Chapter 14

  Someone was following her. The familiar feeling had been building…

  Chapter 15

  As Antoinette reached the edge of the clearing, she gave…

  Chapter 16

  “Miss!”

  Chapter 17

  Gabriel propped his bare feet up in front of the…

  Chapter 18

  Two nights later Antoinette heard the soft click of the…

  Chapter 19

  Gabriel woke suddenly in the growing dawn. The air was…

  Chapter 20

  The garden at Wexmoor Manor was a wild affair. It…

  Chapter 21

  Gingerly, Lord Appleby took hold of the single sheet of…

  Chapter 22

  Antoinette had been tossing and turning, dreaming but unable to…

  Chapter 23

  Antoinette remembered little during the ride that followed, just the…

  Chapter 24

  Gabriel sat back in the cockpit with one hand on…

  Chapter 25

  Gabriel scanned the sky. It was gray. The wind had…

  Chapter 26

  The rain on the journey home was relentless, but as…

  Chapter 27

  Antoinette didn’t know what she expected a brothel to look…

  Chapter 28

  Antoinette bought her ticket and entered that triumph of glass…

  Chapter 29

  Gabriel was disappointed, although he hid it well—he was good…

  Chapter 30

  Antoinette announced she had a headache on the journey back…

  Chapter 31

  The little old creature was a man, Antoinette saw now,…

  Chapter 32

  It took them time to gain access to Prince Albert,…

  Chapter 33

  Cecilia Dupre hugged her sister close, bending her golden head…

  Chapter 34

  The invitation had arrived last week, engraved in gold print…

  Epilogue

  The History of the Langleys of Devon was not the…

  About the Author

  Other Romances

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  June 1851

  The road to Wexmoor Manor, Devon

  Antoinette Dupre closed her eyes behind her spectacles, shielding them from the flickering light as the sun dipped lower through the trees. Not far to go now. Lord Rudyard Appleby’s manor was isolated, well off the main highway, which was one reason she was riding in a coach instead of traveling by steam train.

  The other reason was that she was a prisoner.

  She didn’t want to go but she had no choice; she was completely in the power of Lord Appleby. And the most frustrating thing about that was she’d finally discovered a way to destroy him once and for all, but before she could put her plan into practice, he had sent her away into deepest Devon, to his house, Wexmoor Manor.

  She put a hand to her bodice, feeling the reassuring crackle of paper. The letter was still there, safe. Her ticket to freedom, and more importantly, the freedom of her younger sister, Cecilia.

  Thinking of Cecilia made her smile despite her dire situation. Her sister, three years younger than Antoinette, would think this a great adventure—traveling alone in a coach to an unknown destination—but then Cecilia, tall and fair and vivacious, was very different from Antoinette. Antoinette, small in stature, with glossy brown hair and brown eyes, was by nature serious and rather bossy and took her responsibilities to heart. Always as neat as a pin, still she struggled with a figure that was definitely more hourglass-shaped—dumpy if you were being unkind—than the fashionable ideal of slender and willowy. She did have one weakness, a compulsion she couldn’t seem to resist and which she blamed on her ancestress, a mistress of King Charles II. Fine undergarments. Silk and lace and satin, frilly and feminine. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like, to hold a man in thrall, to give yourself over entirely to the sensual side. But, as it seemed unlikely Antoinette would ever know the answers to those questions, she contented herself with indulging in her secret wicked pleasure.

  She took off her spectacles and pressed her fingers to her eyes.

  The worst of it was she had no one to talk to, no one to trust. Cecilia was safely tucked away in Surrey with her governess, Miss Bridewell, and other than those two, Antoinette had no one else she dared unburden herself to. These past few weeks in London she’d been watched continually by Lord Appleby’s servants, and she didn’t expect Wexmoor Manor to be any different—worse, because at least in London she’d been able to go about, even attending the opening of the Great Exhibition, and enjoying the new sights and sounds.

  But that was before she’d understood Lord Appleby’s true intention in inviting her to his Mayfair house.

  Suddenly the coach lurched. Antoinette dropped her spectacles. Outside there was a popping noise, followed by shouts from the coachman and his boy. She leaned forward to grasp the window frame, just as a galloping horse drew alongside the coach. The rider wore black, everything black, including a black mask covering the upper half of his face. He kept pace with the coach, and although her poor eyesight made him appear blurry, there was something almost mesmerizing about him. And then he leaned down and stared at her through the dusty glass.

  And smiled the smile of a dangerous predator spying his prey.

  He was there for only a heartbeat, and then he’d spurred his horse on, but it was long enough. Antoinette felt as if his regard had burned itself into her skin. As if he had left a brand upon her.

  Confused, startled, her heart thudding, she pressed herself back into the soft leather of the seat. She told herself that this was England in the reign of Queen Victoria, and highwaymen belonged to an earlier and more lawless age. Or was this isolated corner of Devon yet to catch up with the more civilized parts of the country?

  But if she was imagining things, then so was the coachman. Antoinette clung to the strap, bracing herself against the wildly rocking vehicle as the driver attempted to outrun the highwayman. Her straw bonnet slipped off as they tipped dangerously around a corner, and there was a loud bang as the coachman’s boy fired his blunderbuss. Antoinette squeaked, trying to see beyond the window, but it was all a blur of trees and earth and s
ky. And then the coach began to slow until eventually it shuddered to a halt.

  Antoinette sat a moment and caught her breath, wishing she could loosen her stays beneath the tight-fitting bodice of her tan taffeta and emerald green velvet traveling dress. Her hair, a moment ago neatly pinned and parted, was hanging down, hampering her movements, and her skirts and petticoats were tossed and tangled, displaying far too much silk-stockinged leg above her lace-up boots.

  What now? she asked herself. Was she to cower inside and await her fate? Practical, sensible Antoinette had never cowered in her life. Bad enough that she’d been sent into the country to a place she didn’t know by Lord Appleby, a man she detested, but to be trapped inside her coach by an anachronism? No, she wouldn’t have it.

  Antoinette released the catch on the window and after a brief struggle forced it down.

  Cold, moist air wafted in, and with it the pungent sting of gunpowder. Undeterred, Antoinette stuck her head out of the coach. The scene before her was chaotic. The coachman and his boy were on the ground, hands in the air, and the masked man on the horse was pointing a brace of pistols at them. “Be silent,” she heard him order in a gruff voice as the coachman began to argue.

  Antoinette’s mind worked furiously. Was he after her money and her valuables? She’d brought so little with her. Most of her luggage was still in London, and her scant pieces of jewelry were locked in Lord Appleby’s safe.

  The two men had turned their backs to the highwayman, and—she peered hard with her naked eyes, trying to make out the scene—he began to tie their hands. This was ridiculous. Antoinette turned away, searching for her spectacles, telling herself that if she could see him properly she would feel braver. She did not for a moment imagine she might be physically unsafe, or in any danger of being molested.

  Unlike Cecilia, Antoinette was not the sort of woman men glanced at twice. Well, not usually. There was the time when Mr. Morrissey developed a strange obsession with her, and began to write very bad poetry in her honor, but everyone knew he was a little odd, and besides, he soon forgot her when the vicar’s lovely wife arrived in the village…

  The coach door was flung open. Her thoughts froze; Antoinette gasped. He was leaning in, looking at her, and despite the lack of clarity in her vision—or perhaps because of it—he was even bigger than she’d thought. He cut out the light and filled the door space, his hands gripping the frame, a pistol dangling casually from his fingers.

  What did you say to a highwayman? For some reason the proper form of address escaped her.

  “Give it to me,” he said in a deep voice.

  “Give it…?” she echoed in a whisper.

  His tipped his head, and she knew he was taking in her disarray. She sat up straighter, brushing down her skirts and pushing back a long strand of hair. When she looked at him again he was smiling, but it wasn’t the sort of smile a gentleman would give a lady.

  “I know you have it,” he said in that same deep, slightly husky voice. “The letter. Give it to me.”

  Shock froze her. He knew! She only just prevented herself from reaching up and clutching the letter against her skin in its hiding place inside her bodice.

  “Who—who sent you?” she demanded shakily.

  “Who do you think?” he mocked.

  Lord Appleby. She hadn’t been so clever after all. He knew she had in her possession the letter that could destroy him, and he’d sent this man after her to fetch it back. What better way to dispose of the evidence and her chance to use it than to stage a robbery? Oh, he was very clever.

  But she couldn’t allow this to happen. It was Cecilia’s future that was at stake, as much as her own.

  The big man was climbing into the coach, and his broad shoulders blocked out the light. There was something very menacing about him, she thought, as she blinked up at him, her mind racing as fast as her heart, searching for a way out. He slipped the pistol into his belt and drew off his gloves, slowly, while she watched. When he was finished he casually reached forward and put a hand on her knee.

  His skin was hot, his bare fingers thick and blunt. It was his touch as much as the unexpectedness of it that shocked her. She jumped back, pressing herself into the farthest corner.

  His masked face loomed closer, and she could see the glitter of his pale eyes through the slits. His mouth was no longer smiling now but held in a straight line, grim and determined.

  “Give me the letter. Don’t make me search every inch of you, because I will. Every inch.”

  The threat was no idle one, and Antoinette knew the sensible thing to do would be to hand over the letter. But she didn’t feel sensible. She was desperate and frightened, and the letter represented her one last chance of escape. Lord Appleby had already destroyed her reputation and ruined her good character. What did it matter what this man did to her?

  He was watching her closely, trying to read her thoughts. She tipped up her chin and stared back at him. “I don’t believe that even a man as low as you would molest a lady who had done you no harm,” she said, with barely a tremor in her voice.

  He gave a soft, breathy laugh. “Wouldn’t I, my little brown sparrow?” He flicked at a fold of her tan skirt. “Believe me, Miss Dupre, I would do anything to get that letter back.”

  He knew her name!

  If she had been in any doubt before, then she was no longer. Lord Appleby was behind this. Strangely, with cold, hard certainty came a reduction in her fear. Antoinette knew she could not allow him to take the letter, not willingly anyway, and whatever he did to her, she would have to bear in brave silence.

  Antoinette shook her head, her refusal in her expression and the stubborn jut of her chin.

  He didn’t try to talk her out of her stance; perhaps he knew it would do no good. Instead he lurched across the space toward her, grasping her arms, his big body heavy as he pressed upon her smaller form. She struggled with him frantically. Her straw bonnet, still dangling around her neck by its ribbons, was crushed between them.

  He gripped at the cloth of her bodice.

  She felt him tense and tug. Violently. There was a ripping sound. Shocked, she stared down. The tan taffeta with green velvet trimmings was hanging open. Her peach silk chemise, also torn, gaped open, too, disclosing the crisp lace of her corset, while over the top spilled a great deal of her bosom.

  “There,” he said breathlessly. “I warned you.”

  The letter! Where was it? Antoinette dared not look. Perhaps it had fallen down into the folds of her skirt, or behind the cushions of the seat. He must not find it. Nothing else mattered…nothing…“Do your worst,” she heard herself say. “Search every inch of me, if you must. I will never give up the letter.”

  He gritted his jaw and she tensed, preparing herself for what he’d do next. Then he reached out both hands and planted them full on her breasts.

  She gave a little scream.

  Hastily he withdrew. “Tell me and I’ll leave you be.”

  She said in a shaky voice, “I’m not afraid of you.”

  His mouth curled. “Liar.”

  He lifted his hands, watching her, and moved forward. She held her breath, every sense alert, every nerve tingling with what was about to come. As his hands closed over her tender flesh once more, she made a sound in her throat. He groaned, softly.

  Cautiously she flicked him a look from beneath her lashes. He looked disconcerted, as if he’d surprised himself. Then his broad chest rose and fell heavily, and his pale gaze lifted to hers from behind the black mask. He looked younger than she’d imagined him to be, only a couple of years above her twenty. She saw something that caught and held her; he seemed familiar in a way that she knew was impossible and yet was undeniable.

  And in that moment a dangerous spark began to burn between them.

  Color tinted her skin. Warmth curled in her belly and climbed higher, suffusing her breasts where his palms rested, making her flesh tingle. There was a delicious sense of delight about his touch, a wicked wantonnes
s, that was entirely new to Antoinette. The fact that no respectable young lady would allow such a thing to happen, and certainly not enjoy it, didn’t matter at all—she had long ago decided she was out of step with the rest of society. Somewhere within the turmoil of sensations a cool voice—the voice of her wicked ancestress—said: So this is what it feels like.

  “Tell me.” His voice was strained, deeper than ever. “Don’t push me, sparrow. I really am capable of anything.”

  She shook her head.

  He cursed. “Where is it?” he said, his jaw bunched tight. His hands tightened on her breasts, as if he couldn’t help it, and then slid down over her ribs to the narrow band of her waist, feeling for anything hidden beneath her clothing. For a moment he was distracted by the remains of her chemise, the silken peach cloth and fine French lace. He flicked at it with a fingertip.

  “A plain brown sparrow on the outside, and a bird of paradise underneath,” he murmured. “No lady wears undergarments like this, Miss Dupre. You give yourself away.” He leaned closer. “Do you wear perfume, too?” His nose was all but buried in her bosom; Antoinette felt his warm breath on her skin. “The scent of woman,” he mumbled. “I wonder what else I will find?”

  Antoinette felt as if she should say something courageous but she’d run out of words. Instead she turned her face away, refusing to answer him or look at him. She heard that breathy laughter. And then his hands lifting her skirts.

  Such intimacy from a stranger was unthinkable in a world where no woman even dared to show her bare arms in public during the day. As Antoinette held herself tense, waiting for what would come next, she felt his hand brush lightly over her uncovered knee.