Secrets of the Heart (24 page)

Michael glanced at her in some surprise. Jealousy had been roiling deep inside him from the moment he learned she had talked to Anthony Birkshaw, and it had only increased the other night when she had taken Anthony's side, arguing that it could not be he who had killed his wife. He would have expected her to protest the two of them going to see the man.

She frowned. “But how are we to explain you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, your resemblance to Michael. He will be certain to notice.”

He shrugged. “What does it matter? Tell him I am Westhampton's half brother.” Even as he said it, he realized how much it would further entangle him in this nonsensical story of Lilith's; the existence of this phantom bastard brother would be all over the
Ton.

“Oh, no,” Rachel protested quickly. “It would be bound to get out somehow, and then Michael would be embarrassed. He doesn't even know about you. I could not possibly give Mr. Birkshaw that knowledge when Michael doesn't even know.”

He looked at her, oddly touched. “Well, then, I shall simply pretend to be Michael.”

“What?” She stared at him.

“Yes. You bring me a suit of his clothes, and I shall put it on. I can seem quite the aristocrat if I choose.” He assumed a haughty expression, raising his chin and looking down his nose. “Here. You. Bring around my carriage, there's a good fellow.” He whipped his handkerchief out of his pocket and held it delicately to his nose. “Egad, how the masses smell. 'Tis positively ghastly.”

Rachel chuckled at his performance. “You cannot act like that if you expect him to believe you are Michael.”

He smiled. “I shall moderate it a bit, then.”

“What about your hair?”

He shrugged. “Does he know Lord Westhampton that well? Will he not just think that he was mistaken as to the color of his hair?”

“Yes, you are probably right. That would be much more likely, of course.”

They reached the The Red Boar, the inn where they had eaten the other day, and were once again ushered into the private dining room.

“I thought it would be better if we talked here,” he explained. “I dislike imposing on my sister any more than I have to, and, well, it isn't exactly a proper place for a lady like you—especially when Sir Robert is there.”

Rachel raised an eyebrow. “You need not protect me, Mr. Hobson. I am a grown woman—and married.”

“Still…it is an awkward situation.”

“I am surprised—” Rachel began, then stopped, aware that what she had been about to say might sound rude.

“You are surprised by what?”

She shifted a little uncomfortably in her chair. “Well, I am just a bit surprised that you take Mrs. Neeley's…relationship with Sir Robert so equably.”

He smiled faintly. “Truth is, I have little to say about the matter. She is, as you pointed out about yourself, a grown woman.”

“That would scarcely stop my brother,” Rachel commented wryly.

“No, I am sure not,” Michael agreed, with a grin.

“What did you say?” Rachel looked at him oddly.

Michael realized that he had made a slip. He should not know what Devin Aincourt was like. “I, uh, I mean, he is an aristocrat, and I cannot imagine one of them not having the arrogance to run your life.”

“Well, Dev is not arrogant,” Rachel defended her brother. “But he would feel he had to protect me.”

“Lilith does not need protection from Rob. He is—I know him well. We worked together during the war. The fact is, he loves my sister very much. I am sure that he would, in fact, defy all the social rules and marry her if he were free to do so.”

“He is married?”

He nodded. “It is a terrible situation.”

“An arranged marriage?”

“No. They married for love, actually. She was young, only seventeen, but her parents were happy for her to marry. They neglected to inform Sir Robert that she was not stable in her mind.”

“What?”

“She was subject to peculiar fancies. At first Rob wrote them off as girlish silliness. But when she conceived a child, she grew far worse, and he began to realize that her mind was…disordered. After she bore the child, she became quite mad. One night she even tried to harm the baby. Sir Robert took her to doctors, but they all offered no hope for her. All he could do was keep her as comfortable as he could and make sure that she was never around the child. Her room had to be stripped of anything she could use to harm herself or others, and there are bars on the windows and a stout lock on the door. Most of the time she is harmless. She carries on conversations with people who are not there, but then she will suddenly turn on her keeper and attack her, claiming that God or the archangel Michael told her to.”

“How awful,” Rachel said, shocked.

“Yes, it is. He has borne it for many years now. He makes sure she is well taken care of, but of course he can have no real life with her. Then he met Lilith. He loves her truly, but he cannot marry her. And Lilith loves him. She wants no other. Who am I to tell her that she cannot live the way she chooses? Have the love she wants?”

“What a sad story.” Tears glistened in Rachel's eyes. “I cannot blame either one of them for what they have chosen.”

He reached out and touched her cheek, where a tear had rolled from her eye. “You cry for them, even though you scarcely know them.”

“Their story is sad,” Rachel said. “And yet, there is also a beauty in it. It must be sweet to know that the one you love, loves you in the face of society's strictures, that he stays with you even though nothing binds him but love. I have to think it must be even sadder to live without love.”

“There are those who would call them sinful.”

Rachel looked up to find his eyes fixed on her face as though he could read what lay inside her. She hoped he could not, for at the moment, what was uppermost in her mind was the desire to feel his lips on hers again. “I—I don't know. Is love a sin?”

“Some would say 'tis only desire.”

She could not look away from him. “And is desire so separated from love?”

“Rachel…” He stood up abruptly and came around the table, reaching down to pull Rachel to her feet.

Her hands went up to his arms. She thought to hold him away from her, but as if of their own volition, her hands slid up his arms. She felt the hard curve of his muscle beneath his sleeve, the strength of him, and her abdomen fluttered in response.

“I should not,” she murmured, but the warmth in her eyes did not speak of denial.

“No,” he agreed as his hands went around her waist, pulling her closer. He bent to kiss her, and her eyelids closed, her face tilting up to his.

M
ichael paused for an instant, taking in the beauty of her face, the arch of fine dark brows above her closed eyes, lashes fanning across her cheeks, the straight line of her nose and curve of her lips. He wanted her so much in that moment that he could hardly breathe, so much that he ignored the sting of hurt in knowing that it was not him she wanted, but the man who was a figment of his imagination.

Then his lips were on hers, and he forgot all else. Her mouth was soft and yielding beneath his; her body pressed up to meet him. Passion thrummed between them, and they kissed again and again, their desperate hunger growing with each moment.

Rachel was on fire, trembling with the force of her passion. She wanted him, needed him, ached for his touch. She moaned, her hands roaming over his shoulders and arms. She wanted to feel his naked skin beneath her fingertips, wanted to be immersed in his heat. A few weeks earlier, she had wondered what it would be like to feel desire. Now she knew the molten clutch of it in her abdomen, the breathless, thundering gallop of her pulse.

They clung to each other, their bodies hungering for completion. His hands swept down her back and over her hips, then back up her sides to the soft swell of her breasts.

He broke their kiss, trailing his lips down the side of her throat, tasting the soft flesh there with lips and tongue, sending shivers through her when he nibbled gently at the cord of her neck. His hand cupped her breast, kneading it gently and caressing her nipple until it hardened, pressing against the cloth of her dress. She moaned softly, sagging against him. He slid his hand beneath the neckline of her dress, slipping down under the lace-trimmed edge of her camisole onto the soft, trembling flesh of her breast. Lightly his fingers curved over the lush orb, finding the hard bud of her nipple and teasing it. Rachel caught her breath at the ripple of pleasure that moved down through her, and a hot yearning blossomed between her legs. She squeezed her legs together, aware of a shocking urge to feel his hand there.

“James,” she murmured, her hand clenching in the front of his shirt.

Michael froze, the sound of his alter ego's name shocking him back into reality. Rachel, feeling his hesitation, was suddenly aware as well of where she was and what she was doing.

“Oh, God,” she whispered and pulled away. Shame flooded her cheeks, and she turned away from him, straightening the front of her dress. “This is wrong—so wrong!”

“I know. I am sorry,” he replied inadequately, also turning away. Passion was coursing in him, mingling with a bitter jealousy that would have been laughable if it had not seared so much.

“I cannot do this. I cannot betray Michael. I—” She looked around dazedly and began picking up her pelisse and reticule. “I must leave.”

She started toward the door, and Michael turned, saying, “No. Let me get you a carriage.”

“No!” Rachel paused. “I mean—it isn't necessary. I saw several outside the inn. I will be perfectly all right.” She half turned toward him, unable to bring herself to look into his face. “I am sorry. It is clear that I should not be around you. I cannot—” Her voice broke, and she pressed her lips together, willing her voice into calm. “I cannot see you anymore. You will have to continue this investigation alone.” She gave a little watery chuckle. “No doubt you will work much better that way. Thank you for—for letting me help. I—Goodbye.”

“Rachel!” Michael started after her, the truth ready to tumble out of his mouth. He did not want her to go; he wanted to tell her who he really was, to show her that she could continue to work with him in the same easy way they had been.

But reason and caution stopped him. He knew that if he told her the truth, things would not continue in the same way. She would be furious; she would hate him for the way he had deceived her. And he knew that she would have every right to. There would be nothing he could say or do that would excuse the fact that he had been pretending to her for days. It would probably be the end of any chance he had of ever winning her love as himself.

All he could do was stand and watch her leave.

 

Rachel went home and spent the rest of the day on her bed, curled up in a ball of woe. She was certain that she had done the right thing—the only thing, really. But why did it have to hurt so much? She cried for a while and then lay dully, thinking about the empty days in front of her. The prospect of attending balls and routs, of spending long afternoons shopping with Sylvia or paying calls on her large circle of friends and acquaintances—all filled her with acute boredom. She tried to remember exactly why she had thought she enjoyed that life; it paled in comparison to what she had done the past few days.

It was not just the excitement of the possible danger or the freedom of going where she pleased, or the unaccustomed pleasure of actually doing something useful. It was not even just the fiery explosion of passion that she ached to feel again. What she would miss most was…simply him. She thought about no longer talking with James Hobson—no more of the laughter or heated discussions or easy chat—and her eyes welled with tears once more. And it was then that she realized that not only did she desire a man who was not her husband, she was coming dangerously close to loving him.

That fact, of course, made it even more imperative that she stay away from him. Even if she could control her passion—which, she had to admit, she had already proved she could not do—merely being around him would push her closer and closer to loving him.

She spent the next few days trying to occupy herself with her usual pursuits. She called on her mother; she called on Sylvia and several of her other friends; she even paid a dutiful visit to Miranda's father and stepmother to relate to them how Miranda was doing. She allowed Perry Overhill to escort her to the opera; she went to Lady Evesham's ball and Lydia Farnham's soiree. She danced, she gossiped, she spent an entire afternoon at the milliner's and bought three new hats.

And through all of it, her thoughts returned again and again to James Hobson. She wondered what he was doing and what progress he had made with the case. She did not know what she was going to tell Anthony Birkshaw, and she considered making one last visit with James to see Anthony. Only the firmest use of her self-control kept her from doing so.

One evening, four days after she had decided never to see James Hobson again, she was alone in her sitting room. She had been unable to build up any interest in going to a party, although there were invitations to three of them sitting on her desk upstairs. It occurred to her that she might leave London altogether. She could go back to Darkwater early to be with Miranda while she waited out these last months of pregnancy. Or she might even go on to Westhampton. It was reported to be beautiful there this time of year. And she could see Michael.

She knew it must be wrong to want to see her husband because he reminded her of another man. But no one would know it except her, and…well, what if she and Michael could get to know one another better? Perhaps he could grow to love her again, and she could perhaps come to feel for him something of what she felt with his half brother.

She was sitting there, frowning down at the pattern in the Turkish rug, wondering if what she was thinking was normal and reasonable or if her thoughts showed that she was a wicked and wanton woman, when the sound of footsteps coming down the hall startled her. She looked up just as Michael appeared in the doorway.

Rachel stared at him, for a moment thinking crazily that her thoughts had somehow conjured him up. Then she jumped to her feet, pleasure replacing the surprise in her face. “Michael!”

She knew that the smile on her face was too broad. He would probably wonder what was the matter with her. But she could not seem to control it as she hurried to him, arms outstretched. At the last moment she realized that to hug him, as she had been about to do, would strike him as odd, so she dropped her arms and came to an abrupt halt in front of him.

Awkwardly, she extended her hand to him. “How are you? Whatever are you doing here? I had thought you were back on the estate these last two weeks or more.”

He looked different, she thought, his hair a lighter blond and shorter—or, no, perhaps it was just that he looked different from James Hobson.

“I was,” he replied, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.

A shiver ran through her as his lips grazed the back of her hand. She hoped he did not see her response. Was she so lustful now that any man aroused her basest instincts? But she knew that that was not the reason. She had felt that little thrill of desire because he looked like his half brother. That was no doubt a terrible thing, she told herself, to feel something for one's husband because he looked like someone else, someone she could not have. Yet was it really so wrong? What had been a sin with James would not be with Michael. Would it really be so awful if she could find pleasure with her own husband?

“I worried about you,” Michael went on, releasing her hand. “It came to me that it was worse than foolish to rush back to my lands. The estate manager can handle that. And I would never forgive myself if something happened to you. So I came back to London.”

“Why, thank you. That is very kind of you.”

They sat down, and silence fell upon them. Then they both rushed to talk, their words coming out at the same time, and they stopped, smiling in an embarrassed way.

“You first,” Rachel said.

“I was merely going to ask what you had been doing. If you were busy.”

“Oh, yes. Balls and parties and such.” Rachel hoped she did not begin to blush. “The other day Perry and I went to the opera.”

“How is Perry?”

“Oh, as always.”

“And Lady Sylvia?”

“She is much the same, as well.” Rachel wanted to tell him about what she had been doing and discuss it with him—Anthony's wife's death and her investigating it with James Hobson, the shot that had been fired at James, the suspicious behavior of the Birkshaws' footman. She wanted to tell him about Lilith, his half sister, and her affair with Sir Robert Blount. She wondered if he knew Sir Robert.

Yet she could say nothing of any of it. She doubted that any aristocratic husband, even one as kind and tolerant as Michael, would approve of her traipsing about the East End, looking for Birkshaw's ex-servants and asking them questions. Dining at an inn with a man she barely knew. Dodging bullets and frequenting a gaming house, conversing with a woman who was someone's mistress. No, she felt sure that such things would be enough to send even Michael into a fury. He would not like that she had conversed with Anthony, let alone all the rest of it.

“Well,” she said finally, “I suppose, um, no doubt you would like to go up to your room to freshen up after your journey. I shall make sure that Cook knows you are here.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, his tone a little weary.

She walked up the stairs with him, even though there was really no reason to. They lingered for a moment outside his door.

“I trust that you will find everything as you want it,” Rachel said, nodding toward his room.

“I am sure I will.”

She nodded and, having nothing else to say, walked on to the door of her own room, which lay next down the hall. She went inside and glanced over at the door that led to Michael's room. It was, as always, closed.

After informing Cook of Michael's arrival, Rachel rang for her maid and began to dress for dinner, taking extra care tonight to look her best. She told herself it was foolish to feel excited and hopeful. Just because something in her had changed, it did not mean that Michael had changed in any way. The fact that her foolish infatuation with James Hobson seemed to be seeping into her feelings for Michael would only rouse Michael's ire, she was sure.

Still, she could not help but think about the fact that Michael had loved her once, had desired her, and even if it had been many years ago, and even though she had ruined the feeling by her actions, surely there might still be a spark lying buried somewhere inside him, some small flicker that could be brought into life again.

So she wore her pearls and her favorite green silk gown, and she had her maid fix her hair up into a fetching style, with curls caught to the side and cascading down to her white shoulder. She looked, she thought, alluring, and she thought that when she walked into the dining room later, a spark flashed for an instant in Michael's eyes, although it was hard to tell in the soft light of the candles.

The setting was scarcely intimate, for even though they ate in the smaller of the two dining rooms, they were seated at opposite ends of the table, with a silver epergne filled with fruit in the center between them, and two footmen to serve their meal. Whatever thought Rachel had had of flirting with her husband died quickly.

After the meal, Michael excused himself, saying that he thought he would drop by his club. In fact, he had an appointment with one of his informers in a tavern, but, of course, he could not tell Rachel that, and he cursed inwardly when he saw the look of hurt flash across her face.

He had been a fool to come home, he thought, striding down the street and looking for a hansom to take him to his sister's house, where he would change clothes for his appointment with a pickpocket. He should have realized how it would be, how awkward and unworkable.