It should, perhaps, have shamed her, this intimate yielding with her naked in his arms, her bare limbs wrapped around his fully clothed form. He'd only released his staff from the confines of his trousers. Every tiny movement rasped her sensitized skin with the fabric of his elegant evening clothes.

He'd planned it that way-at no stage did she entertain any other notion. He had said he would demonstrate his fascination; as he reveled in the slick heat of her body, drawing out every precious moment, holding the vortex at bay, she knew to her bones that he was playing no role.

She didn't need him to draw back from the kiss, chest laboring, eyes closed, concentration etched in every line of his face, to be convinced. Didn't need to feel her own body respond, undulating against him, upon him, to know she believed.

Didn't need him to lift his weighted lids, transfix her with a glittering glance, and say, "You think I know you, but I don't-I don't know the woman you've become. I don't know how it will feel to run my hands through your hair when it's warm from sleep, or what it will feel like to slide into you as you wake in the morning. I don't know how it will feel to fall asleep with you in my arms, to wake with your breath on my cheek. To have you naked in my arms in daylight, to hold you when you're big with my child. There are lots of things I don't know about you. I'll spend my life with you, and still not learn all I want to know. I don't care by what name you go-you're still the same woman. The woman who fascinates me."

She hushed him with her lips, but neither she nor he had the strength to prolong the kiss. They were clinging to sanity by their fingernails. She tucked her head down on his shoulder, nuzzled his neck, placed a breathless kiss on his heated skin.

His lips returned the pleasure, then he nipped lightly. "You like this, don't you?" His voice was broken, strained; he gave a hoarse laugh. "You're going to be the death of me in more ways than one."

She deliberately tightened about him, something she'd noticed gave him pleasure.

His head fell back and he groaned. Then he caught the trailing ends of her hair and tugged her head back so he could look into her eyes. "See? This is what you were made for-giving yourself to me."

She kept her lips shut. She was afraid he was right. With a flick of her head, she pulled her hair from his grasp. The sudden movement shifted her. She sank even deeper onto him, and reflexively tightened even more.

He sucked in a breath, then his lips were on hers, urgent and demanding. His control was gone. The vortex closed upon them; the flames roared.

Passion took them, lifted them high on a swell of pure need, then shattered them. Release was so profound, neither was aware that they sank to the floor. The only reality their senses permitted them was the knowledge they were together, and one.

"You called me Gabriel."

Slumped on his chest, still aglow in the aftermath, Alathea could barely think. "I've been calling you Gabriel in my mind for weeks."

"Good-that's who I am." Sprawled on his back on the sofa he'd carried her to, his hand lingered on her hair. "I'm not your childhood playmate. I'm your lover and I'll be your husband. I'm claiming the position." His hand closed on her nape, then gentled, stroked. "Just as my name doesn't really matter, what you call yourself changes nothing. You're the woman I want, and you want me. You're mine-you always were, and always will be."

The bone-deep assurance in his words struck Alathea to the heart; she stirred-

"No-lie still. You're not cold."

Her skin was still flushed. His body beneath her radiated heat. She wasn't cold-she was boneless, unable to summon the strength to reassert control and change direction. She was not even sure she wanted to.

They had, she recalled, once lain together on their backs looking up at the stars one summer night. They hadn't touched; instead, the tension between them had been so thick it had all but sparked. That tension had vanished completely. What surrounded them now was a well of peace, profound and enduring. Satiation deeper than she'd imagined could exist lapped them about; he seemed content to rest in its embrace, sharing the quiet.

She could hear his heart beating beneath her ear, slow and steady.

"Why are you here?"

He put the question evenly; mystified, she answered. "You brought me here."

"And you came. Now you're lying in my arms, totally naked-you took me willingly, willingly gave yourself to me, purely because I wanted you."

She felt far more at his mercy now than she had before. How could he know the confusion and uncertainty hovering in her mind? But it seemed he did.

"You're good at that-giving. And what you have to give, I want." His hand gently stroked her hair. "You're a sensual woman, a Thoroughbred in bed, and I certainly don't care how old you are. You haven't even been in training for long and you still make my head spin."

She shut her eyes. "Don't."

"Don't what? Speak the truth? Why, when we both know it?" His hand moved down, stroking her back, then he closed his arms about her. "You love to give, and the only man you'll ever give yourself to is me."

She didn't want to hear it because she couldn't deny it and it gave him far too much power over her. She struggled to sit up. "We have to go."

"Not yet." He held her easily and nuzzled her ear. Then his lips touched her skin, and lingered. "Just once more…"

Chapter 16

The next morning, Alathea sat in the gazebo tucked to one side of the back garden and watched Gabriel cross the lawn toward her. Bright sunlight struck red and gold glints from his hair; she remembered the feel of it beneath her palms.

Eyes narrowed against the glare, she watched him exchange greetings with Mary and Alice, who were weeding the bed about the fountain. She had excused herself from gardening on the grounds of feeling under the weather. It was the truth; she'd barely slept a wink.

If she'd needed unequivocal proof that Gabriel had read her emotions accurately, the second half of their encounter in Lady Richmond's parlor had provided it. Even now, hours after the fact, just the thought of the suggestions he'd whispered in her ear, of what she'd willingly done and let him do to her, brought color surging to her cheeks. He'd wanted, and she had wanted to give. Last night, he'd introduced her to the ultimate in giving.

She wasn't hypocrite enough to pretend she hadn't enjoyed it, that the bliss she found in giving to him, whenever, however, brought the sweetest, deepest joy she'd ever known. In satisfying him, she found fulfillment. There was no other word, none that came close to describing the breadth and depth of what she felt. He'd labeled her a "giver;" she had to accept he was right. What she didn't-couldn't-accept was his extrapolation.

He was fascinated with her. That had been no act. He of all men would appreciate the irony that he should find her-a woman he'd known from the cradle-so physically enthralling. And despite what he'd said, her age did matter, but not in the way it would matter to the ton. Because she was older and where he was concerned more assured than any other lady he'd seduced, she was more challenging, more demanding of his talents. That, too, he would appreciate.

His fascination was real. Fascination did not, however, lead to marriage.

As he left the girls and, loose-limbed and confident, strode toward her, Alathea drew calm certainty about her. He was an exceptional practitioner of the sensual arts; he knew how to use his talents to pressure her, to cloud her reason. But she knew him too well-far too well-to swallow the tale that fascination was behind his determination to wed her. She thought too much of him-cared too much for him-to meekly fall in with his plans.

He reached the gazebo and trod up the steps. Ducking his head beneath the trailing jasmine that covered the small structure, he stepped into the cool shadows. Straightening, he met her gaze. Stillness gripped him. "What?"

Alathea waved him to the sofa beside her. She'd sent a note to Brook Street asking him to call. She waited while he sat; the wicker sofa was small-it left them shoulder to shoulder. He leaned back, stretching one arm along the sofa's back to ease the crowding. She drew breath and resolutely took the bit between her teeth. "There is absolutely no reason for us to wed. No!" She cut off his immediate retort. "Hear me out."

He'd tensed; his expression hardened but he held silent.

Alathea looked out over the lawn to where her stepsisters and stepbrothers chattered gaily. "Only you and I know about the countess. Only we know we've been intimate. I'm twenty-nine. As I keep trying to remind everyone, I've set aside all thoughts of marriage. I did so eleven years ago. I'm accepted as a spinster-your recent attentions notwithstanding, there's no expectation that I'll marry. Short of our liaison becoming common knowledge, which it won't for we're both too wise and too aware of what we owe our families and ourselves to bruit the fact abroad, then there's no need whatever for us to wed."

"Is that it?"

"No." She turned her head and met his gaze directly. "Regardless of what you decide is the right thing to do, I will not marry you. There's no reason for you to make such a sacrifice."

He studied her. "Why," he eventually asked, "do you think I want to marry you?"

Her lips twisted. She gestured to her stepsiblings, blissfully unaware of the clouds hovering on the family's horizon. "You want to marry me because of that same quality I counted on when, as the countess, I asked for your aid. I knew if I explained the danger to them, then you'd help. I've told you before-you're obsessively protective." He was her knight on a white charger; protectiveness was his strongest suit, and one of his most basic instincts.