Page 57 of Secrets of the Heart

“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.

14

Michael 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.