Love Letters Page 9

  “Well, I say. She isn’t much to look at.” She could still hear her aunt’s cruel words as she glared down at her.

  A gangly child who so wanted to be loved, Cynthia had stood on the front stoop in an oversized coat and holding a worn carpet bag. Everything she owned, two dresses, had fit into that bag.

  “Take her in out of the kindness of your God-fearing heart,” her father’s solicitor had pleaded, eager to get home to his dinner and be done with Cynthia.

  And so he’d left her in London with a family she’d never met, a fortnight after her mother had died with fever. A family. It was a painfully laughable notion. She had no family under this roof. She was a servant, treated no better than the cook and far less respected than the housekeeper. For no matter how hard she tried, Auntie would never grant her the smallest bit of praise. It mattered not that Helen was cruel with the morals of a feral cat. Cynthia was always found wanting.

  “And what else did you find while you were outside, my dear?” Auntie glanced out the small window overlooking the garden. The sight of Gabriel and Helen standing amongst the roses had Cynthia’s heart aching.

  “I said, what else did you find?”

  “Nothing,” Cynthia snapped, tired of her aunt’s tone, exhausted with her bitterness.

  “Hmm.” With fingers that stung the flesh of her cheeks, her aunt gripped her face and forced her to meet her gaze. Lord, but those cold eyes sent a chill down Cynthia’s spine. “Leave us,” she bellowed. The cook and maid scurried from the room, leaving behind their mounds of uncooked dough. “Where, exactly, did you go the night of the ball?”

  Horror and guilt flared to life. She knew. Lord, Auntie knew. Cynthia jerked away from her aunt’s touch, her flesh burning from the woman’s assault. “As I said, the ladies retiring room.”

  The woman laughed, a harsh sound that raked over Cynthia’s skin. “You think I didn’t see you slip outside? You think I didn’t notice the state of Helen’s dress, ruined with rain drops and damnation.”

  Cynthia swallowed hard, attempting desperately to find something to say. She had nothing. And frankly, she barely cared. She was tired of the deception. Tired of lying. Tired of being someone she wasn’t. Her aunt could think what she wanted, Cynthia was done pretending.

  “Helen will marry Lord Kennwick. I will see to that.” Auntie turned on her heel and started toward the parlor, dismissing Cynthia like she was nothing. And to her aunt, she was.

  “Why?” Cynthia demanded, anger and desperation pounding through her veins. “Why do you despise me so?”

  Surprisingly, her aunt paused, then slowly turned. “Why?” The woman was actually trembling. “Because if it wasn’t for my sister, your mother, I would have made the match of the season.” Her face grew an unhealthy shade of red. “But she ran off with that stable boy and had a bastard, ruining our reputation as a family and my chances of a sound marriage!”

  It made sense now. The reason why her aunt hated her so. The reason why she was so insistent Helen make a good match. Her mother had ruined many lives; would she forever pay for her sins? “I’m sorry, but I am not my mother.”

  “But aren’t you?” Auntie lifted her chin high. “Your apology means nothing. You mean nothing. I will not see Helen fall down the same path. She will marry well. She will marry Kennwick.”

  Fall down the same path. Suddenly, the wheels in her mind turned, clicking into place. “The same path as you, or the same path as my mother?” Cynthia dared to ask.

  Her aunt’s face went pale.

  Belle’s words came to mind. “She’s ill every day? How peculiar.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Belle smiled. “Cynthia, my dear, sometimes I worry about your innocence. It sounds as if your cousin is expecting.”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” Cynthia’s body felt cold with shock. “Oh my Lord, Helen’s with child, isn’t she?”

  Auntie didn’t even move. For one brief moment they didn’t speak, merely stared at each, both horrified, but for different reasons. Cynthia was horrified because of the truth, her aunt because the truth had been exposed.

  “Tell me,” Cynthia demanded, but the woman merely continued to stare at her, the older woman’s eyes shifting from shock, to those cold, flat orbs Cynthia knew so well. After all these years her Aunt felt nothing but animosity toward her. But Cynthia didn’t care about herself, she cared about the man she loved and she would not let Gabriel be duped.

  “You can’t do that to Lord Kennwick! You can’t! I won’t let you.”

  Her Aunt moved quickly forward. Cynthia steeled herself.

  “I can and will.” Auntie’s hand shot out, latching onto Cynthia’s arm, her grip painful. She jerked her forward. Shocked, Cynthia let her. She knew she’d be punished, she’d been punished before for far less, but what would the woman do?

  Cynthia stumbled on the hem of her skirt, nearly falling to her knees. “You’re hurting me!”

  “Shut your mouth. You!” Auntie waved toward the open door. Charles appeared, the new footman, shock and determination wavering over his features. “Take her upstairs, lock her in her room or tomorrow, you’ll both be on the street.”

  Panic consumed her. Cynthia jerked away. “No! You can’t do this!”

  Charles was on her before she could blink. “Sorry, Miss,” he whispered. “But I have a family to feed.”

  Strong arms crushed around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides. Charles lifted her easily, her feet dangling uselessly above the floor. “No!” Cynthia squirmed, but the movement did nothing to ease his painful grip. “Please! Please let me go!”

  Auntie merely stood at the doorway, watching impassively. “I will not see you ruin what I have worked so hard for.”

  The man carried Cynthia toward the servant’s steps and she knew once she was locked in her room, saving Gabriel would be impossible. “Auntie, please!”

  Her aunt tuned and strolled unconcerned toward the parlor doors as if she was merely headed for tea. With a cry, Cynthia sank into Charles as he carried her up the steps. It was no use. Tomorrow she’d be alone, without a home, without a pence. Part of her didn’t care. But Gabriel ….she must warn Gabriel. She owed him that much for lying.

  They reached the second floor. Cynthia tried to turn in the man’s arms; attempted to look the man in his black eyes, but he held tight. “Please, please let me go!”

  He didn’t respond, his face stoic. At the last door in the hall, the small space that was little more than a closet, he paused, as if in indecision.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she said.

  Instead of helping her cause, the words seemed to harden him. He tossed her into her room as if she was nothing more than a sack of refuse. Cynthia landed with a thud to the floorboards, her hip bones vibrating with a pulsing sting. Grimacing, she stumbled to her feet.

  “No! Please, you don’t understand!”

  The door slammed shut. She raced forward. With a click, the bolt was thrown into place. Cynthia fell against the door. “You can’t do this!”

  But it was over.

  Over.

  Gabriel would marry Helen, not knowing that the child she carried wasn’t his.

  Cynthia would lose him forever.

  ********

  “I want to know everything,” Gabriel demanded. “I’m in no mood for childish games.”

  Helen blinked up at him, feigning an innocence he didn’t believe in the least. “Whatever do you mean?”

  He curled his fingers, resisting the urge to grab her and shake from her the answers he needed. “Who wrote the letters?”

  She tilted her head to the side, appearing thoughtful. “What letters?”

  “Don’t play coy, the letters that were sent to me, signed in your name.”

  She looked away, drawing her fingers over a red rose, but not before he noticed the paling of her face. “Me, of course.”

  Unable to stop himself, he grasped her by the shoulders. “Enough with your lies!
I will play the fool no longer.”

  Her lower lip quivered, her large blue eyes filling with tears. “You’re hurting me.” She squirmed, struggling against his hold. She wasn’t afraid. No, he could see the anger and fear mixing in her gaze.

  He didn’t release her, he didn’t care. He felt mad with the need to know. “Tell me the truth.”

  She shoved the heels of her palms into his chest, her anger winning. “She did!”

  Gabriel released her and Helen stumbled back, staring at him as if he’d gone insane. Perhaps he had. Was she actually admitting the truth?

  She rubbed her arms and glared up at him. There was no emotion there other than anger. “Cynthia! She wrote you. She’s the one who hates roses.”

  He’d known the truth all along, hadn’t he? Yet it was still a shock to hear the words. Or perhaps he was more surprised that Helen was speaking the truth. He stumbled back and sank onto a stone bench. Cynthia. He didn’t know Helen at all. He knew Cynthia. And Cynthia knew him, all of him.

  He looked up at Helen as she stood there in her French gown looking like a lady, but so far from a gentlewoman. A stranger really. A woman he’d had only a handful of awkward conversations with. “And the ball. Who did I … dance with?”

  She looked away, her cheeks flushed. Was she actually showing signs of remorse? “I was ill. Cynthia went in my place.”

  Anger and disgust mixed in a lethal combination. He’d been intimate with Cynthia. He’d taken Cynthia’s virginity. Helen had lied. She’d made him think he’d have a happy marriage. She’d made him think she cared about him. Worst of all was the realization that he might have been duped. A marriage of deception.

  He surged to his feet. “You did this. You lied. You would have married me without really knowing me?”

  Her jaw clenched. There was no guilt in her gaze, mere anger and annoyance at being caught. “Men and women do it all the time, my lord.”

  It was true, but he’d always sworn he wouldn’t marry a stranger and she’d almost made him break that promise. “What else have you lied about? Are you even a virgin? Or are the rumors true?” He meant to hurt her like she’d hurt him.

  She blanched, visibly trembling and he realized he’d uncovered something important. “What is it? What haven’t you told me?”

  She pressed her lips into a firm line and looked away.

  “Damn it, Helen, for once in your life be honest!” A flock of sparrows took flight from the yew tree next to him, startled by his angry outburst. But not Helen, no.

  She smirked at him, her arrogance back as quickly as it had fled. “Nothing. I’ve told you all.”

  She was lying, obviously, and he had to do everything in his power to remain calm. Slowly, his gaze scanned her form, looking for something…anything to hint at her lies. His gaze paused at her belly. Was it slightly rounded?

  The realization hit him like a boulder to his chest. “You were going to pass the child off as mine?”

  She paled, her lower lip quivering. That arrogance was gone. “Yes! And you ruined it all!”

  Gabriel ignored her remark, ignored the anger pulsing from her form. He was too stunned, too shocked that anyone could be so heartless as the woman before him.

  The thought of loving a child, of never knowing…his stomach clenched. He parted his lips, intent on calling her a whore, but realized that what she would endure from society would be a far harsher punishment than what he could give. Helen didn’t matter anymore. There was only one woman who mattered.

  He swallowed his bitterness and swept by Helen, his gaze focused on the townhouse. He must know if Cynthia had feigned her attraction to him. And if she had… Anger and hurt spurred him forward.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Helen screeched.

  He shoved open the side door where he’d only moments before watched Cynthia disappear. The panel banged against the wall, startling the cook at the butter churn.

  “Cynthia?”

  The woman pointed toward the servant’s steps. Gabriel started forward only to pull up short when Lady Hogar appeared in the doorway.

  Her weathered face an angry reflection of her young daughter. “Why, Lord Kennwick, is something the matter?”

  She actually looked worried. She should.

  “Not if you tell me where Cynthia is.”

  She laughed, a nervous chuckle. “I…I hardly see why she’d be of importance.” Her hands fluttered around her narrow waist, her gaze darting from him, to the door, as if looking for help.

  “I will see her now.”

  Realizing she was losing, Lady Hogar tilted her chin high, a bitterness washing over her features that aged her. “I’m sorry, but she isn’t here.”

  “Liar.” Gabriel brushed by the woman and started up the stairs. He’d visited their home three times, yet had never been to the second floor. He’d search every bloody room if he had to; he wouldn’t leave until he found Cynthia and heard the truth once and for all.

  “See here! You can’t go up there!” Lady Hogar called.

  His anger faded, fear taking its place. His heart thundered madly with each step he took. Instinct told him that Cynthia was in danger. At the top of the stairs, he paused. A shiver of unease raised the fine hairs on his neck. Slowly, he turned right. A large man stood at the end of the hall, his face laced with confusion and determination. Gabriel started down the corridor, just as determined. The man shifted, bracing his legs apart and narrowing his eyes, preparing for battle.

  “Move aside,” Gabriel demanded.

  The man didn’t flinch, didn’t stir. He had a job to do and nothing would stop him. Nothing…but a fist. Gabriel curled his fingers and jabbed his arm forward. Traveling much of his adult life, he’d had to learn how to protect himself. His knuckles cracked against the man’s jaw. The henchman stumbled back, hit the wall, and slid to the floor. He hadn’t stood a chance.

  Gabriel pressed his fingers to the door. “Cynthia?”

  There was a long pause, then a hesitant, “Yes?”

  Relief was sweet. Much sweeter than it should have been. Damn it, he was supposed to be angry with her! “Stand back.”

  With a growl low in his throat, he slammed his shoulder into the hard panel, the pain almost preferable to the ache in his heart. The wood gave way, breaking into pieces that skittered like tinder across the floor. The room was bare, a small bed in the corner. No carpet. Not even curtains on the one window. Shite, this was where she lived? Just like that, his anger was gone.

  Cynthia stood against the far wall, shock and confusion flittering across her fine features. The early morning sun had not reached her window and the only light was a small lantern that offered no warmth to her small abode. She was here. She was well. His knees almost gave out in relief. Sweet, lovely Cynthia. He would forgive her for deceiving him about that night at the ball, but if she had lied about her feelings toward him, he wasn’t sure he could ever forget.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

  “I’ve come for the truth.”

  Her brows drew together. “You can’t marry Helen,” she blurted out.

  He didn’t respond, but started toward her, his steps slow and deliberate against the cold, wooden floor. He didn’t pause until he reached her. Cupping the sides of her face, he pressed his lips to hers. Instantly, she sighed into him, her mouth going soft, her body melting. A shiver of need and anticipation coursed down his spine. His body remembered her touch.

  As much as he wanted to keep kissing her, he pulled back, resting his forehead to hers. He’d known it, and now he was positive. He’d kissed Cynthia that night in the folly, he’d made love to her in the rain. “It was you, that night of the ball.”

  She pulled back, shaking her head and rushing across the room, away from him. “No.”

  Gabriel wanted to be angry with her, he should be. He couldn’t. “No more lies.”

  She paused and turned. Tears pooled in her large blue eyes. She was soft, kind, lovely. How could h
e have ever mistaken her for Helen? “What’s your favorite flower?”

  Her brows drew together. “I don’t….”

  Another step. “What?”

  “Foxglove,” she admitted. “Because they—”

  “Remind you of fairy bells.”

  She nodded slowly.

  Another step forward. “When you were eight, you had a collection of seashells.”

  A tear slipped down her cheek, a smile quivering on her lush lips. He paused in front of her and brushed away the tear with his thumb. “Your dream is to live by the sea.”

  She nodded, another tear slipping down her smooth cheek.

  “You wrote me those letters.” He cupped the sides of her face, his heart swelling with hope and happiness. “You’re the woman I know.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her eyes begging for forgiveness. Perhaps he should be angry, perhaps he should storm from the room. Damn it all, he was tired of living a lie. He wanted love… happiness. He wanted Cynthia.

  He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to press his mouth to hers and comfort her with his kiss. He needed answers first. “Why? Why did you do it?”

  She closed her eyes. “At first because I had to. Helen insisted.”

  “And later?” He held his breath, waiting.

  She opened her eyes and he saw only sincerity in her beautiful blue gaze. “Because I wanted to. Your letters were the only bright spot in my life. I lived for those letters. I lived for you.”

  The answer he needed to hear and in that moment, he forgave her. He knew this woman. He’d known the moment he’d met her, but had been blinded by other people’s expectations. No longer would he hide from life, from the truth.

  “Tell me you love me.”

  She smiled, a smile that lit up her entire being. “I’ve loved you since that first letter.”

  Gabriel slid his arm around her waist and lifted her, cradling Cynthia to his chest. He pressed his mouth to hers for a quick, possessive kiss, then he started toward the door.

  Bemusement crossing her face, Cynthia wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. “What are you doing?”