Secrets of the Heart (25 page)

All he had thought about was how much he missed Rachel and how good it would be to be with her, able to talk and laugh together as they had the past few days during their investigation. So he had decided that he would change back into himself and go to live at his house with her, and had to that end leached the color from his hair and had Lilith cut it to make him look as different from James Hobson as he could.

He had ignored the problems inherent in operating in secrecy out of his own home, the lies that would be necessary to explain his absences, the logistical problems of having to turn into a different person from the man Rachel and his servants saw in his house. Nor had he thought of how it would be to be with Rachel as himself.

He could not give himself away, he knew. It would be disastrous if Rachel realized that he had been playing the role of his half brother. She would be furious with him for playing such a trick on her, and she would have every right to be. There would be nothing he could say to excuse himself.

Therefore, he could not conduct himself in the easy manner that he had adopted as James Hobson, so he found himself trapped in the same stiff, distant relationship with her that he had always had. Having known that ease with her, it was now even worse to be condemned to their old habits.

He should have gritted his teeth and borne it, he told himself. It was, after all, what he deserved for ever having entered into that ludicrous charade. He should have remained apart from her until he was through with this investigation, given her time for James Hobson's image to blur. He had been a fool to rush his fences, and it would be a miracle if he did not come a cropper.

 

Disgruntled, Rachel went to bed early. She did not want to give the appearance of having waited up for Michael to return from his club. After all, if he preferred his club to her company…well, she didn't know what, but she was sure that she would be foolish in the extreme to let him see that she had missed him.

It took some time for her to go to sleep, however. She tossed and turned, thinking about James Hobson and Michael, and listening for sounds in his room next door that would indicate he had come home. That did not happen until well after midnight, and when she did hear him moving about, she waited, her whole body taut, listening for the sound of the knob turning on the door between their rooms.

It did not come, and finally, much later, she fell asleep.

The next morning she awoke in a better frame of mind. Sylvia was having a party tonight, and Rachel thought she would ask Michael to accompany her. Perhaps if they spent the evening together…well, who knew what might happen? She felt a twinge of guilt, knowing deep down that she was using him as a substitute for James Hobson.

But she pushed that thought away. If she could, somehow, work out some semblance of a real marriage with Michael, then that would be good, would it not? Life was not always perfect;
people
were not always perfect, least of all herself.

When she heard the sounds of him moving about in his room next door, she went down the hall to his door and knocked. At the sound of his voice, she turned the knob and opened the door, stepping into his room. Michael was standing before his shaving mirror, shirtless, a towel draped over one shoulder and a shaving mug in his hand. He was in the process of stirring up the shaving soap into a foam, and he half turned toward the door. He looked startled when he saw her, and a red flush crept up his face.

“Oh! Rachel! I thought it was the footman with hot water.”

Rachel flushed, too, very aware of his semi-nakedness and of the jolt it sent through her loins. Whatever was the matter with her? Why had she turned into this wanton creature who seemed always on the edge of lust?

She quickly averted her gaze, turning to her right, as Michael scrambled for his shirt. She discovered, however, that turned as she was, she was now looking directly into the mirror over his dresser, and it reflected Michael's image across the room. He was turned to the side, so that his right side was toward her, but by a trick of the mirrors, she could see in the dresser mirror the reflection of his shaving mirror, and in it his left arm was clearly visible.

Rachel frowned, looking more intently into the mirror as Michael picked up a shirt and began to slip it on. There was a red welt on the back of his left arm. He turned to put his left arm in its sleeve, moving a little awkwardly, and she saw that there was a red welt on the front of that arm, as well.

Suddenly, in a blinding flash of knowledge, she realized what the welts were—the newly healing scars where the ball had gone through James Hobson's arm.
Michael was James Hobson!

“There,” he said, walking over to her as he buttoned his shirt.

Rachel turned back to him, hoping her shock did not register on her face. She forced a smile. “I am sorry. I should not have barged in on you like that.”

“It's not a problem,” he assured her with a smile. “Did you need something?”

“Oh! Yes…I, um, just wanted to say that I had planned to go to a party at Sylvia's tonight. I hope that is all right.”

“Shall I escort you?”

“Oh, no. No. It is to be a musicale. Dreadfully boring, I'm sure. I would not drag you to that. I would not go myself if I had not promised Sylvia. I just wanted to make sure that you did not, that is, had not made other plans for us.”

“No,” Michael replied quietly. “I was—I shall go round to my club, no doubt.”

“I see. Well, then…that's good.” Rachel turned toward the door, saying, “Perhaps I will see you later. No doubt you are busy today.”

“I had planned to go out, see a few friends.”

Rachel nodded. “Good. I will be doing the same.” She gave him another false smile and walked out the door.

She managed to make it to her bedroom before her knees gave way beneath her. She sank down onto the floor, heedless of her dress or anything else.
Michael was James Hobson!

For a moment she wondered if James had decided to pretend to be Michael and gain entrance to the house; he was able to imitate Michael, after all. But, no, she reminded herself, that could not be it, for Michael had talked about her family yesterday, about the estate and their servants, things his illegitimate half brother would not know.

Of course he would not know those things, she thought, letting out a faintly hysterical little laugh. How could he know them when
he did not exist?

It was clear to her now. Michael had been pretending the entire time. He and Lilith Neeley had carried out this elaborate charade, fooling her into believing that Michael was really his own half brother. Chagrin swept her as she realized how the two of them had made an utter fool of her. She thought back, cheeks burning, to all the time she had spent with him, the way she had swallowed their entire story. What an idiot they must think her. What a silly, naive fool!

She remembered the way he had kissed her, all the time knowing that she was really his wife, yet allowing her—no, encouraging her—to feel the pangs of guilt at betraying her husband! Pain sliced through her, followed immediately by an equal storm of rage. How could he? Did Michael hate her this much?

But it was all right, she thought. She didn't care. Because she now hated him!

An idea flashed into her head, so sudden, so forceful, so brilliant, that she jumped to her feet in response.
Would it work?
She strolled over to the window and looked out, her mind racing, considering all the factors. It might work, she thought. It just might work. She smiled tightly, her eyes bright with fury, and crossed the room to yank at the bellpull.

When a maid appeared at her door, she said, “Have the carriage brought round. I am going out.”

She went first to The Red Boar, the inn where she and James Hobson had twice eaten lunch. With ingratiating courtesy, the landlord showed her the nicest bedchambers in the inn, and she saw that the place was even better for her purposes than she had hoped, having a suite of two rooms with a door between them in the connecting wall, and both of them having outer doors into the hall, as well.

She quickly rented both rooms, then sat down and penned a note to James Hobson. She paid a lad to deliver it to Lilith Neeley's house, hoping that Michael would in the course of his day drop by there to assume one of his disguises, or that Lilith would let him know he had a message there. It was the only part of the plan over which she had no control. She considered putting it off for a day to give him adequate time to receive the message, but she realized she could not bear to do that. Her bitter pain and anger thirsted for immediate revenge. She could not wait, could not allow herself to pause or think, or the hurt that clamored inside her would swallow her up.

Afterward, she went home and started setting up the rest of her scheme. Searching through her wardrobe, she finally settled on an emerald-green gown that deepened the green of her eyes. It was a dress she rarely wore, for its neckline was a trifle lower than she liked. It would be perfect for tonight, however.

She pulled it out and sat down to carefully remove the stitches that held in place the lace ruffle that decorated the neckline, making it even lower. Then she took in the seams a little on both sides, rendering it quite a bit tighter. When she tried it on after her alterations, her eyes widened at the way the tops of her breasts swelled above the neckline, and for a moment she considered not wearing it, but then she squared her shoulders, reminding herself not to be an idiot. This was precisely the effect she was looking for.

Next in order were a bath and shampoo and the long, tedious process of brushing her long, thick hair dry in front of the fire. That was followed by a beauty treatment for her face that left it soft and glowing. Finally she did her hair up in a simple arrangement. She did not want to have her maid do it, for then she would have expected to help her into her dress, as well, and Rachel had no intention of anyone in this house seeing that dress.

When she had struggled into her dress—tight as its bodice was, she had a good deal of difficulty in fastening the buttons in the back—she inspected herself in her mirror. What she saw shocked her a little. She looked as lovely as she had ever seen herself—the prospect of battle had put a light in her eyes and a glow in her cheeks that were quite attractive—and the dress had actually turned out to exceed her expectations. It was so tight across the bosom that she could see the small buttons of her nipples, and the neckline was cut almost down to that level, as well, with the creamy white tops of her breasts looking as if they might spill out at any moment.

It was what she had wanted, of course, but she felt a certain trepidation at facing Michael like this. For a moment she wondered whether she would be able to carry it off. But then she thought once more of how he had callously tricked her and a saving anger swept through her. She would have her revenge. She would not allow herself to act the coward.

Wrapping her black velvet mantle about her, she left the house.

 

Michael found it difficult to keep his mind on his work. It was all beginning to seem pointless, anyway. He was working his way back through his various contacts, asking for information that no one seemed to be able—or willing—to supply, no matter how he tried to bribe, threaten or reason with them. It did not help that his mind kept returning to his encounter with Rachel that morning.

He had been hoping that he would spend the evening with her, that they might go to a play or party together, that he might manage to work his way around to talking to her with less constraint. His heart had leaped in hope when she entered his room. But then he had acted like an embarrassed schoolboy, and their conversation had taken its usual stilted course. Thank heaven he had at least been turned away from her so that she had not seen his bare left arm. The scars would have been a dead giveaway that he was James Hobson.

It had been obvious that she had not wanted him to accompany her to Sylvia's party. She had even seemed a trifle nervous about it, as if she were afraid he might insist on going. He told himself that he was just being suspicious, but when he dropped by his sister's house to see if any of his informers had come by, he discovered that he had good reason to be suspicious.

There was a note from Rachel waiting for him, addressed to James Hobson. He opened it and read it, his heart sinking as he did so. She was asking James to meet her tonight at The Red Boar. That, of course, was why she had refused his offer to accompany her to Sylvia's party. He did not think she wanted to discuss Birkshaw's case. She was planning to be unfaithful to him tonight.

He did not miss the irony that if he went to her, he would be cuckolding himself. He also knew that even though the knowledge cut him to the core, he would be at The Red Boar as she requested. Hurt and disappointment tangled with desire inside him.

He thought of kissing Rachel, touching her, losing himself within her, and he knew that he could not stay away, no matter how much it hurt to know that she was—in her mind, anyway—breaking her marriage vows. He could not miss this opportunity to taste her love—even if she intended it for another man.

R
achel sat on the edge of the small couch, waiting. Her stomach was a mass of nerves, and it was so difficult to breathe in the tight dress that she felt a trifle faint. A dozen times since she had arrived at the inn, she had thought of throwing her mantle around her and running, but she had forced herself to stay. She was determined to do this.

The room was lit with a dozen candles, giving the room a warm, golden glow. The landlord had brought a feast of food, as well, though she did not intend to let the evening get that far. He had also brought a bottle of wine, and she had drunk a glass of it for courage, with the result that she was slightly unsteady.

It was almost the time she had designated for their rendezvous. What if he did not appear? Rachel had not really considered that possibility, and it was a curiously lowering thought.

Then there was the sound of feet in the hallway outside, and Rachel rose to her feet, facing the door. The door opened, and Michael came in, dressed as James Hobson. His hair was brown again, and she felt a little flicker of doubt. But then she saw that it was the same length as Michael's new haircut, though he had tried to comb it differently.

He stopped dead still, his face stunned. His eyes ran down her body, then back up to her face. Rachel, watching him, smiled. The dress had brought out exactly the reaction she had hoped for. She strolled across the room toward him, her hips swaying lazily.

“Hello, James,” she said, her voice low and provocative.

He cleared his throat. “Rachel.”

“I was beginning to think you were not going to come,” she said, coming to stand only inches away from him and gazing up into his face.

“How do you think I could stay away?” he asked. His eyes were dark with hunger, the heavy gray of storm clouds.

Rachel smiled teasingly and walked her fingers up his chest. “I was hoping you could not.”

“Although, I must admit, I was a little surprised. I thought you had decided to remain faithful to your husband.” His accent slipped a little on the last few words, and the slip strengthened Rachel's resolve.

“Like you,” she said, “I found that I could not stay away. Lord Westhampton may be my husband, but you are the man I want. It is you who takes my breath away, who makes me feel as if—”

Her last words were cut off as he clamped his hands around her arms and jerked her to him, his mouth swooping down to claim hers. His kiss shook her, turning her loins to molten wax and making her legs tremble so that she was not sure she could have stood without his support. Rachel pressed up into his hard body, giving in to the pleasure for a moment, letting herself feel what she never would again.

His hands roamed her body, caressing her through her clothes, and she clenched her fingers in his hair, moaning softly at the sensations his fingers aroused in her. In that instant, she was lost in her passion, her body alive and tingling with desire. She wanted to let go, to give in to the yearning in her loins, to experience the pleasure she had never known.

But then, with an almost forcible yank, she pulled herself back from that precipice. She would not be weak. For once, she reminded herself, she was going to be strong; she would take charge of her life. She would not be moved about at her father's whim or Michael's; she would not be dictated to or manipulated or tricked anymore. She, and she alone, would decide what her life would be.

With her resolve firmed, she distanced herself mentally from the physical pleasure coursing through her. Giving a little moan, she ran her hands down his front and back up, caressing him through the rough work shirt he wore in his Hobson role. She felt his flesh quiver beneath her touch, even through the shirt, and the sense of power over him was sweet.

Her fingers dug into his shirt, bunching it in her hands, and she pulled and tugged, sliding her hands around to his back beneath his jacket to pull his shirt out from his waistband. His breath grew hard and rasping as she worked at his shirt, and he shuddered, letting out a groan, when her fingers went to the top button and began to unfasten it.

His hands started toward the buttons down the back of her dress, but Rachel forestalled him by taking his hands and sliding them back to her breasts. He quickly lost interest in the fastenings of her dress as his fingers kneaded and caressed the soft orbs of her breasts, slipping beneath the low neckline to explore.

Rachel finished unbuttoning his shirt and moved her hand beneath it to the bare skin of his chest. She caressed his flesh, teasing his flat masculine nipples with her fingers until they were hard and eager. Then she swept her hands up to his shoulders and outward, pushing both his shirt and the jacket atop it down and off his shoulders. They fell in a heap on the floor at his feet, and she roamed his chest and back freely with her hands.

They kissed again and again, turning and moving, walking slowly backward. In small increments, she moved him in the direction of the door into the hallway, and as she did so, she reached down to his belt and unbuckled it, then started on the buttons of his trousers. He stopped and hastily stepped out of his shoes. Rachel hooked her thumbs inside the waistband of his breeches and pushed them down over his hips until they fell to the floor and he was naked against her.

He made a noise deep in his throat, and his hands dug into her buttocks, pressing her against him. She could hear the slamming of his heart against his chest, the harsh rasp of his breath in his throat.

Their kisses intensified as she backed slowly up until her back was against the door. Rachel reached behind herself and found the doorknob, turning it silently. Then she put her other hand at Michael's waist, pushing him gently back and to the side, not breaking their kiss. Quietly she opened the door, maneuvering him until he was squarely in the middle of the open strip of doorway.

Quickly she slid her hands between them, bracing them on his chest, and pulled her head back. He opened his eyes and looked at her in confusion, his face heavy and blank with passion.

“Wha—” He seemed to sense something behind his back and started to turn his head around to look, but Rachel seized his face between her hands.

“Do you want me?” she asked, breathless from the kisses and the tension of the game she was playing.

“Yes.” His eyes darkened, and he bent kiss her.

Rachel moved forward, but instead of arching up to kiss him, she planted both hands firmly on his chest and shoved with all her might. Taken by surprise, he stumbled back into the hallway.

“What the—” he began.

“Well, I don't want you!” she shot back, her controlled fury springing forth now in a blaze. “Michael!”

She stepped back and slammed the door shut, then turned the lock.

“Rachel!” he roared, and an instant later he began to thunder against the door with his fists. “What the devil do you mean! Let me in!”

Rachel hurried across the room and threw her mantle around her shoulders, then scooped up his clothes. Outside she heard a woman's shriek while Michael cursed loudly and continued to bang on the door. Allowing herself a small, wicked smile, she opened the connecting door between the two rooms she had rented and strode over to that room's outside door.

She opened the door and stepped out into the hall, looking back down the hallway to where Michael, as bare as the day he was born, was pounding on the door and shouting her name. Doors had opened up and down the hall, and heads had popped out. In the doorway across the hall from Michael a woman was standing, hands over her eyes, babbling in a high-pitched voice while beside her a man ranted at Michael.

“Oh, Michael!” Rachel raised her voice.

He swung around and started toward her. “I suggest you spend the night at your ‘sister's,”' she said, holding up his clothes and tossing them into the room behind her. Then she whirled and ran down the stairs.

Behind her, she heard Michael bellow and start to run, then stop. He would have to go into the room and dress before he could pursue her, which she had counted on.

Rachel flew out the front door and ran straight to one of the hansom cabs that waited there. She called out her address and jumped inside the carriage, leaving Michael behind.

 

Her anger propelled her up the stairs of the house to her room, where she tore off her dress and threw it into the fire. She pulled out a serviceable brown traveling dress and put it on, then dug out a soft-sided bag from the back of her dressing room and laid it open on her bed. She pulled open drawers and dug out undergarments and nightgowns, tossing them onto the bed.

And all the time, she was listening, waiting for the sound of Michael's return. He would not come, she told herself. Now that he realized she knew about his masquerade, he would not bother pursuing her—or, at least, not once he calmed down. Why should he? There would be no more fun now to be had from fooling her.

She wadded up a nightgown and stuffed it into the bag, following it with a handful of stockings and garters. There was the sound of running footsteps in the hall outside, and Rachel whirled to face the door, her heart hammering in her chest. The door was flung open, crashing against the wall. Michael stood in the doorway.

He was not his usual sartorially neat self. He had no coat or hat, and he wore the rough trousers and shirt of James Hobson. His shirt was buttoned only halfway up and hung loose outside his trousers. A ridge of red flamed along his cheekbones, and his hair was tousled. He paused, his chest heaving.

Rachel looked at him coolly, then said, “I am surprised to see you here. I would have thought you would go to your lover to soothe your wounded pride.”

“Lover!” He gaped at her. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Really, Michael, it's a little late for that innocent air, isn't it?”

Rachel turned her back on him and began folding another nightgown and putting it into the bag.

“I have no lover!” he snapped and strode farther into the room. “What are you doing?”

“I should think it's obvious.”

“You're packing?” There was a faint note of panic in his voice. “Where are you going?”

“That is scarcely any of your concern,” Rachel retorted, continuing with her job, not looking at him.

“Dammit! It is very much my concern!” he shot back. “I am your husband!”

“Oh, are you?” Rachel asked with heavy sarcasm, not turning to look at him. “And here I thought you were James Hobson, investigator
extraordinaire
and illegitimate brother of Michael, Lord Westhampton.”

“Rachel…let me explain.”

“Explain?” She whirled around, fairly vibrating with barely contained fury. “You want to explain? Yes, I rather wish you would! Explain why my husband saw fit to deceive and ridicule me! Did everyone in London know about you and your mistress? Everyone except me, of course! Did you tell all your friends how I was even so horrendously naive and foolish that I actually believed you when you handed me that cock-and-bull story that you were your own bastard brother? Or was that juicy little item something you kept between you and Lilith, so that you could laugh at me and all my foolish—”

She broke off, tears choking her voice, and whipped back around. She refused to let him see that he had brought her to tears. She picked up another bunch of clothes and stuffed them into the bag.

“No! Rachel, my God! I never laughed at you! I never wanted to hurt or ridicule you.”

“Well, you succeeded well enough anyway. Congratulations!”

“Rachel, listen to me….” Michael grasped her shoulders and turned her around, but Rachel jerked away from him, her eyes blazing.

“Don't touch me! Don't you dare touch me again. Why did you pretend to—” She broke off again as her treacherous voice thickened. “No. I understand why you lied to me. It was the easiest way to get out of it when I confronted you and…her. And, of course, I was so gullible, such an idiot, that I believed it! But why did you pretend to—to like me? Why did she act as if she were my friend? Do you hate me that much? Are you that cruel?”

“No!” Michael paled as if she had struck him. “God in heaven, no! Rachel, I would never try to hurt you. Lilith is not my mistress!”

“How foolish do you think I am!” Rachel cried.

“You are going to make up some other story now, and you think that I will swallow it, too?”

“I am not making anything up. I swear it! Lilith
is
my sister. My illegitimate half sister. There is no other sibling, or at least, none that I know of. There is no James Hobson. But Lilith truly is my father's daughter, born to the daughter of a farmer near one of his friend's hunting lodge. I did not know of her existence until a few years ago. Rob told me about her. He met her first. He was in love with her, and she told him her story, and he knew that I—There! That's it! You have seen Sir Robert there. You know he is Lilith's lover. You cannot believe that he would stand by and let her have another man, as well. Right there, beneath the roof that he paid for?”

Rachel looked at him. His words made sense, she had to admit. She did not know Sir Robert, but he had not struck her as a man who would be inclined to share.