She felt like clenching her fists, screwing her eyes shut, drumming her heels, and demanding he tell her the truth. Instead, she fixed her eyes on his and carefully enunciated, "I will not marry you until you tell me why you want to marry me, and place your hand on your heart and swear you've told me all-every last one-of your reasons."
Those who thought him the epitome of a civilized gentleman would never have recognized the harshly primitive warrior who now faced her. Luckily, she'd encountered him often enough not to quake.
"Why?"
The very air shivered beneath that one word, so invested with suppressed passions-anger, frustration, and barely leashed desire.
Alathea didn't blink. "Because I need to know."
He held her gaze for so long, she began to feel giddy, then he wrenched his gaze from hers and abruptly stood. He looked out over the lawns, then glanced down at her.
His expression was impassive. With a flick of his fingers, he tossed the sprig of jasmine into her lap.
"Don't you think we've wasted enough years?"
His gaze rose, touched hers, then he turned and strode down the steps.
Alathea sat in the gazebo mentally replaying their exchanges, wondering, if she had the chance, if she would say anything different, do anything different, or manage to achieve anything more.
At the end of an hour, she lifted the jasmine and inhaled the heady scent. She focused on the sprig, then, with a self-deprecating grimace, tucked it into her cleavage.
For luck.
She'd diced with fate for her sisters and won. She'd just played for her own future-had she told him she wasn't aggressive? She'd risked everything on a last throw.
She'd do it again in a blink.
With a sigh, she rose and headed for the house.
Chapter 19
Sunday evening. Gabriel let himself into his house with his latchkey. As he closed the door, Chance materialized from the back of the hall.
Gabriel handed him his hat and cane. "Is there brandy in the parlor?"
"Indeed, sir."
Gabriel waved a dismissal. "I won't need anything more tonight." He stopped with his hand on the parlor doorknob. "One thing-did Folwell bring his report?"
"Aye, sir-it's on the mantelshelf."
"Good." Entering the parlor, Gabriel shut the door and headed straight for the sideboard. He poured himself two fingers of brandy, then, glass in hand, lifted Folwell's missive from the mantelpiece and slumped into his favorite armchair. He took a long sip, his gaze on the folded sheet, then, setting both glass and note down on a side table, he pressed his hands to his eyes.
God, he was tired. Over the last week, aside from the time he'd spent with Alathea and a few restless hours' sleep, he'd devoted every waking minute to trying to shake formal statements-statements with legal weight-from a score of civil servants and foreign ambassadors' aides. To no avail. It wasn't that the gentlemen didn't want to be helpful; it was simply the way of governmental authority the world around. Everything had to be checked and triple-checked, and then authorized by someone else. Time, it seemed, was measured on a different scale in Whitehall and foreign parts both.
Sighing deeply, Gabriel stretched out his legs and leaned his head back, eyes closed. It wasn't his failure on the foreign front that was worrying him.
He'd called on Captain Aloysius Struthers that afternoon. Even from that short interview, it was clear that the captain was indeed the savior Alathea had thought him. His testimony, even in the absence of any further facts beyond those they'd already gleaned, would prompt the most reticent judge to a speedy and favorable decision. The problem was the captain had embarked on a crusade with all flags flying. He'd already contacted acquaintances in search of maps and mining leases.
Gabriel wasn't at all sure that was the way to sling a noose around Crowley's neck. Stealth might have been wiser.
He'd spent half an hour urging Struthers to caution, but the man hadn't wanted to listen. He was fixated on bringing Crowley down. In the end, Gabriel had accepted that and left, trying to ignore the presentiment of danger resonating, clarionlike, in his mind.
As long as Struthers appeared at Chancery Court on Tuesday morning, all would be well. Until then, however, the investigation and his nerves would teeter on a knife edge. One wrong move…
Opening his eyes, he straightened, reached for his glass, and grimly sipped. There was nothing more he
could do tonight to bolster the Morwellan cause. It was, however, time and past that he attended to the other matter on his plate.