A Secret Love Read Online Free PDF

sort of sophisticated dalliance he practiced on all likely ladies. If she could start her charade again, she’d think twice about making herself a widow, one already out of mourning, but it was done—the masquerade had begun. And while she might not be able to fully explain it to Nellie, her charade was absolutely essential.
    Rupert Melrose Cynster, her childhood playmate, was the one, perfectly armed knight she’d had to win to her side. She knew his true mettle—what he could accomplish, would accomplish, once he was fully committed to a cause. With him as her champion, they would have a real chance of triumphing over the Central East Africa Gold Company. Without his aid, that feat had appeared close to impossible.
    Knowing him of old—so well, so thoroughly—she’d known that to secure his commitment, she would need to fully engage his ofttimes fickle interest. She needed him to focus on her problem, willingly bringing his considerable abilities to bear. So she’d invented the countess and, cloaked in beguiling mystery, had set about recruiting him, body and soul, to her cause.
    She’d won her first battle—he was ready to fight beside her. For the first time since Figgs had placed the wretched promissory note before her, she allowed herself to believe in ultimate victory.
    As far as the ton would see, the Morwellans were in town as expected to allow the younger daughters to make their curtsies to society and for Charlie to make his bow. She, the eldest daughter, now an ape-leader, would hug the shadows, assisting with her stepsisters’ come-outs, in her spare moments donning cloak and veil to masquerade as the countess and remove the sword presently poised over her family’s future.
    She smiled at such melodramatic thoughts. They came easily to mind—she knew precisely what she was doing. She also knew precisely why Rupert wouldn’t have helped her as he would the countess, although it wasn’t something she was eager to explain, even to Nellie.
    They disliked being in the same room, certainly not within ten feet of each other. Any closer proximity was like wearing a hair shirt. The peculiarity had afflicted them from the age of eleven and twelve; since then, it had been a constant in their lives. What caused it remained a mystery. As their younger selves, they’d tried to ignore it, pretend it wasn’t there, but the relief they’d both felt when her impending ladyhood had spelled an end to their all but daily association had been too real to ignore.
    Of course they’d never discussed it, but his reaction was there in the sharpening of his hazel gaze, the sudden tensing of his muscles, in the difficulty he had remaining near her for more than a few minutes. Uncomfortable wasn’t an adequate description—the affliction was far worse than that.
    She’d never been able to decide if she reacted to him as he did to her, or if her aggravation arose in response to his. Whatever the truth, their mutual affliction was something they’d learned to live with, learned to hide, and ultimately, learned to avoid. Neither would unnecessarily precipitate a prolonged encounter.
    That was why, despite growing up as they had, despite their families being such close neighbors, he and she had never waltzed. They had danced—one country dance. Even that had left her breathless, waspish and thoroughly out of temper. Like him, she wasn’t given to displays of temper—the only one able to provoke her, all but instantly, was he.
    And that—all of that—explained why the countess had walked the porch of St. Georges. While she could not, absolutely, know his mind and thus be certain he would not have personally helped her, she imagined his instincts would have prompted him to help, but his reaction to her would have mitigated against it. Dealing with the company for her would mean seeing her frequently, often alone, which usually made the