Page 39 of Secrets of the Heart

“Well, now, that puts the fat in the fire, don’t it? What did Lilith say? What are you going to do?”

Michael waved a hand. “Never mind. I think Lilith managed to cover it up. It’s deuced inconvenient, but…”

“Why don’t you just tell Rachel the truth?” Perry asked. “Save you a lot of problems, if you ask me.”

“Yes, I know, so everyone keeps telling me. Believe me, I would, except that now it would cause such a dustup if I revealed it. And if Rachel should happen to say anything, don’t let on that I know about Lilith and that I do not have an illegitimate half brother.”

Overhill’s eyes grew even bigger, and his voice rose as he gasped, “What! Michael, are you mad!”

“Sometimes I think I am. Or I soon shall be.” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “But that isn’t why I came here.” Michael sat forward in his seat, looking intently at his friend’s face. “Perry…what do you know of Anthony Birkshaw?”

“Birkshaw? I’m not sure I—oh, the chap who married that heiress from…Birmingham, was it? No, maybe it was York. Moved there, didn’t he?”

“Yes. Some years ago. But apparently he is in London now.”

“Oh, wait! I did hear something about him. What was it? Let me think, now.” Overhill closed his eyes in thought. “Was it Fitzhugh who said something about him? No, Charles Wardlaw. That’s who it was, last week at the club. He said Birkshaw had returned to the city. Wife died. That’s what it was.” Perry grinned, pleased at his powers of recollection.

“His wife died?” Michael stiffened. “When? How?”

“Good God, man, I don’t know. I was lucky to remember that much. You know how Charlie Wardlaw goes on. Don’t pay attention much to what he says. Why?”

Michael forced a smile. “Oh, probably nothing…”

So Birkshaw’s wife had died, and now he was hanging about Rachel…. The jealousy that had stabbed Michael earlier twisted even deeper inside him.

“Convenient that his wife died young and left him a great deal of money, no doubt.”

Overhill raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

“What the devil are you saying, Michael? That Birkshaw killed her? Why, he’s a gentleman.”

Michael cast him a sardonic look, and Perry shook his head.

“I say, old man, I think you have been hanging out amongst criminals for too long.”

“I daresay you are right,” Michael replied mildly, rising. “However, I think that I just may pay a visit to my friend Cooper.”

“The Bow Street Runner?” Perry’s eyes grew wider. “I say, Westhampton, don’t you think—”

Perry stopped, realizing that he was talking to himself. Michael was already striding out the door.

11

Rachel spent the evening in her bedroom, even taking supper there. Her maid fussed over her, certain that her ladyship was ill, until finally Rachel in exasperation sent her away. All she wanted was to be by herself to think about what had happened this evening.

She had kissed Michael’s brother—a man she had met only minutes before. Of course, it had been he who had actually kissed her, but Rachel was too honest not to admit that she had enjoyed the moment thoroughly and had, perhaps, even kissed him back. She had kissed a man she barely knew, a man who was not her husband, an act which was highly inappropriate, improper, immoral—and, she was sure, a hundred other not-right words she could not think of.

And the worst of it was, it had been glorious. It had been the most intense, acute moment of pleasure she had ever experienced. It had shaken and disturbed her; it had set her on fire. And it had left her in turmoil.

She was certain of one thing—that it must not ever happen again. No, she corrected herself, she was certain of another thing, as well, and that was that there was nothing she wanted more than to have it happen again.

Rachel raised her hands to her head, hardly able to believe the thoughts that were pounding there. How could she suddenly be so lost to propriety? So dead to virtue?

It was utterly ridiculous, she reminded herself. The man was a boor—impolite, rough, common. It was absurd that the kiss of a man like that should arouse her. It was also utterly wrong! He was the illegitimate half brother of her own husband. It embarrassed her even to admit how much she had enjoyed his kiss, how little she could stop thinking about it.

Only two other men had ever kissed her. There had been the two soft, worshipful kisses that Anthony had bestowed on her before she became engaged to Michael, and they had felt nothing like that. Heat had not slammed through her as it had this evening, wild and stunning.

The other man had been Michael, just two nights before their wedding. His kiss had been more like this one, hard and demanding, although it had been so long ago that she had trouble remembering the exact sensations she had felt. The main thing that she remembered was the panic she had been feeling that day, both before the kiss and even more afterward. She remembered, too, that something had stirred in her, odd and scary, but it had not been this powerful, this delightful. Her whole being had not risen up in response to it.