Cheryl Holt (12 page)

“Jesus, woman,” he complained. “You’re dry as an old hag. Relax, would you?”

“I can’t. I’m being smothered!”

He wrangled with the front of her dress, yanking down the bodice so that her flat bosom was exposed. He petted and painfully plucked at a nipple, but she wasn’t concerned. The more he hurt her, the more ferociously she would retaliate—when he least expected it.

“You’ve got tits like a boy,” he grouched.

“Quit mauling me! I don’t like it.”

“You’ll
learn
to like it.”

“Never! I never will.”

Though he’d denigrated her breasts, his caressing them had worked a little magic on his phallus. It was erect, and he wedged it in. She lurched up and cried out, as a virgin ought, and he clasped his palm over her mouth.

“Hush! Everyone will hear you!”

“Oh, I can’t have anyone see us like this!”

He thrust in earnest, but the liquor had dampened his sexual drive and was preventing him from arriving at the conclusion. She was in copulation hell, trapped beneath him, his fetid breath choking her.

He kept on and on and on, and she began to worry that she might expire from boredom. Finally—finally!—
he spilled himself, his disgusting seed spurting across her womb, and he grunted with satisfaction and pulled away.

“What did you do to me?” she asked.

“I’ve given you a taste of manly desire. I’ve taught you what transpires between a man and his wife. Your horizons have been expanded.”

“You mean I’m . . . I’m ruined?”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’ll have to marry you!” she protested.

“You absolutely will, but don’t fuss.” He stood, arranging his clothes and hair. “It was bound to happen sooner or later. Keep it all in the family, you know.”

“You’re a beast, Nicholas, a cruel beast!”

“Cease your whining and straighten yourself.”

He proceeded to the sideboard and downed more whiskey, conferring the distinct impression that he’d found the entire incident repulsive, and she was enraged by his arrogance.

Who was he to be revolted? He was naught but a poverty-stricken scapegrace. He was lucky she deigned to be in the same room with him.

“Promise me you won’t inform Alex or Rebecca,” she pleaded, sounding appropriately desperate. “They can’t be apprised of what you’ve done.”

“I have to tell Alex.”

“I’m begging you not to. The shame would be too great.”

“You’ll get over it.” He moved to the door.

“Will you . . . will you speak with him this evening?”

As if he might be growing unsure, he hesitated. “Not tonight. He’s busy with company.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I’ll catch up with him. Prepare yourself.”

Preening, he strutted out, and after he’d disappeared, she sat up.

“Stupid fool,” she muttered, and she tarried in the quiet, calculating the ways she’d have her revenge—both if he followed through and if he didn’t.

“Would you walk with me in the garden?”

“In the garden?”

“Yes, the garden,” Rebecca fumed. “I’m positive you’ve heard of it. It’s the green area behind the house, decorated with all the shrubbery and flowers.”

Alex glanced at the dark sky and scowled. “It’s starting to rain.”

“I don’t care. It’s stuffy in here, and I want to go out!”

“All right, all right. Calm down.”

He offered her his arm, which she took, and they strolled onto the verandah. It actually was sprinkling—he hadn’t been lying about that, at least—and when he paused, she dragged him down the stairs and onto the path.

No one else was in the yard, so she was truly alone with him—as she never was—yet she experienced none of the thrilling rush that was so evident when she’d sneaked off with Mr. Duncan.

With him, she’d felt wild and free, as if she could commit any rash exploit without repercussion. For a few heady minutes, she’d been someone besides stuffy, prim Rebecca Burton, whose sole claim to fame was that she’d been waiting all her life to become Mrs. Alex Marshall and Countess of Stanton.

While previously the position had been exactly what she wanted, anymore it merely seemed tedious.

Recently, she’d been so restless and edgy, as if she was being slowly buried by the mundane. She was tired of plodding along, year after year, as Alex dithered over his readiness to tie the knot.

Her furtive assignation with Mr. Duncan had opened a Pandora’s box of yearning and unhappiness that she usually kept closed, for she hadn’t been courageous enough to peek inside. Now that she had, her worst fears were realized.

She was afraid that Alex didn’t love her, that he didn’t wish to marry her. There’d been rumors to that effect, but she’d discounted them. Mr. Duncan had simply confirmed her suspicions. She couldn’t bear to think that her future with Alex would be as dull as the past. She was craving passion and excitement. Sometimes, her placid, serene world was so frustrating that she ached to run out on the front stoop and scream until she was hoarse.

Why . . . she was twenty-two years old and had never been kissed until Mr. Duncan had dared. She’d been pledged to Alex for two decades, and he’d never so much as held her hand.

They were such a polite, dreary couple that madcap behavior was beyond them. But with Mr. Duncan’s flirtation hot in her mind, she couldn’t help wondering why Alex was so uninterested.

She peered up at him. He was so tall, so handsome and masculine, yet there was none of the sizzle that Mr. Duncan inspired. Why?

The situation was driving her batty. Why wasn’t Alex agog with desire? He was like a kindly brother or uncle,
which was wrong. Shouldn’t they be feeling some ardor? With the engagement about to officially occur, shouldn’t he be luring her into isolated corners and whispering sweet nothings in her ear?

Out of the blue, he inquired, “Where’s your companion, Miss Drake? I never see her with you.”

“She’s been under the weather.”

“She’d be welcome to socialize with us.”

“Of course she would be,” Rebecca curtly remarked, irked that he had her all to himself and he was talking about another woman. “I’ve invited her down every evening, but she’d rather retire early.”

He chuckled. “Is our company that unpleasant?”

“I suppose it is.”

They continued on, lost in thought, and she couldn’t abide the silence. Mr. Duncan was a sorcerer who’d cast a spell, and his accusations were taunting her to recklessness. Too many words were bubbling out, and before she could balk or reconsider, she blurted, “When I’m not here in London, do you consort with other women?”

“Other. . . other women?” He sputtered with surprise. “Rebecca, what’s come over you? You’re acting so bizarrely.”

“Do you?” she demanded, determined to pry a response out of him.

“Why would you pose such an odd question?”

“Because I’m curious.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“You haven’t answered me,” she pointed out, “which is an answer in and of itself.”

He sighed with exasperation. “You only visit three or four times a year, so yes, I occasionally escort others to the theater or whatever.”

“That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it.”

“No, I don’t
know it
. What—precisely—are you hoping to learn?”

She stopped and faced him so she could view his expression. “Whilst I’m away, do you make mad, passionate love to other women?”

“Rebecca!”

He blushed, and she couldn’t figure out why he was embarrassed. Was he shocked by the subject matter? Or was he guilty of philandering?

“After we’re married, will you practice fidelity?”

“Fi. . . fi . . . delity?”

As if he’d bitten into a rotten egg, he grimaced, and he grabbed her arm and turned her toward the verandah. “I’m not having this discussion with you. Let’s go in.”

Suddenly a sliver of moonlight broke through the stormy clouds, bathing her in its glow, and she remembered Mr. Duncan’s romantic comments. She dug in her feet, halting him.

“Is the moon shining on my hair?” she queried.

“Yes.”

“How does it appear to you?”

“What?” He was completely confused. “Your hair?”

“Yes. What color is it?”

“Brown.”

“What shade of brown?”

“Very brown.”

She stared at him, really
looking
for a change, and it seemed to her that he was a stranger, that this man with whom she’d been acquainted forever was someone she didn’t know, at all.

A wave of fury swept over her. She was so angry that
she wanted to clasp him by the lapels of his fancy jacket and shake him until his teeth rattled.

Quite sure she sounded deranged, she seethed, “My hair is brunette.”

“Well then,” he said, “that certainly clarifies everything.”

Wrath and hurt warred inside her, and she yanked away. “Shut up, Alex. For once in your pathetic life, just shut the hell up!”

It was the first time she’d ever cursed, and at having done so she felt marvelous.

She spun and stomped to the house.

  8  

Ellen trudged through the dim halls. She—apparently—was the only one in the drafty mansion who couldn’t sleep. In recent days, she’d suffered too many upheavals, so she was careening between anxiety and joy. She couldn’t relax long enough to lie down and get comfortable.

She was disoriented from seeing James—so suddenly and so unexpectedly—then having him flit off a few minutes later. The likelihood that he might reappear, that she might turn around and find him standing behind her, had her so agitated that her life was in total disarray.

She couldn’t think, couldn’t socialize, couldn’t concentrate. She was too muddled, so she’d taken to hiding in her bedchamber, which, she’d quickly deduced, was a marvelous method for avoiding Lord Stanton.

After his outrageous seduction, she was in a constant state of panic, terrified that she’d bump into him in a deserted parlor and he’d seduce her all over again. Though she’d never admit it in a thousand years, she was thrilled by what he’d done to her and hoping that
something similar would occur as soon as she could manage a second encounter.

She wanted Stanton in every risqué, bawdy way she could have him. He’d opened a door to a secret world she hadn’t known to exist, and she was fascinated by what she’d discovered on the other side. She hadn’t the fortitude to say no to the pleasure he offered, which meant that any interaction would have them racing down the road to perdition. Perhaps they already were.

Was she mad?

She’d planned to stay on with Lydia and Rebecca till the wedding, but when she was having such lust-filled thoughts about Rebecca’s fiancé how could she?

She had to leave—immediately—but hadn’t the funds to go. She had no money saved, and her sole family member was James—a convicted criminal on the run from the law. His whereabouts were a mystery, and she had but an obscure address for sending him stealthy notes. Dare she cast her lot with him?

What if he was rearrested? Once previous, she’d watched the law march him away in shackles, and she couldn’t bear a subsequent experience. Wasn’t it better to protect herself? To steer clear of anguish?

Oh, she was in a fine fettle! Fretting and stewing and not a soul to whom she could vent her woe!

She was tired of pacing the quiet house, tired of being alone with her frantic rumination. She arrived at her room and crept inside, when a male voice had her jumping with fright.

“Lock the door,” Lord Stanton ordered, and her foolish heart soared with elation, even as her mind whirled with dread over what the visit portended, over what sins she might commit at his instigation.

She recognized that she shouldn’t obey the command, that it would be the worst decision ever, but without hesitation she did as he’d bid her. Bracing herself, she took a deep breath as she calmly asked, “Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

“Would you rather I had a lamp burning?”

“I’d rather you hadn’t come, at all. You can’t be popping in and out. What if someone saw you?”

“I imagine there’d be a huge ruckus.”

“First and foremost, I’d lose my job.”

“I’d locate another for you.” As if employment was a trivial concern, he shrugged.

“Would you? You’re too, too magnanimous.”