Cheryl Holt (2 page)

Though she’d been in London but a few hours, she was aware of how the members of the Quality were prone to amorous mischief, and she couldn’t bear to witness which wife was consorting with which husband. She had a firm moral constitution, had had a decent and respectable upbringing, and when she knew a person had a penchant for adultery it was difficult to be civil.

Her host, Alex Marshall, Lord Stanton, was the prime illustration of how arduous it was to pretend nonchalance. A decade earlier, when she was a girl of eighteen, Stanton had been in the country, merrymaking at a local estate. She’d stumbled upon him in the woods, doing all sorts of things he oughtn’t with a neighbor’s daughter. Ellen had never forgotten a single detail of the spectacle, so how was she to exhibit any courtesy toward him?

For months, since the moment she’d learned that she’d be traveling to London and staying in Stanton’s home, she’d been panicked. In light of her post as a lady’s companion, she couldn’t have refused to accompany her employers, Rebecca and Lydia Burton. Nor could Ellen voice her opinion as to why she was opposed to Rebecca’s betrothal to Stanton. As the disaster unfolded, she could only observe and stew.

As she was a spinster who’d been forced to make her own way in the world, Ellen’s reputation had to be beyond reproach. She could never mention Stanton’s base character, for then she’d be compelled to recount how she’d spied on him.

Fortunately, during the brief period they’d been in his house, Stanton hadn’t deigned to appear, so she’d
avoided meeting him, and she hoped to delay an introduction for as long as she was able. Rebecca was Stanton’s cousin, their marriage arranged when they were children. Rebecca had spent most of her twenty-two years waiting for Stanton to decide he was ready to tie the knot, which he finally had, so at his behest they’d scurried to the city to set the process in motion. Rebecca was thrilled and excited, but Ellen was convinced that Rebecca would be miserable with such a rampant libertine for her husband.

“The nuptial noose is tightening,” the man was commenting. “I’m about to have my wings clipped.”

“Poor dear,” the woman soothed. “Matrimony can be so tedious.”

“Can’t it, though?”

An engaged man!
Ellen fumed.
Who was about to be wed! The cad!

There was a lengthy pause, a rustle of clothing, some giggling; then the woman said, “You’re a beast to lure me away from the festivities.”

“Why did you let me?”

“You’re so . . . tense.”

“Oh, I’m definitely
tense,”
the man agreed. “Very, very tense. I need to relax. And soon!”

“I thought I should offer my assistance.”

“Oh, you should!” the man replied. “You absolutely should.”

Each sentence was punctuated by intervals of silence, and though Ellen would have poked her eyes out rather than look, her curiosity was piqued. What—precisely—were they doing?

She leaned farther to the side, discovering that the ribald scene was every bit as tawdry as she’d envisioned.
The couple were wrapped around each other so completely that they might have been glued together.

The woman was a short, buxom brunette, while the man was tall—six feet at least—with a fit, muscled physique. He had dark hair, and though Ellen couldn’t see his face, she was sure he’d be handsome as the devil.

He was cupping the woman’s buttocks, and as they writhed and wrestled, Ellen rippled with equal parts disgust and exhilaration.

Don’t watch!
she scolded, declining to be drawn in to the squalid rendezvous, yet she couldn’t stop staring.

Once prior, she’d viewed such licentious conduct—as a girl in the forest when she’d glimpsed Lord Stanton—and evidently, naught had changed since that shameful day. Maturity had neither bestowed wisdom nor granted heightened judgment. She was as intrigued as ever by sexual endeavor.

What was the matter with her?

At twenty-eight, she was resigned to her situation. Circumstances had guaranteed that she would never marry, so why was she enthralled? Was she secretly pining for a beau? Had she a lusty aspect to her personality to which she was oblivious?

How peculiar! How terrifying!

She’d often heard that a woman needed to wed, that—after a certain age—it was unhealthy to shun matrimony. She’d always scoffed at the prospect, but what if the stories were correct?

What if she had a buried need for male companionship? What if it became worse with time? Could she grow crazed from unfulfilled desire?

“We really shouldn’t be dallying,” the woman contended.

“But I can’t predict when I’ll manage to slip away again. This could be my last chance. You wouldn’t ask me to pass it up. would you? It’s like ordering a starving man to ignore a feast, a thirsty man to walk by an oasis.”

Ellen rolled her eyes. She hadn’t had much experience with men, her deceased father and her tormented brother, James, being the two main examples, but she recognized the statement for the banal remark it was. What sane female would succumb on the basis of such drivel? If Ellen were the one being seduced, she’d insist on something a tad more romantic!

“So . . . my participation would be an act of kindness?” the woman queried.

“Think of it as your Christian duty to a deprived soul,” he advised. “As I said, it may be my only opportunity.”

“Then we shouldn’t waste it.”

Instantly, the tryst was pitched to the next level. They were kissing with a mutual fervor. Her arms were draped around him, her leg, too, a heel anchoring him as she stroked her foot up and down his calf.

His crafty fingers were fondling her bosom and ultimately slithering under her clothes to caress and pet. With a smooth yank, he tugged at the bodice so that a breast was bared. He pinched and squeezed; then, stunning Ellen to her very core, he dipped down and sucked at the nipple. The gesture was so surprising, and so unexpected, that Ellen clamped her hand over her mouth, lest she gasp aloud. Though she’d previously seen Lord Stanton frolicking, and thus assumed herself an expert in libidinous affairs, that assignation had entailed a great deal of enthusiastic kissing and hugging, but nothing similar to this.

She was so naïve! She’d had no idea that a man would do such a thing to a woman, that a woman would enjoy it, and her body responded with an impatient zeal. Her breasts were inflamed, her nipples throbbing, and she suffered from the strongest urge to massage them.

Cheeks burning, temperature rising, she was so hot that she worried she might ignite, and she could scarcely keep from fanning herself.

The lovers were next to a fancy sofa, and they lay down and stretched out, so they were shielded from sight. Ellen couldn’t see what was transpiring, but there was heavy breathing, sighs and murmurs, more rustling of fabric.

What was occurring?

How frustrating to have her analysis stymied by a piece of furniture! She was desperate to know all, her salacious tendencies raging, and she had to physically grip her chair so that she didn’t sneak over for a closer look.

“Oh . . . oh . . .” the woman panted. “Oh . . . Stanton, you’re so good at that!”

Stanton!
The annoying Romeo was Lord Stanton? The swine!

As if she’d been doused with icy water, Ellen jerked to reality. Fury replaced curiosity. How could she not have guessed it was he?

Over the years, there had been appalling rumors about him, and she’d believed them all. He was a wastrel and roué, who trifled with any willing female, but beyond his profligate habits, Ellen was positive he was a liar and perhaps a thief, as well.

That fated summer, when he’d been loafing in the country, a countess’s ring had been stolen. In Ellen’s
opinion, everyone who’d been staying at the manor was a suspect—Stanton included—but her sixteen-year-old brother, James, had been accused instead. He’d been naught more than a boy, the estate agent’s son, and he’d been sentenced to twenty years hard labor and transported to the penal colonies. The disgrace and shock had killed their widowed father, so Ellen had been left all alone in the world to fend for herself.

Her cherished family had been ruined by the calamity, and she blamed Alex Marshall and his affluent friends.

Plus, he was engaged to Rebecca! Since he’d been too lazy to arrive on time, she was down the hall, entertaining his guests. No wonder he couldn’t be bothered to join them for supper. He was too busy dishonoring himself with every hussy in attendance!

Ellen was so angry that if she’d been holding a pistol, she’d have marched over, aimed, and shot him through the middle of his black heart.

So far, she’d remained hidden, but she was finished with wallowing in the corner. If Stanton presumed he could behave so despicably toward Rebecca, he was in for a surprise. He wasn’t going to philander! Not if Ellen had anything to say about it.

His wicked ways were about to end!

She reached for her cards, split them in half, then shuffled—slowly and loudly—each card falling with a determined snap. It was a new deck, the paper crisp and stiff, and it made a brittle noise that echoed off the high ceiling.

Across the room, the woman hissed, “What was that? Did you hear it?”

After a brief hesitation, Stanton replied, “No.”

There were whispers, more shifting on the sofa, so
Ellen shuffled again, and she started to hum, stridently and out of tune, but impossible to disregard.

Lord Stanton’s head popped up over the edge of the couch. “What the devil?”

“Stanton? Is that you?” Ellen asked, acting as if they’d been acquainted forever, which, in an odd way, they had been. “I hadn’t realized anyone was in here but me.”

“Who are you,” he barked, “and what are you doing in my library?”

“I’m playing solitaire,” she answered evenly, “but it’s so boring. Would you care to let me beat you at another game of gin? It’s been an eternity since I’ve taken any of your money.” She was fibbing—they’d never socialized in the past—but it was amusing to pester him.

“Gin?” he sputtered. “You want to play . . . gin?”

“Unless you’d like to suggest something else.”

His expression was comical. He scowled at Ellen, gazed down at his Jezebel, scowled at Ellen, then grumbled, “Bloody hell.”

The woman pushed at him, tossing him on the floor in her frenzied effort to right herself. In seconds, they were both standing, their backs to Ellen, as they straightened clothing and tucked in bodily parts.

Ellen rose and sauntered over, only to ascertain that she knew the woman—the circles of the Quality were quite small—and, she hoped, to shame her into better conduct.

“Why, hello, Mrs. Farthingale,” Ellen greeted with a cold calculation.

“Have we met?” Farthingale inquired.

“Have you forgotten me already?” Ellen prodded. “I’m Rebecca Burton’s companion.”

“You are?” Farthingale gulped with alarm as Stanton muttered, “Dammit!”

“We were introduced when you were visiting her last autumn.”

“Oh yes,” Farthingale claimed, clearly not recollecting at all. She paled. “How marvelous to see you.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

“Alex . . . that is, Lord Stanton . . . was helping me with my dress. It. . . ah . . . came loose.”

“Dresses can be so
tedious
, can’t they?” Ellen commented. “Like matrimony.”

“We slipped away to . . . ah . . . to . . .” Farthingale halted. There was nothing she could say to extricate herself from the mess with any aplomb.

“I’ll just be going,” she finally mumbled. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”

She slinked away, groped at the key in the lock, then bolted into the hall. As she went, Ellen and Stanton were frozen in place, watching her flee, but once the door shut, Stanton whipped around.

He advanced until they were toe-to-toe, until his boots dipped under the hem of her skirt. He towered over her, every inch of his six-foot frame aching to wring her neck.

When she’d spied on him a decade prior, she’d seen him from a distance and had figured he was handsome, but she hadn’t grasped how attractive he would prove to be up close. She was disconcerted, by his height, by his demeanor, by his blatant masculinity.

He appeared dark and dangerous, his black hair swept off his forehead to reveal high cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, a sensual mouth. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad, his waist narrow, and he had lanky legs that were braced with fury.

He was studying her, his blue, blue eyes roaming
across her face and torso, and she was uncomfortable with the intoxicating scrutiny. She felt too short, too old, too skinny, too . . . too . . . ordinary, when she suddenly didn’t wish to be. She yearned to confront him in a stylish sapphire gown that would match the color of her eyes and set off the blond of her hair. She craved silk gloves, a lace shawl, tasteful jewelry, and she shook off the foolish whimsy.

From where had it sprung? Why would she pine to be all that she was not? And for
him
, of all people? She loathed him and all he represented.

“What is your name?” he seethed.

“Miss Ellen Drake.”

“How long have you been in here?”

“The entire time.”

“Gin indeed,” he ultimately griped. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“No, you haven’t,” she agreed, grinning, “but you’ve definitely seen me now. And”—she arched a brow—“I have seen you.”

He loomed until there was no space separating them. She’d never been so near to an adult male, so she hadn’t understood that the experience could be so invigorating. She reeled with excitement—but dismay, too. She found him intensely intriguing, when she didn’t want him to be, and she pulled away, which he wouldn’t allow.

He moved with her, very much like a hawk stalking its prey.

“Are you threatening me, Miss Drake?”

“Not at all, Lord Stanton. I’m merely stating the facts.”

“To what end, you aggravating tart?”

“Tart!”

He snorted with derision. “There are a few other terms I could call you, but I don’t think I ought.”

“Minding your manners, are you?”

He ignored the taunt. “What is your relationship to Rebecca?”

“As I said, I’m her companion.”