Cheryl Holt (24 page)

With Nicholas marrying Lydia, they’d all be related, though Rebecca was the spurned fiancée. Oh, the recipes for disaster didn’t bear contemplation!

“It’s over, Ellen,” he murmured from behind her. “It’s done. We have to move forward.”

“Forward
, is it?” She spun around. “What does that mean to you?”

“It means we’ll marry today, as Lydia has demanded, and—”

“Lydia! Lydia!” She waved in a theatrical gesture. “I’m sick to death of her. If you mention her name in my presence ever again, I’m not sure what I’ll do.”

“She’s the one who stumbled on us and—”

“Shut up!” she bellowed. “I will not discuss her! Why is she so set on this marriage? Why is she pushing us into it?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, but she’s correct to press for a wedding. You have no father to speak for you, and
you should be grateful that she was concerned enough to insist.”

“Grateful? Are you daft? She’s coercing me into a position I deem to be completely detestable.” She wasn’t referring to him personally, but she was too bewildered to be circumspect. He handled the comment as poorly as she might have predicted.

“So I’m
detestable
, am I? Well, you’re not such a spectacular catch yourself. If I’d been aware of your temper and sour attitude, I would never have climbed into your bed in the first place, I can guarantee you!”

“You arrogant prig!”

There was a candlestick on the table next to her, and she grabbed it and hurled it at him, though he was too far away for it to inflict any damage. It clunked on the rug, so she didn’t even receive the satisfaction of a loud bang.

Chests heaving, hearts pounding, they glared, the expanse separating them so vast that it might have been an ocean.

Oh, Alex
. . . she cried on the inside. She couldn’t figure out why they were fighting. She needed him to counsel and advise, to talk and listen, but she was too distressed, so lucid conversation was beyond her.

She was terrified of marrying him. From the fringe of his society she’d watched the calculated, cruel world he inhabited, and she didn’t want to reside there. She’d been reared in a close, loving family, and if she was to be offered the gift of another, she was keen to restore the one she’d lost. She craved camaraderie and constancy, but she was positive that Alex was incapable of giving her a commitment.

Her tossing of the candlestick halted their bickering.
They had to calm down, had to quit going round and round in circles with no decisions made and no plans generated.

“I apologize,” he bit out.

“Accepted,” she responded, just as tersely.

“It’s been a long night”—that was putting it mildly!—“and we’re both exhausted. It’s causing us to say things we’ll regret later on. Why don’t you go upstairs and rest before the ceremony?”

How could he presume they should proceed? Why couldn’t he appreciate her reservations?

Yet what choice had she but to follow through? She couldn’t
not
wed him. Wicked behavior required penance. Illicit fornication required marriage. There were no other options. If she didn’t become a married lady, and soon, she’d be branded a harlot and cast out onto the streets.

“Have you thought about this, at all?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“One woman is the same as the next?”

“Hardly.” His torrid gaze traveled down her torso. “I imagine I’ll be able to tell it’s you in my bed as opposed to someone else.”

She disregarded the gibe. “What type of relationship have you visualized for us?”

“I expect we’ll carry on—as any married couple would.”

“Carry on
how?”

She’d finally exasperated him. He threw up his hands in defeat. “What do you want me to say, Ellen?”

“Will you be a true and reliable husband to me?”

“Of course I will be.”

“Will you practice fidelity?”

“Fidelity?” He appeared as though he didn’t comprehend the word.

“Don’t be so shocked. Considering how we met, I can’t help but inquire.”

He sputtered and fussed, blushed and fumed. “Yes, I fully intend to be faithful. How about you? In view of how
easy
you were to seduce, should I worry that you’ll be sneaking off with every fellow who glances in your direction?”

She realized that the insult was warranted, that she had no moral leg to stand on, no basis to suffer hurt or outrage, but she did.

What kind of wife was he getting?

She’d never given him a single reason to picture her in a favorable light. She knew right from wrong but had never once exhibited ethical conduct in his presence. If he assumed her to be a slattern, when had she ever acted any differently?

Yet his taunts wounded her. What a demeaning opinion for her new spouse to have. If they were to marry, shouldn’t their association be built on mutual respect and esteem? With such awful feelings festering, how could a union ever work?

How had her great affection for him led to such a pitiful juncture? How could so much joy and happiness have metamorphosed into such despair?

He was scowling, mentally accusing her of the misdeeds he anticipated she’d perpetrate down the road. The thick oaf! Did he actually believe she was the sort who could philander? Who would take paramours and gad about London, shaming her husband and herself?

Her temper sparked. After the arduous night she’d
endured, she wanted to lash out, to blame somebody—besides herself!—for her dilemma.

“Oh yes,” she replied, “I plan to have dozens of lovers. I’ll keep one hidden in every alcove in the city. You’ll never guess who I’ll trifle with next.”

“As I suspected.” He smirked. “I’d hoped we could find common ground, but it won’t be possible. You’re determined to start on a bad note. So be it. I’ll be in my library at eleven with the vicar. Come or don’t. I don’t care what you decide.”

He stomped off, and suddenly her capricious self was reeling over his departure. He was her only ally in the large mansion, in the entire world. He couldn’t abandon her. “Where are you going?”

He stopped and stared over his shoulder. “My chores aren’t finished. I’m off to locate Rebecca. I’m anxious to speak with her before Lydia does. Would you like to join me?”

She vigorously declined the dubious honor, and he left her alone to brood and stew, the wedding—if there was to be one—looming like the Apocalypse.

“We need to talk.”

“About what?”

Alex ushered Rebecca into a secluded parlor and shut the door. He’d rehearsed what he’d say, but with them face-to-face he had no clue how to begin. She was studying him as if he had two heads, as if she’d like naught more than to clout him on the ear, and he sighed with resignation.

He couldn’t figure out what had happened between
them. They’d lumped along, without incident, for decades. Yet over the past weeks she’d changed. She was churning with an anger and resentment he couldn’t fathom, was a veritable pot of umbrage about to boil over.

He wasn’t sure how she’d take the news about Ellen, but he was fairly certain she’d be furious. Then again, with her current antipathy toward him, maybe she’d be relieved. Maybe the cause of her recent discontentment was her own recognition that they were a hideous match.

“Shall we sit down?” he queried, stalling for time.

“I can see in your eyes that you’re about to confess something horrid, so I prefer to stand.”

“Have you chatted with your sister this morning?”

“No.”

Good! The last thing he’d needed was to have Lydia explaining the debacle.

Rebecca frowned, her toe impatiently tapping on the rug, and when he couldn’t commence, she prodded, “Well
. . .?

“Lydia and I . . . that is . . . we . . .”

“For pity’s sake, Alex, I’m not a child. Spit it out before you choke on it.”

He took a breath and said in a rush, “Our engagement is terminated.”

“It most definitely is not! Whatever game you’re playing, whatever you’d rather do than marry me, I’m not about to let you off the hook. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to breakfast.”

She whipped around to leave, and he reached out and pulled her to a halt.

“Rebecca, wait.”

“Release my arm before I break your hand.”

“We must discuss this.”

“If you think you can weasel out of your commitment to me, you’re mad.”

“The deed is done.”

“What do you mean?” she growled.

“Lydia won’t permit you to marry me.”

“She is not my mother, and she has no business butting her nose into this situation”—she yanked away from him—“so I suggest you hie yourself down to the tailor to be fitted for your wedding suit.”

“It’s true, Rebecca. Lydia called it off, but I agreed it was for the best.”

“I’ll just bet you did, you despicable swine.”

“I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.”

“You’re
sorry
! You’re crying off, and that’s supposed to be the end of it?”

“I don’t know what else to say.”

“How about if you admit what’s behind this charade?”

“Well, I’ve done something . . . something . . . that will create quite a scandal.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Lydia and I simply felt that it would be better for you if we split, if you left London while matters resolve.”

“Isn’t it grand”—she oozed sarcasm—“how you and Lydia always have my interests at heart?”

Their bond was a frivolous one that had flitted on the surface, so he had no idea how to have a frank conversation with her. He was mucking it up, but he couldn’t seem to articulate the appropriate remarks.

What was the
right
comment anyway? Was there any decent method by which to conclude it? If there was, it was beyond him.

He shrugged. “I wish I could fix this, but I don’t know how.”

“Fix it!” she scoffed. “Have you any notion of what my life has been like?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Year after accursed year, I’ve dawdled in the country, twiddling my thumbs, while you wavered and delayed. People laughed at me, they made crude jokes at my expense, and I weathered it all with a bland smile upon my face.”

“I didn’t realize that’s how it was.”

“Of course you didn’t. Why would you spend a second of your precious energy wondering about poor little Rebecca?”

“It was cruel of me.”

“I defended you at every turn, I rationalized, I lied to myself, and now here I sit—a woman far past her prime—and you have the gall to advise me I’m about to become a spinster on the shelf!”

Numerous consoling statements sprang to mind—about how she was very pretty, about how any man would be glad to have her, about how she wasn’t that
old\
—but none of them could be uttered. Any observation would be placating and insulting and would increase her animosity.

He leaned against the wall, bracing himself, needing the support it offered, as he tried to devise a reply but couldn’t She stared him down, condemning, accusing, and a blistering silence ensued. It was full of recrimination and culpability, humiliation and disgrace, but he wasn’t man enough to fall on his sword.

“Who is it?” she demanded.

“What?”

“Who is the woman to blame for all this trouble?”

“Why would you automatically assume it’s a woman?”

“I’m not stupid, Alex. Who is she?”

“Why must you torture yourself with knowing? Isn’t it enough to acknowledge what transpired and move on?”

“Who is she?” When he couldn’t respond, she roared, “Tell me this instant!”

He gazed at the floor, struggling to recollect how he’d arrived at this vile spot. He’d never intended to harm anyone. He’d merely wanted . . . wanted. . . What had it been?

Happiness
, a voice whispered, and he recognized that it was the only thing he’d ever truly wanted but had never really had. He’d never been happy.

“It’s Ellen,” he murmured.

She gasped. “Ellen Drake?”

“Yes.”

She trembled with wrath, and his disgust with himself was excruciating. He was a dog, a beast. She was so lucky to be shed of him. But how he pitied Ellen! About to be saddled with him forever.

“She was my friend,” Rebecca hissed.

“I know.”

“You were carrying on with her? Here in the house while I was down the hall?”

He couldn’t divulge what she was desperate to learn. He’d been so enamored of Ellen that their liaison hadn’t seemed wrong, but it was fruitless to justify his obsession. He could never adequately explain that he’d had to be with Ellen, and everyone else be damned.

“Leave it be, Rebecca. There’s no need to parlay over the tawdry details.”

“Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment.”

“I won’t hurt you more than I already have.”

She was growing more irate by the second. “What now?”

“Ellen and I will wed—if she’ll have me.”

“Is there some doubt?”

“She doesn’t think I’m much of a catch.”

“She’s bloody right!”

“Lydia wants to take you home at once. So that you’re far away when we. . . when we . . .” He cut off, too mortified to continue. The phrase
when we marry
was stuck in his throat like a piece of tough meat.

“Answer one question for me.”

“If I’m able.”

“What did you see in her that you obviously didn’t see in me?” Tears welled into her eyes, and he yearned to vanish into thin air.

“Nothing.”

“Liar. I deserve to know!”

He couldn’t clarify the differences, couldn’t elucidate what had lit a spark with Ellen but had never burned with Rebecca. If he’d had an eternity, he couldn’t have described why it had occurred. It had been like the pull of the moon on the tide: relentless and impossible to stop.

“She’s just. . . Ellen,” he ultimately said.

She stepped closer, until they were toe-to-toe, and she pointed a finger in his chest, jabbing at him with each furious word.

“I waited and waited and waited. I hoped and dreamed, prayed and trusted. I made so many excuses for you; I invented so many stories. And this—
this!
—is how you repay me.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“Bastard!”

She reeled back and slapped him so forcefully that
his ears rang, his bones creaked, and he stumbled to the side. As he was groping about and regaining his footing, she ran out and slammed the door so hard that the windows rattled.