Cheryl Holt (28 page)

“I sought you out on purpose,” he contended. “I seduced you so that I could ruin Stanton’s marriage, so that I could send you to him sullied and defiled.”

“He never wanted me, James.”

“Then he’s a fool.” He caressed her cheek. “Let’s get you dressed, and I’ll have Willie drive you home.”

“I’m not leaving. We’re going to Scotland to be married. You promised.”

“I was lying.” Ashamed, he glanced away. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re
sorry?
That’s all you have to say?”

“Yes.”

“It was a game? Is that what you’re telling me? You’ve had your petty revenge on Alex, so you’re eager to be shed of me. Is that it?”

“I don’t care about Stanton anymore, but you can’t stay with me. It would be wrong.”

“Why would it be wrong?”

“Have you any notion of who I am?”

“A. . . a merchant?” She’d been an idiot for never having inquired. Why had she—the epitome of caution and prudence—been so willing to race to perdition without pausing to obtain information that was so important?

“That’s hilarious.” He laughed, but it was a wrenching, awful sound. “I guess I have a knack for fabrication.”

“Who are you James?
What
are you?”

“I’m a criminal, Rebecca.”

“You are not!” she vehemently declared.

“I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true. A decade ago, I was accused of stealing some jewelry from one of Stanton’s chums.”

“You’d never do such a thing. Which imbecile blamed you?”

“Everyone pointed a finger at me. I didn’t stand a chance.”

“But you couldn’t have been more than a boy!”

“I was sixteen.”

“Oh, James . . .”

“I was convicted and transported to Australia. I was
supposed to remain there for the rest of my days, but I ran off and sneaked into England. I’m an escaped felon, and I’m wanted by the law. If I’m caught, I’ll be hanged.”

She could perceive his anger and humiliation, his disgrace and dishonor, and a wave of indignation swept through her.

He was a kind man, a good man, and he had a tender heart. She knew it to the very marrow of her bones. Whatever horrid stories others had spewed, whatever spurious charges they’d raised, were false. She had no doubt.

“Are you actually expecting that any of this matters to me?” she asked.

“It has to. What if you cast your lot with me and I’m arrested? I can’t imagine what would happen to you. In the meantime, how am I to support you? I won’t deign to hint at how I earn my living. My situation is so precarious, and I would never thrust you into the middle of it.” As if she were a child, he patted her wrist. “Now, let’s get you out of here before this charade gets any worse.”

A spark of temper ignited, and it grew into a raging inferno. All her life, she’d been told what to do and when to do it, and she’d serenely complied. She was so sick of having others make her decisions, of being quiet and unobtrusive.

How dare he assume he had all the answers! How dare he assume she’d scurry away at the merest sign of trouble!

“Listen to me, Mr. Duncan—”

He shook his head in disgust. “My surname isn’t Duncan! Thai’s how badly I’ve behaved. You don’t even know my real name!”

“Well, I know mine, and it’s Burton. I’m a member
of a powerful family. I am cousin to Alex Marshall, Lord Stanton, one of the wealthiest, most influential personages in the kingdom.”

“Don’t remind me!”

“I’m rich, too, in my own right, and I don’t give a hoot about how you earn your money, for you won’t have to ever work if you don’t wish it. So if you think I’ll sit idly by and have this injustice continue, you can just think again.”

“You can’t help me!” he bellowed. “If you speak a word of this to anyone, I’ll be taken into custody. If I’m not immediately executed, I’ll be sent back! I won’t go, I tell you. I’d kill myself first!”

“James, oh, James, my dear man.”

She scooted off her chair and onto his lap. It was odd how the simple fact of meeting him had so thoroughly transformed her. She felt as if she’d always been with him, as if every step had been gradually propelling her to her spot at his side, and she couldn’t envision being anywhere else.

“I’m not leaving you,” she murmured.

“Yes, you are! You have to.”

“We’re off to Scotland—as we planned. We’ll start out as soon as it’s light enough to travel.”

“Let me be more clear:
I
won’t permit you to stay here.”

“And let
me
be more clear: I love you, James whoever-you-are.”

“You can’t love me,” he insisted bleakly, “for there’s nothing to love!”

“One flesh
, James, remember? We’re not two separate people anymore. We’re one. You and God made it so, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Rebecca”—he was weary, disconsolate, and he rubbed his hand over his face—“you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re acting crazy.”

“I’ve never been more lucid.” She stood and urged him to his feet. “Come to bed. I consider this to be my wedding night, and I have a few more hours to revel before the dawn. I have every intention of being pregnant when we return from Scotland, so you need to get busy.”

“You’re mad,” he grumbled.

“Yes, I am,” she agreed, feeling wild and more than a little dangerous. “I’m
mad
for you.”

She led him to the other room, lay down, and drew him down beside her.

  18  

“Where are you, you blasted man!”

Ellen downed her wine and slammed the goblet on her dresser as she glanced at the clock. One thirty in the morning. The time taunted her with how late it was, with how long she’d paced, waiting for him to arrive so they could consummate their marriage.

The cavernous countess’s suite was intimidating, the slightest noise echoing off the ceiling to emphasize how she was more alone than she’d ever been. She tiptoed to the door that separated her bedchamber from Alex’s, and she pressed her ear to the wood, hearing only silence on the other side.

He still wasn’t home, the knave! Apparently, he couldn’t be bothered to see matters through to the hideous end.

Oh, why had she gone through with it? She should have refused, should have thrown his pathetic, disingenuous offer in his face and stormed out of his house and out of his life. That’s what she should have done! That’s what she
would
have done if she’d had any sense, if she’d had more than a few pounds in her empty purse.

She was such a coward! Such a timid twit!

She’d been too ashamed to bump into Rebecca, too mortified to meet up with any of the servants, so hour after hour she’d huddled in disgrace in her room until the housekeeper had knocked to advise that Alex and the vicar were ready in the library.

If she’d retained any hope that James would ultimately come for her, she might have reached a different decision, but he hadn’t appeared. Without thought, without conviction, she’d marched down the stairs to her wedding, had spoken the vows like an automaton, letting others tell her where to stand, what to say.

The vicar was no fool. Immediately after the ceremony, he’d left, as had the purportedly
happy
bridegroom. The second the final
I do
had been uttered, Alex had fled, not to be seen again.

She had no idea where he went, when he’d be back—if he’d be back! Perhaps the notion of being married to her was so repugnant that he’d raced for the docks and boarded the next ship set to sail. Perhaps he’d drowned himself in the Thames. Perhaps he was seeking solace in a brothel, or with a mistress—of whom she was certain he had many.

What a fraud! What a travesty! The trying day had been a sham, had made a mockery of every fine thing that holy matrimony was supposed to be, yet ninny that she was, she kept expecting he’d return, that they’d work through the calamity.

Soon, the entire staff would know that he hadn’t stayed with her on his wedding night. She’d never forgive him for the appalling snub.

The grand clock down in the entry foyer chimed the
quarter hour, taunting her with how fast dawn was approaching.

Well, she’d had her fill of cowering and cringing, of feeling sorry for herself. She was now a countess and wife to a very wealthy man. In the morning, she’d leave with her bag packed and her head high. She’d embarrass
him
by checking into a hotel, and she would inform anyone who asked exactly why she was there.

To arrange her affairs and negotiate an allowance she’d hire a solicitor, and she’d charge the cost to her husband! Hah! That would show him! Then she’d move into seclusion in the country where he’d never find her.

He, and his enormous pride, and his bachelor’s existence, and his bevy of paramours, could all go hang!

She wrenched off her robe and stomped to the bed, cursing as she scrambled onto the gigantic mattress. Why . . . she practically needed a ladder to climb onto the stupid piece of furniture!

What sort of extravagant, wasteful person owned such a monstrosity? Its size and opulence underscored how out of her element she was, how much she didn’t belong in the mess where she’d landed. She had no clue how to be an earl’s wife.

She was mad! Stark raving, cackling, howling mad!

In a temper, she punched at the pillows, striving to relax, but there was no comfort to be had. Her mind was too chaotic, her body too tense.

Her torso stiff with fury, she peered up at the ceiling, when suddenly the door from Alex’s room burst open.

At the racket she rose up to observe him looming on the threshold. A ripple of gladness surged through her—he wanted her, after all!—but she tamped it down.

He was staring as if he didn’t recall who she was or why she was in the countess’s bed. He was angry, even more irate than she, and his wrath billowed out in waves, seeming to pummel her like bricks falling from a wall.

His neck cloth was missing, his jacket off, his shirt unbuttoned, and the sleeves rolled back to reveal his muscular arms. He stalked toward her, reeking of tobacco, alcohol, and cheap perfume, and she was awhirl with images of where he’d been and what he’d probably been doing.

She was terribly hurt, though she couldn’t comprehend why she would be. He didn’t care about her, and she didn’t care about him. They were two strangers, thrown together in abhorrent circumstances, like survivors tossed about in a carriage accident.

What was it to her if he’d been off fornicating with another on their wedding night? What was it to her if he’d humiliated her to all of London? She was about to depart, and if she was very lucky, she’d never see him again.

“Go away,” she said.

“No.”

His obstinacy wasn’t surprising. In their twisted relationship, he was always barging in where he wasn’t wanted. There was no middle ground for them, no easy rhythm. There were only huge swings of emotion, great battles of will and determination. She was exhausted by the energy it took merely to be in his presence. If she were stupid enough to remain—which she wasn’t!—she’d grow old before her time, would drop dead of fatigue from dealing with the passion the two of them generated.

“You’re drunk,” she snapped, sounding like a nagging fishwife.

“So I am.”

“You smell like a brothel.”

“When a man’s recently been in one, it’s impossible to smell any other way.”

She gasped with outrage, even as her dismay spiraled, and she demanded, “Get out of here!”

“No.”

Looking dark and dangerous, he frowned but didn’t budge, and his cool demeanor incensed her further. “Get out! Or I swear to God, I will start screaming and I will continue until the glass in the windows begins to break.”

“No one will rush to your aid. You’re mine. I can do whatever I wish. There’s no one to prevent me.”

On any other occasion, she’d have discounted the remark as so much bluster. She’d never felt threatened by him, but his menacing mood was frightening.

She was fairly positive that he’d come to claim his marital rights, but if he assumed he could force her after he’d admitted to being in a brothel, she’d kill him. She’d tarry till he fell asleep, then she’d sneak down and fetch one of the fancy pistols he kept in his library, and she’d shoot him through his black heart.