Cheryl Holt (36 page)

“As if I’d go.”

“So, Nicky—”

“My name is not Nicky!”

“So
Nicky
, after being notified of your sordid business with Mr. Drake, I considered it prudent to ascertain more about the fellow I married, so I’ve been delving into your history.”

“Have you?”

“You won’t believe how much I’ve uncovered.”

“Really?” He did a great job of affecting boredom.

“There’s been so much to gather.”

“And you’re telling me this because . . . ?”

“No reason.” She shrugged. “I merely find it curious how people keep detailed, meticulous records of the most trivial events. Were you aware of that?”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“I’ve purchased the most intriguing information.”

He studied her, wishing he could open up her thick skull and see what was lurking inside her devious head. If he’d been feeling more himself, if he’d been more recuperated, he might have beat her into submission, but there was time enough for that later.

How difficult could it be to murder her in her sleep? He’d been wed to her for only a few weeks. Could he get away with it? Or—more likely—would he be an immediate suspect?

“Are you threatening me, Lydia?”

“Me? Threaten you?” She appeared so innocent. “Why, no. I’m simply advising you that the evidence has been assembled, and my solicitor has it. For safekeeping. In case I had an
accident
, I thought you might like to know where it is.”

The bitch! Gad! He’d never be shed of her. She might as well have gotten out a rope and wrapped the noose around his neck, herself!

She went back to eating her breakfast and reading the London paper, when suddenly she clucked her tongue. “Do you recollect that actress you befriended? You introduced me to her when we were in London. Wasn’t her name Suzette DuBois?”

His heart dropped to his shoes. “I’m acquainted with Miss DuBois. Why?”

Her gaze level and lethal, she slid the paper toward him. “There’s a story about her. She was arrested. Why . . . they carried her out of the theater in shackles! Whatever could she have done?”

He forced himself to remain calm, to focus on the words on the page. The paper was over three weeks old,
so the legal system would already have swallowed her up. She could be anywhere. Flogged and starving in Newgate Prison. On a ship to Australia. Hanged!

Slowly, he raised his eyes to Lydia’s. She was evaluating him over the rim of her teacup, a sly smile on her lips, and he knew—he knew!—that she’d had her revenge, and she’d had it against Suzette.

A rage unlike any he’d ever experienced swept over him. He yearned to grab her by the throat and press with his fingers while she clawed for air and begged for mercy. He’d do it, too. Just as soon as he figured out how to accomplish it without being caught.

“I’ll kill you for this,” he vowed.

“I don’t think so.”

She stood and gestured toward the stairs. “Let’s resume the sexual play we commenced last night.”

“Go fuck yourself,” he crudely said, “for I never will again.”

“There’s a deed I’m eager to try,” she prattled as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’ve heard that a man can place his mouth on the woman’s privates. He licks her there and kisses her there, and it can be very stimulating. Let’s head upstairs so you can show me how it’s done.”

“I’d rather choke to death on this scone.”

She marched to the hall, yelling for someone to attend her. Momentarily, the two male aides who’d accompanied them from Bedlam lumbered in.

“My husband is having an episode,” she told them. “I’m afraid he might hurt himself. When he loses control, the doctors directed me to restrain him.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the bigger one agreed.

“Take him upstairs, at once, and tie him to the bed so that he can’t injure himself or anyone else.”

“We’ll see to it right away.”

Nick blanched. They assumed he was deranged? That he could be fettered—at her whim—like a dog on a leash?

The pair stomped around the table, and though he had nowhere to go, he ran. They were much faster than he, and the fight was ended before it had opportunity to begin.

  23  

Ellen strolled down the rutted road, the autumn leaves dangling from the trees. The scenery was brown and gray, the grass wilted from frost, and the drab colors of the landscape matched her mood perfectly.

For once, she had everything a person could possibly desire: a beautiful home, more money than she could spend, a staff of efficient servants, fine clothes, food on the table. Yet she was so unhappy.

There were so many hours to fill, so many quiet evenings to endure. Each agonizing minute ticked by, the clocks reminding her that she had nothing important to occupy her time, no one to look after, no duties to tend to. She was a woman of leisure, but the freedom was driving her mad.

London seemed far away, the events that had occurred a crazed dream. Had she actually married Alex? Had she been reunited with her brother, merely to have him vanish? Had Nicholas Marshall tried to kill her?

She couldn’t make sense of any of it, and she wished
she had someone with whom she could discuss her ordeal. She couldn’t turn to any of the neighbors she’d met. At a period when she desperately needed sympathy and consoling, she was naught but an oddity, a strange newcomer who had rumor and innuendo encircling her like a shroud.

She quit the lane and walked up the drive. Several carriages were parked in front of the house, and they belonged to various gentlemen visitors who were extremely persistent in their attentions. As she was soon to be rich and single, they viewed her as they would a divorcee: loose and trolling for a paramour. She was always polite to them, but she’d grown weary of their pathetic attempts to woo her.

Craving solitude, she skirted the entrance and headed for the rear door, hoping to slink in without encountering anyone. Her predicament rankled, and her aggravation with Alex surged anew.

She’d consented to his every demand, to his cold insistence that she scurry off to the country, to his blasted annulment. Since then, she hadn’t received so much as a note, and his total disregard irked her to her limit.

Did he ever think of her? How could he cast her aside? Had his wedding vows no meaning to him, at all?

She pictured him in the city, surrounded by a harem of adoring women. While she was miserable with the conclusion, he was probably delighted. He was about to be shed of her, and he would carry on as the lusty bachelor he’d been before Ellen had stumbled into his life.

She simply had to accept his decision and move on, but it was so difficult! Her pride was battered, her confidence the lowest it had ever been.

If her own husband couldn’t bear to live with her, who could? Lucky Alex! He’d been able to banish her, but Ellen could never escape her odious self.

She’d rounded the corner of the house, was ready to sneak inside, when her brother stepped out into the yard. She stopped in her tracks, the sight of him too disconcerting to be believed.

She’d thought him arrested, tortured, killed, yet here he was. He was so healthy and handsome. And so content.

My goodness! What had happened?

“Oh, James,” she murmured.

“Hello, big sister,” he greeted as he studied her. “You look dreadful.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Seriously. You’ve lost weight; you’re pale as a ghost. Have you been ill?”

“I had a bad influenza.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she lied, “though I must confess that you don’t seem any the worse for wear.”

“I’m feeling more grand than I’ve ever been.” He grinned. “Have you missed me?”

“Yes, you despicable vanishing rat! Where have you been?”

Then, they were running to each other, and she fell into his arms. He hugged her and scooped her off her feet, twirling her round and round until she was dizzy. When he set her down, she punched him in the chest.

“How dare you disappear without a word!” she chided. “How dare you make me worry myself sick!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Have you any notion of how terrified I’ve been?”

“Well, how about you? I returned to London after a bit of a holiday, and you’d vanished, too. I was panicked.”

“How did you find me?”

His scowl was dour. “1 inquired of your husband.”

Envisioning fisticuffs—or murder!—she gulped with dismay. “You spoke with . . . with . . . Lord Stanton?”

“You call him
Lord?
Was that his idea or yours?”

“I could refer to him as Alex—if I wanted to—but I don’t. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Gad, the oaf is your lawful spouse, so you’re entitled to call him whatever you like. Even swine. Even cruel, conniving bastard.”

“You didn’t hurt him, did you?”

“No, but I should have. Why ever would you marry that ass? And please tell me it was for love, because if it was for some stupid reason—like reputation or honor—I can’t predict what I might do.”

“Of course I didn’t marry him for. . . for love. I scarcely know him.”

“That’s not what I was told. In fact, I heard that you were
intimately
familiar with him.”

“You heard wrong.”

“Then why agree?”

“Because . . . because . . .”

Tears welled into her eyes. She couldn’t explain why she’d done it. Alex had been her whole world, and deep down, she’d loved him beyond imagining, so she’d persuaded herself that marrying him was the correct choice. He’d pretended to care for her, too, but she’d since realized that his comments had been insincere drivel. At the first sign of adversity he’d tossed her over, had casually rid himself of her as if she were a mess on the floor his minions could sweep away.

“Because why?” James prodded when she couldn’t continue. “If you want him to be a real husband to you, Ellen, just say so. I’ll see that he does right by you.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“And why doesn’t it?”

“He . . . he . . . detests having me as his wife.” She sucked in huge breaths, feeling as if there wasn’t enough air in the entire sky. In all her hiding in the country, she hadn’t had to admit her shame to anyone, and she was humiliated at having mentioned it aloud.

“How can you be positive?”

“He sent me here, without asking what I desired. He couldn’t wait to wash his hands of me.”

“That’s not true,” he claimed.

“It is.”

“His life is in a state of complete chaos, as is yours.” He gripped her shoulders and gave her a firm shake. “If you love him, Ellen, then fight for him. I’ll help you. You know I will.”

“I won’t force myself on him. If he doesn’t want me, so be it.” She glanced around the trimmed garden. “And I’m happy. This is a good place for me.”

He scoffed. “I bumped into some of your purported suitors in the parlor, and I chased them off. So don’t tell me you’re content to live like this. You shouldn’t be on your own. It’s his idiotic pride—and yours—that’s keeping you apart. This shouldn’t be your ending. Let me assist you in crafting a different one.”

“I was awful to him, James. He has valid grounds to loathe me.”

“He’s a beast, so whatever your actions, I’m sure he deserved them.”

“No. I was horrid, so don’t try to change my mind. You can’t.”

For a long, charged interval, he evaluated her; then he sighed with resignation. “Have it your way. But if you ever decide that you’d like him to—”

“I won’t,” she interrupted.

She was too distressed to hear what he might propose, for she couldn’t have him raising false hopes. Alex Marshall was who he was—a confirmed bachelor and rampant libertine—and despite how she might want him to be another sort of man, her wishing wouldn’t make it so.

She could have gone to Alex on her own—she didn’t need James to do it for her—and she could have begged him to take her back, but she hadn’t.

If she went to him, if she bared her soul, but he refused to relent, she’d perish from mortification. She’d survived one rejection by him, and it had been too demeaning. She wouldn’t put either of them in such an appalling position ever again.

She switched subjects. “Where have you been, and what have you been doing? I thought you were dead.”

“They can’t kill me,” he said. “I’m too tough.”