Cheryl Holt (38 page)

He had a valid reason for coming. The final contracts regarding their annulment had to be delivered. He could have mailed them, or hired a messenger, but after extensive deliberation, he’d brought them to her.

Throughout the journey, he’d tried to clarify exactly
why he was going to so much trouble, but he couldn’t adequately justify his actions. He simply had to see her one last time, had to persuade himself—again!—that he was doing the right thing by setting her free. But with the documents in hand, their marital conclusion a pen’s stroke away, his decision seemed wrong.

He was conflicted over their awkward appointment in her hotel suite. She’d obviously yearned to say something important, but he hadn’t given her a chance. The prospect of what that comment might have been gnawed at him like an itchy scab.

He marched to the door and was about to bang the knocker when he glanced at the carriage that was so boldly parked in her drive. His temper sparked, and instead, he turned the knob and strolled in as if he owned the place, which he did.

In the vestibule, he dawdled, listening for voices or other—he wouldn’t call them
incriminating
—sounds, but he heard nothing, so he proceeded into the parlor and, without being noticed, made himself at home.

The room was comfortable and bright, with vivid drapes and furnishings, and he was intrigued to observe how Ellen had decorated. Despite all the passion they’d shared, he really knew very little about her and had few notions as to such elemental details as her favorite colors or styles.

He examined the clock on the mantle, the plant in the corner, the painting on the wall. He wouldn’t label it snooping; he was merely curious as to how she’d settled in.

There was a writing desk tucked in an alcove by the window, and he went to it. A deck of playing cards was scattered across it, the cards arranged in neat rows. Evidently, she’d been interrupted in the middle of a game
of solitaire, and he traced his finger over one of the stacks.

Surprisingly, the motion tugged at sentiments hidden deep inside, and he was assailed by memories of when they’d met. She’d always had a deck of cards handy, had claimed she passed many hours alone and used them to relieve the tedium. When she’d barged in during his trysts, she’d shuffled them with such relish.

It was so long ago and now seemed so frivolous. In his flagrant womanizing, what had he been hoping to accomplish? He could scarcely recollect. He’d been a prolific libertine, but since he married Ellen his prior tendencies had fled, and he was so different from the person he’d been—and so chaste!—that he could have joined a monastery and fit in perfectly with the other monks.

The desk had a single drawer, and he rudely opened it and poked around inside. To his consternation and dismay, he stumbled on a partially composed letter, where Ellen had attempted to put her feelings for someone down on paper.

I love you
, she’d penned.
We could make it work
. . . .

He picked up the page and read it over and over; then he crumpled it in his fist.

He’d refused to believe James’s stories, yet here was hard proof! While he’d been waning in London, heartsick over their split and half-dead from his wound, she’d been courting in the country. Why . . . she’d been carrying on in the very house he’d purchased for her!

She . . . she . . . loved another! She . . . who had never loved him. In all the times they’d philandered, she’d never once declared a strong attachment, had never provided the tiniest hint as to what her feelings might have
been. The fact that she hadn’t, but that she could brazenly reveal them to another, stuck in his craw.

From outside in the garden a ripple of feminine laughter drifted by. As he peeked out, he saw Ellen coming across the yard, a portly, older gentleman walking with her. He remembered James’s remark about several of her suitors being
acceptable
as potential spouses. Was this one of them? Was this fat, bald lout the type of fellow she’d pick over himself?

While he didn’t ascribe to much vanity, he had some, and his fury spiked. Lest he rush out and beat the man to a bloody pulp, he struggled for calm.

Ellen was very fetching in a green dress and matching straw bonnet. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes merry. Her companion thought so, too, which was clear from how he was ogling her. Ellen’s head was cocked toward him, but what was the man confiding?

Was he professing his undying devotion? Why would she listen to such nonsense? Had she no respect for her vows? For her husband? Or was Alex naught more than a nuisance she could toss aside on a whim?

The pair disappeared around the corner of the house, and he grappled with a swell of emotion that had him perplexed and annoyed. Why was he so disturbed? What was it to him if she shamed herself with every Romeo who stopped by?

His aggravation was so out of proportion to how removed he perceived himself to be. Why?

In an abrupt burst of insight, he realized—with a terrible certainty—that he wasn’t so detached, after all.

He loved her! He did! He always had and always would. He’d told her so on that horrid night when she’d
been determined to leave him, but the words had rung false for both of them. Later, with how events had escalated, he’d convinced himself that the confession had only been romantic drivel, despicably spewed to gain a few extra minutes with her.

With the recognition of how desperately he cared, a huge weight was lifted from his shoulders. Why had he buried his feelings for her? Why had he denied how much she meant to him?

He wouldn’t part with her. He couldn’t. Regardless of how badly he’d treated her, or how low her opinion of him, he could win her affection. He had to.

Their chatter floated down the hall as Ellen and her friend neared. Momentarily, they sauntered in, though they weren’t aware that Alex had arrived. He boorishly concealed his presence, lurking at the writing desk, and intending to eavesdrop and use whatever he learned to further his cause. They seated themselves on a sofa, and they were positioned by the hearth, their backs to him, so his opportunities for spying were elevated.

“What a beautiful day,” Ellen said.

“Not as beautiful as you are, Lady Stanton,” the man answered. “May I have the honor of calling you Ellen?”

Alex rolled his eyes at the man’s pitiful flirtation, and his anticipation spiraled as he awaited Ellen’s reply. Would she welcome the advance? Or would she punch him in the nose?

“Mr. Martin”—she untied her bonnet and laid it on the table—“we’ve been through this before. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Why not?” Mr. Martin pushed. “It’s not as if you’ll be married for much longer. Your husband couldn’t possibly mind.”

“I’m sure you’re correct,” she responded with a sigh.

“He’s mad to let you go.”

“Yes, he is.”

“He’s a cad! A libertine!” The man definitely liked to exclaim! “He never wanted you! All of London knows it! When will you admit it to yourself?”

“I suppose it is foolish to keep dwelling on the past.”

There was a lengthy silence; then the swine seized Ellen’s hand and clutched it to his chest.

“Tell me I have a chance!” he begged. “Tell me that when you envision your future, you see me in it.”

“Mr. Martin! I had no idea. Please, you’re—”

“I love you, Ellen. I love you!”

Alex was so enraged that he was afraid he’d strangle the man, which he daren’t consider, so he did the only other thing that occurred to him. He scooped up Ellen’s cards and shuffled them. Loudly.

There was a shocked pause; then Martin snapped, “What was that?”

Alex shuffled again; then slowly, deliberately, he stood and stepped into view.

“Cards, anyone?” he inquired.

Martin leapt to his feet and demanded, “Who are you?” as Ellen groaned and muttered, “Oh my Lord.”

“Are you acquainted with this . . . this . . . interloper?” Martin asked her.

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact. Allow me to introduce my husband, Alex Marshall, Lord Stanton.”

“Your . . . your . . . husband?” Martin’s voice climbed an octave.

Shooting visual daggers, Alex stomped over. “Is there some reason you’re surprised that I’m visiting my wife?”

“Why . . . why, no,” Martin stammered.

“You seem to be laboring under the impression that Lady Stanton is free to entertain you.”

“Well . . .”

“Let me assure you that it is a
mistaken
impression.”

“I understand,” Martin mumbled.

“It’s not mistaken,” Ellen interjected. “You’ve been gleefully planning to be shed of me, so you have an incredible amount of gall to come in here and prance about as if you’re some sort of injured party. You have no right to bully me or Mr. Martin.”

“I have no right?” Alex hissed. “
I
have no right?”

“No, you don’t,” she said. “You relinquished any privileges toward me when you sought your blasted annulment, so I suggest that you scurry back to London and leave me be.”

“I’ll just be going,” Mr. Martin offered, though neither of them paid him any heed, and he slithered out.

Frozen in place, they stared each other down until the front door shut behind him, then Alex crossed to her. Bristling with fury, he towered over her, but she wasn’t intimidated in the slightest.

“Well, well,” she taunted, “you’ve finally decided to grace me with your fabulous company. To what do I owe such a dubious honor?”

“Your brother stopped in town to inform me of the mischief you were perpetrating.”

“The mischief! What am I doing?”

“You’re being deluged with swains, who are sniffing after your money, and you’re encouraging every one.”

“My brother told you all that?”

“I was certain he was lying, but I had to investigate
for myself. Imagine my astonishment on discovering that his tale was true.”

“Oh yes, James is a veritable fount of veracity.”

“How many are there?”

“How many what?”

“Suitors.”

She frowned and seemed to be counting. “I’m such a
femme fatale
, it must be at least a dozen. Isn’t it amazing what a bit of property and cash can do for a woman? Thank you for making me so desirable.”

She gave an odd chuckle and turned to walk away, but he grabbed her and pulled her to him. She gasped, and tried to tug away, but he wouldn’t release her.

“You’re finished,” he stated. “It’s over.”

“What is
over
?”

“Your pathetic attempts to find someone else.”

“Perhaps I’d like someone else.”

“No. From now on, there’ll be only me.”

They were so close, and he was assailed by her heat, by her smell, her essence washing over him like a fragrant blossom. He crushed her to him, as he leaned down and captured her lips in a sweltering kiss. He hadn’t meant to try such a dangerous, wild thing, but she was like a fever in his blood, and over the period they’d been separated, none of his attraction had waned.

He wanted her more than ever, and he was astounded that, where she was concerned, he could have been so obtuse. Through blind stupidity, he’d nearly lost her.

He loved her, and he had to show her how much. She was his wife, and she had to start behaving like one, just as he had to start acting as a husband ought.

His hands were in her hair, his tongue in her mouth,
and he reveled. During the months of his recuperation, he’d been so unhappy, but he hadn’t been able to figure out why. This . . . this . . . rash, exciting tumult was what he’d been needing, what he’d been missing.

With great effort, she yanked away, and she gaped at him as if he were deranged, as if he were some stranger on the street who’d recklessly embraced her.

“What are you thinking?” she challenged.

“I’m
thinking
that you’re my wife and it’s been much too long since I kissed you. Apparently, you’ve forgotten how good I am at it. You’ll need regular reminding.”

“Hah! Don’t flatter yourself into assuming that I’m awed by your amatory skills. Besides, I’m barely your wife—as you’ve worked very hard to guarantee—so I can’t fathom how that enormous pride of yours could have led you to conclude I’d be amenable.”

“I don’t hear you complaining.”

“Then you’re not listening very carefully.” She shoved him away, creating space, erecting boundaries that he had no intention of observing. “Explain why you’re here—and make it fast. I have a bevy of additional beaux about to arrive, and I won’t have you interfering with all my fun.”

“I’m here because the annulment is off.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

He went to the alcove and retrieved the note she’d been drafting. He flattened it out, straightening the wrinkles from where he’d crumpled it; then he returned and dangled it before her. “There will be no more of these. From this moment on, I’m to be the only man in your life.”

“You’ve been snooping in my desk?”

“Yes, and I found this.” He tore the letter to shreds
and tossed the pieces over his shoulder. “Whoever he is, you’ll have to break it off.”

He left her again to snatch up the documents he’d brought, the ones that would have severed them forever.

“This is the last section of the annulment contract. I’d planned to have you sign it, so that it could become official, but I’ve changed my mind. It appears—my darling bride—that I’m not splitting with you, after all.”

He ripped the papers in half, and they fluttered to the floor.

Her confusion was humorous to witness. “What. . . what are you doing? Our marriage is to be ended. It’s what you want, what you’ve always wanted.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s not?”

“I was wrong to push for it; I was wrong to forge ahead. I convinced myself that you were better off without me, but the problem is, Ellen”—he reached out and brushed his fingers across her soft cheek—“I don’t want to go. I’m so lonely without you, and I can’t bear that we’re apart. Can you forgive me and come home?”

She began to shake. “Come home?”

“I’ve been a total ass. I admit it. I’ve been inflexible and difficult and oblivious, and all I can say is that I’m sorry. Forgive me. Please.”