Cheryl Holt (6 page)

She gazed up at him, deciding that she’d never witnessed a more beautiful sight. His blue eyes were glowing with lust, but also with what she was certain was a good deal of fondness. She’d never been scrutinized like that, as if she was remarkable and unique, and she could have stayed there forever, watching him, and reveling in his attention.

He was as disturbed by the encounter as she was,
herself. His respiration was labored, his skin flushed, his lips moist and swollen from their kisses.

He appeared perplexed, as if he couldn’t figure out how he’d come to have her sprawled across the table, how he’d managed to immerse them in such a sordid endeavor. The incident had escalated so rapidly, had hurled them to a dizzying height, and Ellen felt as if the earth had tipped off its axis.

She was positive that if she stood, the floor would be tilted, that she wouldn’t be able to find her balance. She hadn’t fathomed that such feelings could engulf her, that she’d have no willpower to resist the onslaught, and she could hardly keep from embarrassing herself by latching on to him, dragging him back down, and commencing anew.

“Isn’t kissing . . . splendid?” He grinned, a dimple creasing his cheek. He looked delicious, dangerous, and more handsome than any man ought to be.

“Yes, I hadn’t realized . . .”

“No, you hadn’t.”

He rested his palms on her shoulders, and he stroked them down, taking a slow, leisurely journey across her bosom, her breasts, tummy, and thighs.

“I . . . I feel all ragged inside,” she confessed.

“Of course you do, and I bet you’re wishing I would alleviate your distress. I could, you know.”

“Please. . . .”

It was a prayer, a plea for mercy. As if she’d been struck by lightning, a riotous energy had been dumped into her, but there was no extra space to contain it. It was rolling around, making her crazed, making her yearn for . . . for . . . what? How was she to bear up when she was filled with such a swirling, discomfiting anguish?

With a final swipe up her torso, he straightened and began adjusting his clothes. The playful lover had vanished, his tender expression gone. He was sophisticated, urbane, and completely unaffected, while she was reeling, her hair a mess, her gown twisted, the hem rucked up. She felt as if she were a towel he’d wrung out and hung on a hook.

Every piece of her, down to the smallest pore, was humming with an undefined hunger that needed satiation, but she had no idea what remedy was required.

“Are we . . . are we finished?” she dared to inquire.

“Yes.”

“But you can’t leave me like this!”

“I mean to
leave
you exactly like this, you aggravating strumpet.”

“Strumpet!”

“I believe we’ve settled the question—once and for all—as to what sort of female you are deep down.”

“What are you implying?”

“You’re no different from any other. You’ll spread your legs as quickly as the next woman, if the right man glances in your direction.”

“I will not!” she protested, though why she bothered was a mystery. He was absolutely correct: She was a trollop! How humiliating! How humbling!

“Now that your base character has been established,” he continued, “maybe you’ll think twice before pointing your pious little finger at anybody else.”

With that, he turned and strolled out. He was calm and composed, providing no hint that he’d just ravaged her beyond redemption. He shut the door with a determined click, abandoning her to mull and stew, and she dawdled on the table and stared up at the ceiling.

She needed to sit up, to restore her condition and slink away before anyone saw her, but she couldn’t move.

What had come over her? What had she done and why? With Stanton of all people!

She groaned with dismay. The man was a sorcerer, which would explain his diabolical appeal, and she clung to the rationalization as if it were a lifeline. The only other alternative was to admit that she’d been smitten and had allowed herself to be seduced, but she was too mortified to acknowledge the truth. She’d go to her grave denying that anything untoward had occurred, denying that she’d been complicit.

With enormous effort, she slid to her feet, but she was unsteady. She collapsed to the floor and huddled on the rug, her skirt pooled around her. Her deck of cards—the ultimate symbol of her solitary existence—had been scattered during the foray, and a few of them drifted down, falling around her like autumn leaves.

She picked one up, and it was the Knave of Hearts. The smirking face seemed to mock her for her scandalous conduct. As if it were afire, she pitched it away; then she pulled herself up.

She had to escape the mansion, had to find a way to notify Rebecca and Lydia that she’d departed. Then she’d race to Stanton’s town house. It wasn’t far, and if she was lucky, she could make the trek without discovery. She would hide and regroup while she figured out how to carry on from this second forward, for without a doubt, she couldn’t ever meet up with Stanton again.

She went to the hall and peeked out. Espying no one, she scampered away toward the nearest exit and the darkness beyond.

  4  

“Fetch me some tea,” Lydia Burton barked at the recalcitrant maid, “and be quick about it, or the next person I talk to will be Lord Stanton.”

With her mention of Cousin Alex, the girl scurried away, and Lydia fumed and calculated how she’d retaliate. She’d had a lifetime of plotting revenge, of exacting it with cruel and malicious glee. She was generally a quiet, unobtrusive individual, so those who crossed her assumed she was harmless, but they discounted her at their peril.

There was a mirror across the dining parlor, and when she caught a glimpse of her unattractive face, she refused to suffer any regret. She’d been born ugly, with mousy hair, beady eyes, a sharp chin and nose, and at age thirty-five her condition hadn’t improved.

Her body was peculiar, too, with her shoulders hunched and her hips too big for the rest of her, so that on the bottom she was shaped like a fat pear. On the top she was flat as a board, her breasts having never developed as they ought.

She couldn’t count how often her father had lamented
over how homely she was. When the insulting oaf had died, she hadn’t grieved a single second, and she was still having the last laugh, spending his money and managing his properties.

On his deathbed, she’d received particular delight in tormenting him with how she’d squander it all, how he wouldn’t be around to stop her, and she liked to think that her malevolent words had pushed him over the edge and into the great beyond.

The maid arrived with her tea, and after she set it down, Lydia gripped the girl’s wrist and pinched the skin hard enough to leave a mark.

“If you ignore me in the future,” Lydia warned, “I’ll have you whipped, then thrown into the streets and hauled off as a common vagrant. No one will ever hear from you again.”

The maid’s eyes widened with dismay, and she dared to sass, “The earl would never let you.”

“Well, the earl would never know, would he?” She flashed such a dangerous, feral sneer that the girl ran, giving Lydia the distinct impression that she’d have no further trouble in that quarter. She smiled, relishing the discreet exhibition of power.

It was so rewarding to lord herself over others, to wreak her petty retributions, and she sighed with pleasure.

Noise erupted in the hall, and she smoothed her features as Rebecca strolled into the room. Rebecca was aggravatingly elegant—she seemed to glide rather than walk—and Lydia’s elevated mood vanished in an instant.

She couldn’t bear to be reminded of Rebecca’s perfections! Her flawlessness, next to Lydia’s dour ordinariness, was like a seething, livid monster that was eating Lydia alive.

Rebecca was everything that Lydia was not. She was pretty, with rosy cheeks, shiny brunette hair, and expressive green eyes. Her looks, coupled with her petite size, curvaceous anatomy, and kindly manner, never ceased to annoy Lydia.

Why did Rebecca have to be so sweet? So wonderful? Why did she possess so many positive female traits, while Lydia possessed none?

“Hello, Lydia,” Rebecca chirped as she waltzed in, grabbed a plate, and filled it with food. She never waited for the servants to assist her, claiming she didn’t care to disturb them. “Isn’t it a fine morning?”

“It’s supposed to rain,” Lydia countered. She loathed Rebecca’s chirpy attitude and constantly strove to quash it.

“Is it? That’s too bad.” She peeked out the window, checking the street, which was dry. “We could stay at home and invite guests over to play charades. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“I abhor charades.”

“You do not,” Rebecca scolded, though merrily, as she sat down. “You’re just being contrary.”

“The clothes you ordered are ready. If you want to wear the emerald ball gown Friday night, you have to have a final fitting. You can’t be dawdling in the house.”

“Duty calls then,” Rebecca said, chuckling. “I shall force myself to the seamstress. Will you join me? When I was there the other day, she had several dresses that would be flattering on you. Why not treat yourself?”

“Why not indeed?” Lydia’s fury sparked, but she tamped it down. “I’ve employed a companion for you so I needn’t be bothered.”

She tried never to be seen in public with Rebecca. Rebecca was so stunning, and Lydia was so plain, that there
was always nattering about what an odd pair they were, and Lydia wouldn’t provide fodder for the gossip mill.

Rebecca would be the belle of every soiree she attended. People would wax on about how dazzling she’d been, and the notion of all those compliments being spewed was like a wad of bread wedged in Lydia’s throat.

When Rebecca was a baby, Lydia had frequently contemplated sneaking into the nursery and smothering her in her sleep. She never could figure out why she hadn’t.

“What are your plans with Cousin Alex?” She’d had loads of practice at hiding her emotions, so no one would ever guess how much she detested him, too. “Are you going riding?”

“Not if it rains!” Rebecca teasingly responded.

“Don’t be smart.” Lydia spoke as if they were mother and daughter rather than siblings. With Lydia being thirteen years older and having raised Rebecca, she behaved like a stem parent.

“Oh, Lydia,” Rebecca retorted, “you’re being such a stick-in-the-mud. Are you feeling all right? Have you a headache?”

“No. I’m merely weary of the engagement preparations. You’re aware of how much I hate London.”

“I realize that, and you’re a dear to have accompanied me to town.”

“It’s not as if I had any choice. I couldn’t let you travel alone, and you certainly couldn’t reside with Cousin Alex by yourself.”

“No, I couldn’t, and I’m grateful to you.”

“Are you, Rebecca? Are you really?”

“Yes, Lydia.”

Rebecca offered the charming smile for which she was renowned, and Lydia yearned to slap it off her face.

It was the height of affront for Lydia to watch and help as Rebecca completed her betrothal to Alex. Originally, Lydia was to have been Alex’s bride, but for reasons that had never been clear, their fathers had switched the girls’ positions, so that Rebecca was the fiancée and Lydia was nothing, at all.

Lydia hadn’t cared about Alex—she was incapable of such strong sentiment—but it galled that Rebecca would have something that should have been Lydia’s. Rebecca could have had any man she wanted, and should have been required to accept Alex’s younger, ne’er-do-well brother, Nicholas, but she’d latched on to Alex without a thought as to Lydia’s wishes.

It was a shame Lydia couldn’t forgive, and sometimes she worried that she might explode from carting around so much rage.

More footsteps sounded, and Ellen staggered in. She was severely attired in a drab gray dress. Her golden hair was concealed by an unsightly mobcap and, as if she’d been ill, she was pale and shaky.

She slinked in and obtained a single piece of toast, which was strange considering that she normally ate like a horse, taking full advantage of the meaning of
room and board
. She seated herself, while Rebecca chattered away, in her typical irritating fashion, about the fun they would have shopping.