Cheryl Holt (7 page)

Lydia ignored them both. She despised Ellen even more than Rebecca. Ellen was the most striking woman Lydia had ever met, surpassing Rebecca with a maturity and grace that Rebecca hadn’t yet achieved. Though adequately reared and educated, Ellen was poverty-stricken and had no prospects, yet she carried herself like royalty. She was always putting on airs, and she acted as if she
were a special guest or member of the family rather than a lowly employee.

Rebecca viewed Ellen as a friend and treated her as such, failing to indicate the distinction for Ellen as to her true role. Lydia had to continually chastise Ellen for forgetting her place.

“Would you mind terribly if one of the maids went with you?” Ellen was suddenly whining. “I’m not well.”

Rebecca was about to reply with sympathetic drivel, so Lydia butted in before she could. “Yes, I
mind
if you loaf at home.”

“Now Lydia,” Rebecca interjected, “if Ellen is under the weather, I can run my errands tomorrow. It’s no problem.”

“You’ll pick up the gowns this morning, Rebecca.” Lydia’s harsh tone cut off any argument. “As for you”—she glared at Ellen—“you’re being compensated to attend Rebecca. Not wallow in your sickbed. Have some tea, restore yourself, then be about your duties.”

Lydia rose and left, declining to linger and be badgered by either of them. There was nothing more nauseating than observing the two of them together when they were chummy and cordial.

As she stomped down the hall, she recognized that her temper was more aggravated than usual. She couldn’t decide whether it was from her anger over the pending nuptials or from the fact that she’d bumped into Nicholas earlier and he’d been too cross to say hello.

Somehow . . . someway . . .
she vowed to herself, she would get even with all of them. Before she was through, she would make them pay for every slight, and they would all be so sorry.

Nicholas Marshall paused outside the dressing room of the infamous French actress Suzette DuBois. She was applying her stage makeup and about to don her costume. The evening’s performance would be lackluster, the actors boring and inept, the comedy stupid, but she would be magnificent.

He wasn’t supposed to visit unless he’d located the funds to set her up as his mistress. She was tired of waiting and was distressing him with her insistence that she would soon search for another protector, which he couldn’t allow.

He had to have her for his own! He had to! He couldn’t tolerate any other conclusion.

Through the crack in the door, he could see her strutting about, her flaming red hair flowing to her hips, her thighs covered by a pair of frilly drawers, her slender feet balanced on a pair of spiky heels.

Her corset was laced tight, her splendid bosom pushed up and out. As he spied on her, she untied the strings, drawing out the moment until the suspense was excruciating; then she tugged at the undergarment and shimmied it off.

Breasts bared, she arched and stretched, the creamy mounds shifting and swaying as she rolled her shoulders. She retrieved a towel and rubbed it across her arms, her nape, her chest, tracing it round and round.

His lust spiraled to a treacherous height, and he couldn’t stand to admit that she might never be his. He had coveted many things in his twenty-eight years of living, and he was adept at garnering what he craved—through fair methods or foul—but only she had eluded
his grasp. The cost to have her, to support her, was simply too great.

For the thousandth time, he cursed his lot. By committing the horrid sin of being born second, his status was diminished accordingly. Then there were the rumors about his beloved mother’s adultery.

Nicholas didn’t resemble Alex in the least. Alex looked like their father, with dark hair, blue eyes, and a tall, trim physique. Nicholas was blond, with brown eyes, a stocky build, and a bit of padding around his middle.

Their father had taken the differences to heart, and Nicholas’s inheritance had been reduced to a meager scrap, a paltry farm called New Haven. The hideous property was his sole possession, but the income from it was scarcely enough to keep him in clothes, let alone having his own house or carriage. He had to constantly beg Alex for money.

What was he to do? How was he to purchase Suzette’s favors? He was so obsessed with her that he was beginning to fear for his sanity. She was like a dangerous disease for which there was no cure.

She turned toward him, and she scooped a dab of cream from ajar and massaged it onto her nipples. They were tiny little buds—like a young boy’s—and they constricted even further as the cold ointment was slathered across them.

As she pinched and squeezed, he was goaded past his limit. He wouldn’t dawdle in the hall like a supplicant, wouldn’t plead for permission to enter, and he burst through the door.

At his abrupt appearance she was startled, and she frowned. “Nick,
mon ami
, why are you here? I asked you not to come back.”

“I won’t stay away. I can’t.”

“Why torture yourself? After the performance, I’m off to meet with Monsieur Delford. We’re discussing terms.”

Delford was an obese, aging reprobate, and the idea of his sawing away between her pristine thighs was nearly Nicholas’s undoing.

“I won’t let him have you!” he threatened. “I’ll kill you first. You’re mine, do you hear me? Mine!”

She scoffed. “I’m
yours?
If that’s what you believe, you’re mad.”

He bristled with rage, and he grabbed her and pinned her to the wall. He leaned in, his body flattened to hers, and she struggled to escape, but she was no match for his larger size.

“I’ll find the cash,” he contended, having not a clue from where.

“So you keep saying.”

“I will!”

“Your assurances grow tedious.”

“My word is my bond!” he lied. “I’m about to be engaged.”

“A likely story—that you’ve told me before.”

“Even as we speak, I’m working on a betrothal.”

“I’m not cheap,
mon cher
. To afford me, you’d have to marry an heiress, but who would have you?”

The snide question was too much for his pride, and he wouldn’t be denigrated by her. For over a decade, he’d debased himself before every rich girl in the kingdom, but nary a one had been interested. He lacked his brother’s title and charm, so he had to scrounge for the scraps others left behind. But he was finished groveling. He would figure something out; he always did.

She was squirming and writhing, and he clasped her arms to her sides. He bent down and sucked on her nipple.

“I know what you need,” he growled. “I know what you want.”

He unbuttoned his trousers, and he guided her fingers inside, wrapping them around his rigid cock. She didn’t like to touch his private parts, and he had to show her how, had to force her to obey.

He flexed into her closed fist, and he considered spilling himself, but he didn’t. They played an infuriating game. She tantalized him with prospects for pleasure, but she only let him have a small sample, just enough so that he returned for more.

She’d been very clear: She wasn’t free, and he had to pay for his privileges. If he desired her, he’d have to arrange his financial affairs.

“Get down on your knees,” he ordered. “Lick your tongue across me—as you did the other night.”

She shuddered with distaste. “I don’t like to.”

“I don’t care.”

He tried pushing her to the floor, but she wouldn’t go. She claimed that when he produced the money she’d do whatever he demanded—that she’d take it in the mouth, that she’d take it in the ass—and the opportunity to have her at his mercy, to attempt such perverted deeds, was agonizing to contemplate.

“I hate doing it with men,” she declared. “If you brought me a woman, she and I could dally—while you watch.”

She repeatedly mentioned how much she liked women, and the notion tormented him. He was determined to demonstrate how it could be between them, to change her depraved preferences.

“No women for you,” he scolded. “You’ll ride my prick, and you’ll enjoy it. Now get down.”

Though mutinous, she finally dropped to her knees, and her compliance had him feeling omnipotent and invincible. She pulled his phallus from his pants and licked across the end—once, twice—then she lurched away and stood. While he was in a wretched condition, she was calm and composed, and acting as if nothing had happened.

“There’ll be no more,” she asserted, “until you move me into my new house. Unless, of course, Monsieur Delford moves me into one first. What is your plan, Nick?”

“I told you: I’ll kill you before I let Delford have you.”

“How will you stop him?”

She shoved him away and marched to her mirror, where she went back to fussing with her makeup, and he was incensed by her disrespect.

He clutched her around the waist, ready to bend her over the chair and have her against her will. After all her derision, after all the waiting and worrying, it would be so satisfying to proceed.

“Let me go!” She elbowed him in the ribs.

“You’ll have no one but me,” he vowed. “No one!”

“You are a dreamer.”

He tightened his grip, and she squealed with alarm, which delighted him. Her fear was thrilling, and he’d instigated a bruising kiss when a stagehand poked his nose in and inquired, “Are you all right. Miss DuBois?”

Suzette yanked away. “I’m fine, Tom. Would you escort Mr. Marshall out? I must finish dressing.”

The boy held the door, and Nicholas hesitated, then stomped out. Suzette called after him, “Two weeks, Nick. I want your answer in two weeks.”

He huffed out the rear of the theater, and he hovered in the dank, smelly alley.

Two weeks. . . two weeks . . .
The words rang like a death knell. He had a fortnight to procure a fortune, and the only single, prosperous female he hadn’t pestered was his obnoxious cousin, Lydia. She was so disagreeable that, even with her enormous wealth, she couldn’t entice a suitor.

He tarried in the shadows, ruing the past, pondering the future, when he thought of Lydia again, and he couldn’t get her out of his head.

Yes, she was repugnant, and homely as a mud boot, but she was also stupid and slow—and pathetically lonely—which he deemed an advantageous combination.

With no trouble at all, he could coax her to any conduct he commanded. After all, how could she refuse him? A swift wedding would have to follow.

Could he do it? Had he the stomach for such a revolting scheme?

Out on the street, coaches arrived at the theater as fashionable London disembarked to watch Suzette. In his mind’s eye, he could picture her twirling and strutting on the stage, could envision the men in the audience as they ogled and cheered.

“Lydia. . .” he mused. “Why didn’t I think of her before?”

James Drake sneaked out of the crowd, walked up behind his sister, and murmured, “Hello, Ellen.”

She froze, struggling to decide whether she’d actually heard his voice.

“James!” she breathed, and she whipped around.

She was so much older than his recollections, but then a decade had passed since he’d last seen her. In his imagination, she’d remained the naïve eighteen-year-old girl she’d been when disaster had struck, but then it would be difficult to suffer such a trauma and stay the same. He, himself, was so altered that anyone who’d known him prior wouldn’t recognize him.

At age twenty-six, he was no longer the lanky, handsome youth he’d been. Stress and adversity had whitened his blond hair to silver, had dulled his blue eyes to gray. He was brawny, strong as an ox, his skin tanned from laboring in the harsh sun, his face cynical and wrinkled with crow’s-feet, his smile gone.

His back was crisscrossed with flogging scars, his shoulders slightly stooped, and he limped, a souvenir of a leg broken during an especially vicious beating.

There was a rough edge to him, one of danger and menace that warned others to keep their distance. He exuded power and threat, and though he was attired as a gentleman—his cravat neatly tied and jacket perfectly tailored—he was an imposter. Every genteel tendency had been lashed out of him.

He was pleased to note that Ellen was still terribly pretty, but her mischievous innocence had vanished. She was so prim and proper, so mature and sad. She seemed weary, as if she’d endured too much, and even though none of the scandal had been his fault, he felt responsible for the changes.

Would he ever make it up to her? Should he even try?

It was obvious she yearned to hug him, and he could scarcely refrain, either, but they were in the middle of Bond Street, with pedestrians careening by, so any emotional display would have caused a scene. For that very
reason, he’d chosen the busy spot. He’d been nervous about his reception, and lest she turn away in disgust, he’d wanted the throng to shield him if he needed to slink away.

At learning that she was elated with the rendezvous, his jaded heart rejoiced.

Surreptitiously she slipped her hand into his. “What are you doing here?”

“You wrote that you’d be in London,” he explained. “I had to see you. Are you receiving the money I’ve sent?” It wasn’t nearly enough, but he shared what he could, when he could, and the amounts were growing.