Cheryl Holt (17 page)

He’d instructed Anne not to let Kate attend him, so he
was angry at both of them. As he was attired solely in a pair of Phillip’s old drawers, the scars on his chest and arms were visible, and he hated having Kate observe them.

“I’m not up to greeting any guests. You may tell them to go.”

“Tell them yourself, your
lordship
. I’ll leave you the wheeled chair.”

She, too, marched off, grumbling about his being an ingrate. Was there no one in this asylum of females who had any respect for male authority?

Like a brat having a tantrum, he deliberated on lying in bed forever, and declining to speak to Eleanor and Felicity. Yet in light of how obstinate Anne could be, if he didn’t meet with them, she wouldn’t either, and they’d remain for hours, expecting him to emerge.

He wanted them gone! Wanted them ejected, then banished from the property.

In a snit, he rose and clumsily donned his clothes. He’d regained an enormous amount of energy, so he was able to complete the task himself. Earlier, Anne had shaved him, and with his hair trimmed, he didn’t resemble a wild savage, but on the inside, the turbulence still raged.

He would relish having a few words with Eleanor, where he would relate what he thought of her tyrannical orchestration of his kidnapping. As to Felicity, she was the last person on earth he wanted to see. He’d explicitly apprised her that he didn’t consider them to be bound, that she was shed of him, but she persisted with tromping around London, his ring on her finger. Whenever anyone inquired as to the status of their betrothal, she vehemently and publicly denied any dissolution.

In his current state, she was a fool to have called on him. How many times did he have to spell it out?

Initially, she’d captured his fancy with her chatty nature, her upbeat attitude, her unflagging enthusiasm. Plus, she was
rich, with an inheritance from her grandmother. Only a moron would have failed to snatch her up, and as a third son, with a military career as his option, he’d chased her until she’d caught him.

Love had played no role in his offering for her, but he’d liked her amicable style, her blithe disposition, and he’d been eager for the wedding. But after Salamanca, after traveling home more dead than alive, he couldn’t tolerate her quirky habits.

The pleasantness that had once attracted him now scraped his nerves raw. She was so young, so naive, and she was so blasted cheery. The two occasions she’d trekked to Bristol, he’d been so aggravated by her optimistic blather that he’d directed Charles to bar her from his sickroom.

A split was for the best, and he’d been positive that he’d persuaded her. Was the accursed girl deaf? Stupid?

He wasn’t about to marry her! How often and how loudly did he have to assert as much?

He limped to the hall, and as Kate had promised, his invalid’s chair was parked nearby. She was leaned against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest. Probably, he could have hobbled to the parlor on his own, but he wouldn’t embarrass himself by seeming weak, so he sat, and she approached—without comment, praise be!—and pushed him down the lengthy corridor. She rolled him over the threshold, then vanished, forcing him to confront his guests alone.

They were dawdling by the window, staring toward the grotto, and they turned in unison, agape with astonishment.

Was he that changed? He hadn’t realized it.

“Stephen, my goodness!” Eleanor exclaimed. “Is it really you?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped in response.

“Don’t be surly. And curb your foul tongue! I won’t stand for it in Felicity’s presence.”

“Did I ask her to come?”

“No, and you didn’t ask me, either. But we’ve arrived, and I demand that you be civil.”

Felicity hesitated, thrown off guard by his gruff behavior. When they’d been courting, she’d never witnessed this side of him, and his irascible constitution was an indication that the individual to whom she’d been pledged didn’t exist.

“But I’m glad I braved the journey, Stephen,” she chirped. She flounced over—there was no other way to describe her saunter—and she knelt beside him. “I wouldn’t have missed viewing this wonderful improvement for all the gold in El Dorado! I just knew you’d get better! I just knew it!”

He gnashed his teeth. Everything about her irked. She was so annoyingly perky, a trait that had previously charmed him, but now rankled. Their ten-year age difference had seemed insignificant, too, but had enlarged to a monumental hurdle. After his experiences in Spain, he felt a thousand years older.

“Go home, Felicity,” he bluntly advised. “Please!”

As if he hadn’t spoken, she gushed, “With you recuperating so rapidly, we’ll be making wedding plans before the summer is through. Won’t we, Eleanor?” Nervous, she peered over at his sister, seeking her support.

“There will be no wedding,” he interjected before Eleanor could reply with an absurd remark that would fan Felicity’s flames of fantasy.

“Nonsense,” Felicity chided. Gripping his hands, she squeezed tight. “I told you I’d wait, for as long as it takes. Did you suppose I didn’t mean it? That I’d forsake you in your hour of need?” Her blue eyes were steady, her blond ringlets bouncing with resolve. “ ‘For better or worse, in sickness and in health.’ That’s what the vows say. I’m not so fickle that I’d cry off over a few minor injuries. Give me some credit, Stephen.”

He was pondering a scathing rejoinder, when boot heels clicked in the hall, and Charles entered.

Save me
, Stephen mouthed to his friend over the top of Felicity’s head.

Charles grinned, his old self poking through, as if he too was much recovered. Mischief glimmering about him, he contemplated strolling out, abandoning Stephen to his fate, but they’d been through too much, and Charles couldn’t desert him.

“Lady Felicity,” Charles interceded, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we must be going. One of the horses is having trouble, and we must be off to the village so the blacksmith can examine him before it grows any later.”

Thank you!
Stephen mouthed, once more.

You owe me,
Charles retorted.

“Of course, Mr. Hughes,” Felicity acceded. It was impossible for her to act any other way than sweet-tempered and affable, but after fraternizing with Anne, Stephen couldn’t bear such tractability.

She stood and patted Stephen on the shoulder. “Buck up, my dear soldier. I’m thrilled to have you so hale. You’ve made my heart rejoice.”

As she promenaded out, she left a trail of floral perfume, and they were frozen in place until the door was shut behind her.

“Don’t bring her again,” he informed Charles.

“As you wish.”

“You are such a barbarian,” Eleanor scolded. “You’re lucky she’s so kind. If I were her, I’d have let you rot in your misery. It would be no more than you deserve, you brute.”

“Did I solicit your opinion?”

“No, but there it is. And you won’t hear me apologizing for my absconding with you. Not only do I intend to commend Mrs. Smythe, but I shall bestow a hefty bonus upon her.”

He’d figured that Anne was treating him for money, but he detested having her care for him as a fiduciary obligation.
Her attentions ought to be based on affection. “How much are you paying her?”

“Obviously not enough.”

“How much?” he barked.

“None of your business.” She strutted over and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll visit you in a fortnight, and don’t even
think
about telling Charles to refuse to assist me. If he does, I’ll come by myself.”

She waltzed out, but not before the briefest pause next to Charles. Their eyes met and locked. Stephen couldn’t observe her face, but Charles’s was visible. He was gazing at her with a manly hunger that was so potent it sizzled between them.

What was this? He’d been away from home for a month. Had this been fermenting, with himself too incoherent to notice? Or was it recent? Had Charles seduced Eleanor? Or had Eleanor seduced Charles? He couldn’t imagine Charles doing something so spontaneous or out of character, and Eleanor had been a widow too blasted long, so it was likely at her instigation.

If they weren’t already lovers, if was merely a matter of time before lust won out. What then? Had either of them thought beyond the itch in their loins?

Eleanor broke the torrid assessment, and glared at Stephen over her shoulder. “I’ll be back in two weeks,” she reminded him.

“I can hardly wait.” Stephen oozed sarcasm, but in reality, he would anticipate seeing her. It had been an eternity since he’d been excited about anything, and he regarded his enthusiasm as a sign of his improving condition.

“Why don’t you use the interlude to find your manners?”

“If you don’t like my
manners,
stay away.”

“Maybe I will. I certainly can’t claim to enjoy the company.”

She stomped off, while he and Charles tarried.

“You look terrific,” Charles mentioned. “I guess Mrs. Smythe’s not the charlatan I’d been fearing.”

“I’m not sure what she
is
,” Stephen replied, “but she’s not a quack.”

“I hope you’re not angry with me about your being transported here. Eleanor was bound and determined to do this, and if I’d declined to aid her, she’d have found someone else.”

“I realize that. She’s much too bossy.”

“You won’t catch me arguing the point.”

“I believe she should marry again,” Stephen hinted. “She could benefit from guidance by a man who’s not afraid to stand up to her.”

“Yes, she could.”

Stephen said no more. He wouldn’t be so crude as to inquire whether they were having an affair, but he’d planted a seed in Charles’s head. It would never occur to Charles that he might be a suitable husband for her, and after her first debacle of a marriage, Stephen wanted her to pick someone honorable and devoted, loyal and true. She could do no better than Charles Hughes.

The comment was also a warning. If Charles was philandering with her, he ought to be planning on matrimony. Stephen wouldn’t tolerate anything less. Due to Charles’s common antecedents, his father and brothers would be an obstacle, but Stephen could persuade them. They’d helped her with her choice before, and it had been a disaster. What did any of them know about selecting an appropriate mate for her?

“How long will you remain here?” Charles queried, changing the awkward subject.

“Until I can walk out on my own.”

Actually, he yearned to reside with Anne forever, but once he was healed, there’d be no reason to linger. Though much of the luster had dimmed, his other life beckoned.

“Should you need me, send a messenger. I can be here within a few hours.”

“I won’t need you.”

“I’ll return with Eleanor, to check in.”

“If you bring Felicity, I’ll have to kill you.”

“Hah! Threats from a cripple.”

“I won’t always be incapacitated.”

“God willing,” Charles murmured, alight with friendship and fealty.

Stephen stared at him, so much gratitude bubbling around inside that he worried he might break down and cry like a baby.

“Be off,” he commanded, wanting Charles to go before he embarrassed himself. “Give me some peace. There are enough crazed women in this house, without your ushering in more to plague me.”

“So Mrs. Smythe hectors you, does she?”

“Constantly.”

“I’ll have to compliment her.”

With a smart salute, he strutted out, and Stephen dawdled in his invalid’s chair, listening to the carriage as the driver and footmen made ready. The horses pulled away, and he felt more alone than ever, which aggravated him. The entire day, he’d been more stressed than usual, and Felicity had exacerbated his irritation.

He had to converse with Anne, to explain about Felicity, but he was in no mood to clarify the relationship. Still, he was eager to be with Anne, which meant he would have to expend some of his limited energy to locate and pacify her.

Loitering in the parlor, he expected Kate to come for him, but she didn’t. Anne had several maids, but he’d been adamant that they not help him, so now, when he needed them, they were conspicuously absent. Impatient, exasperated, he lumbered about and started down the hall, where he succeeded in
jamming the chair into the wall, so he hobbled to his room and lay down.

Where was Anne?

Out at the grotto, numerous women frolicked in the pool. They were giggling, laughing, and splashing. One of them was in the shallow end. She was naked, her voluptuous breasts on full display. Another lounged on the rocks, revealing her dimpled, bare bottom.

Hadn’t these people heard of bathing costumes? What was it about the pond that spurred them to indecency? Why did Anne let them cavort in the nude?

Normally, he’d have been delighted by the spectacle. He was only human, after all, but their prurient loafing kept him from searching for her.

He saw her approaching the swimmers, her functional gray dress drab against the colors of the abundant shrubs and trees. Ignoring him, she chatted with the group, and he became more annoyed. He was being churlish, but he couldn’t quell his ill-humor. What if he’d collapsed? What if he was dying?

Limping, he went to the rear door, then out into the yard. Naked women be damned! He would have a private moment with her!

“Mrs. Smythe!” he called. “I would speak with you. Now, if you please!”

Her back was to him, and she halted, her ear cocked as if she couldn’t make sense of the sound of his voice.

“Mrs. Smythe!” he repeated.

She whipped around, her horror evident, but before she could spew any outrage, a female popped up behind her.

“Stephen Chamberlin,” cooed Camilla Warren, “as I live and breathe!”

He could scarcely stifle a groan. Of all the rotten luck! His prior fiancée and his prior paramour! On the same afternoon! What were the odds? What would Anne say? What would she do? Commit murder, perhaps?

“Yes, Camilla, it’s me.”

Many of her cohorts were with her, loose hussies of the
ton,
and they floated nearer. Like a slippery eel, one slithered onto the bank and stretched. She arched up and ran a palm across her belly and thigh.