Cheryl Holt (20 page)

Michael tiptoed out of Emily’s room and quietly closed the door. He’d finally driven them both to the point of exhaustion, and she was sleeping.

Dawn was breaking, and he’d stayed much later than was wise, but he hadn’t been able to force himself away. The encounter had been too glorious, the bliss too welcome.

Like the cur he was, he turned to slink up the rear stairs when, to his horror, a door opened down the hall. He froze, curious as to who else could be sneaking around at such an ungodly hour. In view of his disheveled condition, there was no way to pretend he hadn’t just crept out of Emily’s bed, so what excuse could he make?

To his utter amazement, his brother emerged, skulking out in the same despicable fashion as Michael. Across the lengthy expanse of carpet, they studied each other. They were both in the same pathetic shape—rumpled and scarcely dressed—and it was apparent that Alex had spent the evening fornicating, too.

Michael struggled to recollect whose room Alex had been in, and he was sickened to surmise that it was occupied by Emily’s sister.

If Michael cared about anyone, it was Alex, but his brother wasn’t the same as he’d been before the war. In his current state, Alex was the last man Michael would want cavorting with Mary Livingston. Only trouble could result.

Mrs. Livingston was sheltered under Michael’s roof, living under his protection, and he couldn’t let her be illused. Alex could have no honorable intentions. When he married, he would wed for money, which had been the plan until his fiancée had tossed him over. In a thousand years Mrs. Livingston couldn’t provide Alex with what he needed.

Michael waved toward the stairs, indicating that he was going down, and that Alex should follow, and Michael scowled so that Alex knew it wasn’t a request, but a command. Michael was still the elder sibling and strong enough to pound Alex into submission if he was too recalcitrant.

Michael departed and headed to the family dining parlor, where he surprised a maid who was up and preparing the kitchen. He ordered the American-style coffee Alex preferred, then sat down to wait.

It took Alex an eternity to appear, and when he entered, he was insolent and taunting. In the lamplight, he looked like death warmed over, his skin pasty, his clothes soiled, his hands shaking.

Without a greeting, he proceeded to the sideboard, poured himself a brandy, and raised it toward Michael as if toasting him.

“Hair of the dog,” Alex grumbled. “Would you like one?”

“No.”

In a single motion, Alex swigged the contents; then he refilled his glass and did the same. By the third serving, he was enjoying a beneficial effect. His pallor had receded; his quaking had lessened.

When had Alex fallen to such a dreadful level? Why hadn’t Michael noticed? His beloved brother was wasting away, right before his very eyes!

Michael gestured to the chair opposite, and Alex seated himself. The maid delivered their coffee, and as soon as she left, Alex fetched the brandy and mixed his half-and-half. Michael was aghast and grappling with what he should say, but he couldn’t figure out how to comment without sparking an argument.

He decided to ignore Alex’s problem and focus on his conduct.

“Why were you in Mrs. Livingston’s bedchamber?”

“Why were you in with the governess?” Alex shot back.

“Don’t be flip.” Michael wouldn’t discuss his own depraved circumstance. “I want an answer.”

Alex assessed Michael, making it clear that Michael had no secrets, no lock on decadency, and Alex shrugged. “I expect I was doing the same thing you were doing.” Defiantly, he grinned. “Now you know. Are you feeling better?”

“How long have you been carrying on with her?”

“We started up just after she arrived.”

“How could you?”

Alex scoffed. “You’re screwing her sister, and you have to ask?”

Michael bristled with fury. “I won’t dignify your remark with a response.”

“Why not? If you’re about to tell me that it’s permissible for you to fuck the hired help but not me, you can shut the hell up, because I won’t listen to any moralizing.”

“You’ve really become a horse’s ass.”

“As if I give a shit what you think.”

Michael wondered when they’d strayed so far from being friends. “What are your plans toward her?”

“My plans?” Alex jeered.

“What if she winds up pregnant?”

“What if she does?”

“What will you do?”

“I ask you the same,” Alex carped. “If your darling governess develops a little bulge in the tummy, what then?”

“She’s not
my
anything,” Michael lied, declining to have the quarrel switch to his own misbehavior. He didn’t understand his passion for Emily, couldn’t explain it, and he most definitely couldn’t defend it.

“Well, Mrs. Livingston isn’t
my
anything, either.” Alex gulped more of his spiked coffee. “Here’s to the two of us. Aren’t we a pair?”

Michael wanted to rail and shout, to clarify why Alex’s situation with Mrs. Livingston was different from his own with Emily, but how could he spew such a frivolous claim?

Was he ready to assert that it was acceptable for himself to act badly, but not Alex? By what standard? Because he was an earl and Alex wasn’t?

He couldn’t maintain that it was appropriate to debauch Emily, while it was wrong for Alex to dabble with
her sister. So what point—precisely—was he trying to make?

There was no rejoinder that seemed fitting or that adequately conveyed his concern. Any chastisement was hypocritical.

“Could you please be more circumspect?” he lamely inquired. “At least consider her reputation. She’s our guest. What if you were caught? The servants would crucify her.”

“You have the gall to lecture me?”

Michael wasn’t surprised by the question. He was on a slippery slope, his own choices hardly above reproach. “You’re being crazy these days,” he declared as gently as he was able. “Be a bit more prudent. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Why don’t you keep your own trousers buttoned, before you expend so much energy worrying about mine?”

Alex swilled the last of his brandy and strolled out.

Mary dawdled, as Emily puttered around, dishing up their breakfast. Winchester had insisted they take their meals in the family dining parlor, that they shouldn’t eat with the staff, and Mary constantly speculated as to why he was so generous.

Emily contended that he’d been desperate for a governess, that he was simply grateful for her assistance, but his offering of the private room was beyond the pale, and Mary didn’t comprehend it.

Briefly, she pondered whether she should use the moment to admit her affair with Alex Farrow. She had few secrets from Emily, and all the sneaking about was killing her.

After the winter she’d been struck blind, her life had been one tedious ordeal after the next. Her furtive liaison with Alex was the only outrageous, exotic deed she’d ever attempted, and she couldn’t fathom what had driven her to acquiesce, or what insane force goaded her into persisting.

Since moving into Lord Winchester’s house, she’d metamorphosed into another person. Stuffy, boring Mary Barnett Livingston had ceased to exist, and another, more outlandish woman had seized her place. She was frantic over her conduct and frightened that she might have put them in a predicament where Emily could lose her job.

If Lord Winchester found out that Emily had a wanton for a sister, if he determined Mary was unfit to be around his wards, she would be back on the streets in a thrice. Or what if Alex tired of her and had Winchester toss them out? Then what?

Oh, what a fine state she was in! Fretting and stewing and not a soul to tell! How could she confess? How could she justify her recklessness?

Emily came to the table and centered Mary’s plate. “I’ve brought you some eggs, a slice of ham, and a piece of bread with jam. There’s tea by your right hand.”

By the aromas wafting from the food, Mary knew what had been provided, but she murmured, “Thank you.”

Emily passed behind Mary’s chair and seated herself. Discreetly, Mary sniffed at Emily, and she was distressed to perceive that Emily smelled different again. When Mary had initially noted the change, she’d written it off as being triggered by their new surroundings. However, with the two of them sequestered in the small salon, there was no mistaking the alteration, and Mary was confused.

If pushed to describe the modification, she would have said Emily smelled as if Lord Winchester had rubbed himself all over her.

Winchester had an unusual scent—most people did—that was unique to him, and long before Mary ever ran into him in the halls she always deduced when he was approaching.

The odor was so strong on Emily that Mary could almost swear he was present and emitting it, himself.

She queried, “Have you been with the earl?”

Emily paused, her fork missing a swipe across her plate. “No, I rarely see him, and when he is here, he’s much too busy to spend time with paltry old me.” As if she’d shared a funny joke, she laughed.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Why?”

Mary kept her focus on the table, but she scowled. She was wrong about many things—where furniture was located, or which dress was which in her wardrobe—but she was never wrong about what her nose detected. It was too keen, too accurate.

“I heard him in the foyer,” she fibbed. “I thought you might have talked.”

“No. We haven’t spoken in days.”

“Wasn’t he eager to receive regular reports about the girls?”

“That was before Pamela’s shenanigans in the park. Since then, he’s decided that raising children is a tad more difficult than he’d imagined, and he doesn’t wish to be bothered.”

Typical male,
Mary mused, but she didn’t dare utter the derogatory sentiment aloud. Lest others eavesdrop,
she had to be careful. Emily, on the other hand, was perfectly at ease with denigrating the earl, but then, Emily had an uncommon relationship with him, and Mary wouldn’t try to unravel it.

“Tell me about Reginald,” she urged, glad that they had a minute to discuss the disturbing development.

Emily leaned closer so their voices wouldn’t carry. “He visited Lord Winchester.”

“What did he want?”

“He claimed that we were to be married, and he demanded that Winchester fire me and send us home so that the wedding could proceed.”

Terrified by the prospect, Mary blanched. She was aware of Reginald’s penchant for cruelty. Before she’d been married, herself, he’d accosted her and attempted to ravage her, though Mary had escaped. After she’d wed, he’d left her alone, but she still despised him, and she was positive that his scheme to lock her away was a revenge over her earlier refusal to submit.

She’d never told anyone about the incident, but the notion of returning to Hailsham, of being under his control without a male family member to act as a barrier, was more than she could abide.

“What did the earl say?” Mary probed.

“He declared that it was my choice, and when I informed him that I wanted to remain here, he had Fitch escort Reginald to the door, with instructions not to let him in if he comes back.”

“He didn’t!”

“He did!”

“I’ll bet Fitch enjoyed that.”

“I’ll bet he did, too.”

They chuckled, but Mary was unnerved. It was dangerous to cross Reginald. He never forgot an insult, and he would find a way to retaliate against Emily for Winchester having championed her cause.

“Was Reginald very angry?” Mary ventured.

“Yes, but he went without causing a scene, and he hasn’t shown his face again.”

“Let’s hope he has the good sense to stay away.”

“I doubt he’ll risk offending Lord Winchester,” Emily asserted. “Reginald isn’t that brave, and the earl was incensed by his audacity.”

“Was he?”

Mary was quiet, letting the strange comment sink in. Though Emily downplayed her connection with Winchester, and pretended she scarcely knew him, Mary was dubious. Why would Winchester have any interest in their petty troubles? Why would he even deign to meet with Reginald?

Was there more to Emily’s association with him than she could admit?

Mary was in a quandary. She yearned to talk about Michael Farrow, to learn if Emily might have done what she oughtn’t, but Mary wasn’t sure how to broach the delicate issue. Emily was a very private person, and if Mary’s suspicions were incorrect, they’d both be mortified.

But what if a worse event had occurred? What if Winchester had pressured Emily? Mary was the elder sister. Shouldn’t she intervene? Shouldn’t she counsel or caution?

Considering her current peccadillo, she was hardly in a position to chastise or condemn, but she’d hate for Emily to be hurt.

Should Mary inquire? And to whom should she speak? To Emily? To the earl?

While Winchester seemed polite and friendly, Mary couldn’t envision approaching him over such an indiscreet topic. Particularly if her reservations were unfounded. She’d look like a fool.

“Emily,” she guardedly started, “may I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Is there anything special you’d like to confide about Lord Winchester?”

Emily had popped a bite of egg into her mouth, and she sounded as if she choked, but she quickly recovered. “Lord Winchester? No, why?”

“I was just curious.”

Emily was silent, and Mary reached out mentally, assessing the situation. Emily’s mind was racing with so many denials and equivocations that Mary was left with the only possible impression: Emily was in an awkward fix with Winchester, but she would never acknowledge it.

At having guessed Emily’s secret, Mary sighed. How pathetic they were!

Neither had been immune to the charms of the Farrow brothers, and there was no predicting what disasters might befall them.

Mary was tired of being a burden, of worrying about Rose and Emily, but, because of her disability, never being able to alleviate their problems.

Well, she’d given much to Alex Farrow, more than the bounder deserved, more than he should have been allowed. Maybe it was time to demand a bit more for herself, time to stabilize her circumstance. Occasionally, he
hinted that he cared about her, and she needed to find out if he was serious.