Cheryl Holt (16 page)

He reflected on her inquiry. “I believed I was, once, when I was a youth, but no. I never have been.”

“Not even with your wife?”

“We were very good friends.”

It was a dismal admission. Men of his station married for many reasons, none of which ever involved affection, but how bleak for him that he’d never experienced the satisfaction love could render!

“If you marry Olivia,” she broached, “do you suppose you’ll develop strong feelings for her?”

He scoffed. “I can’t guess how. She and I have nothing in common.”

“How sad for you both.”

Though her relationship with Gerald had broken her heart, and wrecked her life, she wouldn’t have traded that period for anything. She’d known rapture and bliss to an extent few ever encountered. It had been the sole time she’d felt truly alive.

“Do you regret not having had children?”

“Very much. I was eager to have a few jolly urchins running around this drafty mansion.” He lay on his back and pressed her cheek to his chest. “May I confess a
secret? But you must swear that you won’t inform Olivia or Margaret.”

“Of course, Edward.”

“I have two children.”

“Really?” Stunned by the news, she rose up on an elbow so that she could look at him.

“I’ve shocked you.”

“No,” she lied. “I’d just never heard any rumors.” And she couldn’t fathom that Margaret hadn’t unearthed the tidings. The woman liked to wax on over how she’d discovered every aspect to be gleaned.

“It happened before I was married. They’re adults now.”

“Who was their mother?”

“A girl who was employed as a housemaid. She was so vivacious, and we were crazy for each other.” He frowned, as if unable to credit the past. “She’s been dead for many a year.”

“Are they here at the estate?”

“My son is. He’s my stablemaster. His name is Phillip.”

“Will you introduce him to me?”

He seemed surprised that she would be interested. “I would like that.”

“And the other child is a daughter?”

“Yes. Anne.”

“Where is she?”

“She lives near Bath. She’s quite a modern, independent woman, or so I’m told.”

“You’re not certain?”

“I haven’t seen her since she was three.” It was his turn to blush. “I behaved very badly toward them. They left the estate shortly before I wed, and they fended for themselves, without my assistance. I don’t presume Anne likes me very much—if she thinks of me at all. I’ve never sought her out.”

She couldn’t conceive of having a daughter, but having no connection with her. Her decision to relinquish Rebecca was a constant thorn that pricked at her, and if she knew where the girl was, she would venture any hazard, overcome any obstacle, to be with her.

“What is preventing you?”

“I’m a coward. I have no other excuse.”

“If I were you, I would mount my horse tomorrow, and I wouldn’t stop until I was in her yard and down on my knees, apologizing for all the damage I’d done.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” He grinned. “I wish I had your mettle.”

“I wish
I
had your children.”

Their conversation pained her, for it goaded her maternal and womanly instincts to guide and counsel, to soothe and advise, making her yearn to be his wife.

The longing was so potent, it was almost a tangible object between them. It spurred her to want to be dear to him. For all his wealth and rank, his fame and notoriety, he was lonely and so was she, and with their exceptional camaraderie, and their sizzling physical affinity, they were infinitely compatible.

She could love him so easily, and the idea terrified her.

The most ludicrous flight of fancy came over her; she imagined them together, rapt and content, in their golden years. The vision was so vivid, and so distinct, that it was frightening. It had her anxious to determine if she could bring that cheery future to fruition, which made it the most pathetic example of sentimental whimsy she’d ever contemplated.

Once prior, she had frivolously cavorted, and she’d deluded herself into assuming that the impossible could occur. From the outset, she’d understood that Gerald could never marry her, but she’d forged onward, her zeal and fantasies nullifying her discretion.

Her irrational ambitions had destroyed any number of lives, and she’d thought that she’d acquired a smidgen of wisdom from her idiocy, but apparently she hadn’t, for she was lying in Edward’s arms and conjuring up all manner of outrageous, impractical scenarios.

Would she never learn from her mistakes?

Not only had she philandered with Edward, but she’d flaunted her licentious nature, leaving him with no doubts as to her character. She’d cuckolded Olivia, had perhaps jeopardized Olivia’s chances to make the match. After all, why would Edward marry into a family one of whose members was so loose?

And if he did choose Olivia, where would Winnie go? What would she do?

She couldn’t remain at Salisbury, as she’d hoped. She would never be able to face Olivia or Margaret. She’d be too embarrassed to join them at the supper table or for holiday festivities. Always, always, always, the memories of this incident would cloud her interactions with them.

Would her lustful tendencies forever rule her? She could no longer blame her inclinations on youth or naïveté, so what pretext could she use to justify what she’d done?

She sighed. It was so difficult to chastise herself when she treasured every second of what was transpiring.

First thing in the morning
, she scolded. The personal reproachment could begin at dawn. For now, she would flirt and trifle, would cuddle and pretend that he was hers. Daybreak would arrive soon enough.

“Are you sufficiently rested, you old roué?”

He barked out a laugh.

“Yes, you bawdy wench.” His gaze was alight with mirth. “I’ll show you what we aging libertines can accomplish, when we set our minds to it.”

Covering her, he spread her thighs so that his newly
aroused member could find its way, and with scant effort, he slid into her. She raised her legs and locked her feet behind.

Placing her hands on either side of her head, he linked their fingers, then he started to move. It was breathtaking, sweet, exquisite, the most tender union of heart and soul that two people could ever have achieved.

Their ardor spiraled at the same rate, though on this occasion—with their initial passion sated—the pace was gradual, leisurely, allowing them to enjoy each step of the climb to gratification. But as Edward’s corporeal tension mounted, her fear crested.

During their earlier sexual interlude, she’d pleasured him with her mouth, but she couldn’t risk his finishing between her legs.

“Edward, promise me something.”

“My dearest Winnie, you may have whatever is within my ability to bestow.”

“Don’t spill yourself in me. I would have your vow before we go any further.”

He halted his deliberate thrusting, peering at her with fondness and another emotion—love, she wondered?—shining in his eyes. “I won’t. I swear it to you.”

His hips resumed their methodical work, and when her orgasm overwhelmed her, he withdrew and emptied himself on her stomach. The smells of sweat and sex permeated the air, and he held her till their skin cooled, then he slipped away and went into the next room. When he emerged, he was carrying a water pitcher and a bowl. He set them on a dresser, dipped a cloth and came to her, wiping away the stain of his seed.

Once more, he nestled with her, dragging the blankets over them both. She was spooned with him, his front curled around her so that she was encompassed by his warmth.

He yawned, and behind her ear, she could sense him smiling.

“I’m happy,” he murmured.

“I’m glad.”

“Stay with me.”

“For as long as I’m able.”

His respirations slowed, and he slept. She lay very still, cherishing the moment, memorizing each and every detail so that she would never forget.

What about tomorrow?

Try as she might to shove the question aside, it wouldn’t go away.

Where he was concerned, she had no willpower, and she’d be burning to consort with him whenever she had the opportunity. Theirs was an irrevocable, unavoidable attraction, and she’d betrayed Olivia this terrible, remarkable time, but she couldn’t do so again.

He’d made no mention of any tryst beyond this one, nor would she have expected him to, but she couldn’t bear to think of running into him while she was strolling the grounds or loitering on the verandah.

She had to travel on to London, as abruptly and quietly as a trip could be arranged. As she had no money with which to pay for the journey, she would have to confer with Margaret, which meant devising a subterfuge that would encourage her cousin to send her home.

She didn’t know what prevarication she would utilize, but she had the balance of the evening to reflect upon it.

Carefully, she crept off the bed and donned her robe. Her torn negligee was on the floor, and Satan himself must have been perched on her shoulder, for she wadded it up and tucked it next to him, partly hidden by
the pillows, but with enough sticking out so that he would notice it as soon as he awoke.

“A souvenir, my darling man,” she whispered with a last, yearning look. “Thank you for what you gave me this night.”

She tiptoed to the door, peeked out, and sneaked away.

Freddy Blaine sat at his desk and browsed through the stack of bills that had been delivered from London.

He hadn’t realized he’d spent so much during his visit to the city. He recalled purchasing a few sets of clothes, had bought a new horse, but the rest of it . . .

Well.

Cash disappeared so fast, and he had a deuce of a time holding on to it. While he didn’t feel he had extravagant tastes, it was so difficult to get by on the meager allowance granted by his oldest brother, Henry. Not that he could complain. In light of his sibling’s penny-pinching ways, it was a miracle he received any stipend at all, so he was in no position to gripe or protest.

If Henry were to have an inkling that Freddy wasn’t grateful, he was petty enough to cut off funding, so Freddy trod a fine line. He had to be fawning and obsequious to the whiny miser, feigning affection and goodwill, while privately he seethed and plotted.

Image mattered above all else, so he liked to be viewed as a gentleman of substance. He couldn’t have others looking down on him, gossiping, or thumbing their noses over his penury.

How he hated poverty!

It was the devil being the sixth son of a baronet. The ancestral estate was small and insignificant, and his irresponsible father had sired twelve children, nine of whom were boys. The three girls had succeeded in marrying,
while one brother had taken his vows and another was serving in the army. The other seven, but especially Freddy, insisted on support from the property, for they weren’t about to degrade themselves by engaging in pitiable, vulgar labor.

Freddy had his standards, and they were very high. Lamentably, they were also very expensive. Why, his brandy bill alone would bankrupt a less prosperous chap.

He sighed. What was he to do?

He couldn’t persist much longer. He was adept at shuffling his liabilities, at hiding his debts, and delaying monies owed, but some of the shopkeepers were tired of waiting for payment and were threatening legal action.

It was a miserable state of affairs when a commoner would dare menace an important person such as himself. To what was the world coming?

If any of the avaricious grubbers proceeded, he’d have to go begging to Henry, and further entreaty wasn’t an option.

After Freddy’s last imbroglio, Henry had declared that it was the final bailout, and Freddy was positive Henry had meant it. He still shuddered whenever he recollected the slamming shut of the jailhouse door in that wretched little town where he’d been philandering.

Freddy had a penchant for young girls, and given his inability to repress his base appetites, there had been numerous incidents over the years. After the worst of the lot—when he’d flirted with a duke’s ten-year-old daughter—Henry had banished him to the country, buying the property where he now resided, and telling him that he wasn’t fit for polite company, and thus couldn’t live among his peers.

No one knew of the repeated ignominies. Henry had been accursedly competent in ensuring that cash was
spread around to buy the silence of those who’d been wronged, so Freddy maintained an acceptable existence. He was welcome to hobnob with the gentry, was a regular guest at the Salisbury estate and others, was asked to hunt and dine and socialize.

When he could arrange it, he snuck to town, going against Henry’s explicit instructions that he not return, but a fellow had to update his wardrobe and fraternize with friends. And, of course, there were his bodily needs to consider.

He really had taken Henry’s warnings to heart—that if he continued, there would come a turpitude from which not even the king could rescue him—so he’d checked his rampant cravings as much as he was able. After all, a bloke couldn’t amuse himself in these rural hamlets where he was so easily recognized, so he deemed his forays into London to be preventive sexual medicine. He went about his dastardly business in relative anonymity, liberally slaking his desire, which kept it at a manageable level. Then, when he was back at home, he could carry on with his monotonous, staid pursuits.

What he required was a wife with a fortune. A large infusion of capital would provide independence from his brother’s purse strings. He’d settle his arrearages, and would have enough left over to frolic and gambol as he chose. There’d be no need to count every bloody farthing.

Sadly, he didn’t have any attributes that would attract an heiress. He wasn’t going to inherit a title, he had no assets—all of his realty being owned by Henry. If he had the slightest benefit to offer a rich woman, he’d have snagged one ages ago, but wealthy females had never beaten a path to his door.

Factor in his age—forty-three—and his bad habits—strong drink, gambling, and perversion—and he wasn’t much of a catch.