Cheryl Holt (23 page)

Meeting her, knowing her, fornicating with her, had altered something deep inside, had him pondering his beliefs and convictions.

Another staid, tepid match was pointless and unpalatable. He wanted what he’d shared with Winnie. Why couldn’t he have it? He was like a petulant child, denied his favorite toy. What was the benefit of his fortune, his status and power, if he couldn’t possess his heart’s desire?

Ever since he’d arisen, alone in his bed, to find her gone, and the minx having tucked her ruined negligee under his pillow, he hadn’t seen her, but that hadn’t prevented him from obsessing over her. He couldn’t get her out of his mind, and he kept flirting with the most dangerous question: What if?

What if he cast off precedent and tradition? What if he abandoned his search for an aristocratic bride, and married Winnie?

The thought was so outrageous and so reckless that it had been keeping him awake, causing him to pace in the dark of night. To throw off societal shackles and wed a female of her station was asinine, scandalous. It was like demanding he agree that the earth was square or the ocean yellow. Yet the idea had his pulse pounding, his hopes soaring.

Could he? What if?

It went against every tenet that had been drilled into him from birth. Bloodlines mattered above all else. Position and rank determined one’s path. No other option was available.

He couldn’t marry her, but he couldn’t conceive of how to forge on with a marriage to Olivia, either. In light of the uncontrollable ardor he harbored for Winnie, he saw naught but an interminable string of miserable social situations, with Winnie seated at his table, the two of them disconcerted and unspeaking.

The alternative was to make Winnie his mistress, and he tried to envision them sneaking around behind Olivia’s back, but he couldn’t imagine it. Winnie was too honorable, and he, himself, couldn’t bear the furor that would ensue if they were discovered.

Oh, he was a mess! Distraught. Confused. Frustrated by his pedigree, and where it deposited him in the dilemma.

If only he could chase the women away, invite Phillip to the house, and parley confidentially! Phillip had a keen insight into people and their conduct, and Edward would give anything to probe the boy’s opinions, but after their latest upset, Phillip would probably never debase himself by dining with Edward again. Edward
pined for a return to those pleasant, quiet meals. Phillip was bright, interesting, funny, sincere, trustworthy, the sort of fellow any man would be proud to call friend. Or son.

Edward couldn’t understand why they let so many trivial factors affect their relationship. Why couldn’t they just get along? Was the past destined to forever haunt them?

Phillip had finished with his task in the pasture and was stomping toward the spot where Edward waited. Shielding his trepidation, Edward watched him come. Their gazes locked, Phillip’s blue eyes dazzling in the sunshine, and he looked so much like his mother. Like Edward, himself. He was so athletic. So vigorous and lithe. So fine.

Phillip approached, his demeanor reflecting his anger, his stance combative, and he stopped so that they were toe to toe, though a gate separated them.

“What do you want?” he snapped, resigned to a quarrel.

Edward had been groomed to be a haughty, imperious individual, and his initial reaction was to utter an inane remark.

Instead, he surprised them both by admitting, “I miss having supper with you every night.”

“What?” Phillip was dumbfounded by the declaration, inferring he hadn’t heard correctly.

“I miss you,” he repeated, “and I hate it when we fight.”

“Hmm . . .” Phillip mused, at a loss for words.

“Could we chat?”

Phillip was hesitant, unsure. “I suppose.”

Edward opened the gate, not giving him a chance to demur, and he stepped through. There was a gauche moment as they frowned at each other, both wondering what to say.

There were so many issues between them that remained unaddressed and unresolved, and it suddenly seemed vital to Edward that he discuss what had been vexing him. He was suffering from the strangest impression that he might not have many more opportunities.

“I haven’t been much of a father to you, and I apologize.”

Shocked, Phillip’s brows rose, and he grumbled, “You’ve been good enough.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Edward said, chuckling, “or spare my feelings.”

“Well . . .” Phillip shrugged and, for some reason, blushed.

“I was horrid. To your mother. To you and your sister.” He gawked up at the sky, unable to abide his son’s piercing regard. “I didn’t mean to be. I just . . . just . . .”

How to explain and justify a lifetime of poor decisions and neglect? There was no adroit way. “I wish we could be friends.”

“It’s difficult,” Phillip allowed.

“I know.” He wandered toward the garden. There was an isolated footpath a few feet away, and he gestured toward it, anticipating it would be easier to talk to Phillip without staring at him. “Will you walk with me?”

“You’re the boss.”

“Don’t be like that.”

Edward placed his hand on Phillip’s shoulder, urging him forward, and it occurred to him that it was the first occasion where he’d touched his son since Phillip had been a rambunctious toddler. Not even when he’d arrived home from Spain, bandaged and on crutches, had Edward touched him. On deducing that Phillip was hale and would recover, Edward had been weak with relief, but he hadn’t possessed the temerity to march over and hug him.

The realization shamed and saddened him, inducing him to once again rue and regret.

Why did he insist on maintaining such distance? What purpose was served in keeping Phillip at arm’s length?

“I never should have asked you to hide while my guests are here.”

“I’ll survive.”

Edward glanced to the side, and Phillip was smiling. An auspicious beginning.

“Join us for supper tonight,” he pronounced, without having fathomed he would express the suggestion, “so that I can introduce you.”

“You might give them a collective fit of the vapors.”

“Let them swoon.”

Phillip scowled, studying him. “Are you going daft on me?”

“Is that what you think is happening? I’ve tipped off my rocker?”

“Yes.” Phillip chuckled. “I’ll forgo your invitation. I’m not ready to
dine
with the ladies Hopkins.”

“Well then, after they’re gone, we’ll start eating together—as we did before. And I want you to reconsider moving into the manor.”

“What if you marry?”

“What if I do?” he shot off.

“How would your wife deal with our living arrangement?”

“It’s a bloody big house,” he muttered. “She’d just have to adapt.”

Phillip scrutinized him as if he’d lost his mind. Perhaps he had. They strolled, bound for nowhere in particular, when he inquired, “What’s your sister like?”

“Kind, pretty, hardworking. Why?”

“What would she do if I traveled to Bath and knocked on her door?”

“Slam it in your face.”

“She loathes me that much?”

Phillip halted, flushed. “Sorry. I didn’t intend it to sound so harsh.”

“It’s quite all right,” Edward maintained. “I’ve earned her disfavor. It hurts to hear of it, but it’s warranted.” A brilliant thought occurred to him. “Would you go with me? To Bath? You could be the conciliator and smooth over our reunion.”

Phillip assessed him. “Are you ill?”

“I’ve never been better.” Which wasn’t true. With each passing day, he was more troubled by the past, more repentant over his actions, while fretting and stewing over the future and where he wanted to go. The portions that constituted the man he knew as himself seemed to have been jumbled, like puzzle pieces shaken in a box, until they didn’t fit, or some of them were missing.

They rounded a corner, and the flash of a burgundy dress caught his attention. It was Winnie, ambling slowly. Her back was to them, so she didn’t see him, and he was able to examine her without her being aware. His heart leapt with delight and something else, something potent and indefinable, that terrified him.

Was it love?

He scoffed at his whimsy. As if he, at age forty-five, would finally fall in love! Especially with a commoner, a spinster, who had a sordid history about which she refused to speak. He was an earl, a peer of the realm, a lauded, distinguished aristocrat. She was . . . was . . .

He couldn’t describe what she
was
, but the notion that he might be in love with her was hilarious and ludicrous, and he discarded it.

Upon espying her, Phillip recognized her as a member of the Hopkins party, and nervously, he paused. His unease spurred Edward to new heights of folly.

“Winnie,” he called softly, and he was instantly desperate to have her know his only boy.

She stopped in her tracks, her ear cocked as if baffled by his voice. Timid as a doe before the hunter’s gun, she whirled around, and she was awash with frantic emotions: giddy joy, chagrin, fear, bewilderment.

He yearned to take her in his arms and console her. They had a connection that couldn’t be denied, yet she was glowering at him as if he were Doom descending. Why had she avoided him since that glorious evening of erotic bliss? It had been spectacular, amazing, magnificent, and he would do it again in a thrice if she gave the smallest indication that she was interested.

“Winnie, I’m so glad you’re here.” He advanced on her. “There’s someone I’ve been wanting you to meet.”

Trapped, she gaped down the path as though gauging whether he could catch her if she ran, but her exemplary manners won out. She fell into a full curtsy that, in view of their intimate acquaintance, embarrassed him.

“Lord Salisbury.” She was subservient, shoulders bowed, her focus glued to the ground.

“Get up, now,” he chided, helping her to rise, but she wouldn’t look at him, and that perplexed him. When she was balanced on her feet, and propriety demanded that he drop her hand, he kept it, tucking it into the crook of his arm as if they were bosom companions.

“Phillip, may I present Miss Winifred Stewart, Lady Olivia’s cousin from London.”

“How do you do, Miss Stewart,” Phillip replied.

“Actually, I’m the countess’s cousin,” she corrected. “Olivia and I are no relation at all.”

“Of course. My mistake,” Edward said. “Winnie, Phillip is my son, and my stablemaster. He’s a veritable genius with horses. I told you about him.”

“Yes, you did.” Positioned between the two of them,
she was a tiny thing, and she appraised Phillip as if he were an extraordinary painting of which she needed to glean every detail. Then she glanced at Edward, peeking out from under the rim of her bonnet, her splendid hazel eyes disturbed and wounded. “He’s a marvelous boy, Edward. You’re so very lucky to have him.”

“Aren’t I, though?” At the admission, he was tickled to note how Phillip started in astonishment. He smiled and squeezed her fingers, and a silence developed that was the most jarring he’d ever endured.

“It was very nice to meet you”—she hesitated—“is it Mr. Paxton?”

“Yes,” Phillip said, “but you may call me Phillip if you like.”

“I will. Good day, Phillip. Lord Salisbury.” She nodded, then she tugged her hand free and flitted away so fast that it seemed as if she’d never been there.

He stared at the spot where she’d disappeared around the hedges, then he turned to Phillip. His shrewd son had detected the swirling undercurrents. He was curious, enthralled, a thousand questions perched on the tip of his tongue.

“What the hell was that about?” Phillip queried.

“I couldn’t begin to explain,” Edward remarked, sighing. “If I asked you about women,” he posed, “could you enlighten me as to how they think?”

“No, absolutely not. I haven’t the slightest idea what goes on in their heads.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

Phillip evaluated him. “Are you in love with that woman?”

“In love? With Miss Stewart? How preposterous.” He laughed as if he hardly knew her, as if Phillip’s intimation was absurd, and—he was positive—he’d damned
himself to hell in the process. He sighed once more. “Would you excuse me?”

“Certainly.”

“We’ll talk later.”

“Whenever you wish,” Phillip acceded.

Edward strode off, but Phillip’s inquisitive gaze cut into his back, and it was a relief when he slid around the corner and out of sight.

He couldn’t see Winnie, but she’d been proceeding toward the house, so he went in the same direction. As he neared, he glimpsed her slipping through the door on the verandah, which would convey her to the main hall and up the stairs to her room.

He increased his speed, not sure of what he was doing, but with each stride, his resolve grew. He was angry with her, tired of her hiding, weary of her pretending that nothing had transpired between them. His feelings for her were the sole exceptional, intriguing thing that had happened to him in ages, and he wasn’t about to tolerate further evasion.

The Hopkins family was scheduled to stay for another ten days, and by God, he would spend some of that time with Winnie—whether she liked it or no!

He fairly raced up the steps and into the manor. A few servants were scattered about, but his rapid pace guaranteed that none detained him. As he reached the staircase, he rushed to the upper floors where the bedchambers were located.

Hers was down the opposite hall from his, and for the briefest second, he halted outside her door to satisfy himself that no one was watching, then cocky as a rooster, middle of the morning, he sauntered in.

She was by the window, having just poured herself a stout glass of red wine, and she was grasping it with
both hands to control their shaking. At his unannounced, inappropriate entrance, she paused in mid-sip.

“Go away!” she quietly ordered, woefully adding, “Please.”

In response, he spun around and rotated the key in the lock, sealing them in. “No.”

“I don’t want this,” she contended. “I don’t want you.”

“What you want, or don’t, has ceased to matter to me.”

In a fine temper, he stomped across the space separating them, grabbing her wine and partaking of a healthy swig. She stood her ground, furious herself, accusing, reproaching.