Cheryl Holt (35 page)

Sarcastic, mocking, the proposal was packed with rancor and bitterness, and his wrath inundated her.

Any other woman would likely have discounted his temporary peevishness, would have swooned with giddy delight, so she was convinced that he’d driven her a bit mad, but she could conceive of no worse punishment, no more disastrous eventuality, than to marry John Clayton.

Quietly, she stated, “No. I never would.”

Shrinking away from her, he shuddered as though she’d rendered a hard blow, her rejection stabbing him like the sharpest blade, and she was so confused. His offer hadn’t been genuine, and he should have been ecstatic to have had it tossed in his face.

He was a man of town, a confirmed bachelor and libertine with exorbitant, exotic tastes, and he would never tie himself to a woman as modest and unpretentious as herself. Why would he be distraught?

Then, as rapidly as she’d noticed his vehement reaction, it was scrupulously masked, his usual mien of bored disdain once again shielding his aristocratic features. He smirked as though he’d anticipated nothing better, and he sauntered out, proceeding to the main bedroom and seating himself in a chair by the window.

Shaken and disturbed by the horrid exchange, she was shattered that these antagonistic remarks would be the last they ever uttered to one another.

Slowly, she adjusted her apparel, dawdling to regain her composure, then she went to the bedchamber. He was engrossed in his paperwork and completely ignoring her. She scrutinized him, aware that she would never have a subsequent opportunity.

Ultimately, he glanced up at her, and he seemed surprised, as though he’d forgotten she was on the premises. Their gazes locked and held, a thousand sentiments flaring between them that couldn’t be voiced aloud.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“For what?”

“For giving me this chance to spend time with you. I’ll treasure the memories.” She paused for an eternity, but he didn’t tender a similar observation. Resigned, devastated, she whirled away, when he spoke to her back.

“I’m sorry if I’ve left you in a predicament. I never meant to. If there’s a babe, write to me.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Why?” he barked tumultuously. “You know I’d help you!”

“Yes, I’m sure you would”—she peered at him over her shoulder—“but then, I’d constantly suffer from the knowledge that my child and I were nothing but a monthly expenditure you were required to pay in order to cover one of your mistakes.”

He sighed, the weight of the world heavy on his shoulders, the agony in his eyes excruciating to bear. “It wouldn’t be like that.”

“It would be exactly like that.” Unable to abide further barbs, she sneaked to the door and peeked into the corridor, relieved that it was empty, and she started out.

“Damn you!” he bellowed to her retreating form. “Write to me! Let me know!”

“Yes, yes, I will,” she agreed, wanting only to be away, and she ran out without looking back.

J
OHN
gazed blindly at the passing London streets, but he had no energy to peruse the scenery. The August day was balmy, the lawns in his Mayfair neighborhood immaculately trimmed, the flowers in riotous bloom, but he hardly noticed. He dropped the curtain and leaned against the squab.

In minutes, he’d arrive at the town house, a moment that had plagued him for the entire journey, and he quashed his feelings of dread. There was no reason to lament his being back in London. Neither would he continue chastising himself over what had happened with Emma. It was too late to mitigate or rectify his impetuous conduct.

She was too precious for him to have endangered her welfare, to have hurt or abused her in the slightest fashion, so he couldn’t fathom why he’d forged on and spilled his seed inside her.

With a monstrous disregard for her and himself, he’d proceeded, after vowing to her that he wouldn’t. The sole rationale he could devise—and how inadequate!—was that he’d been disturbed over his imminent split with her, perceiving that it would be painful and hating that he couldn’t satisfactorily alter the outcome. When they’d finally made love, it had been so amazing to be inside her that he’d behaved like an ass.

She was correct in her accusation that he’d comported himself like a callow boy, impulsively progressing,
heedless to the consequences, and in an isolated part of him, he was ecstatic that he had. Madly, he hoped she
would
become pregnant. That he’d branded her as his own by planting his child. It was a feral, primal instinct, and from where it had sprung, he couldn’t imagine.

While he’d always believed he couldn’t sire a child, Emma was prudent to be alarmed. He’d imperiled them both and, when confronted by her outrage, he hadn’t extended the merest hint that he’d provide recompense.

His lone suggestion as to reparation had been to make her his mistress! Emma! Whom he deemed to be so unique, so fine. How could he have insulted her so terribly? When he’d raised the possibility, he’d been upset, fatigued, and not thinking clearly, but they were sorry excuses.

He hadn’t wanted her for his mistress. And he definitely hadn’t wanted to marry her! He’d be a pathetic husband, and he would never saddle such an extraordinary woman with having to perpetually endure his despicable presence.

So what had he intended? What had he anticipated? What result had he planned to effect?

A thousand questions swirled by. What if he had impregnated her? What if—at this very instant—she was increasing with his son? What would she do? What should
he
do? How could he make any of this right? The frantic ruminations had him dizzy with their loud, vehement repetition of the prospects for disaster, and he shoved them away.

He absolutely would not reflect on calamity! Ever since she’d left his bedchamber in a huff, he’d been stewing and fretting. Throughout the trip from Wake-field, remorse and regret had been dragging along behind
like a couple of weights wrapped around his neck, until he felt as if they were choking him.

He was glad to be home! He wouldn’t pretend otherwise!

Though he’d bungled the attempt, he’d endeavored to mend his gaffe. He’d offered to marry her, which was a boon any single lady in England would have latched on to in a thrice, yet she’d refused him. Yes, he’d been angry and confused when he’d tendered the proposal, but still, he’d made it, and she’d sensibly spurned him.

She understood, as did he, that he was
not
the man for her.

Their relationship was concluded. She’d been naught but a fling, a fleeting, tantalizing amour that had been engaging and amusing, a delicious method for relieving the monotony while he’d been stuck in the country, but she’d been no more than that.

It was done! Over! Finished!

If an inner voice kept prodding him to remember how much he’d liked her, how much he’d cherished her company and had valued her opinion, he didn’t have to listen. He could control his despondency! He was away from the ennui and tedium that had driven him into her arms. All of London was, once again, available for his enjoyment and delectation, and he was resolved to indulge in every dissolute, wicked distraction he could find.

Beginning immediately!

Before the week was out, Emma Fitzgerald would be but an unpleasant memory. In a few months, if he immersed himself in his regular array of tawdry pursuits, he wouldn’t recall her at all, wouldn’t be able to conjure up a recollection of her pretty smile, or her fabulous brown eyes.

She’d be vanquished from his store of reminiscence. And good riddance!

The carriage rattled to a stop in front of the house, and he tarried while the coachmen fussed with the step and readied the door. He alighted, and stood, staring up at his imposing, empty residence. Rutherford had traveled in advance, so the servants would be arranged to accommodate his every whim, but he was in no hurry to enter.

Dawdling, he watched as the luggage was unloaded, then there was nothing to do but march to the threshold. Almost on cue, Rutherford greeted him with an obsequious bow.

He loitered in the foyer, looking around. As he hated to be fawned over, Rutherford had ensured that the staff was conspicuously absent, and it seemed they were the only two in the big mansion.

“Has Master Ian vacated the premises?” he asked impassively.

“Aye, milord. His possessions were gone when I returned.”

John sighed. “Did he leave a note? Or information as to where he’ll be staying?”

“No, sir.” The retainer feigned indifference, when curiosity had to be gnawing at him. Every gossipmonger in the city would be dying to ascertain the particulars, but no one would ever learn any details from John.

Let them speculate to infinity!

He glared at the walls, at the expensive chattels scattered down the lengthy corridor, and he considered going upstairs, maybe ordering a bath and supper, but the hallway to his bedchamber led to Ian’s rooms, too, and he couldn’t bear to walk past and see for himself that his brother’s things had been removed.

Suddenly needing to be away, he spun around and
went outside, calling to the driver who was about to take the carriage to the mews, and notifying him to wait.

“Prepare me for another trip, Rutherford,” he said. “In a day or two, I’d like to depart for my tour of the Yorkshire properties. I want to handle my business and be home before autumn wanes.”

“As you wish, Lord Wakefield.”

“For now, I’m off to Georgina’s.”

Rutherford’s stoic aplomb tottered, and he grimaced, but he quickly recovered, effectively masking his dislike. He snapped to attention, hoping his employer hadn’t discerned his lapse.

John approached, studying him, tickled that he’d goaded Rutherford into a response. If the man was bothered enough to betray an attitude, John wanted to know why. “Do you have some problem with my visiting Miss Howard?”

“No, milord.” He gulped. “None at all, but what if—”

He couldn’t complete the inquiry, so John probed, “
What if
. . . what?”

“What if we were to hear from Miss Fitzgerald? What would we tell her?”

So . . . Rutherford was thinking of Emma, was he? John presumed that they’d been discreet, but not all secrets could be kept. Had Rutherford kept his suspicions to himself, or—more likely—had he blabbed them hither and yon? Well, John wasn’t about to fuel any untoward rumors or indecorous conjecturing.

“Are you referring to that vicar’s daughter at Wake-field?” He affected no knowledge or connection and—he was convinced—had damned himself to hell in the process. “Why on earth might I be contacted by that irritating piece of baggage?”

Rutherford’s disgust and disappointment were obvious.
Scathingly, he scrutinized his employer, then murmured, “No reason, I suppose.”

“I should say not,” John blustered.

Bravely, Rutherford added, “I’d rather come to like her bold style, sir.”

Faking apathy, John shrugged and insisted, “I didn’t spend enough time with her to distinguish what she was like.”

He glanced away, unable to abide Rutherford’s blatant condemnation, and he briskly strode out and climbed into the carriage without a word of farewell. His tired driver whisked him away, and soon, he was parked at Georgina’s.

Although he was welcome at any hour, he tried to be solicitous and warn her in advance when he’d show up. She didn’t know he was in town, so he was being rude, but he didn’t care. He was in a reckless mood, and he was desperate to do something negligent, something rash, to bury himself in licentious activity until he was oblivious, until his heart and mind were at rest. He would achieve some peace!

The door was locked, and he didn’t knock, using his key and admitting himself. There were no servants about, but he recognized Georgina’s sultry laugh wafting down from her sitting room. As she hadn’t been expecting him, he could vividly envision what sort of merriment he’d stumble upon.

He ascended the stairs, to the messy salon and the two women who occupied it.

Georgina and her sister, Gwenda, were sprawled on the couches, lounging in brightly colored robes, their hair down, their feet bare. Georgina’s robe was tightly cinched, but her sister’s was loose, one of her breasts exposed, a thigh enticingly curled on the sofa cushions.

Evidently, they’d been wallowing in their favorite
naughty habits: swilling and smoking. An exotic pipe lay next to a brandy decanter, and the air was hazy and thick with the pungent smell of opium.

It was a depraved, sordid scene, the kind he typically embraced with enthusiasm, but for once, he experienced no charge of excitement. In fact, he was quite revolted, but he tamped down his repugnance, declining to feel any emotion over what he was about to do.

“Hello, Georgina.” He leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded over his chest.

“Wakefield!” She leapt up, but the rapid movement pitched her off balance, and she gripped the couch to steady herself.

Her dismay over his unannounced appearance was palpable. Plainly, she wasn’t in any condition to entertain him, but she speedily composed herself, pasting a bland smile on her face, and simulating an acceptable pretense of gaiety. “How nice to see you. When did you get home?”

“Just now.” He sauntered in as though he owned the bloody place—which he did—and irrationally, he suffered a letdown at her listless, insincere salutation. A likeness of Emma burst into his head. Invariably, she’d been jovial, animated, and genuinely happy to be with him, and he squelched the annoying image.

Georgina was paid, and paid handsomely, to attend him. Affection had never played a role in their association, and he would never have wanted her to exhibit false fondness. He was acting like an unsophisticated dunce!

Gracefully, she gestured to the other couch. “You remember my sister, Gwenda?”

“Of course.”

“Lord Wakefield.” Gwenda nodded, a hand slithering to her waist and slackening her belt, the lapels of
her robe toppling away to reveal more of her nude center.

Lush, voluptuous, alluring, they were a beautiful pair, a daring, adventurous duo who were game for any diversion, but oddly, he felt no tingle of desire. For a brief instant, he was tempted to flee, to abandon them to their deviant routine, and to forgo the pending carnal feast, but as swiftly as the absurd sentiment took shape, he scoffed.