Cheryl Holt

S
HE WANTED ONLY TO LEARN
. . .

“I will go to great lengths to ensure that no one discovers we have met. However”—James sipped his drink pensively—“should our liaison be exposed, it will cause quite a scandal.”

“I’m aware of that fact.”

“If the worst should happen, I will make no move to save your reputation. I will fight no duels in your honor. I will not marry you. I will do nothing.”

“I understand.” Abigail nodded firmly. “I am a woman full grown. As this has been at my instigation, I would expect no reparations from you.”

“Then, we are agreed?”

“We are agreed,” she repeated, standing, and he towered over her so closely that she could have reached out and laid her palms on his broad chest. She liked having him here, liked being shamefully alone with him, liked smelling him and seeing the way he caressed her with his eyes. They roved brazenly, across her face, her breasts, her stomach. She should have been uneasy with his bold regard, but she wasn’t. There was approval in his assessment that made her feel feminine and beautiful.

“Well, then . . . are you ready to begin?”

Her heart pounding, her skin heating, she squirmed with anticipation. “Yes, I’m ready.”

In all actuality, she felt as if she’d been
ready
her entire life.

“Arranged marriages have a way of working out as Ms. Holt proves in this emotional debut romance. Jane couldn’t have a better teacher in the art of love than Phillip and each learns to meet the emotional as well as physical needs of one another.”

—
Romantic Times
on
The Way of the Heart

St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by
CHERYL HOLT

SECRET FANTASY

TOO WICKED TO WED

TOO TEMPTING TO TOUCH

TOO HOT TO HANDLE

FURTHER THAN PASSION

MORE THAN SEDUCTION

DEEPER THAN DESIRE

COMPLETE ABANDON

ABSOLUTE PLEASURE

TOTAL SURRENDER

LOVE LESSONS

LOVE LESSONS

Copyright © 2001 by Cheryl Holt.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

ISBN: 0-312-97840-5
EAN: 978-0312-97840-2

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / October 2001

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

15   14   13   12   11   10   9   8

L
ONDON
, 1812

James Stevens entered his office and closed the door with a soft click. He didn’t bother to lock it. His staff was well trained, and none would dare enter while he conducted the coming interview. Not because they feared his wrath if they interrupted, but because not a single one of them could bear to witness what they uneasily called the
pleading
session that he was about to endure. The meetings were always distasteful, but he’d learned early on that the encounters were just one of the more unpleasant facets to owning a gambling establishment.

The woman waiting for him in the small room hadn’t bothered to sit or help herself to the tea tray his servant had left for her. As with nearly all the others who had come before her, she was too distracted to enjoy the comfort offered by food or drink. She had remained by the window, staring out at the busy, cobbled street, her eyes looking at, but not really seeing, the multitudes of people and carriages passing by. The stiff set of her shoulders gave evidence of her resolve.

The dreary March rain drummed softly against the window, the gray sky shadowing her figure in interesting ways. Upon arriving, she’d relinquished her cloak, so he was able to study her openly, his eyes taking in every curve and valley accented by the cut of her expensive dark blue gown. It was a simple dress—one that she had probably spent hours selecting before deciding it was befitting of the occasion—but the excellent tailoring told him she led a life of incomprehensible affluence and privilege.

She was short, the top of her head just reaching his shoulders, and she was more thin than he typically liked
his women to be. But, very likely, stress over her current life circumstance had caused a recent loss of weight. Her waist was tiny; he probably could have fit his hands around it, so tightly laced was her corset. The rest of her shapely torso was hidden by the curve of her skirt, but he’d always had a vivid imagination. With ease, he could visualize the flare of her hips, her long, long legs, her dainty feet.

Narrowing his eyes, he studied the back of her head, wondering as to the color of her hair. Most of it was hidden by her hat, but one perfect ringlet dangled free. It was blond, which made him think her eyes would be blue. A hint of bare skin about her neck showed it to be pale and creamy, the kind possessed by only the richest ladies who could afford the expensive creams and powders necessary to keep it smooth and young-looking. A delicate rosescented perfume, French from the smell of it, wafted across the room and tickled his male senses.

From the feather in her hat, to the fabric of her gown, to the soft leather slippers on her feet, she was the absolute picture of English wealth and nobility.

Her gloved fingers distractedly worked her reticule, hideous scenes, no doubt, playing through her mind. Scenes of ruin, of poverty, of disgrace. Of no roof over her head, and no food for her children. Of the loss of her entire way of life.

She had to be terribly frightened, but as with all the other English ladies whom he’d met over the years, she was simply too well bred to display any sign of the strong emotion that had to be lingering just below the surface. Besides, if he’d learned anything from these heart-wrenching dialogues, it was that the women with whom he spoke had barely an inkling of what was truly coming. Her lack of agitation was presumably caused by her inability to rationally grasp the seriousness of her situation.

Invariably, she could foresee all sorts of horrors lurking just around the next bend, but the fates over which she postulated were still just possibilities. Her fear wasn’t evident, because she still refused to believe that the worst
could truly happen. In her world, bad things never did.

He could hardly blame her; he could hardly blame any of them. They were all positively certain that, whatever ghastly sin their wayward husbands had committed, it could be absolved by rational discussion, and if not by talking, then by other means. Nauseating as it sounded, he almost enjoyed seeing to what lengths his visitors would go to safeguard their domains.

All manner of bribes had been flashed before his eyes: cash, jewelry, the family silver, priceless works of art. Whatever the women possessed, they were prepared to offer in exchange for keeping their existences secure. Those who were most frantic always ended up offering themselves. When the meetings fell to that level, he wished he’d taken his father’s advice and bought himself a commission in the army.

How desperate was the woman standing across the room? Who was her husband and what had he gambled away? Their estate? All their funds? Their children’s inheritances? What would it be worth to her to stave off the future that was winging toward her like a runaway carriage? What humiliating act would she be willing to perform in her misguided attempts to save herself and her family?

How he hated this!

When the encounters ended, he was always so upset that his brother, Michael, insisted he should stop seeing the women who came begging for help. But James couldn’t turn them away without letting them say their piece. Although he’d never been an admirer of the type of gently reared females who called, he couldn’t help appreciating the bit of pluck they exhibited by daring all in a futile attempt to fix their predicaments.

It took such courage for them to come, in their anonymous rented hansom cabs. They knocked softly at the servants’ entrance, dressed in their discreet clothing, their veiled hats, as they made their polite requests for an audience. Just showing up unescorted in his neighborhood, where a lady of Quality had no business being, was evidence
of their determination. He felt an obligation to talk with them, and he’d managed to convince himself that he was doing them a service.

Few of them had an accurate understanding of the realities of their situations. Typically, they had no control over their lives. They’d been so sheltered by fathers, brothers, and spouses that they had no idea about the value of money, where it came from, where it went. They truly believed that they could repair the damage done by their male relatives.

If nothing else of substance occurred during the heart-wrenching discussions, he was usually able to open their eyes to the true state of their dilemmas. While not an intentionally cruel person, he nevertheless exhibited a ruthless bearing in dealing with his guests. He was not kind, he was not patient, but he couldn’t afford to be. There was nothing he could do for any of them, and they needed to realize that fact. Because of his behavior at times such as these, he’d earned a reputation as a brutal, hard man.

He wasn’t, but he couldn’t show any weakness, lest the despairing women go away mistakenly believing that rescue was feasible. They all had to begin preparing for the approaching calamity. If he scared them into confronting their dire plights, then he’d succeeded in his efforts.

“Good afternoon, madam,” he said. He didn’t intend to ask her name. At this stage, they rarely gave it truthfully. Obviously, she wasn’t aware that he’d entered, and she swung around at hearing his greeting. “I am James Stevens. I was told you would like to speak with me.”

“Hello, Mr. Stevens. Thank you for agreeing.”

Her voice sounded low and husky, intimate, as though she’d just whispered something deliciously erotic. Its timbre conjured intense images of a hot room, sweat-soaked torsos, stained sheets, the smell of sex heavy in the air.

His attention was immediately captured by her breasts; he couldn’t help noticing. Even though her dress was modestly designed, the neckline was cut low in the current fashion, her corset raising and pushing, until he was presented
with an arresting view of tempting flesh. The flawless mounds were full and rounded, and strained against her bodice as though wanting to spill themselves out for his perusal. He could imagine them filling his hands, her skin warm against his own, her rose-colored nipples hard and elongated and pressing against his palms.