Cheryl Holt (29 page)

Barbara stared in shock, then started to laugh. Hard, then harder.

“Abigail Weston!” she hissed. So . . . the straitlaced, boring spinster had taken a lover.

Barbara thought of Abigail’s pompous, self-righteous brother, Jerald, with his prissy public manners and private sexual oddities. Of his wife, Margaret, with her holier-than-thou attitudes and preachy morals. Of the younger Weston sister, Caroline, the pristine little virgin who would make the grandest match of the year.

This was too good to be true!

Under all their lofty, exalted noses, Abigail was carrying on with the most despicable, deplorable of men. A thousand
questions flew into her mind: How had they met? How had they become involved? How had this dragged on?

Even as the queries rushed past, she shook them off. None of Abigail’s recent association with James mattered a whit. Only the future counted—the one she wouldn’t have with him, for Barbara wouldn’t permit some simpering noblewoman to ruin her chances.

What would Jerald and Margaret think once they discovered what was happening? And what would be the most delightful method of telling them?

She tapped on the roof, ready for home, where she could formulate Abigail’s downfall over a hot bath.

Abigail walked through the doors of the theater house, clutching Edward Stevens’s arm. The Saturday night crowd of patrons was so tightly packed into the small entrance that, if she let go, she was afraid they would become separated. Across the foyer, she could see the stairs leading up to the box seats, but being a petite person, she didn’t know if she could successfully maneuver the route by herself.

She glanced over her shoulder. Charles and Caroline had been right behind them, but already they were divided by a wall of people. Through several pairs of legs, she could just make out the pink flounce on her sister’s skirt. Charles was a responsible young man, however, so he’d escort Caroline safely through the crush, and they’d eventually be reunited, although Abigail could barely stand the thought of the coming sequestration in Edward’s box. She was desperate for some privacy!

Had it only been a few hours earlier that she’d been with James? The difference between that private encounter and this unrestricted public spectacle was so striking that she almost couldn’t believe the magical rendezvous had truly happened.

Yet it had, and she couldn’t find the temerity to be sorry. Such delirious joy was meant to be indulged. She ached to shout her rapture to the world, instead of ruminating in this stifling, suffocating stillness. If she didn’t soon give voice to her exhilaration, she just might shatter into a thousand tiny pieces.

Couldn’t everyone tell? How could they all gaze upon her and not perceive the changes?

Caroline had nearly stumbled upon her secret the prior morning, as Abigail had been reveling in the look and feel of the undergarments James had sent. Oh, how she’d been
dying to confess her relationship with James. She was no longer an unlovable woman, a spinster, a sister, a boring female with no distinguishable life of her own.

She had been created for one purpose and one purpose alone—to love James—and she didn’t want to think about anything else, or talk about anything else or do anything else but sit in her room and reminisce about the glories that had been unearthed in their hideaway.

When this last-minute invitation had arrived from Charles, asking them to attend the new play that was all the rage, how she’d yearned to stay at home. With all the excitement of a woman headed for the gallows, she’d primped and preened, preparing her person and calming her mind, but nothing could focus her on the evening of gregarious entertainment.

She had been with James! In every way imaginable, he had claimed her and taken her for his own! How could she be expected to perform these ludicrous civic functions when her entire life had been so completely disordered?

She could still smell him on her skin, taste him on her tongue, feel the whisper of his lips against her mouth, her breasts. Bruised and sore, she had scratches across her stomach, and nipples that were suckled raw, the tender skin inside her thighs abraded by his rough beard. Her cleft was in the worst condition, the delicate, virginal area having received James’s undivided, strenuous attention for untold numbers of couplings. With muscles cramped from all that arching and straining, several body parts cried out in agony whenever she stirred, reminding her, over and over again, of her wanton, decadent behavior.

How gratifying the experience had been! He’d incited her to the pinnacle of passion—with his hands, his tongue, his phallus—so perfectly, totally, and on so many occasions. Turning her and riding her, using, teaching, caring, he’d overwhelmed her with his body, his character, his adoration. The best episode had occurred early in the morning, when she’d wakened him slowly, toying with him and employing all the techniques he’d managed to impart. As
he’d finally entered her, she’d been painfully inflamed, and he’d moved languidly and sweetly, the emotion flaring between them so powerfully that they’d both had tears in their eyes at the conclusion.

What was she going to do?

She abhorred all these people who insisted on socializing! Their inane chatter was driving her mad! She’d like to snap her fingers and make them disappear so that she could be alone with her thoughts and memories.

Her mind drifted back to the current task—proceeding through the crowd—and they were temporarily stalled. A large man was blocking their path, and in order to move around him, Edward shifted them to the side. Where . . . they came face-to-face with James.

She inhaled sharply. In surprise. In joy. In fear.

He was immaculately attired in dress blacks, a snowy white shirt, with perfectly tied cravat. His hair had been swept off his forehead, leaving his stark beauty plain for all to witness. They stood so closely that her skirts tangled about his legs and shoes. She could behold the gold flecks in his eyes, a spot where he’d nicked himself shaving. There, just below his collar, was the edge of a bite mark she’d dispensed.

Her pulse was pounding, her breathing suddenly ragged. She’d never expected to meet him here! Like this!

Terrified by what he might say or do, she frantically searched for the proper method of handling the situation. Not by even the smallest hint of a smile could she give any indication that she knew him. She cast about for a solution, but her astonishment and panic were so great that she couldn’t find one.

At the same time, he was flashing her an angry stare, daring her to acknowledge their acquaintance, to tip her head, to endorse him in any slight fashion at all, but, coward that she was, she frankly couldn’t react. She responded as she’d been taught: She pasted a smooth expression of disinterest on her face, pretending indifference to the man in front of her.

He hesitated, offering her an extra chance. And an extra one after that. Waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting . . . for some tiny sign of recognition that didn’t appear.

Never more ashamed, she failed his test, remaining silent and serene at his father’s side, on his father’s arm, understanding how deeply she was hurting him, how piercing the wound, how dreadfully disgraceful her uncivil comportment.

She loved this man! But she could not, and would not, reveal her connection to him by so much as the flicker of an eyelash. Then and there, she wished that she would fall dead. That the heavens would open and suck her up. For surely her life had just ended.

James’s eyes widened minimally, with that lucid motion communicating his disappointment in her, his distress over her repudiation, the degradation he felt by her disavowal.

Quick as a heartbeat, his torment melded into fury, and he aimed it at his father.

Standing, they were of equal height, exact copies of one another. Handsome, influential, and dynamic, there was a strange current of energy flowing between them. Palpable dislike coming from James. Powerful affection coming from Edward.

“James . . .” Edward said pleasantly. “How nice to see you. What brings you out?”

“Since you never show your face at the Chelsey, I could ask you the same,” James replied. “Of course, you’d have no way of knowing. . . .”

“Knowing what?” Edward inquired, his interest in James evident.

“Mother is taking to the stage tonight.”

Abigail was certain she was the only one who could sense Edward’s reaction. A faint shudder traveled through his body, and his hand squeezed hers so tightly that she thought he might break bones, but other than that, he presented no outward sign that the news had had any effect. “How wonderful,” he said cordially. “I look forward to it. What role is she playing?”

“The lead. The regular actress fell ill, so Mother had to fill in.” James obviously relished how those closest were turning to eavesdrop on the juicy confrontation. “ ’Tis the part of the
wronged
woman. I’m sure you’ll be able to recognize her.”

Edward sighed, once, sadly—this was a tedious, ongoing argument—then he pulled himself together and beamed with approval. “She’ll be fabulous. As always.”

With an exceptionally malicious glare in Abigail’s direction, James rotated slightly, imparting a view she’d not previously enjoyed.

A woman accompanied him!

She was tall, dark-haired, clothed in a fabulous red gown that was low-cut to highlight her splendid bosom and slender waist. Regrettably, she was incredibly beautiful, but what had Abigail expected? The striking belle was exactly the sort Abigail conjectured James consorting with—whenever she could bear to dwell on such a depressing topic.

“Eddy”—James placed particular emphasis on the nickname, as though desiring that those around them be shocked by the salutation—“may I present my companion, Barbara Ritter, Lady Newton.”

The woman stepped forward to pay her respects to the earl, but not before pausing imperceptibly in front of Abigail to display a look of hatred so virulent that Abigail felt as if she’d been slapped. She actually jerked back as though contact had been made, but as the other woman said hello to Edward, she wore a lovely smile and was the absolute picture of pleasantry and decorum. The strange sensation of loathing passed, and Abigail wrote it off to the stress of the encounter.

Lady Newton graciously curtsied to Edward and demurely addressed him, sounding sweet and soft-spoken, but as she straightened, Abigail could perceive Edward’s distaste. He appeared to know her—or know
of
her—and he caustically assessed both her and James until his regard nearly reached the point of rudeness. Clearly, he was pondering his son, his conduct, his choice of associate, but he
was unable, just as Abigail was, to utter what he was really thinking.

“And who is your pretty
young
friend?” James inquired, showering Abigail with his livid gaze. “I had heard you were seeing someone. That wedding bells might be in your future. Is she to be my new
mum?”

“James!” Edward exclaimed, mortified and exasperated. He moved slightly, watching James out of the corner of his eye as though his willful son might do something rash if he wasn’t observed carefully. “I apologize, Abigail.”

“No apology is necessary, Lord Spencer.” Two bright spots of embarrassment colored her cheeks, and she opened her fan, hoping to cool herself, but there was no air left in the room. “But your colleague appears upset,” she added politely. “Perhaps it would help if we were introduced.”

“Yes,
Lord
Spencer,” James agreed, plainly taunting his father, his own cheeks marred scarlet, his eyes glittering with bitterness, “do let us be introduced.”

Edward took a long, slow breath. The entire world braced for his decision, and finally he said quietly to Abigail, “No, I’m sorry, dear. You may not be.”

Had there ever been a more vicious, more heinous cut direct made in all of history?

The earl’s statement rang like a death knell, killing all three of them. Edward sagged a little, some of the vitality flowing out of him. Abigail flinched as if she’d just been impaled with a sharp, hot knife. Her agony was bleeding from every pore, and the voyeuristic group surrounding her, packed elbow to elbow, was able to analyze her terrible sins as they coursed across the floor. Yet, horridly as she’d been run through and exposed, James’s injury was far worse.

Their outrageous behavior toward him was more than just a blow to his pride, although it had been forceful and apparent. Edward’s refusal to present him dug much deeper, shattering illusions, slaying dreams, ruining expectations, obliterating love. Finally and forever.

James! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry
, she longed to shout. But
still, to her undying shame, she said nothing. She did nothing.

He chuckled malevolently, expecting nothing more from either of them, and Abigail shivered with uneasiness at what the showdown would mean for him.

Wanting to exit the wretched scene, she cast about seeking escape, just as Charles and Caroline approached. Not aware of what was unfolding, they strode into the circle that encompassed James and his paramour. The onlookers, bent on determining how delectable the occasion would become, were more than happy to let them close.

“What is it?” Charles asked at witnessing the tense confrontation. His gaze roved and settled on James, and he stiffened as instant recognition dawned. “James . . .” He murmured the name and stared up at his older half-brother with something bordering on hero worship. Echoing the question Abigail had raised only moments earlier, he beseeched, “Father . . . may I be introduced?”

Horridly torn, Edward looked back and forth at his remarkable sons, then at Abigail and Caroline, but their innocent, eminent female presence precluded any family reconciliation. Edward simply daren’t proceed when James was such an inappropriate person for the two women to meet. A cataclysmic mien—a combination of ancient pain, grief, and disappointment—seemed to envelop Edward as he publicly denied his eldest son for the second time in a matter of minutes. “No, Charles, I’m sorry.”

“Father—” Charles started to protest, but Edward interrupted.