Cheryl Holt (28 page)

“I’ve tried my best to plumb your depths.” He flexed, still erect and wanting her again.

“I’ve definitely been
plumbed
.” She giggled and stretched. The clock on the mantle indicated the hour was nearing eleven. Her maids were kind; they hadn’t interrupted. “What a wanton I’ve grown to be. I could adapt to this life as a slugabed.”

“You’re a fast learner.”

“I’ve been observing you.”

Chuckling, he pulled out and slid off so that he was lying beside her, and immediately, she sat up, her dawdling over. He thought about coaxing her to forgo her chores, but she
wouldn’t. She was always busy, always productive. He’d never known anyone who charged on with such boundless determination.

Shuffling about, she dressed herself as he watched. She was so at ease with her nudity, with his presence. It was as if they were an old married couple, who’d performed this ritual a thousand times previously.

Her garments were functional, so she didn’t need a fancy lady’s maid, and it afforded him an extra privacy he treasured. There couldn’t be a husband and wife alive who generated the intimacy he’d found with her, and he’d never achieved anything comparable with his prior paramours.

She let him fuss with her hair, having him brush the lengthy strands, braid it, then hold it while she secured it with combs. It was his favorite part of the morning, and he was saddened with how it flew by.

Much too soon, she was prepared to go about her business, which would leave him isolated and feeling sorry for himself. He was sufficiently restored that he could meander downstairs, could occupy the front parlor, but he never did. He was uncomfortable around her employees, chiefly Miss Kate, and he couldn’t figure out what he should say to them, or how he should deport himself.

They respected Anne, even after his reprehensible behavior toward her, yet they were polite to him, and hadn’t judged her too harshly. Around them, he felt like a cad of the highest order, so he hid in her bedchamber like the coward he was, though he wouldn’t be bored.

Kate had fashioned some weights for him, and he had bending exercises to accomplish, so there were plenty of projects with which to engross himself, but he’d be lonely. In between chores, he’d sit in a chair by the window and, like a lost puppy, would stare out at the yard, hoping to catch glimpses of Anne as she walked by.

“I’ll send up some breakfast,” she said.

“I’m starving.” He gave her a lascivious grin. “I seem to have worked up an appetite.”

“Lecher.”

“And celebrating every moment of my excess.” He lay on the pillows. “Will you eat with me?”

“No. I’ve lagged too long already, and if I return, I’ll never escape your wicked clutches.”

“I should be so lucky!”

A maid knocked, and Anne peeked out the door. After a whispered conversation, she had surprising news. “Your friend, Charles Hughes, is here. He’d like to speak with you, if you’re up to it.”

Charles? Fleetingly, he worried. Was everyone all right at home? “Has my sister come with him?”

“He’s by himself.”

Which increased his anxiety. “Tell him I’ll be down.”

“I’ll entertain him, so don’t rush. Will you need help with your clothes?”

“Be my guest.” He held out his arms in naughty invitation, but she ignored him and stomped out, muttering about insatiable appetites and extravagent scoundrels.

Many minutes later, he strolled into the salon, pleased that he’d managed on his own. Anne was nowhere to be seen, and the servants were absent, but Charles had been well tended and was snacking from a tray of goodies.

Charles stood and scrutinized him from top to bottom. “Last I saw you, you looked like an old man. Where’s your wheeled chair?”

“I don’t need it.”

“That’s grand, Captain. Just grand.”

“Where’s Mrs. Smythe?” he inquired.

“Introduced herself, ensured I was fed, then scurried out. I think I intimidate her.”

“You alarm most everyone who crosses your path. I’m beginning to suspect that you do it deliberately.”

“Perhaps.” He smiled, a rare sight. “You’re exceptionally hale.”

“Mrs. Smythe’s skill as a healer is unequaled. What was your opinion of her?”

“She’s different than I imagined. Much younger. Much
prettier
. I’d envisioned an elderly crone.”

“She’s hardly that.”

“No, she isn’t.” Charles scowled. “I’m developing a new theory as to why you’ve remained here.”

“What do you mean?” But he had the answer to his own question. Who could relinquish gorgeous, appealing Anne?

“Will you marry her?”

He sputtered, fumbled about, tried to appear shocked. “Marry . . . Mrs. Smythe?”

“Yes. Or is it just for sport?”

His cheeks flushed, and the temperature in the room felt too hot. Was he so obvious in what he’d been doing? He’d thought himself careful, discreet, and he couldn’t fathom how Charles had guessed, but then, Charles was more astute than others. If there was a secret to ferret out, he was the person who could, and now that Stephen’s antics had been exposed, he couldn’t decide how to justify his misdeeds. They were both adults, so there was no point in denying what Charles had deduced, yet how to account for the unaccountable?

His affair with Anne wasn’t a trivial gambol, and he wasn’t the type who would capriciously ruin her. At least, he hadn’t been before his wounding. Since then, his demeanor and mental processes had been so disjointed, he’d been so unlike his prior self, that it was difficult to predict how he might or might not act. Plus, his sojourn at her farm hadn’t seemed real, had been so separate from his other life,
that it was easy to pretend the rules of civilized behavior didn’t apply.

Where was the harm if they were cavorting like newlyweds? If it was make-believe, codes of conduct were abolished.

Weren’t they?

How he hated to have Charles intruding into the fantasy world he’d built!

“She’s a widow,” he inadequately maintained.

“So? She’s not a strumpet, so I have to admit that I’m flabbergasted.”

The admonishment stung. He and Charles were friends, but so much more. Their war experiences had forged a bond that went beyond family or class. Charles’s comment underscored how outrageous his comportment was when viewed from the outside.

He knew better, and in a more sane state, would have restrained himself. Or would he have?

He’d never been so happy, and he wanted to blame his strident emotions, and poor choices, on a mixed jumble created by how his recovery had thrown them together. But what they felt for each other transcended time and space, was a passion so true and enduring that he wondered if their meeting hadn’t been predestined.

Had all that transpired merely been a divine plan to convey him to this juncture? Had it been a lesson? A test? Had he passed or failed?

“What are your intentions toward her?” Charles prodded, then he must have read a clue in Stephen’s expression, because he smirked with disgust. “I see: you have none.”

“How could I?”

“How indeed?”

An awkward silence ensued, which was odd. They never quarreled, were of like mind in most discussions. They needed to change the subject, before they said something
stupid, something irreversible, so he settled on, “What brings you here?”

“I’ve quitted Bristol Manor, and I shan’t return.”

“Why? Has someone upset you? It wasn’t my father, was it? If so, I’ll—”

“No. The earl was actually quite sensible. It’s your sister, I’m afraid.”

“Eleanor? What about her?”

“It seems you and I have both been short on moral judgment recently.”

“You and Eleanor . . .?” He couldn’t finish the indelicate query, but he wasn’t surprised by the tidings. When they’d last visited, he’d speculated as to the depth of their relationship.

“Yes. I begged her to marry, but she wouldn’t have me.”

“Did she say why?”

“She
claims
it’s because she’s barren.”

“You don’t accept her explanation?”

“I’m not a fool. She’s an aristocratic lady. She wouldn’t stoop to having a crippled pauper as her spouse.”

“You don’t give her enough credit.”

“Trust me. Her ability to birth a child, or not, had no bearing on her refusal.”

“Everyone has always assumed she’s infertile.”

“
Everyone
is wrong. She’s increasing, even as we speak.”

“You’re positive?”

“Very.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ve requested your father contact me when the babe is born, so that I may have it and raise it. He’s agreed.”

“Oh, Charles—” Stephen sighed. He liked both of them so much, and he was heartsick at their impasse. What was the matter with Eleanor? Charles was a fine man, was all she could ever hope for in a husband. His finances were a problem, but hers more than made up for his lack, and their attraction was so blatant it was embarrassing.

Was she vacillating, due to their disparate positions, as Charles was insisting?

As the prospect spiraled to a conclusion, he paused. Wasn’t their imbroglio an exact copy of his with Anne? What did the information imply about himself and his sister?

Were they snobs? Fickle? Inconstant? Was he inferring that Charles was good enough for Eleanor, but Anne wasn’t good enough for himself? By what standard?

Charles had offered for Eleanor. Why was his situation with Anne any different? Shouldn’t he do the same, even though he was certain it would be an idiotic resolution? Did he presume that Eleanor’s reputation and virtue were more important than Anne’s? Why? Because of
his
father? Because of
her
mother? It made no sense.

Anne’s father was an earl, too, his own father’s peer and equal. Gad, the two men were friends! Was Anne of less value because her father hadn’t wed her mother three decades earlier? How could it possibly signify after all this time? Why should her parents’ ancient history make his circumstance distinct from Charles’s?

He was so confused that he couldn’t sort out the troubling dichotomy. Men of his station didn’t marry women of hers. It was an immutable fact. Any suggestion to the contrary was so outlandish that he couldn’t process a response. It was like demanding he believe the sky was yellow or the ocean red.

His head began to throb.

“Why did you stop to see me?”

“To tell you that I’d proposed to her. I didn’t want you supposing that I’d shirked my duty.”

“You needn’t have worried. I couldn’t think badly of you.”

“I asked her to wed, as my behavior required. What have you to say for yourself with Mrs. Smythe?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I truly don’t.”

Charles studied him, his disappointment clear and painful
to witness, but though his umbrage was apparent, he didn’t verbalize it.

“I’ll be in London,” he said.

“Where?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Stay at the town house.”

“No. I can’t risk that I might run into your sister.”

“Then, bunk yourself in the carriage house, with the stable hands. Wait for me until I arrive.”

“When will that be?”

“Soon.” The reply was deliberately enigmatic, but he couldn’t be more precise, for if he voiced a date aloud, he would have to follow through, and he simply wasn’t ready.

“As you wish.”

Always loyal. Always allegiant. Charles turned and left, without a farewell, and Stephen went to the window and watched him ride away until he was a tiny speck on the horizon.

  16  

Camilla sat in the small office, uncomfortable in the chair that had been provided, and irked that her host hadn’t been more courteous. In order to hide her identity and prevent recognition of her carriage, she’d arrived in a hired hack, but from her clothes and demeanor there was no question that she was a person of substance, and she should have been afforded more deference.

The fellow across from her didn’t look competent, but he’d been highly recommended. He was short, burly and balding, and not very clean, but he had a crafty gleam in his eye, and he appeared to be strong, so hopefully he was the sort of ruffian to handle the job.

“How may I help you, milady?” He wasn’t as fawning as she liked her underlings to be, but she couldn’t be choosy. As the old adage went: when dancing with the devil, don’t expect to encounter angels.