Cheryl Holt (3 page)

“She has no companion.”

“Oh yes, she has,” Ellen asserted, “and if you don’t reform your scandalous behavior, I’ll notify her of what I’ve witnessed.”

He evaluated her again, searching for her petty secrets and apparently locating them all. He chuckled. “No, you won’t. You’d never hurt her.”

“I wouldn’t consider myself to be
hurting
her. I’d be doing her a favor.”

“A favor!”

“Yes.”

“But I’m the catch of the kingdom,” he mocked, “and Rebecca has me on her hook.”

“You are so vain!”

He stepped in, and she stepped away. They were like a pair of dancers, gliding across the floor. They continued on until she bumped into his desk and could go no farther. She was wedged against the polished oak, her bottom perched on the edge, and he leaned in so that she was tipping over, and his firm palm between her shoulder blades was all that kept her from being prone.

“You don’t like me, do you?” he asked.

“Not a bit, and I wish Rebecca didn’t like you, either.”

“Why, you arrogant, uppity—”

“Uppity!”

“How dare you malign me! If you are who you say you are—and I admit that I have grave doubts as to your
veracity—you’re living under my roof, employed by my cousin, and friend to my fiancée, which indicates that you have more audacity than anyone I’ve ever met. I ought to talk with Lydia and have you fired.”

“If you try, I can promise that my farewell to Rebecca will involve a vivid description of Mrs. Farthingale’s bosom.”

Ellen didn’t know where she’d garnered the courage to spar with him, or why she was bent on provocation. He brought out her worst traits, making her bold and rash. Their wrangling gave her an exhilarating sense of power. She felt as if she could do any wild thing without repercussion.

“Listen, you cheeky little—” He paused in mid-insult and reined in his temper. With an undignified scoff, he sidled away. As if his cravat had shrunk and was choking him, he tugged at it. “How much?”

She sat up. “How much . . . what?”

“Don’t play dumb—which you’re obviously not. What will it take for you to be silent?”

“You suppose I’m blackmailing you?”

“Well, yes.” He shrugged. “I don’t want to upset Rebecca. Neither do you. So name your price. Cash? Baubles? A few new gowns from Madame LaFarge?”

She let her own gaze wander down. He really was a fine masculine specimen. How sad that so much low character could be wrapped in such a pretty package.

She smirked. “Celibacy.”

As if she’d struck him, he blanched. “Celibacy!”

She wasn’t certain what
celibacy
entailed, but the mysterious deed included some of what he’d been doing with Farthingale. “Yes. I would have your word on it.”

“Not bloody likely.”

She nodded, latching on to the idea with a particular relish. “It shall be celibacy till the wedding, and your complete devotion to Rebecca. Or else!”

“Or else what?” Struggling for calm, he pinched a finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. “Miss Drake, is it?”

“Yes.”

“I realize you’re a spinster.”

He uttered
spinster
as if it were a vile disease, and she was incensed by the denigration. “By choice, Lord Stanton. Absolutely by choice.”

“You probably hate all men.”

“Not all,” she assured him. “Just some.”

“I only meant that you’re in no position to fully grasp the nature of the male beast.”

She glared at the couch where he’d enjoyed his torrid embracing. “Actually, I think I
grasp
it quite well.”

“I shan’t be officially engaged for another month, and the wedding won’t roll around till six months after that. You can’t expect me to . . . to . . .”

“Can’t expect you to what?”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. Murder gleamed in his eye, and she was positive he’d have throttled her if he could have figured out how to conceal the crime.

“I’m calling your bluff,” he said. “Go ahead and tell her. Lay bare the entire sordid episode. I dare you.”

“I will,” Ellen insisted. “I swear it. I’m not joking.”

“I’m betting you are.”

He assessed her, taking her measure, and she had the strangest impression that he knew everything about her, that he could read her mind. There was no way to keep him from discovering that she would never hurt Rebecca by passing on such terrible news.

“Good evening, Miss Drake,” he stated. “I won’t say it’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, because it hasn’t been, and if I’m very, very lucky, I shan’t suffer the misfortune of speaking with you ever again.”

She’d lost the upper hand—and so quickly, too!—but she was determined to get it back. He seemed to have a genuine fondness for Rebecca, so perhaps she could use it to stir his dormant conscience. “Have you no feelings for Rebecca, and how the information will wound her?”

“I have many
feelings
for Rebecca, but they are none of your concern. Just as my personal affairs are none of your business. I am a man, Miss Drake. Not a eunuch. Go blackmail someone else—if you can find anyone who’s not already weary of your tiresome company.”

With that deftly hurled slur, he strutted out, leaving her to dawdle in the quiet, to fume and stew about how weak she was. She’d never had any control. Not over her fate. Not over her circumstances. Not over her income or her reduced status. She was dependent, beholden, alone, and the tedium of her situation reared up as though it were a living, breathing creature that was suffocating her.

What she wouldn’t give to be free and self-sufficient. She was like a slave who yearned to break out of bondage, and the fierce burst of discontentment rattled her.

When had she grown so dissatisfied? So unhappy? Long ago, she’d accepted her dreary lot. Hadn’t she?

Stanton was correct: She would never confide in Rebecca as to what she’d seen. But if he thought she’d let the matter rest, that she’d ignore him as he gamboled
with every strumpet in London, he was in for a huge shock.

Celibacy she’d demanded, and celibacy it would be. Stanton’s life was about to change—drastically!—and she was the one who’d make it happen.

  2  

“Do you feel sorry for me?”

Alex grinned at his dancing partner, Lady Melissa, as he ushered her down the row of couples.

“Why? Because you’re about to become engaged to Rebecca Burton?” She laughed. “She’s pretty, sweet, and rich. So my answer is no. I don’t feel sorry for you in the least.”

“You’re too cruel,” he murmured as the song ended.

She was beautiful in an icy, detached way, but they’d never been lovers, for she only trysted when she was between husbands, as she was at the moment. She was a gold digger who married sickly old men, but those who’d previously bedded her claimed she could make the most limp cock stand up straight. Alex was sure her spouses had died happy.

He should be so lucky!

While he didn’t have many scruples, he had a few, and he intended to be faithful to Rebecca—once the engagement was official. He hesitated and reconsidered. Well, maybe when the wedding was near.

The prim, puritanical Miss Drake aside, no sane person would expect him to forgo pleasures of the flesh for seven months. Such extended abstinence wasn’t healthy.

“Of course, I’m not cruel,” Melissa was saying, “and a man must utilize his
assets
. Or lose them.”

“And don’t forget,” he added, “if we don’t philander now, when we’re both free, who knows when we’ll have another chance? Have I mentioned the date of my betrothal ball?”

“Three times.”

“Has it been that many?”

“The women of London will be devastated by the loss of your charming company.” Her torrid gaze swept to his crotch, where she enjoyed a leisurely inspection. “I suppose I could take pity on you.”

She flashed such a sultry, tempting smile that his toes curled. He leaned in and whispered, “Meet me in Lord Banbury’s library in five minutes.”

“I can hardly wait.” She licked her lips, vividly prompting him to recall the stories he’d heard of her particular prowess. She’d devised more thrifty uses for her devilish tongue than the King had gold coins.

Melissa was the cure for what ailed him, and he planned to wallow in whatever succor she chose to afford. His cock stirring, he slipped through the crowd and disappeared down a deserted hall.

Though others might envision seven months to be an extended period, to himself the interval seemed a pittance, the distressing event approaching with the speed of a runaway carriage.

He’d never wanted to wed. His parents’ despicable example had cooled any interest. They’d detested each other, had fought and insulted and clashed, and for the
last few years of their wretched lives they kept separate residences.

On his deathbed, his father had sworn that Alex’s mother had been unfaithful, that her infidelities had been the cause of the breach. He’d contended that Alex’s younger brother, Nicholas, was not his child, though the law and the church insisted he was.

Alex didn’t know the truth, but he and Nicholas didn’t look alike, and rumors still abounded as to who Nick’s actual sire might have been.

What Alex
did
know was that he’d never put himself through such drama. He would never allow himself to care for a woman, would never let anyone matter so much. He absolutely would not have emotion or passion ruling his life.

If his title hadn’t weighed so heavily, he might never have married. He was fond of Rebecca, but he thought of her as a sister. Plus, she was so gullible and trusting. Compared to her, he felt aged and exhausted.

How could they find common ground? On what basis would they proceed?

The fact that they were family could only carry them so far. What would they talk about over the dinner table? What would they talk about in bed?

He paled. The notion of having sex with her was extremely disconcerting. He couldn’t imagine removing her clothes, or telling her what to do with her body, hands, or mouth. The prospect was downright incestuous.

He sneaked into Banbury’s dark, isolated library. He lit a candle and locked the door, but he resisted the urge to search for the intrepid Miss Drake. The snippy harridan had rattled him, had poked and prodded at his sense
of honor and integrity, and he’d spent the entire day stewing over her remarks.

Was he wrong to seek carnal diversion? With the wedding so many months in the future, was he cheating on Rebecca?

He hated rumination, hated to be fretting and fashing over what his path should be. He never lamented or regretted. As a rich, powerful nobleman, he was a mini-god in a world of mortals, and if he couldn’t do what he wanted, when he wanted, what was the use of any of it?

Miss Drake be damned.

Momentarily, Melissa crept in from the verandah, and he rippled with excitement. She was a renowned lover. No exploit was too nasty, no conduct too excessive, and in his current state a dissolute, raucous coupling suited him just fine.

Melissa snuggled herself to him, and he could feel every delicious inch of her. She slid her hand between them, petting and massaging with adept skill.

They were situated next to a couch, and they lay down and stretched out, with her draped across him. He plucked at the bodice of her gown, ready to liberate her breasts from the confines of corset and chemise, ready to suck at one of her delectable nipples, when a cracking noise sounded from across the room.

They both froze.

“What was that?” she asked, frowning.

“I don’t have any idea,” he replied, though he was all too afraid he knew. He sighed and peeked over the back of the sofa.

It can’t be
, he mused.
It simply can’t be!

Yet there she was.

Miss Drake was seated at a table, shuffling her cards, and she grinned malevolently.

Was she following him? Spying on him? The bloody woman! What did she want? How could he make her go away?

“Hello, Stanton,” she called. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He flopped down to cower in the safety of the shadows.

“Who the hell is that?” Melissa hissed.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Stanton,” Miss Drake summoned, “I’m bored. Would you join me for a game of gin?” She clapped the deck together, the brisk cards clacking like the rolling of a pair of drumsticks.