Cheryl Holt (10 page)

“I should like that very much.”

She eagerly seized the opportunity. The solitude was appreciated, but more importantly, she simply couldn’t pass up this pretext to learn more about James Stevens’s father. Who was Edward Stevens, this man who had seduced James’s actress-mother, then left her unwed to carry on alone with two small children in tow?

She started toward the fireplace, to where two chairs awaited, but the earl walked around the desk and positioned
himself behind the massive slab of mahogany.

“I doubt if Jerald will mind,” he declared, “and I regret to say that if anyone happens by, I simply must have as many pieces of furniture between you and myself as I can possibly manage.”

She grinned. “If you’re not careful, I’ll think you’re questioning my intentions.”

“Yours and everyone else’s,” he muttered in disgust. As soon as the words left his mouth, his cheeks flushed bright red. “Forgive me, Lady Abigail. I hadn’t meant that to come out so harshly.”

“No harm done. And please . . . call me Abigail.”

“If you’ll call me Edward.”

“I will.” She liked his informal way, his direct manner. “I had heard you were out in Society again. Are the ladies being troublesome?”

“ ’Tis the absolute worst! You can’t imagine. . . .” He repressed a shudder of distaste. “I was married for twenty-eight years, and now that I’m a widower, everyone assumes that I will tie the knot a second time. Immediately.”

“Which obviously you don’t wish to do. . . .”

“As if I’d jump off that wretched cliff again!” Abruptly, he stopped himself, flushing anew. “Pardon me. I don’t know what’s come over me. Pay me no mind.”

At his amazing disclosure with respect to his lengthy marriage, she was dazed by the information. What a time she was having with the men of the Stevens family! “That’s quite all right if you’re a tad bit disordered,” she comforted. “I’m not exactly having the best day, either. After all, I’m hiding back here with you.” He chuckled at the observation. “Perhaps ’tis the weather afflicting us.”

“Yes, let’s blame it on the weather,” he agreed pleasantly, “although in my case, it might have something to do with the fact that I hadn’t been in the door five minutes, and your sister-in-law was introducing me to Caroline and telling me all her gory details.”

“She didn’t!”

“She did! I now know the amount of her dowry down to the last farthing.”

“How embarrassing! I told Margaret to leave you be.”

“At least someone in your family has a lick of sense.” He leaned back, weary and exasperated. “No offense, Abigail, because Caroline is a very sweet girl. But she’s a
girl
, for God’s sake. And I could say the same about you, too, no matter what sorts of vivid fantasies you might be indulging.”

He said it with such vehemence that she couldn’t help laughing. “That’s fine, because I’m not looking for a husband.”

“You must be the only woman in London who’s not! I’m fifty-six years old. What are people thinking?”

“They’re not, Edward,” she responded gently, relishing the chance to use his given name.

“You’re right about that!” He stared at the fire. “I’ve missed attending certain functions, such as the theater, but I can’t stand being hounded wherever I go. Have you any wise recommendations?”

“I haven’t. I’ve been wondering myself how Caroline and I will proceed. Caroline is planning all manner of entertainment and diversions, but Jerald is a busy man, so we can hardly expect him to drop everything if we want to go somewhere.”

They were silent, enjoying their refreshment, as well as the isolated company. Through it all, Lord Spencer watched her, and when the creases on his worried brow relaxed, she knew she’d passed some type of internal test to which he’d subjected her.

“I have an idea,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Charles is interested in escorting Caroline to various events. Perhaps the two of us could accompany them as their chaperones. That way, I could frequent some of the more pleasant distractions this Season.”

“You’d have a woman on your arm”—she nodded pensively—
“but you’d be able to carry on with greater flexibility.”

Evidently, with very little cogitation, she was endorsing his deranged suggestion. In light of what she was secretly doing on Mondays and Thursdays, she should have been running fast and furiously beyond his sphere of influence, but she couldn’t seem to adopt the wiser course of staying far away from Edward Stevens.

Almost against her will, she was being drawn into the circle that enclosed James and Edward. Before long, she’d be trapped, unable to budge in one direction or the other without bumping up against either father or son.

This is wrong, wrong, wrong!
an inner voice shouted, but she rashly ignored its warning. Her coming association with Edward couldn’t be avoided or changed.

Unable to prevent herself from forging ahead, she said, “I would welcome the opportunity to have you as my companion.”

His smile, and her own, sealed their bond. They were now friends, associates, conspirators against all the eager parents and daughters of High Society. With much more delectation than she ought to feel, she couldn’t wait to become better acquainted, and she was already refining the devious methods she could use to glean information about James.

They’d tarried too long, so they returned to the party. Separately. They hadn’t another occasion to converse, but Abigail glanced up sporadically to find Edward watching her as though they shared some private jest.

It was almost three in the morning before she slipped off to her room. After quickly disrobing, she sent her tired maid to bed, then snuggled beneath the cool sheets. As she was extremely fatigued herself, she’d thought she would fall asleep instantly, yet she tossed and turned as she had each night since meeting James Stevens. She couldn’t quit remembering how he’d wanted to kiss her, how close she’d come to saying
yes
.

Stand in front of your mirror. Completely unclothed
,
he’d said, in that low sensual way that made her wish to carelessly do anything he asked.
I want you to touch your breasts . . . squeeze your nipples
. . .

Disturbed by her dark imaginings, she threw back the blankets and tiptoed to the mirror. There was a candle next to it, and she considered lighting it, but she simply could not. A hint of moonlight glinted through the window and provided more than enough illumination for her shocking behavior.

For the longest time, she stared at her reflection, trying to see herself as James Stevens did. As a woman. As an alluring female. Slowly, she untied the ribbon at the front of her nightgown; then, before she could muster the courage to stop herself, she tugged it off one shoulder.

In the silvery shadows, she viewed her breast. It was pretty, round, shapely. The cold air had aroused the nipple, and she surveyed the nub, fascinated, as it peaked and hardened. Carefully, as though observing someone else, she raised a hand, cupping the weight, judging the abundance. Then, gingerly, she covered the center with her palm.

Her nipple contracted further in an irritating, intriguing manner. Meticulously, she gauged the novel sensation, letting it register adequately before she laid her finger and thumb to the raised tip. Scrupulously, tenderly, she gave it the barest squeeze, and the action brought such a surge of agitation screaming through her entire body that she dropped her hand as if she’d been burned.

Scrambling, she hustled back to her bed and scurried under the covers. Her pulse raced, and her nipples throbbed with each beat of her heart. Her breasts felt heavy and too tight for the skin in which they were encased. All from the merest caress!

Stars, but she yearned to touch herself again! To continue on until . . . she knew not what!

Lest temptation strike, she tucked both her hands under her pillows and kept them there—out of mischief—through the endless, sleepless night.

James reached for the front door of Lady Abigail’s rented house. As they’d previously arranged, it was unlocked. He stepped through, then quickly closed it, leaving the rest of the world on the other side. Alone in the foyer, he hastily shed his outer garments and climbed the stairs, much more eager than he should have been.

Four days!

Four days had passed since he’d last seen her, and like an infatuated swain, he’d spent nearly every second pining over the fact that they were apart. His longing for her was entirely out of balance with the actual facts of their situation, but nevertheless, he couldn’t bring himself under control.

At the oddest times, he’d think about her, wondering where she might be, what she might be doing. During the night, he’d try to concentrate on the flow of money, food, and liquor, on the games and customers’ entertainment, but more often than not, he’d stare off into space, imagining her in her bed. He’d fantasize at length about what her bedchamber looked like, what she wore for nightclothes, how she appeared without them on.

Because of his distraction, he’d wasted a thousand pounds on a turn of the cards—an amount he rarely wagered anymore—simply because he couldn’t focus his attention. The loss was so out of character that his brother, Michael, had asked if he was feeling all right, if he’d been working too hard and required a holiday.

While escorting his mother to the theater, he hadn’t spared the stage a glance. Instead, he’d perused the other boxes like a love-struck lad, hoping Abigail Weston might be in attendance and that he’d be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of her.

This was madness! Yet on light feet, he fairly flew up the stairs, overly thrilled. The uncountable hours were finally at an end!

For some reason, he kept repeating, he had inflated his craving for her all out of proportion to reality, and he’d told himself over and over that a second rendezvous would quench the thirst she’d generated. His recollection of the events on the previous Thursday
had
to be incorrect, and once he saw her again, this gnawing, empty well of yearning would slowly be filled by the realization that she had no special hold over him.

However, as he walked into her private parlor, he was abruptly forced to concede that his careful assessment was utter nonsense. His heart leapt at the sight of her. There was just something about the woman that tickled his fancy as no other ever had. He fiercely desired her, and he wanted to jump ahead to their future carnal relationship. On a primitive level, he sensed that this bizarre need could only be pacified by possessing her completely.

Across the room, she stood next to the window. Sunlight had poked through the clouds and flooded the area where she lingered, bathing her in a halo of amber light. She’d donned another dark green dress, but the fabric of this one was lighter and woven with an exotic thread that shimmered with silver highlights when she moved. The color intensified the emerald shade of her eyes, making her seem ethereal, mysterious, as though she could see more than she rightly should. Her skin was translucent, her cheeks and lips rosy red. And her hair . . .

She’d worn it down! With unrestrained admiration, he gazed upon it. The golden mass flowed free and long, the curled ends just brushing her hips. In a compromise, she’d tied it loosely with a green ribbon.

Furiously, he evaluated what the gesture meant. It was a capitulation of sorts, a signal, an indication of trust. As he contemplated how far he might be able to push her during their lesson, his loins tightened, his trousers promptly becoming uncomfortable. With a single snap of his wrist,
the ribbon could be gone, the silky strands available for his unimpeded exploration. His nerves tingled at the idea of massaging through it.

With a kind of crazy recklessness, he could picture her on the big bed in his own bedchamber—a private location he never let his paramours inhabit!—stretched out beneath him, her flaxen locks fanning across his pillows. What a spectacle she would be!

As he entered the cozy salon, she was so well schooled in masking her emotions that, for a fleeting moment, she assessed him casually, ostensibly expecting him or someone else. However, her indifference lasted only a brief instant; then her eyes shadowed, her pretty brow creased with concern, her hands toiled over a kerchief she grasped between unsteady fingers.

“Hello, Mr. Stevens,” she said in that husky voice that never failed to arouse him. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

“So am I.” Hesitantly, he took a few steps into the room. As he’d done formerly, he shut the door and secured it, sealing them in, not really worried about intruders or discovery, but liking the added bit of intimacy the barred door implied.

Wanting to extend their initial greeting, he tarried, languidly placing his satchel on the table, yet even as he bent over to relinquish it, he kept his steady gaze fastened to hers. As had happened during the two preceding encounters they’d shared, it seemed as if he had known her for a thousand years, that he could cut through the walls of propriety that separated them and shoot directly to the heart of whatever was troubling her.

“You’re distraught.”

“I guess I am. I just . . .” She smiled tentatively. “Would it be terribly inappropriate of me to say that I am relieved you’re finally here?”

So . . . she felt it, too, this powerful sense of connection and expectation. Perhaps he was not the only one who had passed the time daydreaming, tossing and turning on a
lonely mattress. He divulged, “I’ve been thinking about you. I couldn’t stop myself.”

“Nor I, from thinking about you.”

“Your hair . . .”

Blushing, she patted her temple in a self-conscious attempt to straighten what didn’t need straightening. As though confessing a horrid sin, she disclosed, “I have never taken it down before . . . not for anyone. . . .”

“But you did for me.” A great wave of hope swelled to the surface, and he steeled himself against the tempest of excitement rising through every part of his being. “Your hair is very beautiful.
You
are very beautiful.” She was obviously flattered but also surprised, and he surmised that no man had bestowed such a compliment before.