Cheryl Holt (16 page)

“That was unfair of you,” she retorted hotly. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“And
you
don’t know anything about me.”

“But I want to!”

“No, you don’t. Not really. These past few days, you’ve let some reverie grow regarding my intentions and what they might ultimately prove to be. I take the blame for any capricious plans you’re harboring, but you have frightfully
miscalculated what I am willing to do for you. You have no conception of the man I am.”

“Then tell me,” she urged softly.

“I’m trying!” he asserted testily. “For your sake—and mine!—there will be nothing between us but this handful of discussions. Despite how hard I’ve tried to be different, I am my father’s son in all ways.” He seemed to deflate with the admission, declaring, “I decline to be held ac-countable for your tender emotional state, because I’m well aware that I am incapable of revering you with the esteem you deserve. If you expect more from me, you are only deluding yourself, and you will suffer in the end.”

He was working so hard to convince her that he was a cad and a bounder, but she refused to assume the worst about him—in spite of the perception he apparently preferred her to carry. “I decline to believe that you’re really so callous.”

“You must, Abby,” he announced. “I am not one of the cultivated swains who sips tea in your polite drawing rooms.”

“I understand that about you,” she responded, frustrated, irritated. “Perhaps that’s why I am so thoroughly attracted to you.”

“I’m attracted to you, as well,” he admitted, “but I am attracted to
many
women. It is my way. It has
always
been my way. I have many lovers; scores of women welcome me to their beds, where I do unspeakable things with them. I furnish no apologies for my lifestyle, and I shan’t endeavor to rationalize or justify it to you. ’Tis simply my fashion to enjoy erotic interludes wherever and whenever they are presented to me.”

“It sounds so calculated.”

“I seek physical pleasure. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“And your . . .
women . . .
.” She could barely utter the word. In the meager amount of time they’d passed together, she’d naively begun to consider him her own man. Though she understood that he was possessed of a strong sexual drive, she’d foolishly concluded that knowing her had
brought about some changes in his attitudes and comportment. Oh, how it distressed her to concede how little he cared! While she spent her days pining away for him, very likely she never crossed his mind in return.

“What about them?” he asked.

“What do they think of your indifference?”

“They are sophisticated women, and they accept how the game is played.”

“And how is that?”

“I make no commitments to any of them. I shall make none to you.”

“I see.”

His affirmation was brutal, but luckily, she’d had many years of practice at schooling her facial features. How she’d lingered over impossibilities! A few kisses, an insubstantial quantity of stolen moments, and she’d imagined herself at the commencement of a grand passion. She felt like an idiot.

“I warned you from the beginning”—he was compelled to grind salt into her wounds—“that I could render no promises to you. That still holds true. If we forge ahead with this plan you’ve concocted, only heartache will result. You would not recover, while I, on the other hand, would casually stroll away without a backward glance to detect how you fared.”

She shook her head at her folly. She’d chosen him because of the rumors she’d discerned as to his prowess and his widespread sexual appeal. Women reveled in his free dispensing of favors, worrying not a whit that he harbored no affection toward them in return. When she’d initiated her alliance with him, she’d recognized that she would simply be one in a field of many.

Why, then, was it so devastating when he communicated his propensities so candidly?

He cared about her—she was certain he did!—and she rejected his obstinacy that he was telling the truth about his conduct. He was bent on disparaging himself, and she was incensed by his low opinion. A fine man was hiding under
that hard shell, and she yearned to bring him to the fore.

Perhaps he’d never endured an emotional association with a woman, and the idea scared him. Maybe he’d never had a female friend before and was one of those absurd fellows who determined such a relationship to be improbable. More likely, he felt he was being chivalrous, shielding her from herself and her unruly desires, when she was adamant that she needed no guardian.

The blasted man! Deciding he knew the best course without taking her opinion into account! Yet, so long as he persisted, she had no option but to accede to his wishes, or he’d never agree to continue with their meetings, and she couldn’t abide the thought that their assignations might be over.

If James walked away, all of her joy would go with him.

“I apologize,” she stated, “and I hope you’ll forgive me for acting in such a tactless manner.”

“Don’t apologize for being the person you are. We’re oil and water, you and I. We simply don’t mix.”

“Do you truly believe that?” The question hovered in the air, but she didn’t press, and he didn’t respond. She rose to face him, her cheeks flushing bright red as she recounted her sins. “I had no right to ask you about your family or to pry into your personal life. I don’t know what came over me. I suppose it’s this house and the intimacy we share here. I presumed a connection that doesn’t exist.” She swallowed, chagrined at the tears burning behind her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“But I’ve abused you horribly, and I’m not even sure how or why.”

“ ’Tis my own individual troubles that you’ve addressed, and I’m simply not comfortable with having them aired. You’ve done nothing wrong, love.”

A soothing balm, the tender endearment flowed over her wounded pride. Had he even realized he’d used it? If he’d recited the word unconsciously, from the heart, perhaps all was not lost.

“How shall we progress?” she queried.

“Just as we’d always proposed. I shall instruct you in those prurient areas about which you are curious, and when you’ve heard enough, we’ll go our separate ways.”

Which meant no kisses, no embraces, no lingering touches or smoldering looks. And if there was a hint of regret in his voice that their trysts would proceed so uninspiringly, she had no one to blame but herself.

“As you wish. . . .” She sighed.

“Don’t let’s fight, Abby,” he said so earnestly that another surge of tears inundated her eyes. “I can’t bear for you to be unhappy.”

“I’m not unhappy,” she contended. Just exceedingly disappointed. And horribly deflated, as though she’d just been cheated out of a wonderful prize. Forcing a wan smile, she urged, “Let’s have our lesson, shall we?”

James stayed by the window, watching as she settled herself on the sofa. She’d turned her back to him, hiding her sheen of tears. Her slender, sculpted fingers reached for his satchel, and he knew he should seat himself beside her and begin their dialogue, but he couldn’t. Considering his emotional and physical condition, proximity was dangerous.

When had this become so difficult? In deciding to assist her, he’d merely intended a diversion from the tedium that reigned in his life, and he’d eagerly enmeshed himself in her deranged scheme. But somewhere along the way, his best-laid plans had gone awry.

Instead, he found himself enchanted by her, caught up in her fantasy, and wondering what it would be like to build a future with her.

Lunacy was quickly overtaking him!

He’d actually spoken to her about his mother and father! Candidly, he’d professed his private opinion regarding his father’s behavior, and he’d loudly proclaimed the hurt he’d suffered as a boy that had followed him into adulthood.

Except to his brother, he’d never revealed his innermost thoughts about what his father had done. He’d never discussed his mother’s broken heart, one that still lingered twenty-five years later, with another soul. She’d stoically carried on after Edward’s abandonment, even though her world had been shattered. They’d all struggled, his mother most grievously, but he’d been so proud of her ability to persevere that he’d guarded her secret well. Yet, with hardly a moment’s consideration, he’d confessed all to Abigail Weston.

Beyond all reason, he craved her understanding and longed for her empathy. He
wanted
her to be aware of past events, and his yearning made him appreciate that he had
buried many painful memories. Meeting her had caused them to flood to the surface.

Vividly, he remembered the past. There had been the initial confusion when they’d fled to Paris, the melancholy that had descended when he realized that Edward wasn’t coming to fetch them home. A pervasive gloom had hovered over their once-joyful household. By his teen years, his distress had transformed to anger and resentment, so that by the time his mother felt strong enough to return to England, he’d been frustrated, acrimonious, hell-bent on trouble and finding it wherever he went.

Of the three of them, he was the only one who had ever sought out the Earl of Spencer. He’d accosted his father outside his gentleman’s club, and surprisingly, Edward had been glad to see him. He’d patiently waited while James had hurled his stored-up venom, then he’d proudly escorted his incorrigible son inside for a leisurely meal, where he’d spent hours peppering James with questions about every topic under the sun.

After, they’d developed a strained but workable relationship. They’d gathered occasionally for supper or drinks and, like a starry-eyed supplicant, James had fluttered about on the fringes of his father’s life, hoping for bits of Edward’s attention—irritated when he received it, enraged when he didn’t.

Always, his father inquired about Michael, but Michael refused to communicate with him, claiming that he’d been but three years old when they’d departed, and that he had no recollection of Edward, and thus no need for any belated interference or guidance.

As to their mother . . . Edward Stevens, bastard that he was, had never once asked about her.

While James liked to believe that Edward’s renunciation of their small family had had no effect, he’d only been deluding himself. His father’s conduct had completely shaped him into the man he’d become. One who formed no attachments, created no bonds. One who distrusted emotional entanglements and eschewed ardent chains.

He’d never allowed himself to care about a woman, never looked farther than where his latest sexual escapade would take him. His defensive walls were high and sturdy and, so far, had done an excellent job of holding others at bay. With no forewarning, Abby had them tumbling down.

The aberrant sensations were frightening, and he couldn’t figure out how to deal with them. She was brave enough to acknowledge her developing feelings, but he could not do the same.

Declaring his fondness was pointless. Any proclamation of sentiment would encourage her in her daydreams, so the only manner in which he could proceed was to keep her at arm’s length and to advance through their lessons as quickly as possible.

Garnering his courage, he migrated to the sideboard and poured himself another brandy. He sipped it slowly; then, more confident, he studied her. Even as he did so, he was cognizant of how difficult it was going to be to muster his resolve. She was so lovely, so sweet, so pure and enticing, and she adored him with an innocent affection he’d never detected in any of his jaded paramours.

The upset he’d just put her through was well concealed, and he was greatly relieved. If he’d reduced her to tears, she’d have had him blubbering like a babe in his attempts to console her. He hadn’t meant to exchange heated words, but he had no practice in dealing with the type of emotional upheaval she stirred.

When she’d mentioned Edward, his initial and total reaction had been rage—rage that she’d met his father, that she liked him, that Edward could delight in her company publicly while he, James, could not—and her brief reference to their encounter brought back in full force all the things that he wished were different.

Lucky for him, she hadn’t taken his cruel statements to heart. Though she still appeared quite piqued, he was left with the irrepressible perception that they were naught but an old married couple who had just survived a brief spat. It would serve him right if she got up and stomped out
without so much as a by-your-leave, but she wasn’t ready to withdraw just yet. He still had occasion to make a few pitiful amends.

She’d retrieved his folder from the table, opening it and sifting through the paintings to find where they’d left off at their previous engagement. From his position across the room, he had a partial view of the sketch with Lily bent across his lap. Abby perused the picture, running her hand over and over the spot where Lily’s lips joined his phallus, the depiction keeping her enthralled.

When he could no longer stand her silent reflection, he asked, “What are you thinking?”

She made a derisive sound low in her throat. Her cheeks reddened, her hand stilled, and she impaled him with her eloquent green eyes. “I’m
thinking
that I don’t like seeing another woman with her mouth on you.”

He was caught unawares. Stunned and—curiously—embarrassed, Barbara Ritter came to mind, accompanied by a troubling collage of the degenerate women with whom he’d lain. He felt unclean and unworthy to remain in Abby’s presence and, for the first time in his sorry life, shamed by his behavior, disgusted by his undisciplined desires. Lamely, he offered, “There have been many women, and there always will be.”

“Well, I don’t imagine I shall ever become accustomed to it.” Her gaze held his. “What she’s doing to you . . . What do you call it?”

“A French kiss.”

“Would a husband obligate his wife to perform this kiss immediately after she began her marital duties?”

“Most likely not. In general, men never expect it of their wives. Others . . . only after extended intimacy, and then on rare occasions.”

“Why?”