Cheryl Holt (19 page)

“I never could.” She was slightly flustered and wasn’t sure why. “I’m old enough that I could almost be a mother to some of those boys.”

“Abigail, you’re only twenty-five,” he broached succinctly as he chuckled. Then, much too casually, he inquired, “How come you never married?”

“Good question.” She shrugged, cogitating, as she often did anymore, how she’d settled for her present existence.

“What’s the matter with your brother that he never located a husband for you?”

“ ’Tis not his fault,” she answered cautiously. “I never really asked for one.”

“I’d always deemed that a grand marriage was what all young ladies desired.”

“Previously, I’d have agreed with you. I was engaged once, when I was seventeen, but he passed away shortly after, and then, I don’t know . . . I guess the idea never occurred to me.” She tried to recall that period, but it seemed so long ago, as though it had never really transpired. “I was happy in the country, raising Caroline, but . . .” How could she explain her increasing discontent and dissatisfaction with every facet of her life?

“But she’s grown now, so what about you? What are your plans?” The question was the same one with which Margaret kept prodding her, and it dropped like a blacksmith’s anvil into the space separating them. “You’ve been making the rounds with Caroline. Has some fortunate fellow managed to capture your fancy?”

It was the consummate opportunity to disclose some of the more tame aspects of her goings-on with James. They were totally alone, and from what she’d been able to discern about Edward, she suspected that he would welcome the chance to discuss one of his
other
sons. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to allude to James in even the vaguest fashion, and her lack of nerve left her ashamed.

Suddenly Edward lurched forward, narrowing his focus and peering down the road that was filled with horses and all manner of vehicles. He studied the fashionable crowd intensely, obviously searching for someone in particular, but eventually he sprawled back.

“What is it?” she asked gently.

“I thought I saw someone . . . I . . .” Terribly despondent, he shook his head. “ ’Tis not important; I’m sure it wasn’t he . . .”

“Of whom do you speak?” Had he espied James? What would it be like to encounter him on the busy thoroughfare? Would they acknowledge one another? Would Edward introduce them? What could she possibly say if they crossed paths in such a public place?

“He is my . . . well . . .” Edward stopped himself.

“You can confide in me,” she nudged kindly. “I promise I won’t be shocked.”

“No”—he carefully assessed her—“I don’t imagine you would be.” He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, his gaze still scanning the crush of people. “I have two other children, besides those I had with my wife.”

“I know you do; ’tis hardly a secret.” She was immensely relieved that he’d yanked the topic out into the open in such a frank manner. “See?” She grinned and twirled herself back and forth so that he could observe how she’d survived the admission unscathed. “I’m not shocked in the least.”

“I’m delighted,” he revealed. “I’ve always had to act as though they don’t exist, so I’ve never been able to talk about them with anyone. But of late, they’ve been weighing so heavily. . . .”

Abigail was torn. It wasn’t appropriate for her to hear any confessions regarding his bastard sons or the mother who had birthed them. Yet she was dying to learn any small tidbit he chose to impart. She relished the prospect of ascertaining more of the factors that had shaped James into such a hard, unattached man.

“Who did you presume that you saw?” she queried.

“Michael,” he responded quietly. “I thought I saw Michael.”

She couldn’t decide if she was glad or disappointed that it hadn’t been James. “But you didn’t?”

“No. At least, I don’t believe so. He’s twenty-eight this year, but I’ve only seen him on a handful of occasions, and then only at a distance.” Appearing lonely and melancholy about the entire affair, he sighed mournfully. “I’m sure I’m boring you. This can’t be a subject that would hold your interest.”

Was he joking? She was hanging on his every word, listening for nuance, probing for hidden meaning. The content was near and dear to her heart, and she felt terrible to be egging him on while he divulged his private miseries,
yet she couldn’t desist. “Why haven’t the two of you become reacquainted?”

He bent forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “He hasn’t wanted to meet me, so I decided not to press. My eldest boy, James, says it’s because Michael has no memories of me and therefore he sees no reason to get to know me at this late date. I have to admit the idea hurts. It’s been giving me some uneasy moments, and I wonder if I made the correct decisions all those years ago. . . .”

He’d edged extremely close to a disclaimer about his decades-long marriage. Abruptly aware of how inappropriate such an outrageous allegation would be, he straightened. “Don’t pay any attention to me, Abigail,” he announced in a tight tone. “I swear I’ve turned absolutely maudlin in my old age.”

“Recollection is not
maudlin
. You’ve had any number of diverse adjustments to endure this past year. ’Tis only natural that you’d engage in some self-assessment.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he conceded pensively. “Recently, I’ve been doing too much ruminating. When Charlie marries, there will be even more transition in store for me.”

“Exactly.”

Abigail wished she was more experienced at offering consolation and counsel. Altogether, Edward had sired six legitimate children. Four had lived to adulthood. His three girls were married and had been rearing their families for several years. Charles, his heir, was now raised, so Edward would soon be all alone in his rambling Town house with only his reminiscence for company.

How sad that, apparently, he harbored many regrets.

He proclaimed, “I’m not cut out for all this personal upheaval.”

“You’ll muddle through just fine,” she assured him, patting his hand. “No one ever succumbed from a few life changes.”

“Maybe I’ll be the first,” he said in that rueful manner he had, inducing her to chuckle, even as she pondered how odd it was that he and James were so much alike when,
evidently, they’d had very little excuse for interaction during James’s childhood.

“You’ve missed your two oldest boys, haven’t you?” she asked softly, unable to resist.

“Every day of every year,” he admitted with an old sorrow, but as Caroline and Charles were headed their way, he had no further opportunity to expound on the level of his continuing loss.

Abigail’s introspection was deluged by a single question: What would James say if he comprehended the true extent of his father’s remorse?

Barbara Ritter stood in her bedchamber, staring distractedly through the afternoon sunshine down to the street below as James entered the hansom that would deliver him to his gambling club. Dressed only in a short, transparent robe, she huddled out of sight, concealed from his assessing gaze, should he happen to glance up. The last thing she needed was for him to observe her gawking longingly out the window. He might start wondering if she was obsessing over him, if her emotions had become involved, which they hadn’t.

Her passions? Yes, definitely. But her emotions? No.

Still, men were thick creatures, often prone to misconstruing behavior or purpose. If he had the slightest inkling that she carried more than a passing interest in his attentions, he’d be gone—again—in a heartbeat. She wasn’t certain why he’d left before, so it had taken a lengthy amount of plotting to bring him back to her bed. Now that he’d returned, she was seriously resolute about keeping him there.

When she’d sent her note around earlier, baldly inviting him to stop by for another spot of daylight bed play, she hadn’t counted on him showing, but with James, a woman never knew what he might do. He’d surprised her acutely by knocking on her door. Just remembering his savage, impetuous sex games made her hot all over again. Moisture flooded between her legs, and she began calculating how
soon she could lure him to their next rendezvous.

He probably believed that their meeting at Lady Carrington’s had been a random encounter, but the truth was that Barbara had been trolling for him for weeks, for months, attempting to force a confrontation. When he’d led her upstairs for those torrid hours of decadent romping, she’d been thrilled and delighted by the prospect of renewed coupling. After the rough display had ended, she’d arrived home only temporarily mollified and recognizing that she would have to use all her wiles to instigate further trysting.

Who would have imagined he’d be tempted so easily? Or so often? Of late, he’d been so randy that he was nearly insatiable. A hastily penned invitation had brought him practically begging for the types of lurid recreation that only she knew how to render.

No other woman could possibly grasp what James desired, what he was truly like, or what he expected from a female. They were two of a kind, and she’d appreciated their affinity from the very first.

The night they’d met, her husband had still been alive—barely—and she’d wandered through the darkness, hunting for the sort of connection that only James Stevens could provide. He was a disgustingly handsome, virile man, who enjoyed extensive carnal release. His sexual mastery, and willingness to engage in the naughty amusements she craved, had enticed her to his side, but his enigmatic disposition caused her to remain.

His selfishness, brooding moods, and lengthy silences drew her like a moth to the flame. She liked his independent ways, his displays of ennui and annoyance with the women who regularly threw themselves into his arms. Those vexatious characteristics implied disturbing needs that exactly matched her own.

She’d initiated a regimen of seduction, one that would tempt him until he was so enamored of her, and so enticed by the disquieting future they could share, that he’d never consider abandoning her again.

Oh, yes, she had definite plans for James Stevens.

Despite how abominably he treated her, his coldness and his truculent disregard kept her interest piqued. He was overbearing, crude, imperturbable, which were the reasons why she cherished him so desperately.

She loathed the idea of possessing some limp man who would come to heel when called. The fickle women of the
ton
could have their boring, castrated males. She wanted James, with his coarse manners and his fuck-me-or-don’t attitude. His studied indifference made him all the more exciting, and definitely a heady challenge worth accepting.

In her heart, she perceived that she was different from all his other women, and though he’d told her repeatedly that they had no destiny, she hadn’t accepted his opinion regarding their affiliation. She’d had sex with plenty of other men and women, and she understood the lurid diversions available to him. His choices were limited, and in the period when they’d been estranged, he’d wandered through London’s private entertainments. She’d heard all the stories: what he’d done and with whom he’d lain. Obviously, he’d chased after the style of tempestuous sex that only she was bold enough to offer, and he hadn’t located anything close, so he’d reverted to her.

She was the sole female of his copious paramours who grasped his black side, his solemn personality, his requirements for distance and space. Her background was too much like his own, so she welcomed him with all his flaws intact, for those were the sides of him she liked best.

Always a passionate, vigorous man, for some reason his sexual drives had recently been overwhelming. She was grateful for whatever peculiar events were creating such physical anguish. The amount of carnal appetite he displayed was highly arousing. With her hands, her mouth, her body, she’d given him untold episodes of satisfaction, and thus found her own. Still, when he’d finally decided to depart, she’d sensed that she could have continued on. That nothing would have slaked his raging appetite.

She didn’t know what had caused this delirious inferno,
and she didn’t
want
to know. She was simply determined to be the one and only woman who extinguished the flame when it burned so hotly.

He would come to her, and her alone, because there was no one else who embraced him completely and without reservation. He belonged with her and always would. There was no other acceptable conclusion. Without fail, she intended to ensure the successful attainment of her wildest dreams.

“Take off your jacket.”

Abigail hesitated. She’d dressed for exactly this moment, understanding that James would hope she’d disrobe for the entire assignation, and she longed to please him. Yet, as she’d already learned where he was concerned,
thinking
boldly and
acting
boldly were two entirely different animals. While she wanted to confidently begin shedding her clothing, she couldn’t set her hands to the task.

Her mind frantically searched for the fortitude to bravely strip herself, but her previously mustered courage had definitely deserted her. Her green riding suit contained two pieces: a jacket and a skirt. Underneath, she wore a chemise, drawers, stockings, and slippers. No petticoats, corset, or other feminine contraptions were present to restrict movement or accessibility, so when the outer layer went, he’d be able to see nearly all of her. The idea was exciting and terrifying.

On witnessing her vacillation, he asked, “Is something amiss?”

“No,” she asserted.

He’d arrived before she had, and had somehow found a method of entering. Once inside, he’d abandoned the small meeting parlor for the bedchamber, and he’d made himself at home by preparing the room for seduction, with the obvious intent that she’d be unable to resist his rather substantial masculine charms.

The drapes were pulled against the afternoon sky, candles were glowing, a fire burned away the chill. An open bottle of wine and two glasses were set on the table. The bed, menacing and magnetic, called to her from the far wall. The covers had been turned back, and it was shadowed, private, and full of erotic possibilities.