Cheryl Holt (34 page)

“I afraid you’re right about that,” Mrs. Ford concurred gently.

“—and I am too much of a coward to face, on my own, the aftereffects of our romance should it become common knowledge. If I thought he would stay by my side, I would attempt any hurdle.”

“That’s something, I guess,” Mrs. Ford murmured. “So . . . what is it you would have me do?”

“Please . . . just speak to him on my behalf. Encourage him to meet with me on Thursday. He’ll know where and when.”

“And the reason for this meeting would be . . .”

“That I might apologize, and tell him how much I have loved him.”

“I assume you’re also hoping to have another chance to be intimate with him.” The candid comment caused another furious blush to color Abigail’s cheeks, and Mrs. Ford chided, “You’ve been lucky so far, but perhaps on the next occasion you will accidentally wind up pregnant. Then what?”

Abigail scooted forward and reached out, taking Mrs. Ford’s hand in her own. “He has so much anger. At himself. At his father. I can’t bear that I’ve made it worse by my irresponsible conduct. I hate that it’s ended like this.”

Mrs. Ford pulled away and walked to the sideboard again, pouring another brandy, but then not drinking any. She swirled the amber contents around and around in the glass. “If I could have one wish granted,” she finally said,” ’twould be to see James married to a woman who truly cares for him. If I had a second, I would wish he had sons to bring him joy—as mine have imparted such gladness to me, but I am beginning to doubt such happiness will ever occur for him. I don’t know . . .”—she shook her head dejectedly—“perhaps if I’d done things differently all those years ago . . .”

“Don’t second-guess your actions,” Abigail insisted compassionately. “You did what you thought was best at the time.”

“Yes, I did,” Mrs. Ford concluded halfheartedly, “but I’ve never been persuaded that I chose the correct path, although, looking back, perhaps there was no
correct
choice. There were only victims; mainly my sons.” With a sigh, as though she’d determined to sustain an untenable burden, she straightened her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Lady Abigail, but I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time by coming here. I won’t talk to James for you. He wouldn’t listen to me, and I can’t say that I’d want him to.”

Abigail had erroneously thought they were making headway, and she could only watch in agony as her last chance with James dissolved to ashes. “Please—” she begged.

“No,” Mrs. Ford interrupted. “While I long for James to find contentment in his life, you could never be the one to bring it to him.”

“I love him!”

“I’m sure you
think
you do.”

“I love him more than my life.”

“But you’ve said naught to convince me that James shares your emotional attachment, and, as you’ve pointed out, he will never marry you. He’s well aware of what a disaster such a union would be.” With a flick of her wrist, she downed the brandy, eyeing Abigail with a stern expression that silently told her the meeting was over.

Abigail felt as though she were clinging to a sinking ship, that she was fast losing her grip. “I promise that he and I will just talk.”

“I understand my son’s behaviors. I appreciate what kind of
meeting
the two of you would have, and I won’t do anything that might help you create a babe together. I would never want another child to suffer as my boys did.” She walked to the door of the parlor. “Forget about James, Lady Abigail. Despite how much you currently wish it, he’s not the man for you. Go home and don’t come back. I’ll have Arthur show you out.”

Abigail paced about the bedchamber, her ears straining toward the stairs. Presently, exactly at the hour of two, the front door opened, and her heart skipped a beat. Despite Mrs. Ford’s assertions to the contrary, she must have said something to James. Just as Abigail had been hoping she might.

He’d come! He’d really and truly come!

Wanting to appear calm and collected, she hustled to the bed and reclined against the pillows. Leaving nothing to chance, she’d staged the room to entice him. There was a fire in the grate, food and wine on the table, scented candles burning in their holders.

Hoping to tempt him beyond his limits, she’d donned the red outfit he’d sent. Dressed only in the crimson pantalets, stockings, and heels, she’d shed the top that cupped her breasts in such an erotic fashion, leaving them bare, with the raised nipples just visible through the filmy fabric of the robe. The lapels were parted at the center to reveal her cleavage and abdomen.

Her hair was down in the fashion he liked, brushed and curling around her hips; her lips were tinted a rosy hue. Worry had elevated her pulse and flushed her cheeks to a becoming pink. She appeared luxurious, sensual, and ready to provide unceasing pleasure to the man who was about to walk over the threshold.

If only he would let her!

James was furious with her, and would probably refuse to talk candidly, so she had to have a method of breaking through any barriers he erected. Without a doubt, making love was the perfect way to center his attention and ensure that his anger faded. With a little effort on her part, he’d revert to the loving, charming person to whom she’d lost her heart.

As her relationship with James was her one and only dalliance, and this, her first and only attempt at significant seduction, it had never occurred to her that she wouldn’t succeed. The possibility that James might be too wounded to accept her apology had not crossed her mind, and she declined to consider that there might be a negative outcome. James would forgive her! He loved her, and she loved him, and in her naïveté she was convinced that their strong emotions could cure all that ailed them.

The door swung open, and she braced herself as he stepped through. He looked as poorly as she felt, which she took to be a very good sign. He’d obviously been suffering! Surely he’d be prepared to set aside their differences.

Gone was the pristine coat, the perfectly tailored trousers, the highly polished boots. He was casually attired in a loose-fitting shirt, leather vest, wool trousers, and a pair of worn boots, making him look as if he’d just been riding or hunting. His hair was overly long and in need of a trim; he hadn’t shaved and beard stubble darkened his face.

Without speaking, he moved to the foot of the bed and started a crude assessment. Beginning at the tip of her head and roving down, he rudely perused all that she had intimately displayed. Where before he’d gazed at her with lust that had been a definite mix of fondness and affection, now there was a studied apathy, and she received the distinct impression that it could be she or another lying there so scantily clad. With rising dread, she recognized that she’d already become one of the women from his past.

Prior to arriving, she’d rehearsed a dozen speeches, but now, staring at him across an expanse as vast as an ocean,
her contrived words flew out the window. Nothing seemed appropriate.

“Hello, James,” she finally said, shattered and afraid.

“You went to see my mother.”

This cold, hard individual was not anyone with whom she was acquainted. Sitting before him, nearly naked as the day she was born, she felt foolish and silly. Had she imagined their ardent affinity? Had those handful of heady exchanges actually transpired? Perhaps she had dreamed it all.

Clearly, she’d mistaken his physical ardor for something else. Lady Newton had hinted as much, and Angela Ford had bluntly insisted that any perception of James developing an emotional attachment was erroneous. Apparently, both women had been correct. This stranger, who was so annoyed with her, could never have possessed an ounce of kind sentiment.

What had she been thinking, to offer herself in this manner? She wasn’t one of his doxies. Desiring escape—from the room, the house,
him
—she slipped to the edge of the bed, but her clothes were behind the screen, as far away as America. How she yearned for the ability to perform a magical feat whereby she could reappear somewhere else, hidden from his view.

Unfortunately, there was no magic available to resolve her predicament. She’d have to rise and walk past him with his calculating eyes following, and the idea of him watching, while her folly was so plainly evident to them both, was too much, and she couldn’t force her legs to take a single step.

So . . . she sat, shoulders slumped, the belt of her tiny robe tied across her waist but not shielding much. Tears threatened, but she’d never allow them to fall because she would never give him the satisfaction of discovering how distressed she was.

He’d rounded the bed, but she failed to notice until she saw the toes of his boots.

“What do you want?” he asked irritably.

“It doesn’t matter now.” She pretended a fascination
with his footwear, noting the scuff marks, the spots of dirt, the heel that was slightly tattered, and she strove to picture where he’d been in those boots, what he’d been doing; anything to occupy her mind so that she didn’t dwell too much on where he was at that very moment.

“You were bold enough to visit Angela. In my home”—he was excessively angry about it—“so it must have been something important. Whatever it is, your
ladyship
—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you what?
Lady
Abigail? Isn’t that who and what you are?” She could sense that he shrugged, his furious regard running over her like a hot towel. “Whatever you have to say, say it! Say it all! Unburden yourself. Get it off your chest. I’ll not have you badgering my mother ever again.”

“I just thought . . .” But as soon as she embarked on the sentence, she realized she couldn’t finish it. What exactly had she thought? Her asinine plans were completely idiotic to the situation in which she’d landed herself.

“What?” He prodded like a burr under a saddle.

“I had hoped we could talk,” she finally professed. “I wanted to apologize for how I conducted myself at the theater.”

“Are you sorry?”

“Don’t be cruel, James.” She whispered his beloved name, but it felt like crunching down on ice. “You know I am.”

“I know nothing of the sort. In my experience, members of your exalted
station”
—his rebuke was stinging—“be have however they please. You’d previously warned me that you would feign disinterest if we met in public; I expected no different conduct from you.”

“Well, I expected more from myself. I hurt you, and I’m sorry I’ve made you so upset.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, milady,” he derided, “into presuming that you have any effect on my day-to-day goings-on. My current mood has absolutely nothing to do with you.”

“What is it, then? Why are you acting like this? Why are you speaking to me so horridly?” She found the courage to raise her eyes to his, and she was astonished by what she saw. For the briefest instant, she observed torment, grief, and heartbreak, much more injury than she could have caused by her public slight at the Chelsey Theater. As quickly as she accepted his agony for what it was, he cloaked it behind a frozen mask of ire and ennui.

Quietly, she inquired, “What’s happened to put you in such a state? Is it your father?”

He whirled away, lest she discern more of his anguish. Stalking to the table, he poured some wine and drank it down. “My father is fine. So is my mother. So is my whole bloody family.” He set the glass on the table so hard that the stem cracked. “Now, was there anything else?”

“Your mother said she was moving out of your home.” She pushed at his vulnerable points, driving him to respond. “Did you have a disagreement with her?”

“I don’t fight with my mother.”

“Who, then?”

“My brother.” She was surprised by the admission and, apparently, he was, too. Unsettled, he went to the window, drew back the curtain, and glared down into the street. “My parents have decided to marry. . . .”

She was so startled that she couldn’t immediately respond. The Earl of Spencer was finally going to break down and marry Mrs. Ford! What had precipitated their decision? When would the wedding occur? Where would they live? When would the announcements be sent? What explanations would they provide?

Edward had certainly kept it a grand secret, and she wondered if he’d broken the news to his other children yet—and if their reactions had been anything like this!

She was dying to interrogate James as to all the details but didn’t dare. He was so distressed that she’d only end up making matters worse, but she wasn’t about to falsify her opinion just to placate him. “that’s a marvelous conclusion, James. For both of them.”

“I suppose you would think so,” he mused, glowering at her over his shoulder. “You always were Eddy’s greatest champion. I believe I’ll introduce you to my brother, so that you can convince him of Eddy’s
honorable
intentions. And I’ll be certain to call on you to hold my mother’s hand when Eddy breaks her heart again.”

“He won’t.”

“I’m glad one of us can be so sure.” He left his spot by the window and approached the bed. Without further comment, he pulled his shirt from his trousers, yanked it over his head, and tossed it on the floor.

Gazing up, she saw the swirls of dark hair covering his chest. She could smell his sweat, and there was a musk about him that she associated with desire. Being eye level with his crotch, she couldn’t help noticing that he was aroused. Wanting her. Wanting what she longed to share with him.

“Lie down,” he commanded, his fingers tugging at the front of his pants. Momentarily, they were loose about his hips.

While she relished the chance to hold him in her arms, she was so uncertain. Of his motives. Of her own. Of what her next move should be.

She was a novice at these love games. Other, more experienced women might be able to jump from cold animosity to physical mating in nearly the same breath, but she wasn’t one of them. She couldn’t progress to intimacy unless there was affection attached to the joining. Yet if they made love, she felt certain that she could reestablish them in that special place, which was where she desperately yearned for them to be. Still . . .

“I don’t know if I can.”