Cheryl Holt (37 page)

“But you didn’t love your wife, and she didn’t love you! This time, it would be different. I know it would!”

For all her sophisticated ways, she had invariably been a romantic, and he couldn’t help smiling. “Love doesn’t conquer all.”

“That’s what you think, laddie,” she said. “You’d be surprised what a little love can do.”

Just then, a knock sounded on the door. She grimaced that their intimate talk was interrupted. “That’s Eddy,” she
explained, offering her hand so that he could assist her to her feet. “I demand that you be civil to him. I’m not in the mood for any discord among the men in my life.”

“I’ll try to control myself.”

“You’d better!” she warned.

She rushed to the door and opened it, barely closing it again before she was in Edward’s arms and kissing him passionately. James observed them for a minute, then forced his gaze out to the street. In his childhood memories, he vividly recalled that his parents had treasured each other’s company, that their lives had been filled with gaiety and laughter, but he didn’t recollect this blatant, visible current of desire that flowed between them.

It must have always been there, but as a youngster he couldn’t have acknowledged it for what it was. Numerous times now over the past few weeks, he’d been with them, and their connection was so obvious that he truthfully didn’t comprehend how they’d managed to remain apart for so long. If ever two people had been created to be together, it was they. But that didn’t mean he had to appreciate them prattling like a pair of lovebirds. There was something extremely disturbing about his parents’ displays of mutual affection.

Edward’s voice brought James’s focus back into the room. “Any word from Michael?” he inquired.

“He posted a letter to James,” Angela answered. “He’s well; just not coming home for the moment. Apparently our full-grown son is still having a tantrum.”

“Hopefully, it will end someday,” Edward said, disheartened.

“Did you speak with your girls?” she asked as he nodded. “How did they take the news?”

“Not well. I left them in somewhat of a state. They swear they won’t attend the wedding.”

“Brats! Like we’d invite them!” she chided, and, a sign of Edward’s devotion, he merely chuckled at her deprecation of his children. “How about Charles? Was he upset as well?”

“Difficult to say. I believe he’s withholding judgment until he has the distinct pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

“Well, that should be easy. I shall simply bowl him over with my sweet personality.” She batted her lashes, and he laughed again, then she went into the other chamber to fetch her bag—and do who only knew what else—leaving James and his father in an awkward silence.

“Hello, James,” Edward eventually said.

Their interaction had been awfully clumsy since that dreadful night at the theater. Their contentious comments still hovered in the air, producing a cloud of antagonism and distrust—on James’s side, at least. For his part, Edward had proceeded past that appalling evening and seemed prepared to forge ahead for all their sakes. James wasn’t quite at Edward’s level of cordiality, but he was trying. He longed to please Angela, but too many factors came into play, and nothing seemed simple anymore. The combination of recent events had left him utterly distressed, until he felt like a starved wolf that had been locked in a cage and was being poked with sharp sticks. He was ready to bite anyone who approached.

“Hello, Edward,” James responded.

“Considering all that’s happening, couldn’t you call me
Father
on occasion?”

James pursed his lips, feigning an attempt at enunciating the title. “No,” he ultimately said, “I don’t believe the word is in my vocabulary.”

Edward sighed tiredly. “At least quit scowling at me as though I’d sprouted horns. I’ve had enough of my glowering children for one day.”

“Poor boy,” he muttered rudely just as Angela returned. “Did your
daughters
hurt your feelings?”

“Don’t be smart,” she scolded her son. “I told you I’m not in the mood for it.”

“Sorry,” he apologized halfheartedly. He was acting more petulant than Michael, but he couldn’t arrest his deportment. His brother had been smart enough to leave and
stay gone. James had remained, thrust into the middle of all, and heaven help the man who crossed his path—be it his father or no.

“Actually,” Edward continued, “I’m glad you’re here, James. I was going to seek you out at the club after I visited your mother.”

“Why?”

“I received the strangest message. From Jerald Weston.” Busy retrieving the note from his pocket, he didn’t notice how James and Angela stiffened to attention. “You know him, don’t you?” Edward asked. “The Earl of Marbleton?”

“Yes, he’s a customer,” James replied, keeping his expression carefully blank. “What does he want?”

“He demands that I stop by this afternoon”—he glanced at the writing—“and he insists that I bring you along, but he doesn’t say why. I hate to go in blind. Has he run up a great debt on which he hopes to renege?”

Angela glared at James, and he glared back but made no comment.

“You might as well tell him,” she finally said. “Or I will.”

“Tell me what?” Edward queried, completely in the dark.

A muscle ticked in James’s cheek; his eyes glowed redhot with fury. Clearly, he and Abby had been discovered. But how? And by whom?

The silence became protracted, Edward staring at them in bewilderment, Angela waiting for James to confess his sins. Ultimately, when he appeared unable to, she did it for him. “James has seduced Marbleton’s younger sister. The man must have learned of it somehow.”

“Caroline?” Edward gasped then collapsed into a chair. “God . . . you’ve lain with Caroline? Charles loves her! He’s all set to marry her. This will absolutely kill him!”

It was so typical that Edward’s immediate worry would be for Charles and how the debacle might affect his
real
son, and his misplaced concern was exactly the reason James didn’t think Angela should wed him. Edward’s loyalty
would perpetually belong to others. “Charles can have his little virgin,” James remarked crudely. “I’d hardly be interested.”

“He debauched the other one,” Angela stated sharply, causing both men to wince. “What’s her name? Abigail? The girl is madly in love with him, Eddy. ’Tis almost painful to see.”

“You’ve met her?” Edward asked Angela, shocked and amazed.

“She came to the house! Bold as brass! Looking for him”—she nodded toward her intractable son—“but he doesn’t have the sense the Good Lord gave an ant. He loves her, too, though he denies it. I’ve tried to convince him that he’d be particularly fortunate if he was allowed to marry her, but he won’t listen to me.”

“You seduced Abigail Weston? Oh, James . . .” Edward groaned, discouraged, horrified, rubbing a weary hand over his brow. “Didn’t you learn anything from your previous situation?”

“We had a brief affair. That’s all.” James shrugged, tossing Abby away with utterances that were too cold and calculated to characterize what had actually occurred. “ ’Tis over.”

“But what are your plans with regard to her?” his father pressed.

“I have none.”

“What if there’s a babe?”

“There isn’t,” he declared, though he had to quash a strange flare of expectation that their final coupling might have led to one, which would be the worst disaster of all. A child would obligate Abby to marry, and he’d not bind himself to her unless she truly wanted him for a husband. As she’d already had copious opportunity to decide on his suitability, he had no illusions about where he stood. No matter how they all clamored, they’d never convince him to take any corrective action.

“Oh, son . . .” Edward shook his head in dismay. “What are we to do?”

“Not a bloody thing.”

“How do you expect me to explain this to Jerald?”

“I don’t
expect
you to explain anything to him. I’m a grown man now. I can speak for myself without any of your halfhearted assistance.”

“Then how about Abigail? She’s a wonderful woman. I can’t bear knowing that you’d abuse her like this.” The reproach was lethal to endure. “I’m greatly outraged by the manner in which you’ve acted toward her. What’s come over you . . . to dally like this when you have no compunction to right your wrongs? You—better than anyone—are aware of the consequences.”

James fought to seem nonchalant, having learned long ago never to let his father discern how deeply his disappointment cut. “We were extremely discreet. Her reputation is hardly ruined.”

“Someone
evidently knows what you were about!” Edward indicated in a near-shout. “Jerald will be calling for your head!”

“Well, he can’t have it,” James retorted fliply.

“Have you no honor? No shame?”

“Not much.” He casually rose to his feet, though he was dying inside, and he started toward the door.

“Where are you off to?” his mother demanded.

“I thought I’d have a chat with Jerald Weston. I always loathed that pompous bastard, and I’m suddenly itching for a major row.” He strolled out of the room and down the hall.

Behind him, his mother exclaimed, “Go with him, Eddy, would you? In his condition, there’s no telling what he might do.”

“I’ll go, darling,” his father said, “but I don’t know what help I’ll be.”

“Just don’t let him instigate any more trouble than he already has.”

James continued on, not slowing in the least as his father raced to catch up.

Abigail slumped in the window seat of her room, gazing down on the back gardens, but she couldn’t find any joy in the view. Birds were singing, flowers were blooming, the sky was bright blue with fluffy clouds. Despite the spring day, all she saw was gray.

James did not love her!

She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall, wishing she could simply quit breathing, quit thinking, quit being, for she truly couldn’t face another day. Her heart was so broken that it might cease its beating. Not that she would care.

During the weeks that he’d refused to meet with her, she’d maintained her equilibrium because she’d been so hopeful that they would have a reconciliation. She’d fully believed that he would forgive her, that they would continue on as they had been, that they would grow more devoted and attached until James came to the same conclusion that she had reached long ago: They belonged together.

Sweet Jesu, but what a fool she was! During that last dramatic, wonderful, hideous assignation, she’d lain there with him and allowed his magnificent presence and fabulous anatomy to overwhelm all reason and sanity. While she’d been fantasizing and suffering her idiotic, girlish dreams, he’d been so bored that, when he’d finished with the sexual act, he could hardly wait to fasten his trousers and be on his way. He’d said that he would never return, and he’d meant it. She would never see him again, and oh, how the knowledge wounded her!

All her plans, all her visions of a perfect life, had been dashed in an instant. Everything was gone but this vast well of love she felt for him, and she couldn’t figure out where to bury it now that he’d thrown it back at her This stunning,
remarkable mountain of affection was pushing her down, choking her, squeezing against her until she could barely stagger under its heavy weight.

“Oh . . . what should I do now?” she wailed to the unanswering sky.

A knock sounded on her door, and Caroline entered without pausing for a response. On espying her sister across the room, Caroline asked, “Abigail, are you unwell? For the past two days, you’ve looked absolutely peaked.”

“No . . . I’m fine.” Uttering the obvious lie, she rubbed at her brow. She didn’t want to talk with Caroline! She didn’t want to talk with anyone! She simply wanted to be alone while she came to terms with what had happened.

Caroline sidled closer and eased down next to her. “What is it, Abigail? You can tell me.”

Abigail focused on her sister, and to her horror, tears welled into her eyes. More than anything in the world, she yearned to confide in someone about what had occurred at James Stevens’s hands. Not being able to speak of it seemed the worst torture of all.

“I’m just tired, Caroline,” she insisted, while swiping at the lone tear that succeeded in trickling down her cheek.

“Has that man done something to you?”

“What man?” Abigail returned her attention to the yard outside.

“The one you’ve been seeing. The one who sent you those undergarments.”

Abigail closed her eyes again, pressing a finger and thumb against her eyelids in an attempt to hold back a deluge of emotion as she proclaimed the fatal words: “There is no man.”

Caroline was silent for a long while, then she vowed, “If you ever need to talk about it, I’m here.”

“I’ll remember,” Abigail murmured vigilantly, lest the entire, sordid tale tumble out. All her regrets, acrimony, and sorrow were perched on the tip of her tongue, begging for the opportunity to spew forth, and making her realize that she had to get control of herself. If she weren’t careful, she’d
have Margaret up here, as well, though recently Margaret had been markedly absent.

Abigail wished them all to perdition so she could have some peace, but in the large household, privacy was a precious commodity, and she couldn’t permit her melancholy to induce others into speculating as to her desperate straits. Caroline had already deduced that something was amiss, so others would start noticing, too, if she weren’t more circumspect.

She straightened, fussing with her skirts, while easing the lines of worry that marred her brow. “What brings you upstairs?” she inquired quietly. “You and Charles were going riding.”

“You weren’t feeling up to it, so we’ll try again later.”

“I’m sure I’ll be ready. Let me know when you’d like to depart.” A ride in the park might be just the ticket to lift her lagging spirits. She’d be away from the prying residential staff, and she could travel in the curricle behind the young lovers; she’d be by herself with her lonely musings.

“Abigail, may I disclose a marvelous secret?” Caroline began hesitantly.