Cheryl Holt (4 page)

Abigail Weston paced across the floor of the parlor in the cozy house she had rented in order to meet clandestinely with James Stevens. It was Thursday afternoon, five minutes before the hour of two. Carriage wheels sounded on the street below, and she couldn’t prevent herself from rushing to the window to see if he had arrived.

He hadn’t.

The carriage lumbered past without stopping, and she couldn’t decide if she was relieved or disheartened.

“Five more minutes,” she murmured, glancing at the clock over the mantel, although she had already decided she would wait an extra hour before giving up on him completely.

Would he show?

Nervously, she examined the furnishings of the unpretentious residence. The room was neat and tidy, a refreshment tray set on the table in front of the sofa. A cheery fire crackled in the grate. He had been drinking spirits during their brief meeting at his office, so even though it was the middle of the afternoon, she’d added a bottle of brandy to the sideboard in case he wanted something stronger than tea.

Everything appeared to be ready for his arrival, but still, she wished she was in familiar surroundings rather than this unknown, slightly worn dwelling. The strange environment added to her discomfort, though it was too late to worry. The site she’d selected couldn’t be helped.

She’d had no choice but to pay for the temporary, covert location for their planned appointment. Before going to speak with him, she’d nearly driven herself mad trying to come up with a suitable solution in case he agreed to her
demented scheme. Yet she could not think of a single site where the two of them could talk candidly.

In her sheltered, stilted world, a woman simply did not cross paths with men like Mr. Stevens. He was too unrestrained, too infamous, too scandalous a personage for a refined female to know. Therefore, she could hardly have asked someone to introduce them. They couldn’t have had a
chance
encounter on the street, in the park, or in one of the city’s more prominent establishments where the Quality liked to see and be seen. Word would have swiftly gotten back to her half-brother, Jerald, or—perish the thought!—his wife Margaret, and there would have been no end to the pandemonium any type of association with Mr. Stevens would create.

As Earl of Marbleton, Jerald was a stuffy, boorish man; his wife, righteous, vain, and self-centered. Their lives were ruled by propriety and social status, and neither of them would ever understand Abigail’s need to mingle with someone from the lower classes. If she was caught with Mr. Stevens, even in the most innocent of circumstances, there would be no excuse she could give for her behavior.

As the notorious bastard son of the Earl of Spencer, James Stevens was the most insulting, disreputable, and inappropriate type of person Jerald and Margaret could imagine. No matter what type of man he was on the inside, for them, his birth status said all.

But she was determined to succeed, so she’d eventually settled on renting in the out-of-the-way neighborhood where they could both come and go with relative anonymity. Indeed, she’d found herself relishing the bit of daring and deception it had taken to secure their secret hiding place, and she eagerly anticipated what would occur during their conferences, however few or many they might turn out to be.

She had no idea how many visits would be required, but she assumed it would take at least two or three discussions to learn all. If they needed more time, they would have it. A six-month lease had been signed to retain the property,
but she didn’t mind. Money was not a problem, and the insignificant expense was worth it if it helped to bring her the information she sought.

The rendezvous at his office had been the most exciting event of her rather eventless life. It had also been the most difficult, but she thought she had pulled it off well. In spite of the fact that she had been frightened and apprehensive, she’d hidden her trepidation, appearing assured and confident.

She’d hoped he would believe she was a mature, worldly woman who could converse about adult topics without stammering or swooning, and not what she actually was: a shielded spinster who had few clues about how men and women interacted. She was certain she’d come across as a bold person, despite her thinking that nothing could have been worse than looking him in the eye and making her strange request.

However, as she’d learned in the past few days and hours, asking for his help had been the easy part. Keeping their planned assignation was another matter altogether. Showing up for their second rendezvous took much more temerity than the original appointment.

Oh, what madness had ever possessed her to decide this was a good idea?

For twenty-five years, she’d stumbled along without knowing the details of marital relations. Very likely, she could stumble along for twenty-five more.

Just pondering what was coming caused her heart to begin pounding all over again, and she rubbed her hand across the center of her chest, attempting to ease its furious beating. The motion brought her wrist in contact with her right breast, so she quickly stopped herself. Since her meeting with Mr. Stevens the previous Monday, her breasts had become overly sensitive. They were fuller, heavier, her nipples constantly working against the lace of her chemises, pressing in an irritating way against the bodices of her dresses.

At the strangest times, she’d find herself feeling too hot
when there was no reason to be, and she’d be fanning her face while others were complaining about being too cool. Eventually it had dawned on her that these moments of overheating coincided with the straying of her thoughts in Mr. Stevens’s direction.

Restless and aching, she was suffering in bodily spots she had never noticed before. Her skin felt too tight, as though she needed to molt it off. At night, she couldn’t sleep, but tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, all the while imagining what sorts of wicked subjects they would inevitably review.

She kept picturing Mr. Stevens and how he had looked that day in his office. Heat had seared up her arm when he had kissed her hand in good-bye. The brief sensation had been unlike anything she’d previously encountered. How she wished she had not been wearing a glove so that he might have touched his lips directly against her skin!

After arriving in London from the family estate in early January, her only visit since her debut at age seventeen, she had barely been in Jerald’s Town house an hour when she’d heard Mr. Stevens’s name for the first time. Two of the servants had been gossiping about him when they thought no one was listening. Apparently he had been keeping company with a widow for whom one of them had been previously employed. Mr. Stevens had broken off the relationship, and the spurned widow was beside herself, furiously striving to regain his attention.

Both servants insisted the widow wouldn’t prevail. When Mr. Stevens finished with a woman, he never went back, and rumor had it that he was already seeing another.

Abigail might not have remembered his name at all had it not been whispered and bandied about on five different occasions during her initial week of social calls. Numerous women appeared to know him quite intimately, and those who did not had no qualms about discussing him at great length. She had been in a retiring room, unseen and unnoticed, when she’d finally gleaned shocking specifics.

Two giggling women—both were slightly inebriated—
had been recalling their previous evening’s entertainments, how the two of them had gone to his bed together. Most of what the pair had uttered was beyond her comprehension, but she couldn’t prevent herself from listening. Long after the women had departed, she remained where she had been standing, aghast and, for some reason, stimulated by what she had learned, though she couldn’t have said why.

Generally, she was left with questions: Why would two women go to one man’s bed? Why was the experience so thrilling for them? What exactly was it that they had done to him with their mouths? Where did this indisputable joy come from that had them waxing on in such an indiscreet fashion?

Although she had eavesdropped in the worst way, she was frightfully glad for the sexual tidbits she’d uncovered while hiding behind the ferns. Up until that moment, she had earnestly believed that men and women shared the marital bed in order to breed children—the hows and whats of it still a mystery—and for no other reason. Clearly, she’d been wrong, which made her understand that much had been skimmed over and downright omitted in her limited education regarding procreative matters.

Obviously, there were people in the world who truly enjoyed the marital act and who engaged in it on a regular basis for the sole purpose of finding pleasure. The women whom she’d stumbled upon were from lofty families, so she couldn’t attribute their delight to their having common natures. They were both highborn ladies who had sought out a man who was not their husband, who had committed unspeakable acts with him, and who couldn’t wait to do it all again at the earliest possible opportunity.

During their hushed conversation, they had made much of James Stevens’s good looks and broad physique. So, when she had turned to face him in his office, she had been expecting to encounter a comely gentleman. Instantly, however, it was clear that the words used to describe him had fallen far short of their mark. By far and away, he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

He was tall, six feet at least, with dark hair, so dark it had looked black in the dim light of the rainy afternoon. It was neatly trimmed in the front, the back strands curling deliciously over his collar, the style only serving to emphasize his beautiful face, his high cheekbones, his aristocratic nose. And his eyes!

They were a fathomless blue, a deep striking sapphire that drew her in and held her spellbound. When he had looked at her with those magnificent eyes, his gaze boring into hers, she felt as though he could peer to her very core where all her insignificant heartaches and loneliness quietly rested. He seemed to know things about her that no one else had ever guessed. The sensation was disconcerting, but new and interesting, and therefore welcomed at this period in her life.

Did he look at all his women that way? Was it a special gift he had? Was that why he was so popular with the ladies?

Perhaps he made them all feel that he saw something unique and special that no one else had ever noticed. She herself had come away from their appointment with the particular impression that they shared a distinct affinity, that she could tell him secrets she would never have dared speak to another, and because he understood her so well, he would neither judge nor condemn . . .

More carriage wheels sounded below, and she jumped toward the window, furtively glancing into the street just as the knocker banged on the front door. Though she had retained a woman to do minimal cooking and cleaning, Abigail had arranged it so that the servant would never be present if Mr. Stevens came to call, so there was no one to answer. Her hand fluttered to her throat, and she physically stopped herself from making such a silly motion. She’d never been a
flutterer
, and she wasn’t about to start now.

Taking a deep breath, she headed for the stairs and started down, relieved that he had arrived promptly, thus saving her from endless minutes of further torment. At the
bottom, she paused briefly by the mirror, making a last check of her appearance.

The dark green dress she’d chosen for their afternoon engagement was simple but elegant, with a high neck and long sleeves. She had spent hours agonizing over what to wear, finally deciding that the rich color and plain style would help her to appear serene and self-possessed. Since she was neither, she appreciated aid from any corner, hence the unassuming gown.

Her hair was neatly braided and pinned up on her head, her cheeks rosy from the past hour of fervent pacing. All in all, she looked quite fetching, which made her more certain of her intentions.

With a trembling feeling coursing through her body, she forced a smile, then reached for the door and opened it.

“Hello, Mr. Stevens,” she said, encouraged to discover that she sounded calm and collected. “I’m so glad you decided to join me. Do come in.” She stepped aside to allow him space to enter.

In his perfectly tailored light blue coat and snug-fitting tan breeches, he was more handsome than she recollected. His snowy white cravat was perfectly tied, his tall black boots buffed to the brightest shine, and he appeared to be a gentleman out taking an afternoon stroll. There wasn’t the slightest hint that he was an earl’s bastard, that his mother was a woman of supposedly low moral character, that he made his living by owning a gaming establishment. Gallant and refined, he seemed perfectly comfortable with the idea of meeting an unknown woman for a few hours of sexual discourse.

As he moved inside, wonderful masculine aromas, of fresh air, horses, and tobacco, filled the foyer, and she couldn’t prevent a sudden flight of feminine fancy from creeping over her, which made her feel she was welcoming him home.

What would it be like to have a man as part of her life, to wait impatiently, ready to greet him after his long, hard day? Up until this instant, she hadn’t realized she’d missed
having her own husband and family. Perhaps the peaceful years she’d passed in the country had lulled her into a false sense of personal serenity.

He carried a brown satchel, a sort of portfolio, made of soft leather. The flap was tied at the front with a black ribbon, and she tried to avoid showing any overt curiosity. As he began to remove his outerwear, he held on to it with one hand. His eyes never left hers as he did so, and she hung his damp cloak on a peg next to the door, rested his hat on a nearby chair. There was a closeness generated from handling his belongings that she enjoyed very much.

“If we meet a second time,” he mentioned, the soft baritone of his voice brushing across her skin and reverberating through her nerve endings, “you should leave the door unlocked, and I shall admit myself. ’Tis not advisable for me to linger on the stoop, even if it is only for a few moments.”