Cheryl Holt (44 page)

What was she prepared to do about it?

With all her being, she yearned to storm from the house and march to Town, demanding her rightful place by his side. Angela Ford Stevens made it sound so easy but in all actuality it wasn’t so simple to cast off one’s past while
recklessly plunging forward when there were no guarantees. Yet the older woman had lit a spark that was rapidly igniting into a raging torrent of longing for James. On any terms. Without condition.

Could she, dare she, attempt such a perilous leap for happiness? If she vaulted off this precipice into the great unknown stretching before her, and James didn’t deign to catch her, where would she find herself when she hit bottom? Did it matter?

Her pulse pounding in her veins, her mind frantically searching through the possibilities, she quit the parlor and climbed the stairway to her rooms.

James returned home just as dawn was breaking. His long night of employment was ending, but the rest of London was beginning to stir and face the day. He crossed the threshold and closed the door on the procession of carts and sellers who were slowly going about their business.

By his own request, no one was up to greet him. He was the sole person rattling around in the large house, and he couldn’t see any reason to have Arthur, or any of the other servants, hop out of bed to say hello, watch him hang his cloak and eat a few eggs. Competently, he took care of his own outer garments, then stood for a moment in the silent foyer.

By the very nature of their jobs and interests, they had always been a family of night owls. Usually at this time of the morning, he and Michael would have arrived together, animated from all the commotion at the club. Angela would have just arrived, as well, after an evening filled with a performance and parties. On many occasions, she would have brought along friends, and there’d be a loud, chatty, interesting group eating breakfast in the dining room.

More often, it had been the three of them. Fatigued from their endeavors, but unable to rest, they’d unwind by rehashing the happenings, sharing gossip, exchanging information, and enjoying each other’s company.

Now there was only this dreaded stillness. Which he hated.

The hollow ticking of the clock echoed through the empty halls, a constant reminder of how alone he was. Angela had eloped with Edward, then left for Italy without so much as a fare-thee-well. When they returned to London—whenever that would be—they’d reside in Edward’s Town house, so she’d never be back. The spirit and vitality she’d
breathed into the drafty rooms were gone for good.

Michael was still having his temper tantrum, and rumor had it that he’d gotten himself involved with a woman, but James wouldn’t venture to guess what that meant. There was no telling when his brother would reappear, making James wonder if he should simply stay at the club full-time, thereby avoiding these depressing homecomings entirely.

He climbed the stairs slowly, weariness pulling at his mind and body, and he thought about Charles and Caroline. At least one thing had gone right. They were safe at his country house, and the notion made him feel a little better. But then, for the briefest instant, Abby managed to creep into his musings as he pondered where she was and what she might be doing, and he was immediately overcome with misery. Refusing to consider her, he was successful in chasing her away.

No use going down that road!

At the top, he paused, listening to the overwhelming quiet that now occupied the spaces where there had once been so much laughter and gaiety. Strange, but he thought he could hear someone singing, and he shook his head. His mother and brother had only been absent a few weeks, and ghosts were already flitting about.

Still . . . walking down the hall, he couldn’t get past the sensation that someone was on the premises, someone whose presence altered the atmosphere, though who it might be, he hadn’t a clue. His senses on full alert, he strode into his bedchamber.

The drapes were drawn, candles lit, food and wine on one of the tables, the bedcovers turned down. A lace-trimmed corset, its strings dangling, lay across the foot of his bed. An aroma of roses wafted through the partially closed door to his dressing room. Water trickled through someone’s fingers.

For pity’s sake! It was six o’clock in the morning, he was dead tired, desirous of a few hours solitude and repose, and there was an unknown woman bathing in his private
rooms! Surely this was more than a man should have to abide!

What female of his acquaintance would dare breach the sanctity of his home? Whoever she was, she was brash, bold, and either extremely brave or remarkably stupid. Considering his state of irritation anymore, only a fool would tangle with him. Anger and annoyance warred with one another at the notion that he’d be constrained to endure some sort of ordeal to get her to leave.

While he was willing to tolerate many things from the fairer sex, he was hardly ready to have them sneaking into his bath and bed. Yet, as he traversed the floor, his cock stirred as he contemplated the nude form he was about to view. Since that last, dramatic rendezvous with Abigail, he’d not visited a woman’s bed. Not that he hadn’t had plenty of chances, but none of those who’d acted interested had titillated his interest the least bit.

It had been almost two months since he’d enjoyed a carnal release, and the lack had added some undesirable side effects to his personality. He was surly, fatigued, irate, and ready to toss this interloper out on her pretty arse, but before he gave her the heave-ho, he was certainly willing to rudely partake of whatever she offered. A quick, heated coupling might be just the ticket to alleviate his stress and bring about some much-needed sleep.

In his dressing room, the smell of roses was stronger. The woman had disrobed in here, and her clothes were scattered about. The tub was shielded by a decorated screen. A lamp burned, illuminating only her profile, and he was treated to an enchanting, erotic exhibition as she steadied herself, came up to her knees, then her feet.

The water lapped against the edge as she exited. She leaned over to grab for a towel, and he hardened at the glimpse of her lush, rounded bottom. Starting at her head, she languidly rubbed her body, working the drying cloth down across her throat, her bosom, her flat stomach, cleft, thighs, calves, toes. Then, she wrapped it under her arms, but not before he noticed that her breasts were flawlessly
formed, high and pert, the nipples two taut little buds. Tucking the flap at her cleavage, the long sheeting hung past her knees like a type of native’s dress.

He held his breath. Aching. Ready.

She moved from behind the screen.

“Hello, James.” Abby smiled. “I didn’t realize you were home.”

He wasn’t quite sure who he’d been expecting, but unquestionably not Abigail Weston. If the Blessed Virgin herself had stopped by, he couldn’t have been more stunned.

But for the towel, she was naked, her skin moist, slippery, fragrant. She was the most delectable sight he’d ever laid eyes upon, and as always transpired when she was near, his body reacted with amazing force. His erection expanded severely, and he became so overinflated that he had to grip a chair in order to remain upright, and he struggled to hide his surprise and blatant ardor.

He was furious that she’d come, furious that she’d put him in the position of craving her so badly, of having to chase her away all over again. He wasn’t sure he possessed the fortitude to be so overtly cruel a second time.

Angrily, he asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Taking a bath.” She stated the obvious as though his stumbling across her while she performed her ablutions was the most common of occurrences. He hadn’t moved any closer, so she took the initiative, narrowing the distance until they were toe to toe, and he was assailed by a myriad of feminine bouquets, of perfume and sex and musk.

She flicked that wicked tongue of hers along her bottom lip, drawing his attention to it so thoroughly that he couldn’t look away. “The water is still hot. Would you like to bathe? I could wash you.”

Her husky voice, the one that sounded more indecent than any expensive whore he’d ever had, flowed over his body as though she were licking him with her words. Vividly, he could picture himself removing his clothes, sliding into the steamy cauldron, and letting her massage him all
over. At the thought, his balls clenched and cried out for mercy.

“I don’t want you in my home,” he contended.

“Really? It seems to me that you’ve missed me.”

So saying, she laid her hand on the front of his trousers, where his cockstand had swelled to a vulgar length, and his traitorous hips, of their own accord, flexed against her. She ground the heel of her palm into the sensitive tip before he managed to yank her away.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said meanly. “I realized there was a naked woman in my bath. I was prepared to
fuck
whoever was idiotic enough to saunter ’round the screen.”

“I’m certain that’s true.” She eliminated the gap between them; her towel tickled his clothing. “Aren’t I lucky that I get to be the one?”

Shifting back, creating space, he baldly declared, “I’m expecting my mistress.”

“You don’t have one,” she responded, refusing to heed his protests. “Arthur told me you haven’t bedded a woman in weeks. And I was ecstatic to learn”—she flipped that glorious mane of hair over her shoulder—“that you finally had the sense to send that Ritter woman packing. I never liked your being with her, and I’m sure she’s the one who caused all our trouble.” Appearing entirely too innocent, she inquired, “Would you dry my back?”

She turned and dropped the towel.

For the span of a lifetime, he stared at her, at the ridges and bumps of her spine, the two cute dimples at the base, the cleft of her butt, those velvety cheeks. His fingers tingled, his nostrils flared, but he made no attempt to assist her.

“I don’t think so,” he ultimately said.

“No matter.” She shrugged and twirled past him, headed directly into his bedchamber.

In shock, he didn’t follow, tarrying instead next to the tub for many minutes while ruminating over how to proceed. He didn’t want her in his personal quarters! He couldn’t bear to have her handling his possessions and ingratiating
her presence into the surroundings!

What did she intend? Seduction, obviously, but to what end? What did she hope to accomplish?

His mind spun as he sifted through the possibilities, but he couldn’t conceive of a single valid reason for her arrival. As he cast about, searching for explanations, he gradually noticed that many of his belongings had been rearranged. On one of his dressers, his shaving equipment had been pushed over, and several decorative combs and brushes were lying next to it. On another, a tray holding his cuff links was shoved back and a jewelry box added. One of his dresser drawers was stuffed full of stockings, garters, and various female unmentionables. Stomping to an armoire, he wrenched at the doors and peered in, only to discover that his shirts were hanging beside several gowns.

“What the bloody hell . . . ?” He gazed around, not caring for these feminine additions in the slightest. Ready for battle, he marched to the outer room.

A cozy fire crackled in the grate, a sofa set in front of it, and she comfortably reclined. She was snuggled against the pillows, his collection of Pierre’s lewd paintings propped on her lap, and she was leafing through it as though she had all the time in the world to wait for him to join her.

While he’d stalled and fumed in his dressing room, she’d donned black stockings, mules, and a sheer black robe, but she hadn’t tied the belt, so the lapels were open, her breasts and stomach bared for his perusal, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, she’d eliminated the womanly hair from her privates! With one knee drooped over the other, her dainty foot lolled back and forth, her heeled shoe dangling, and her clean-shaven pussy winked at him from between her thighs.

Hinting at secret delights, tempting him, he lurched toward her, but caught himself as he grasped that he was being helplessly reeled in like a fish on a hook. He halted immediately.

“Why have you come?” he demanded tersely.

She glanced up from whatever drawing had captured her
attention, impaling him with those startling green eyes. He’d forgotten how astounding they were, how captivating, how far inside they could delve to where his true emotions were hidden. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to remember. Like a coward, he looked away, focusing on her luscious mouth. Another mistake.

“I’ve been evicted from my brother’s home. I have no place else to go.”

“What made you consider that it would be all right to show up on my doorstep?”

“Well . . . you
are
the one who ruined me,” she said, as though explaining her forsaken condition to a simpleton. “I decided it was only fair that you give me shelter. After all, you wouldn’t want Jerald to throw me out onto the streets, would you? I’d be on my own, with no one to watch over me.”

“You’re not welcome here!” he hissed.

“Actually, I am. Your mother invited me. She insisted I stay as long as I wish.” She went back to the stack of naughty pictures.

“My mother?” His blasted mother had butted her nose into this mess yet again? What was it about this situation that she found so intriguing? “Angela doesn’t live here. Besides, this is my home. She has no say in who will be a guest.”

“Would you like me to leave?” Bored, she was apparently more than willing to depart in her current scanty attire. What had befallen her?

In what he felt convinced was a calculated gesture, her leg fell to the side, exposing her core. He’d been right! She’d shaved! He stalked to her, and she hadn’t the common sense to flinch away from his ferocious regard.

“What have you done to yourself?” he queried rabidly.

“Whatever do you mean?”

Mercy, but in one more second, she’d probably be batting her lashes! “You’ve removed your hair!”

“I hired a new maid. She’s French. I had her do my legs and under my arms, too.” Holding his gaze, refusing to
permit retreat, she seductively stroked her hand over her breast, past her impudent nipple, then pushed her robe off her shoulder. She was silky smooth all the way down to where her stockings were tied. “ ’Tis strange to be so sleek all over. But I like it.” She raised her brows suggestively, seeking his opinion.