Cheryl Holt (23 page)

Rising, he pulled on a pair of trousers, then he went to the hall. So far, he hadn’t invaded her refuge, but maybe it was time. He didn’t like it that she had a place separate from him, didn’t want there to be any aspect about her with which he was unfamiliar.

He limped to the top of the narrow staircase. Her door was closed, and without knocking, he entered.

It was cozily furnished, feminine, with frilly curtains, woven rugs, knitted throws. A corset hung off a chair, stockings draped beside it. She was by the window, peering down on the lawn. Stiff with rage, her fists were clenched as if she might strike him.

“Go away,” she said without turning.

“Anne—”

“I can’t tolerate any more of this.”

He came up behind her and hugged her, but she didn’t welcome the embrace, so he nuzzled her neck, gratified by
the goose bumps that cascaded down her arms. She might be incensed, but she wasn’t unaffected. It was the way between them; their bond was too strong.

“She climbed into my bed, Anne,” he announced before she could cut him off. “I was asleep. I swear it.”

“Shut up.”

“I woke up, and there she was.”

“My God, she was caressing you! You were leaned over her, hard as a rock, eager to do the deed. Do you take me for a fool?”

“I thought she was you.”

She elbowed him in the ribs, so firmly that he flinched and released her, and she whirled around. “What do you want from me, Stephen? You’re recuperating in my home. You’re eating my food, and benefiting from my healing skills. You’re using my body when it suits you. So what do you want?”

It was a question he never stopped asking himself. What did he want?

He tried to imagine marrying her, uprooting her to the familial estate, but how could she fit in? She wasn’t a woman of leisure, like his sister. He couldn’t picture her frittering away, drinking tea, sponsoring musicales, and painting tepid watercolors.

She’d be bored to tears. And how would he support her?

Neither of them would feel comfortable, residing under his father’s roof and dependent on his charity. The yoke of reliance had chafed, and was the reason he’d joined the army, that he’d proposed to Felicity. He couldn’t abide that subservient existence, nor could he drag Anne into it with him.

The other option was to stay with her, to be a kept man, to have Anne the breadwinner, but he couldn’t envision himself loafing while she worked herself to the bone. What would be his role? Clerk? Sexual partner? Footman? He was too much of a gentleman—the teachings of his upbringing ingrained and indelible—and too proud to have her providing for him.

As he’d proven, and Anne had insisted from the outset, his presence was an impossibility. It wasn’t feasible to have a man about, especially one with his renown and celebrity, yet her business would have to thrive. It would supply their only earnings.

There were no other alternatives, and he had no solutions to offer, but one fact was paramount.

“I love you,” he asserted.

“So?”

As it was the sole occasion he’d proclaimed himself, he gaped at her, offended and startled that she’d tossed his declaration in his face. He frowned, then laughed. How fitting that she would disregard his declaration!

After all his philandering, his peccadilloes, and loose conduct, he’d found a female he adored, had confessed as much, and she was unmoved.

“That has to count for something.”

“To whom?” she queried.

“To you.”

“My father used to tell my mother, on a daily basis, that he loved her. For three solid years, he swore it. He sired two children on her as his proof. Then—poof!—he tired of her and sent us away. I never saw him again, so pardon me if I say that your
love
doesn’t signify in the slightest.”

A tough nut to crack! He wasn’t about to wade into the murky circumstances involving her father, for he didn’t presume he could win by going that route. Edward Paxton had behaved badly, but it was the custom of noblemen toward their paramours. Still, Stephen didn’t see how he could redeem himself by mentioning as much.

“I don’t know what I want from you,” he honestly admitted.

“You must have some idea.”

The answers were so complex. “I can’t begin to decide.”

“Why not? It seems simple to me. Are we to marry? To be
together forever? Or are we merely to cohabit until you leave?”

He couldn’t lie to her. “Yes, Anne. That’s how it has to be.”

“Very well.” She was hurt, bitter. “I guess I have to determine how far I’m willing to debase myself. Should I let you tarry, while I pine away for the scraps of attention you deign to throw in my direction? Or should I lop you off immediately, like a festering limb, so that I can instantly be shed of you?”

“It’s not as wretched as all that.”

“Isn’t it? If I relent, I’ll be forced to share you with all the others who sneak in when I’m not looking. I’m not sure I can be that magnanimous. You matter to me, but it’s fairly clear that my affection isn’t reciprocated.”

“I told you that I love you.”

“I heard you, but I don’t think the word has any meaning to you. Not deep down. You don’t know what
love
is.”

Didn’t he? Wasn’t it this giddy rush he felt when he was with her?

“It’s what I feel for you.”

“How do you intend to act on it?”

With reality lashing at her, she seemed to deflate, and he couldn’t bear that she was so unhappy. “Anne, listen to me.” He took her hands in his, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze. “If we married, what kind of life would we have?”

“I expect the type all couples have, though I suppose we’d enjoy a tad more passion.”

“I live with my father. Could you conceive of yourself residing at Bristol Manor? With nothing to do but sip tea and peruse fashion magazines with my sister? You’d be batty in a week.”

“Perhaps I’d relish the opportunity,” she defiantly maintained.

“Not bloody likely.”

“Why couldn’t I? Do you assume that I prefer slaving away like a dog, with so little to show for my efforts? Maybe I’d jump at the chance for indolence, where I could have someone take care of
me
for a change.”

“But if you couldn’t stand it, what would become of us? I couldn’t support you as a husband should. I have no income, and no method of generating any. I can’t fathom another tour in the military, so what would I do?”

“Stay with me.”

“You’re aware of what an infeasible prospect that is.” He pulled her into his arms. “I’m here for now, and I’m crazy about you. Can’t that be enough?”

“Maybe I need more.”

“I’m certain you do, but I’ve never been the man to give it to you.”

What a sorry statement of his situation! He was the son of an earl, an aristocrat, the most famous personage in England, his exploits bandied high and low. Every maiden in the land wished she could have him for her own. But what advantage was there in his repute if he couldn’t have his heart’s desire? He felt like a spoiled toddler, denied his favorite treat.

Though he hadn’t a penny to his name, he was too vain to tie himself to a workingwoman. He was pathetic! A despicable, conceited snob, who would forgo bliss merely because he couldn’t figure out how to arrange his affairs. When had he grown so set in his ways? So stodgy and unbending?

Yet, he couldn’t envision a different future, couldn’t deduce how to achieve another conclusion, and he would never be so cruel as to raise her hopes, only to dash them.

He was with her to be healed, and after she’d finished with him, he’d reestablish himself at his previous pursuits, and he was nearing that crossroads.

What a pitiable creature he would be when that juncture arrived! He would go back to the empty swirl of London
parties and frivolous gamboling, while she would be at her farm, busy, content, and fulfilled by her employment.

How fortunate she was to have something she cherished! Something that was satisfying and tangible. He envied her her industrious, fruitful existence, but there was no place for him in it.

“Come,” he said, trying to lead her across the floor. “Lie down with me.”

“No. Not after you’ve just been with another.”

Sad and weary, she assessed him, and he couldn’t abide that he would inflict such sorrow on her, not when he regarded her as so fine and unique. He clutched her and gave her a shake. “Will you get this through your thick head: nothing happened between us.”

“Once you’re home, will Lady Camilla be your mistress?”

“No.”

“But there will be others like her, won’t there?”

He flushed. Of course, there would be. A depressing string of them. It was the manner in which men of his society carried on. “Probably.”

“And how about Lady Felicity? Will you marry her?”

“Anne, don’t torture yourself like this.”

“Will you?” she sharply inquired.

“I can’t say.” Felicity was one in a long line of decisions he’d avoided, but he couldn’t evade a resolution forever. “Don’t let’s talk about it now.”

“If not now, when?”

He felt as if she was wielding a knife and pricking at his vulnerabilities. “Never. How can any of it signify?”

“I need to know what you’ll do, and where you’ll be, after you leave me.”

“To what end? To torment yourself?”

“With a bit of
torment,
I’ll get over you faster.” She walked to the bed and sat down. “It would be so easy to hate you.”

He sidled next to her. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do.”

She glanced out the window, where Camilla was floating in the pool, and in no hurry. The others had fled, and Kate stood guard, a silent sentinel tracking Camilla’s activities.

“I know you’ll have to depart soon,” she said. “All I ask—” Halting, she had to swallow twice before she could continue. “All I ask is that you make your farewell as gently as you are able.”

“I promise you I will.” He sat, too, and kissed her, tentative and nervous about how she’d receive the gesture, but she didn’t reject him. “I’m feeling stronger,” he asserted, “and I can manage the stairs. I want to move up here, to share your room.”

As if it was beyond her to protest, she shrugged. “All right.” Forlorn and disconsolate, she leaned forward and rested her chin in her hands. “I’m the biggest fool in the world.”

“No you’re not.” Eager to proclaim himself again, he draped an arm across her shoulder. “I love you.”

“So what?” she responded miserably. “It’s cold comfort, Stephen. Cold comfort indeed.”

 13 

Anne rose, the water sluicing off her torso, the cold night air blasting her heated skin. There was a touch of autumn on the breeze, yellow leaves in the trees, and soon, she’d be attending the dance at the harvest festival.

Stephen would be gone by then, and she tried not to feel any regret, but it swept over her anyway.

He was walking across the yard, his strong legs covering the grass in easy strides. Other than a slight hobble in his gait, it was difficult to identify him as the same man who’d come to her in June, weak, sickened, and crippled.

Through diet and strenuous exercise, he’d regained much of his weight, growing whipcord lean, his muscled physique the type a sculptor might carve into a block of marble.

Mental wounds lingered, though they were abating, and his nightmares had lessened, too, and she was idiotic enough to wonder if it was because he slept with her. She wanted to be the reason.

When he’d moved upstairs, she’d been too embarrassed to explain the intimate situation to her servants. She’d had Kate do it for her, and they’d been kind enough to pretend that there was no torrid romance occurring. They went about their duties
as though stumbling upon him in the morning, cuddled next to her, was perfectly normal.

Thank God, none of them had quit! If they’d been outraged by her immorality, she couldn’t have borne it. She was shocked, herself, by her complete and unconditional fall from grace, but Stephen was like a disease for which there was no cure.

The staff had accepted his presence, showing him the deference they might have had he been her husband. Even the lad who helped Kate in the stable wasn’t immune to Stephen’s charisma, and like a lost puppy, followed him around whenever he was outside.