Cheryl Holt (30 page)

“I’m aroused from spying on you,” he confessed. “I intend to coax your foul friend here, to my room. I’ll have the two of you do it while I watch, then I’ll join you. I’ll have you both at my mercy.”

Over the years, he’d abused her in many ways, but it had been physical, never sexual, and it hadn’t occurred to her that he might try something so vulgar. How could she reason with him? He was mad in his fury, beyond persuasion, but there had to be a method whereby she could cajole him to sanity.

“Willie . . .” she beseeched, but the assertions required to plead her case wouldn’t come.

In a flash, he ripped her gown, exposing her back, then he brought the strop down, cracking it across her bared flesh.

“Pervert,” he seethed. “Filthy pervert.”

He whipped it down, again and again, and she huddled into a ball, praying that the worst would pass quickly.

“What is it, dearest cousin?”

Robert entered the salon and shut the door, as Felicity spun toward him. She’d slipped away from her mother’s musicale, wanting to be by herself as she read the post that had just been delivered, but he was so observant that he’d followed.

“Hello, Robert.”

“You’re upset. Has something happened?”

“I’ve received a letter.”

“From whom?”

“Lady Eleanor in Bristol.”

“Is it bad news?” He seemed excited that it might be.

“No. It’s quite splendid.” She steadied her smile, broadened it, urging herself to be glad.

“What does it say?”

“Captain Chamberlin is much improved and ready to be discharged from the spa where he’s been recovering.”

“How fabulous.” He grimaced as if he were sucking on a pickle. “What are his plans?”

“He’s returning to London, to establish himself at his father’s town house.”

“I see.”

“Lady Eleanor has invited me to travel to Bristol, so that the two of us may retrieve him, then accompany him on his triumphant journey to the city.”

“When?”

“As soon as I can prepare myself.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Or the next day.”

“When will you be back?”

“I’d guess a fortnight.”

“Two weeks.” Sighing, he came to her, took her hands in his. “How shall I persevere without your charming company?”

He kissed her on the cheek, then on the mouth. He’d done so several times now, and she kept waiting for it to become the moment of passion about which her married friends tittered, but no fireworks ignited, no spark flared.

Oh, she was so fickle! So erratic and irresolute! She was engaged! What was she doing, sneaking about in private parlors and dallying with her cousin? Why didn’t she enjoy it? If it was more pleasurable, would it seem less sinful?

She was confused, perplexed about what she wanted. It was Robert, wasn’t it? Then why wasn’t she more thrilled by his amorous attention?

He was kind and gentle, and he needed her desperately, needed her support and strength, as she shepherded him through the murky waters of a musical career.

Yet, what of Stephen? He was gallant, brave, and he’d
endured so much. Wasn’t he just as deserving of her energy, her optimism and vigor?

She was so bewildered over her choices, and she broke off the embrace and stepped away.

“Robert, we can’t keep on.”

“But I love you, Felicity! You can’t demand that I desist. It’s like asking the rain to stop falling.”

“I’m betrothed. I betray Captain Chamberlin whenever we’re alone.”

“You can’t go through with your marriage! Not after all we’ve meant to one another!”

He tried to clasp her hands again, but she wouldn’t let him. Gliding to the window, she noted how the autumn leaves were orange and red, the flowers in the garden wilted with the onset of the season.

“I must proceed with the wedding. If Stephen will have me.” Behind her, she could feel Robert bristle. Couldn’t he understand how distressing this was for her? She needed sympathy and compassion, advice and counsel. Not chastisement!

What would people think of her if she announced that she didn’t wish to wed Stephen? How could she unmask herself as such a vain, self-centered creature? Why, at the very mention of crying off, her mother would likely suffer an apoplexy.

“But what of our goals?” he wheedled. “We had such grandiose plans.”

They’d frequently palavered, about his talent, about their villa on the cliffs above a quaint Italian village, where he would compose, and she would nurture his genius. In a thrice, their dreams had dwindled to ashes.

“I won’t abandon you, Robert,” she vowed. “Once I’m married, and the trust fund goes to Stephen, I’ll be your patroness. You’ll want for nothing. I swear it!”

Though she’d never discussed the matter with Stephen, she was positive he wouldn’t begrudge her her fascination with struggling artists. Her giving Robert financial aid wouldn’t be the same as their being together, but at least he’d have money to continue his work.

Such a boon was worth a great deal, but he was glaring at her as if he was angry, as if he might say something horrid about Stephen, or worse yet, about herself.

She couldn’t bear to be admonished, not when she was so confounded about the future and what her role should be. She sustained her own wave of fury, and fleetingly, she wondered how he dared to be irritated with her, but she tamped down her vexation.

Robert loved her! He did! If he was irate, it was because of the pain he was experiencing over losing her.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, frantic to escape while she collected herself, “I must share the good news with Mother.”

She hurried out and down the corridor before he could reply.

 17 

Stephen stood in front of the mirror, tying his cravat. Eleanor had sent a trunk of his clothes, and he’d gained so much weight, that they nearly fit as they’d been tailored. In his blue coat, white shirt, and tan trousers, he looked healthy and robust, with no lingering hint of how ill he’d been at the start.

Behind him, he caught glimpses of Anne. Quiet, morose, she was lost in a contemplation she had no intention of sharing. She was huddled on the bed, leaned against the headboard, her arms wrapped around her knees so that she appeared to be hugging herself, or perhaps, holding herself together.

He wasn’t sure what had prompted his decision to depart. He’d been staring out the window at the colorful leaves, and he’d felt so stable and whole that he’d realized the moment was upon him. There’d been no lengthy rumination, no heartwrenching deliberation.

Despite Anne’s opinion, he’d never been an idle man, and with his recuperation, he was restless, impatient for a change. Though he had reservations about returning to the city, he was curious about his acquaintances, and ready to immerse himself in the social whirl.

On listening to his faltering explanation that it was time, Anne had been cheery and upbeat, not displaying any dismay, and he’d been annoyed at her nonchalance, which was stupid.

Would he rather have had her maudlin, weeping, begging him not to go? He grinned at the thought. While he would have gained some personal satisfaction from having her woebegone, he wouldn’t have wanted their last days to be doleful. Wasn’t it better that they’d been merry, wild, extravagant? They’d philandered with a reckless abandon, had bathed and talked and fornicated as if there was no tomorrow, and for the two of them, there wasn’t.

But now that the separation was nigh, he could detect her desperation, her anguish. She was shattered, sorrowing, her agony so extreme that she couldn’t shield it, and it hurt to see how deeply she was grieving.

He should have grasped that she’d been hiding her feelings, that she’d feigned gaiety so that their final week would be a glorious adventure. He’d never forget a single detail of the interlude, would always recollect how close they’d been, how devoted and attached.

London would be so dull and dreary without her, and he’d considered imploring her to join him, to be his mistress, although he had no idea how he’d have supported her. His destiny was to marry money, and it would hardly be sporting that, in his initial act as a husband, he use his new bride’s wealth to set up his paramour.

His musing launched a cycle of confused yearning, where he toyed with the notion of staying, which he could only do if he was willing to be dependent on her for every little thing. In his more morbid reveries, the concept didn’t seem half bad.

You don’t belong here,
a voice rang out.
You have to leave.

He knew the truth of the admonition, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear.

A maid knocked, but Anne didn’t move to answer her.
With a hollow expression, she continued to watch him, so he walked over, cracked the door, and peeked out.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Your sister and your fiancée have arrived, milord,” the girl said. “They await you in the parlor.”

Anne didn’t respond, gave no indication of being upset that his betrothed was under her roof, but the tidings had to be a terrible blow. On numerous occasions, he’d informed her that there was no engagement, that there would be no wedding. What must she be thinking?

It was too late to fret, and strangely, he wasn’t angry that Felicity had accompanied Eleanor.

Though he hadn’t imagined he’d welcome her, he was glad she’d come. Her presence marked the shift that was occurring. He was in Anne’s bedchamber—her convalescent, her lover, her friend—but when he exited into the hall, he would be crossing a sort of line, a line of inevitability and necessity, that would hurl him back to his old life, his prior existence.

Save for his marvelous memories, Anne would have no place there, while Felicity would be at the center. He wasn’t certain that marriage to her was in the offing, but for now, she played a pivotal role.

“Is Mr. Hughes with them?”

“No, sir.”

He hadn’t heard from Charles, and he’d hoped that Eleanor would have reconciled with him, though in view of how stubborn she could be, it would likely never transpire.

“Thank you,” he replied. “Please tell them I’ll be down shortly.”

She curtsied and left, and he accepted her deference as a symbol of the metamorphosis in progress. He’d ceased to be a member of the household, but was someone above it.

Turning, he gazed at Anne. She was a tragic figure, beautiful, silent, and so alone, and he went to her and took her icy
hands in his, tugging her off the mattress and onto her feet.

“It’s time,” he stated.

“Yes.”

As he pulled her into his arms, he was deluged by a tide of melancholy, which surprised him. When he’d envisioned their farewell, he’d predicted that he’d be somber, torn, but he hadn’t expected this explosion of . . . of despair.

What was he doing? How could he cast her aside? Yet, Eleanor and Felicity were downstairs. The future dragged at him, like a rope hauling him to his fate, and he couldn’t fight its steady draw.

“I never believed this day would actually arrive,” he remarked.

“Nor did I.”

Tears flooded her eyes, and her distress lit a spark to his own, igniting a pyre of disturbing emotion. There were so many things he’d never told her, so many thoughts he’d never uttered aloud. How had the end caught up to them so rapidly? Why hadn’t he comprehended how dreadful it would be?

He cradled her face. “Don’t you dare weep. I can’t stand it when you’re sad.”

She chuckled, but it was an appalling sound that wrenched at his resolve and composure. “It will be so quiet after you go.”

He’d pondered the same, brooding over the lull that would eclipse his world. She’d filled his waking hours with pithy conversation upon which he’d thrived. Who would he confide in when he had a vital secret to share?

“You’ll be so busy,” he teased, “that you won’t miss me. In fact, after you reflect, I bet you’ll be so relieved to be shed of me, that you’ll be dancing in the yard.”

The comment brought a tremulous smile to her lips. “You were a difficult patient.”

“The very worst. Do you forgive me?”

“For what?”

“For my barking and snapping.”

“Of course.”

“I apologize for the trouble I caused.”

“You weren’t any trouble.”

“Nonsense. I interfered with your business, I upset your customers. I’m sorry.”