Cheryl Holt (17 page)

“You’ve been drinking.”

“So I have.”

Alex stumbled into Mary’s room. He was making more noise than he ought, but he was too foxed to care. If he was discovered, so what? Who was to tell him to stop?

In another period of his life, he’d never have behaved so despicably. Notwithstanding his parents’ lack of morals, he’d been raised to know the difference between right and wrong. It was dishonorable to lead Mary on, for he was sure she presumed that he’d turn out to be a better man than he appeared.

Hah! Wasn’t she in for a surprise?

Every decent attribute had been extinguished, and he had no redeeming qualities remaining. Considering himself to be strong, brave, and wise, he’d joined the army, but he’d learned many bitter lessons.

He was a coward, so weak that a little scar had destroyed him. People stared on the street, children pointed, beautiful women—including his prior fiancée—blanched
with disgust, and he couldn’t bear it. He was neither courageous nor resilient, and he wanted his old existence back, wanted to be handsome, dashing Alex Farrow, who’d had the world at his feet. Like a spoiled child, he was raging at everyone.

He staggered to the bed and crawled under the blankets. When he was feeling lonely or blue, he would sneak to her, would fornicate until he was sated, until he’d shed some of the demons that plagued him; then he’d depart and ignore her until he was deluged, once again.

What was her opinion of his conduct?

She never said, and the fact that she didn’t induced him to keep on.

In his more lucid moments, when he was vaguely sober, it occurred to him that he was coercing her, that due to his position as Michael’s brother she couldn’t refuse to dally. He couldn’t abide that he’d plummeted to such a contemptible low.

By forcing himself on a dependent female, he’d become an emboldened cad. What if he impregnated her? What if she beseeched him to marry? He wouldn’t compound his plunge down society’s ladder by wedding the governess’s sister.

He was a merciless, cruel snob, but he hated to picture himself in such an appalling light, so whenever the perception arose, he drowned it with brandy.

As usual, she had no comment as to his uncouth arrival. She pulled him near and kissed him, holding him in a fervent embrace that titillated despite his inebriated condition.

During the day, he never acknowledged her, strutting about as if she were beneath his notice. For hours at a
time, he could pretend she wasn’t in the house, that he wasn’t thinking of her. He’d gambol at his favorite gambling halls, would fraternize with whores and other seedy characters, but when he came home, and the four walls of his room closed in around him, he stealthily climbed the rear stairs.

“Where have you been?” she scolded. “You smell as if you bathed in beer.”

He’d never had a woman fret over him. His mother had had no maternal tendencies, and his nannies had been removed, stuffy employees who hadn’t viewed their posts as requiring affection, so he hadn’t realized that feminine hovering could be so soothing, so welcome.

“I’ve been playing cards.”

“And overimbibing.”

“That, too.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. I worry when you’re off gallivanting. Anything could happen when you’re so tipsy.”

“I’m cautious,” he contended, which wasn’t true. Occasionally, he blacked out and awakened in strange locations with his pockets empty and his head throbbing.

He was fumbling with her nightgown, but he was clumsy, and he couldn’t work it up her legs, which frustrated him. When he was with her, he was desperate to copulate, and he couldn’t slow down.

His annoyance boiled over, and he gripped the garment and ripped it down the center, baring her body in a thrice.

“Alex! I don’t have any money to replace my clothes. When you visit me, you can’t act like a barbarian. I won’t permit it.”

“I’ll buy you a dozen more,” he lied. His allowance
was squandered, so he’d have no cash for several weeks, unless he debased himself by begging to Michael.

He’d made promises to her before but hadn’t kept them, so she’d deduced how unreliable he was, and she murmured, “I can’t wait to receive them.”

“I want you,” he tossed out as his justification. “Always. Every second.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Insatiable for you.”

He struggled with his trousers, his inept fingers too awkward to loose the placard, and assuming the task for him, she chuckled and shoved him away. Shortly, she had him in her hand, her crafty thumb tracing over and over the inflamed crown.

She scooted down, licking him, sucking him into her mouth. She knew what he liked, how he liked it, having rapidly adapted to the sordid games he relished. The more intoxicated he was, the more revolting some of his preferences, but she didn’t mind. If anything, she appeared
more
eager than he to revel in a debauched way.

Almost immediately, he was at the edge, and he couldn’t figure out how she provoked him when he was so indisposed by liquor.

Anxious to be inside her, to be staring into her pretty face as he finished, he lurched away. He rolled them, so that she was beneath him, and with no finesse or wooing, he entered her and began to thrust. He treated her like a harlot for whom there was no need to show respect, and she endured it all without complaint. As he reached his climax, she did, too, joining him in ecstasy, finding her own release without any assistance.

He was a monster, a scoundrel, and he withdrew from her and flopped onto his back. His thoughts in turmoil, there were a thousand words he should utter, a thousand questions he could ask, but what emerged was, “Why do you put up with me?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she calmly replied.

“You could refuse to let me in.”

“Yes, I could.”

“Or you could go to my brother and protest as to how I’ve been abusing you. He’d stop me.”

“I’m sure he would”—she stretched and smiled—“but how could I convince him that I’ve been
abused
? I’m not a child; I’ve been an active accomplice in our folly.”

“But why? There must be some explanation.”

For a lengthy interval, she was silent; then she laid her palm on his chest. “Because, for some peculiar reason, I like you, and when you’re with me, I’m not so lonely.”

He hated hearing the comment. It hinted at an attachment and fondness he didn’t share, and he was irked that he’d inquired. He loathed talking to her, didn’t want any incentive to like her in return, or to fixate on her in more than a sexual fashion.

He yawned, the combination of orgasm and alcohol sweeping over him, and he closed his eyes as unconsciousness sunk in.

She elbowed him in the ribs. “Don’t you dare fall asleep.” When he didn’t respond, she shook him. “What if you don’t wake up till morning? What if a servant catches you in here?”

She shook him again, but he was beyond rousing. She sighed, grumbling about impossible men, and she nestled
onto the pillow. Serene, content to be snuggled with her, he started to snore.

“She’s your fiancée?”

“Yes.”

Michael shifted in his chair and tried to fathom why he’d granted an audience to Reginald Barnett. The pompous buffoon had gained entrance by mentioning Emily’s name to Fitch, and Michael hadn’t been able to resist a meeting. He was dying to learn more about her.

While most women of his acquaintance liked to wax on about themselves, and he couldn’t get them to shut up, Emily was entirely too reticent. It was like pulling teeth, gleaning details of her life before she’d moved to London.

In the hopes that he might garner a few pathetic tidbits, he’d actually taken to commencing conversations with her sister, Mary Livingston, but Mrs. Livingston was as taciturn as Emily.

As he wasn’t supposed to be familiar with Emily, he was relegated to inane queries:
How are your accommodations suiting you?
and,
How is your sister enjoying her employment?,
to which the answers were that everything was fine. Fine. Everything was so bloody fine that he’d like to strangle somebody.

Since their horrid argument over Amanda, he and Emily hadn’t communicated, and since he wasn’t at fault, he wasn’t about to apologize. He was frantic to avoid her, so he was in hiding, a virtual prisoner in his own home.

Who would have imagined that a mansion with eighty rooms could be so small?

He had no clue how to deal with females and their troubles, no notion as to how he should handle Pamela. That’s why he’d hired Emily! Why couldn’t she understand how vexed he was?

He was in the process of severing his protracted association with Amanda, but such nasty affairs took time. During their quarrel, Emily had accused him of betraying her. She’d been hurt, had acted as if they were in a committed relationship, which he considered to be the height of gall.

They’d made no promises to each other and he, in fact, had been explicit in tendering none when she’d demanded to be apprised of his intentions. She’d insisted that he be clear, that he be honest, and he had been. Brutally so. Yet now, she was behaving as if he’d used her badly, as if he’d lied to her.

What did the blasted woman want? What did she expect?

He was not—and never would be—faithful, and she had him spinning in circles, so confused that he constantly felt dizzy.

“How long have you been engaged to her?” he probed.

“Since we were children,” Barnett replied.

“Really?” The news was so disturbing that he couldn’t listen to it. He’d wondered about the circumstances that had sent Emily rushing to the city but hadn’t questioned her. Oh, to discover that she was betrothed! That her fiancé was this bloated oaf!

He went to the sideboard and poured himself a stiff whiskey, but he didn’t offer one to Barnett. He’d welcomed the boor into his library, which was as much courtesy as he could extend.

“It became official after her father’s death,” Barnett clarified.

“I see.”

“We’ve been planning the wedding for months.”

“Have you?”

Michael studied Barnett, disliking everything about him. He was a pompous clown, and Michael tried to picture Emily married to him, but the vision wouldn’t gel. Barnett was much older than she—by fifteen or twenty years—an obese, balding fellow, with a ruddy complexion, rotting teeth, and beady eyes. He wasn’t particularly clean, either.

“Why are you here?” Michael asked. “What exactly is it that you want from me? Miss Barnett is a servant, but other than that quite tenuous connection, I haven’t had much contact with her. I can’t grasp why you’re bothering me with your family’s problems or history.”

Barnett puffed himself up. “Will you grant me the liberty of speaking to you man-to-man?”

“By all means,” Michael sarcastically retorted. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Emily is very independent.”

Michael kept his expression blank, but on this topic they agreed: Emily was much too autonomous. Too bossy. Too obstinate. By being involved with her, he’d suffered an incessant headache, and he was perpetually reminded of why he preferred sane, male company.

“Is she?”

“She has many havey-cavey, modern ideas,” Barnett stated, “ideas I don’t countenance myself.”

“Such as?”

“She thinks it’s perfectly acceptable for a young lady to work, and she’s always wanted to earn her own living.
Can you conceive of any woman of good breeding pining for such a thing?”

Michael couldn’t, but he shrugged. “Perhaps she wasn’t as
eager
for the union as you claim.”

“She was eager, all right,” Barnett maintained. “Especially after I taught her the private side of what marriage entails.”

Barnett winked, and Michael’s stomach churned. Was Barnett implying what he appeared to be? Was he insinuating that he and Emily had been lovers?

During Michael’s trysts with her, she seemed so innocent, but how could he be sure? Presuming her to be a virgin, he’d never progressed to the ultimate conclusion.

Had he been wrong? Had she trifled with this foul, pretentious ass?

The possibility set a fire to his temper, though he couldn’t figure out why he was upset. She was just a female, one of many who’d passed through his sorry life, but in view of how incensed he was, he had to ponder whether he cared for her more than he realized.

Could it be? Was he smitten?

At the absurd notion, he nearly guffawed aloud. As if he’d allow himself to be infatuated! How ludicrous! How droll!

Checking his emotions, he took a deep breath. “If she was so enthused, why did she come to London?”

“She begged me to permit her to have a little excitement, a big-city adventure. I’m a generous man. How could I refuse?”

“How, indeed?”

Michael seethed. Was Barnett aware of the dire straits Emily had been in during her attempts to garner
employment? Had he understood the perils? Barnett was a fool.

“But I’ve humored her long enough,” Barnett continued, “and it’s time for her to return home.”

“And you’re telling me this because . . . ?”

“I doubt that she’d consent to quit her job.” He chuckled in a manner that grated. “She’s stubborn that way.”

“You’re asking me to fire her?”

“Well . . . yes.”

“On what grounds?”

“Have you need of any?”

His knuckles white with rage, Michael gripped his desk, so that he wouldn’t leap across and pummel Barnett. He was scheming behind the scenes so that Emily would lose her post. What a knave! What a despicable swine!

“I’m a fair individual,” Michael pointed out. “She’s performed excellently, and I see no reason to part with her.”

“Then I suppose I could refer to my personal relationship with her, which might cause you to speculate as to whether she’s fit to supervise children. But I
am
a gentleman and would hate to spread gossip.”

Michael rose so quickly that his chair fell over, and he summoned Fitch, though he wasn’t surprised to find that Fitch had been eavesdropping outside the door.

“Yes, Lord Winchester?”

“Is Miss Barnett in the house?”

“She’s in the nursery, sir.”

“Fetch her, would you? Inform her that I must meet with her at once.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Don’t take no for an answer. If she declines to attend me”—Fitch blanched at the prospect—“notify her that it is a command and not a request.”