Cheryl Holt (18 page)

Michael trudged to his desk, praying that she’d arrive without a fuss, but he wasn’t positive she’d obey his dictate. She was likely still as angry as he was, himself, but he wasn’t about to brook any nonsense. Not with Reginald Barnett looking on.

Michael scrutinized Barnett, unable to prevent his disgust from seeping out. “I won’t fire Miss Barnett.”

“Then why have you sent for her?”

“If she wants to leave with you, so be it, but I won’t force her.”

Michael was anxious to witness her reaction to her cousin’s presence, to evaluate the expression on her face. If she was glad, if she agreed to go with Barnett, Michael couldn’t predict what he might do.

He couldn’t let her make such a huge blunder, but what were his options? He had no hold over her, wasn’t even certain she regarded him as a friend. If he tried to intervene, she’d probably tell him to bugger off.

But if she was inclined to depart with Barnett, what inducement would Michael utilize to convince her to stay? While Barnett seemed sincere in his plan to marry her, what was Michael’s intent?

If she remained in London because of him, he would dabble with her until he grew bored, and he’d move on to another. Then what?

He had no future to offer her, save for the next few weeks or months of philandering. Wasn’t she better off with Barnett? Shouldn’t Michael sever their connection immediately? Shouldn’t he cut her off like a rotting limb?

He sipped his whiskey and glared at Barnett, until finally, footsteps echoed in the hall. Fitch escorted her in and announced, “Miss Barnett, sir.”

“Thank you, Fitch. Shut the door, would you?”

Fitch complied as Emily entered. Instantly, she espied her cousin, but she shielded any response.

“You have a visitor, Miss Barnett.” Michael strove to sound cordial. “Won’t you join us?”

He gestured to the chair next to Barnett’s, and she walked to it without peeking at either of them, which was aggravating. Michael didn’t care if she ignored Barnett, but Michael was on her side. He was determined to have her trust him, to comprehend that whatever she wanted, he would help her accomplish it, but apparently, she was smarting from their earlier fight.

Accursed female! He longed to march around the desk and shake her.

She seated herself but gave an illuminating sign of her attitude toward Barnett when she scooted her chair away to create more distance between them.

“Hello, Reginald,” she said.

“Hello, Emily. How have you been?”

“Fine,” she replied coolly.

She frowned at Barnett, and they appraised each other in a mutual and festering silence that had Michael conjecturing over the truth as to what had happened.

Was Emily off adventuring in the city as Barnett claimed? Had they had a lovers’ spat? Had Emily spurned his proposal?

Michael couldn’t believe she would have. What woman—even the most independent one—would abandon her heritage? What woman would rather fend for herself on the streets of London than be wed to her father’s heir?

Her exploits made no sense, unless Barnett had
mistreated her. What was Emily’s story? He was kicking himself for his prior lack of interest.

Michael interrupted their staring match. “Your cousin wishes to talk with you.”

“Why?”

She shifted her gaze to Michael, and a thrill rushed through him at seeing her again. He felt as if it had been months—nay, years!—since they’d spoken, and his memories of their quarrel faded away.

“He advises me that felicitations are in order,” Michael explained. “He says the two of you are about to wed.”

She whipped around and scowled at Barnett. “My cousin is wrong, Lord Winchester. We had discussed marriage, but I declined.”

“He would like you to return to Hailsham with him.”

“Are you commanding me to go?” she inquired.

“No. It’s entirely up to you as to what you desire, and I’ll abide by your decision.” He smiled, yearning to convey that all was forgiven and forgotten. “My preference is that you would stay on.”

“Then I choose to remain.” She peered at Barnett. “You shouldn’t have come here. You shouldn’t have bothered Lord Winchester.”

Barnett was red with humiliation and temper. “Emily, you’re being foolish, and I’ve had it with your games! This charade must end.”

At his sharp tone, Emily flinched, and Michael calmly stated, “Mr. Barnett, you have the answer you sought. There’s no reason to extend this appointment.”

Embarrassed and chagrined, Emily mumbled, “May I be excused?”

“You may,” Michael told her, and she hurried out. She was visibly distraught, which enraged him. What had Barnett done to her?

They both watched her exit; then Barnett stood as if he might chase after her.

“Sit down, Mr. Barnett,” Michael instructed.

Barnett didn’t obey but didn’t follow her, either. Through clenched teeth, he insisted, “I must persuade her!”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“But . . . but . . . I have to make her understand! She has to agree! We’re to be wed. It’s all arranged. The banns have been called.”

“If your vicar called the banns, he was a tad hasty. It’s obvious that she has no intention of marrying you.”

“It’s not up to her!”

“This isn’t the Middle Ages. You can’t force her.”

“We’ll see about that!” Barnett boasted.

“Why don’t you go?” Michael urged as politely as he could. “I’ve had enough discord for one day.”

Barnett didn’t budge, and he assessed Michael with an enormous amount of contempt. “Oh, I get it,” he mused.

“What is it you
get,
Mr. Barnett?”

“You want her for yourself.” He was so angry that he was trembling. “You despicable libertine! Have you already corrupted her? Or are you merely planning on it? I’m sick. Just sick!”

At the slur to Emily, Michael couldn’t ever remember being so livid. In a flash, he was out of his chair and around the desk. As he’d been dying to do, he grabbed Barnett by his jacket and lifted him off the floor, his feet dangling in the air.

“Leave my house,” Michael growled, “before I toss you into the gutter like the rubbish you are.”

He flung Barnett toward the hall, and Barnett stumbled but regained his balance.

“Bastard!” Barnett dared to hurl.

“Fitch!” Michael bellowed, and Fitch poked his nose round the door frame.

“Yes, milord?”

“Mr. Barnett is going,” Michael declared. “Should he ever have the misfortune to show up on my stoop again, he should be denied entrance, and you should summon the law to cart him off as a public nuisance.”

“Very good, sir.” Fitch grinned, delighted at having the opportunity to physically escort someone out. He clasped Barnett by the sleeve, but Barnett shrugged him away and started out on his own.

“Have I made my position clear, Mr. Barnett?” Michael demanded.

“You haven’t heard the last of me!” Barnett bragged.

“I think I have.”

“Emily is mine.”

“Only a person with your deranged mind would believe as much.”

“I’ll get even with you. If it takes the rest of my life, you’ll pay.”

“I’m quaking in my boots.”

Barnett stomped away, Fitch dogging his steps, and Michael walked to his desk, sat down, and finished his drink.

 12 

Michael walked down the darkened hall and stopped at Emily’s door. He wasn’t exactly sober, so he’d lost whatever resolve might have kept him away.

After Barnett’s eviction, he’d tarried in the library, presuming she’d reappear, that she might wish to discuss what had occurred or thank Michael for defending her.

He was such an idiot!

He’d assumed—wrongly!—that she would be appreciative of his efforts. But no! She couldn’t be bothered to express any gratitude.

In fact, when he’d finally lowered himself to asking Fitch about her, he’d been informed that she was out! That she’d totted off on an afternoon jaunt to the park. While he was fretting and stewing, she’d been going about her business with his two wards.

The situation had to change. He couldn’t continue on, hiding and avoiding her. She didn’t want to marry her cousin. That much was clear. She wanted to stay on in
London. That much was clear, too. But why? Why had she chosen to remain?

The answer was eating at him.

Was she fond of him? As she looked down the road, what conclusion did she envision? Where was he located in her dreams of the future? Had he a part to play?

Why any of it mattered was a mystery he couldn’t unravel, but from the first moment he’d met her, something had happened to him, something inexplicable and crazed. He was so disordered that he wondered if he wasn’t about to pitch himself off some ledge of sanity from which he might never return.

He tried the door and was relieved when the knob spun. In case it had been locked, he’d brought a key and would have used it. He was that determined to be with her. It was his own damned house, and he wouldn’t be denied.

He tiptoed in, and he could see her standing by the window, gazing out at the black sky. She was ready for bed, her shapely body perfectly outlined by a blue robe. The belt was cinched, accentuating her thin waist, her flared hips. She wore a nightgown underneath, the white fabric dotted with lavender flowers. Her feet were bare and pressed to the cool wood of the floor.

Her hair was down and brushed out, the wavy tresses falling across her back, and he studied her, thinking how delicate she was, how exquisite. As always when he was in her presence, his torso responded, his senses afire and eagerly anticipating what would come next.

She’d heard him, and she stiffened but didn’t glance in his direction. “Go away.”

“No.”

“You can’t be in here.”

“I can
be
wherever I want,” he pompously claimed. He was acting like a spoiled child, but he couldn’t desist.

“You’re impossible.” She whipped around. “Do you ever listen? Do you ever pay attention to what anyone says? You are not welcome here!”

“Tell me about your cousin,” he demanded.

“No.”

“Tell me!”

“Why are you interested in my past? Have you suddenly decided you’re human?”

She was incensed, her eyes flashing, her pulse pounding at the base of her neck, and he approached until they were toe to toe. She was spoiling for another fight, furious—in typical female fashion—over issues he couldn’t fathom, and the realization set a spark to his own temper.

He
was the injured party. In her misguided snit over Amanda,
he
had been maligned and insulted.
He
had suffered through her cousin’s diatribe. Against his will,
he
had been immersed in her family’s squabble, so that he worried about her constantly.

He refused to care about her! Refused to spend every second of the day fussing and fashing. He wanted peace and tranquility. He wanted his dissolute, scandalous life to be restored.

These sweltering, recurrent feelings of guilt and remorse were abhorrent to him. He couldn’t be relentlessly vexed over whether he was doing the right thing.

What the hell was the
right
thing anyway?

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask about it before,” he said, reining in his irritation, and he reached out and pulled her to him.

She started to cry, tears dripping down and wetting his shirt. “My father wanted me to marry him, and I was prepared to go through with it. I was!” she added as if he’d argued the fact.

“But you couldn’t?”

“I found some papers. He’d arranged to send Mary to an asylum after the wedding.”

He frowned. “But she’s not deranged. She’s blind.”

“So? He would have had the money to accomplish it.”

“But he couldn’t have had her committed for no reason. There are laws to prevent such atrocities.” At least, he assumed there were.

“A mere woman has no power against a man like Reginald.”

“I’m certain you misunderstood,” he asserted, though he was placating her. Reginald was an ass and a bully, who might have perpetrated any depraved deed, and Michael wished he’d pummeled the swine when he’d had the chance.

“I can’t bear much more of this,” she told him. “I’m anxious to leave, but I have nowhere to go.”

At the admission, he was reeling. Would she rather hazard the perils of London than stay in the safety of his home? “I won’t let you depart,” he advised. “I can’t.”