Cheryl Holt (21 page)

“I barely know Lord Winchester,” Emily was claiming again. “Other than a few chats about Pamela and Margaret, we’ve rarely conferred.”

“My mistake,” Mary replied, keeping her tone detached and neutral.

The response provided no opening for a frank conversation, so Mary wouldn’t instigate one. Besides, she was no more eager to discuss Alex than Emily was to discuss the earl.

Mary would handle the crisis on her end, would consult with Alex and exact a better conclusion for herself. She was weary of relying on others, of sitting idle while they scraped and scrounged to support her. For once, Mary would be the rock upon which her family rested, would supply the umbrella to shelter them if Emily lost her post due to her fraternizing with Winchester.

At the notion that she was about to assume control of her life, a surge of excitement swept through her. If she had to wrestle Alex to the floor and drag a proposal out of him, she intended to have him for her husband.

She wouldn’t let him refuse.

“I have it all planned.”

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

Amanda glanced down the deserted hall, ensuring that no one had seen them; then she led Pamela off the
verandah and into the garden. It was a cool, wet evening, with the revelers dancing inside, so the chance of bumping into any guests was small.

Michael had sent a curt note, advising her to stay away from Pamela, so she had to be vigilant, lest she be discovered and incur his wrath. Matters were coming to a head, his solicitors proceeding with the details of wrapping up their relationship.

She was barred from his house, barred from his side, about to be evicted from her residence, about to lose her income and status in the demimonde, and she blamed it all on Emily Barnett.

Amanda wouldn’t relinquish her place without a fight. Not when she’d worked so diligently to earn it. She would do whatever it took, would employ any ruse, would devise any scheme, would plot and finagle until she righted her affairs.

Desperate measures had to be implemented. The governess had to go, and Amanda had to reestablish herself with Michael. Pamela was the perfect avenue by which Amanda could achieve her objectives.

The girl was greedy, stupid, and prone to addiction, thereby an ideal candidate to be used for nefarious purposes, and Amanda had no qualms about her gambit. This was war, and she would muster her best defenses. When Amanda was finished, Emily Barnett wouldn’t know what had hit her.

There were many ways for the calamity to resolve in Amanda’s favor. Michael needed to wed, and why not Pamela? Being his bride, Pamela would manage the Farrow household, would hire and fire the domestic staff,
and, as Amanda had already gleaned, her first order of business would be to dismiss Barnett.

As to Michael and Pamela, Pamela was too weak to dominate him, so Amanda’s influence wouldn’t be threatened. If, however, Michael declined to marry Pamela, if she was merely ruined by the scandal Amanda was about to initiate, Amanda couldn’t care less.

She owed loyalty to no one but herself.

Amanda ushered them into the bushes, and she retrieved a flask from her bag and offered it to Pamela. The younger woman ravenously sipped at the potent brew.

“As I mentioned before,” Amanda began, “your father left you beggared.”

“Don’t remind me,” Pamela seethed. “I can’t bear to hear it.”

“So your position is extremely precarious. If you want to have any security you must wed and soon. You can’t depend on Michael’s charity. What if he cut you off?”

“He wouldn’t,” Pamela mutinously contended. “He’s charmed by us. I’ve ingratiated myself.”

Amanda chuckled, pretending great knowledge she didn’t possess. “If that’s what you think, you’re a fool.”

“You’ve spoken to him about me?”

“Of course,” Amanda lied.

“What has he said?”

“He’s weary of the fuss that’s arisen since your arrival. He’d like to be shed of you.” She shrugged. “Since he’s determined that you have no funds, he doesn’t wish to continue supporting you.”

“But he was my father’s friend!”

“Not really.” The two men had been as close as any
drinking chums could be, but there’d been no genuine fondness.

“He was!” Pamela insisted, but Amanda scoffed.

“Have your illusions, if you must.”

Up on the verandah, Miss Barnett rushed outside. She was at the balustrade, staring out into the shadows and trying to locate Pamela. Amanda had but a few moments to bait her hook.

“There’s a viable solution,” Amanda maintained.

“What is it?”

“
You
must marry Michael.”

“If he detests me so much, why would he?”

“We’re not about to give him any choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are methods of bringing about a proposal,” Amanda clarified, “even if the man is dead-set against tendering one.”

“How?”

“You’ll have to be compromised, and I know just how we’ll accomplish it. In fact, I believe Miss Barnett will play an important role.”

“I don’t understand what that involves,” Pamela said. “Would it entail something horrid? Would I have to humiliate myself?”

Amanda wasn’t about to explain the details of what would be required. Later on, there would be plenty of opportunity to steer Pamela in the wrong direction. She seized the empty flask and tucked it into her reticule. “Your nanny is searching for you. You’d better go.”

“But I need to know what you’ve arranged.”

“Hush!” Amanda sharply admonished. “Miss Barnett is on the patio”—Pamela whipped around and glared—“and if she learns that we’ve been talking, it will complicate everything. Be off, before she sees us.”

She shoved Pamela, pushing her onto the walk so that she was visible to Barnett. Then, as if she’d never been there, Amanda vanished into the trees.

 14 

“I must ask you a question.”

“What?” Alex snapped.

He glared at Mary and halted his rhythmic thrusting. He was in a foul mood, annoyed at having gambled away several hundred pounds. When Michael learned how much he’d frittered away, he’d be driven to commit murder.

Alex needed the peace and oblivion he found with Mary. When he was with her, he managed to banish his demons, so he wasn’t about to stop and chat. He tried to start in again, but she wouldn’t participate.

“Is your brother having an affair with my sister?”

He scowled. “What an absurd topic to raise at a moment like this.”

“Is he?”

Briefly, he considered whether he should be truthful or not. What was best?

“Yes,” he ultimately said, “they’ve been carrying on.” He flexed, but his response had cooled her ardor, and he cursed and pulled out of her.

“What does his attention signify?”

“Nothing. How could it?”

“But he’s been so kind to her—when there was no reason for him to be. Surely, that must indicate a heightened affection.”

Was she really so obtuse that she supposed Michael required a logical incentive to philander? “For God’s sake, Mary, you’re a widow. You know how these matters go.”

“No, I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?”

She was peeved, frowning in a maddening feminine fashion that apprised him the sex had ended, and there’d be no recommencing, unless he engaged in the spat she was determined to have. They’d have to hash it out to its bitter, futile conclusion; then he’d have to seduce her all over again.

“Michael is a lusty man. He’ll tumble anything in a skirt.”

“But Emily isn’t a strumpet. How could he trifle with her?”

“She’s an adult woman, who can make her own choices.”

“She was a maiden!”

“So? I doubt he forced her.”

“What if she winds up pregnant?”

“He’ll . . . he’ll . . .”

Alex stumbled for an answer. Michael had never fathered any children, so Alex couldn’t begin to guess what he would do. His brother’s sense of right and wrong was a tad skewed, and Alex couldn’t picture him shackled in holy wedlock over such a bothersome problem.

“He’ll what?” she pestered.

“He’ll buy her a cottage in the country. The tot will have a trust fund, she will have an allowance, and she’ll be set for life.” He blew out a heavy breath. “There! Are you satisfied?”

“Hardly.”

“Hasn’t she been wrangling for just such an arrangement?”

She gasped and sat up in a huff. “Are you suggesting she’s involved with him for the . . . the
money
she could pry out of him?”

“That’s precisely what I’m saying.”

“You actually believe that my sister is an opportunist? That she’s naught but a leech, out to blackmail him into parting with some of his fortune?”

“Don’t act so surprised. It happens all the time.”

“Maybe in your world, but not in mine.”

“I’m sure you lived around saints,” he facetiously retorted, which ignited her temper.

She jumped to the floor, fumbled for her robe, and hastily covered herself.

“Why don’t you go?” When he didn’t move, she pointed to the door. “Now.”

He was perplexed by her sudden fury, and he needed her to be perfectly clear as to what was transpiring, for he hadn’t the vaguest clue.

“Why are we fighting?”

“We’re
fighting
because you are a rude, unfeeling oaf, and I’m sick of you. Get out!”

He’d never understand women. She’d wanted his opinion; he’d given it. Why was she in such a snit?

“I’m not leaving. Come back to bed.”

“I’d rather eat a toad.”

He sighed with exasperation. “You’ve started an argument, when I can’t fathom why you would, but you should end it immediately. I’m not in the mood to squabble.”

“Why are you doing this with me?” she countered.

“Doing what? Quarreling?”

“No.” She gaped as if he was the thickest dolt in London. “Why are you sleeping with me?”

“Because it’s enjoyable.”

“Do you care about me?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

A second earlier, they’d been discussing Michael and her sister. How had the subject been switched to himself? He’d had too much brandy to be thinking straight, or making rational statements, and he wanted her to shut the hell up, to return to where they’d been before she’d decided on talking.

They were at their best when they were copulating. There were no words to trip them up, no tricky issues to review, no feelings to hurt.

Desire he could handle. Emotional outbursts were beyond him.

“Of course I care about you.” How else was a fellow to reply? And, in an indistinct sort of way, he was sincere.

“Fine,” she concurred, nodding. “You
care
about me. What does that mean to you?”

She’d dragged them to a hazardous spot, and he hovered between telling her to sod off and telling her he loved her. He took the coward’s route. “I’m not certain.”

“You must have some idea.”

“I like having sex with you.”

“Our fornication is a physical exploit we perform together. I’m inquiring about your sentiments toward me personally.”

He couldn’t announce he had none, for that wasn’t true. Nor could he claim that he adored her, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, for that wasn’t true, either. His attitude was somewhere in between nothing and everything, but candor wouldn’t suffice. She had to be angling for a marriage proposal, but he couldn’t give her one.

Didn’t she comprehend who and what he was? Even if he was inclined to matrimony—which he adamantly was not—what kind of husband would he be? What sane woman would bind herself to a drunken, lecherous gambler? She was being crazy.

“Don’t do this, Mary,” he pleaded.

“I asked you about Emily,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, “but what if it was me? What if I was pregnant?”

The question sucked the air out of the room. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Then why rattle that cage?”

“I’m in a precarious situation. What if your brother learns of our affair and fires Emily because of it?”

“He wouldn’t.”

“You can’t be positive. In case you haven’t noticed, I have a daughter. Where would we go? What would we do?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to declare that he’d look after them, but he swallowed down any imprudent offers he wasn’t prepared to render. “Nothing bad will happen.”