Cheryl Holt (28 page)

 19 

Michael opened his eyes and groaned. His head throbbed, his ears rang, and though he didn’t recall drinking much the night before, he was suffering from the worst hangover he’d ever experienced. He could feel the blankets on his bare skin. When had he undressed? When had he crawled into bed?

He lay very still, staring up at the ceiling and struggling to recollect the prior evening. He’d spent many divine hours with Emily, then he’d returned to his room, and . . . and . . .

Amanda had been waiting for him. They’d chatted, and he’d had some brandy. What else? He shuddered. A vision flashed of her going down on him, of her sucking him off.

Had it actually transpired? Would he have let her? He didn’t know.

Suddenly, it dawned on him that he wasn’t alone. He peeked to the side and was stunned to see a very naked, very rumpled Amanda curled next to him. Her presence
was unexpected, but hardly a surprise. He’d passed out next to her on many occasions, though he couldn’t fathom why he’d have perpetrated such a betrayal on Emily.

He . . . he loved Emily. Yes, he did. The splendid notion blossomed in his chest, and he was disgusted with himself. Had he any morals? Any integrity? Was there a shred of decency remaining? Or had it fled during his years of debauchery and vice?

“Hello, darling,” Amanda purred. “I didn’t think you would ever wake up.”

“What time is it?” he asked, terrified by the probable answer, because it had to be very late. From the shadows out the window, clearly it was no longer morning. The maids would have been gossiping, and he couldn’t risk that the rumors might make their way to Emily.

“I suppose it’s the middle of the afternoon,” she stated, not sure herself. “You wore us out.”

At almost the same moment, he sensed that someone else was on the other side of him. Someone who was also naked. The individual was definitely a female. Praise be! Her breasts were flattened to his back, an arm across his waist, a thigh across his leg.

He had to roll over, had to discover who was with them, but he was too horrified to look. “What happened?”

“Don’t you remember?” Amanda chuckled, raised up, and peered over him to the third person in the bed. “How could he forget, hmm?”

“It was fabulous, Michael,” a very young and very familiar voice gushed. “I never dreamed it could be like this between a man and a woman.”

Not able to avoid the inevitable, he glanced at Pamela. His friend’s daughter. His ward. Emily’s charge.

Oh, God! What have I done?

He shifted so that he was straight as a board, and he tried not to touch any bodily parts, but he was wedged tight. There wasn’t sufficient space to evade either one.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again. He’d hoped Pamela would have vanished, but she was really there. She gave him a tremulous smile.

“I’ve wanted this for an eternity,” she claimed.

“Pamela?” he croaked. “How . . . when . . .”

Amanda butted in. “You demanded that I bring her to you so that the three of us could revel. You insisted.”

He had an elusive memory of Pamela’s name being mentioned, of Amanda talking about the girl, but he couldn’t have agreed to such a ghastly indiscretion. He had many faults, extreme misbehavior being common, but he’d never previously attempted anything quite so foul.

“I said that
I
was anxious for the three of us to dally?”

“Yes. Pamela was interested. You were interested. Why not?”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but his brain was so muddled that he couldn’t sort it out. They had to be lying, but why would they? Why would Pamela involve herself in such an absurd deception? Why would Amanda help her?

He studied Amanda, then Pamela, then Amanda, searching for a hint of treachery, an indication that mischief was afoot, but they both gazed back with innocent expressions.

He was bewildered as to what had occurred, and he had to get Pamela out of his room, and into her own, before she was spotted. His employees had witnessed him committing many sins, but he didn’t imagine they’d ignore this one, or that they’d keep silent.

If stories were spread, he would have to marry Pamela, and he couldn’t conceive of a more distasteful fate. Offering up a quick prayer, he questioned, “Have any of the servants been in?”

“Several of them, but I wouldn’t let them rouse you.” Amanda smirked. “It was hilarious to have them so shocked. The governess nearly fainted.”

His heart raced. “Miss Barnett saw us?”

“Oh, yes.” Amanda giggled. “The look on her face was priceless.”

Pamela cooed, “I’m so glad I won’t have to spend the week with her, that I can spend it with you instead.”

What must Emily have thought? Where was she? What was she doing?

Oh, Emily,
he wailed inwardly,
I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry.

He had to find her, had to explain, but even as the frantic notion flitted by, he knew that she would never speak to him again. And why should she?

He was an unprincipled villain. There was no way he could convince her otherwise, no way he could make this right.

She was lost to him. Lost forever.

“Would the two of you excuse me?” He was desperate to be alone and truly wondering if he might retch. He felt ill, poisoned, as if his brandy had been tainted.

“But we need to begin planning,” Pamela whined. “What about the wedding?”

“The wedding?” He must have seemed stricken, because she hurried on.

“You promised we would!” She peered at Amanda. “Didn’t he promise, Amanda?”

Amanda appeared humored, and she shrugged. “You swore to it.”

“The servants watched us and everything,” Pamela complained. “You can’t refuse. What would people say?”

He moaned, and his head hammered so ferociously that he worried the top of his skull might blow off. He glared at Amanda and mouthed,
Get her out of here. Now!

For once, Amanda didn’t argue. “Pamela”—she sat up—“let’s retire to my boudoir and ring for a bath.”

“I don’t wish to leave,” the recalcitrant girl declared. “I want to stay with Michael.”

“He’s not well,” Amanda pointed out. “You know how unpleasant a man can be when he’s been in his cups. When your father was hungover, he was a veritable beast. Michael desires privacy so he can freshen up.”

Pamela bristled. “I won’t have you bossing me about, Amanda. I’ll go only if Michael asks it of me.”

They stared, eager for his response, and Michael yearned to shake them both. In his miserable condition, he couldn’t abide any bickering.

“Why don’t you go with Amanda?” he requested. “We’ll talk later.”

“When?” Pamela pressed.

“Give me an hour. I’ll meet you in the library.”

“Will we pick the wedding date?”

“Yes, Pamela, we’ll pick the date.”

“We can’t delay,” she needled. “We should obtain a Special License so that we can hold the ceremony tomorrow.”

His stomach knotted and heaved, and it was all he could do to keep from vomiting. “We’ll discuss it downstairs.”

Shimmering with triumph, Pamela rolled off the mattress. As she tugged on her robe, he caught sight of her appealing figure, and he tried to remember fornicating with her.

Even a very drunken man would recollect such a tempting treat. Wouldn’t he? Yet no flicker of memory leapt to the fore. Had he deflowered her? Or was she still a virgin?

There was no maiden’s blood on her thighs, none on his phallus, and he had no idea how to probe for the squalid details.

He sighed. He wasn’t a saint, and when he was urged on by an abundance of liquor, he’d frequently demonstrated himself to be capable of any abomination. Over the years, he’d established, time and again, that he had no self-control. Pamela was living proof of how reckless he could be.

She leaned over and gave him an awkward kiss on the mouth. He suffered through it, not reacting or reaching out to her, but she didn’t seem to notice or mind that he failed to participate.

“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” she chirped.

“Yes, you will.”

Proud as a peacock, she strutted out, and after she exited, Amanda murmured, “Well . . . that was interesting.”

“Did I have sex with her?” he queried. “For that matter, did I have sex with you?”

“What do you think?”

“Did I?”

“Are you telling me you genuinely can’t recall? Honestly! It was rather sordid.”

“Go away,” he snarled, on the verge of strangling her.

“Will you really marry her?”

“Just go away!”

“Aren’t we in a foul mood?” she snapped. “Don’t blame me because you can’t keep your trousers buttoned. This predicament is hardly my fault.”

“Amanda! Have mercy on me! Please!”

Pamela poked her nose through the door. “Amanda, are you coming or not?”

At Pamela’s audacity, Amanda was furious, and she huffed, “I’ll join you shortly.”

“I’m not about to leave you in here with my fiancé!” Pamela nagged. “Cease your prattling—immediately!—and attend me at my bath.”

Amanda growled and stomped off to lock horns, and Michael was left in a blessed, welcomed silence. He gazed at the ceiling again, wishing he could vanish, wishing he could magically turn back the clocks so that he could redo the entire episode.

How had he landed himself in such a quagmire?

He couldn’t wed Pamela! She was too young, too immature, while he was . . . was . . . He couldn’t describe what he was. How could he, in good conscience, bind her to him? Yet what other choice did he have?

He fought down an urge to howl at the top of his lungs.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

Reginald tipped his chair onto the two hind legs and studied Emily with cool disdain. She, along with her sister and niece, had shown up on his stoop in the middle of the night, the trio having homed in on his residence like a gaggle of geese on its homeward migration. He hadn’t been able to refuse them refuge, though a less desperate man certainly would have.

He smirked. His patience had won out. She would be his. The inheritance would be his. He yearned to shake his fist in the air, to revel in his victory. She’d never understood her place, but she would soon learn it. He would be her lord and master, and she would submit to him as his dutiful and obedient wife.

Visibly nervous, she wrung her hands. “I’m sorry I went to London.”

“Is that the best you can do?” he scoffed and assessed her. Her respirations were elevated, her breasts working against her corset, their pert shape clearly outlined.

He’d waited forever to see them, to touch them, to suckle them as he often observed in the indecent pictures he bought from his traveling peddler. Merely from pondering the images his phallus swelled to a painful length, and he was glad he was sitting behind the desk so that his bodily response was hidden.

How sweet his wedding night would be! He would tie her to the bedposts, would beat her for the humiliation
she’d inflicted. The vision of her, shackled and forced to do his bidding, had his phallus enlarging even further.

“What else would you like me to say?” She was acting as if she had no atonement to make, when Reginald planned for her to spend the remainder of her life doing penance.

“I would like a sincere apology.”

“All right,” she said. “I apologize.”

“And . . . ?”

“I hope you’ll let us stay.”

“Only if we marry.”

At hearing his comment, she looked as if she’d bitten into a rotten egg. “Of course.”

His temper flared. She’d had her adventure in London, had foolishly cavorted with her betters, but she still assumed herself superior to him. He rose and rounded his desk, and he towered over her. She glared at him, not cowed in the least by his position or authority, and he grew even more angry.

“You have nowhere else to go,” he stated.

“No,” she admitted, “I don’t.”

“If I toss you out, you’ll be lucky to find shelter at the poorhouse.”

“I’m sure you’re correct.”

“Yet you have the temerity to face me as if
I
am the wrongdoer.”

“What is it you want from me, Reginald?”

“I want you to beg,” he seethed. “Get down on your knees.”