Cheryl Holt (27 page)

Michael Stevens was a unique individual, and after this interval was terminated, she’d never experience anything similar. This singular, rare encounter would have to take her through her intermediate years and further, the constant memories of their abbreviated liaison stark and distinct.

Sadness engulfed her at the conviction that she’d never again sustain this quiet joy, and she shoved it away. She refused to be unhappy! Not while she was here with him like this. There would be many, many days down the road when she could bemoan her fate and lament over what might have been. For now, she would be content with what
was
.

“And what about you?” She was desperate to learn more and, as she’d formerly deduced, gleaning tidbits from him was like pulling teeth. “Divulge something embarrassingly scandalous that will leave me aghast.”

“You’ve uncovered all my worst secrets.”

“Then, what about something personal?” She wouldn’t let him avoid a few meaningful disclosures. “How do you earn your income?”

“I own a gentlemen’s club with my brother, James.”

A straight answer! Encouraged, she fired off a second round. “Where?”

“In London.”

“You live in the city?”

“Yes. In the theater district”

“With your mother and brother?”

“I’m not sure.”

“How can you not be
sure
?”

“With their recent marriages, I don’t know the arrangements now.”

“You haven’t been back since their weddings?”

“No.”

For once, his cool detachment was markedly absent, and she trod cautiously, aware that these were sore spots. “Who is your family?”

“My mother is Angela Ford. She’s quite a renowned actress.”

“Really?” Amazed, she sat up.

If she’d been advised to guess his antecedents, she’d have said he was a third or fourth son of a wealthy nobleman, the bane of his family’s existence, the black sheep. But the son of an actress! She’d never been acquainted with anyone quite so disreputable. “How fascinating. I saw her once on the stage when I was in town. She’s legendary.”

“She is at that.”

Sarah recalled the dynamic woman. She’d exuded a charisma that even Sarah, with her rural underpinnings, couldn’t fail to note. That the notorious celebrity had birthed Michael didn’t surprise her in the least.

“Who is your father?”

He gaped. Then . . . he laughed. Loudly. At her, and what he plainly considered a ridiculous question. “Sarah, I could swear you were raised by wolves in the forest.”

He was teasing her, and she was thrilled that he liked her enough to expend the energy. “Why do you say that?”

“I just never meet anyone who isn’t exhaustively versed as to all my gory details.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Obviously.”

He chortled merrily, enjoying himself at her expense, but she didn’t mind. As long as he resumed his accounting! “Are there many?
Gory details
, I mean.”

“Enough to fill a book.”

“Oh . . .” Just how did one reply to such a statement? No advantageous retort cropped up, and silence reigned, once again, as he regarded her with an honest affection, evidently cherishing the verbal banter as much as she.

Finally, he stated, “My father is Edward Stevens.”

She had to ponder for a moment before she placed the appellation. “The Earl of Spencer?”

“Yes, but I don’t claim him, and he doesn’t claim me.”

His admission was so quietly pronounced that she almost didn’t hear it, and she studied him thoughtfully. This was a seeping wound, one that had never entirely healed. “You’re not joking.”

“No, I’m not.”

He rotated to his back, hugging her so that she was stretched out along his side, relieved that they’d shifted positions, because she could look somewhere besides into those astute blue eyes while she weighed his background.

His paternal parentage explained a great deal: his regal bearing, his haughty attitude, his imperious demeanor. She’d convinced herself that he was an aristocrat’s offspring, someone of her social standing, yet he was an illegitimate bastard. Even if by some quirk of the wildest fate he determined he loved her, they could never marry.

How was it that she could so acutely grieve the loss of something that had never been feasible to begin with?

Striving to appear blasé, she countered with, “Now that you’ve confessed the identity of your father, I understand why you are so incurably arrogant.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t know.”

“I probably did”—fragments of an ancient gossip rumbled but not enough for her to recall any fine points—“but I would never have connected him to you.”

“Does it make a difference?”

She was now more attuned to his style, so she recognized that his was not an innocent query. It was a test, an analysis of the type of person she was, and he braced, anticipating
repudiation, and she couldn’t help speculating as to why he sought her affirmation.

Unless he cares more than he’s willing to admit
.

The idea came unbidden, loudly and clearly refusing to be muted, so she acknowledged it for the superb concept it was, even as she wished that everything could be contrary to the reality with which she was now confronted.

“No,” she lied deliberately, “it doesn’t signify. Not in the slightest.”

The evident pleasure he received from her fabrication was impossible to calculate or describe, and she was delighted that she’d provided the petty deception. For what did her opinion matter anyway?

He’d warned her not to become attached and with valid reason! No outcome was probable save heartbreak, so there was no use indulging fantasies.

Still, as his lips found hers, as he moved over her and commenced to suckle at her breast, as his cock extended against her thigh, she couldn’t recollect why this was so improper. She’d never felt so alive, so gay or fulfilled.

“I want you,” he avowed.

“Again?” And she was overjoyed that he did.

“Yes.” He was confounded by his burgeoning need for her. “Already. Always.”

“I’m glad.”

And as he escorted her on that extraordinary journey, down the path that he so expertly traveled, she didn’t regret any of her choices.
The future
, such as it was, would arrive soon enough, and for now, she didn’t intend to fret about what it would hold.

Sarah rushed into her bedchamber, hastily stripping off her gloves, ready to make a mad dash to Michael and the ecstasy that awaited. First though, cognizant of his extreme caution, she checked the lock on the door—twice—but her fingers trembled with such apprehension for the impending libidinous event that she could scarcely manipulate the mechanism.

He wouldn’t appreciate any overzealousness on her part, so she struggled for calm. Walking to the mirror, taking several deep breaths, she evaluated herself, distractedly straightening her coiffure. Not that her hair needed rearranging, but the fussing gave her a few extra minutes to compose herself after flying up the stairs in such a dither.

Despite what was actually transpiring, Michael sternly contended that theirs was simply a meaningless fling, so she had to appear cool and serene, which was what he expected of her. Through his subtle demeanor and fatiguing persistence, he’d clearly indicated that they would interact in an indifferent fashion. They would fully vent their shared lust and rising ardor, but any recognition of emotional connection, or profound affinity, was forbidden and had to be discounted and ignored.

With scant difficulty, he evinced equanimity. Except in the depths of excessive passion, Michael exuded a reticence that was distinctly upsetting. When he was naked and lying in her arms, they were as close as two people could ever hope to be, but once he donned his clothes, he reverted to being reserved and aloof. Assuredly, he was a polite and interesting associate, but he’d erected a wall between them
that he would not let her scale, despite how fervently she tried.

Unlike him, she had her problems with the enforced apathy, and she had to compel herself to remain remote and uninvolved, when all she really wanted was to confess how much she cherished their furtive, stolen interludes. She endured solely for those glorious moments when she strolled in and his admiring gaze fell upon her. There was nothing quite so marvelous as having his undivided attention, seeing him smile, or knowing he’d been impatient for her arrival.

With each passing hour, it was growing more arduous to feign distance. He’d filled her life to overflowing, had given it meaning and purpose: that being to wallow in his splendid presence.

Why, oh, why had she denied herself such pleasure for so long? And now that she’d experienced his special brand of revelry, how could she return to Yorkshire and persevere as though nothing had happened?

The woman who’d efficiently and exhaustively tended the estate for so many tiresome years had disappeared, replaced by a woman for whom only sex—with Michael Stevens—mattered. Where once she’d treasured her placid, unchanging rural existence, she now couldn’t imagine herself in that monotonous, boring world. She’d expire in such a tedious environment!

As a plant needed air and water, so she needed Michael in order to flourish. The idea of suffering through a day—or a night—without touching him, talking to him, kissing or holding him, was a torture beyond contemplation, yet when they were together, she was supposed to act nonchalant, and she wasn’t having much luck at maintaining the ruse.

Her anticipation of imminent bliss was all-consuming and meant that she couldn’t socialize at the gathering. While she’d never been much for fraternization, when Michael was waiting for her, she couldn’t tolerate the inane prattle, the innocuous topics, or the frivolous substance of the other guests.

Braving a meal or an entertainment was so distasteful
that she could hardly descend the stairs, yet she forced herself to go, bowing to the necessity of putting in an appearance. She’d much rather stay sequestered and allow Michael to continue his proficient, thorough instruction in the carnal arts.

Just as Michael had predicted, she’d become enmeshed in the sordid dissipations he preferred, and she couldn’t figure out how she’d avoided seduction until the ripe old age of twenty-five. Of course, she hadn’t previously met Michael, either. Without a doubt, her attraction to him had melted some internal bastion of propriety, for she was now enthusiastic and willing to commit any lewd, indecent exploit he suggested—the more ribald the better. Total surrender—to him and the games he instigated—was her singular aim and goal.

In fact, she was wild for the debauchery to commence so that she could discover just how naughty he would ask her to be. How could she have guessed that underneath her proper, demure shell resided the soul of a complete wanton? All these years, her true proclivities had been so carefully hidden! What a joy—and a relief—to set them free!

With a final glance in the mirror, she adjudged that she was composed enough to head for his room. Fixing a pleasant smile on her face, she stubbornly endeavored to shield any untoward longing. There was no reason whatsoever to let him surmise that she was pining away, that she was already floundering as she fretted over how she’d carry on after they parted.

Since she was the one who’d insisted on an affair, and she’d quite verbally contended that she could participate with no strings attached, she wasn’t about to admit a grave mistake in her reckoning: Detachment was impossible. He was too handsome, too thrilling, too dynamic, and there wasn’t a woman in the kingdom who could avert a burgeoning infatuation after spending so much uninterrupted time with him.

She was no exception. If anything, she was more susceptible to his charm and wicked ways than another, and
she incessantly pondered how she’d bear up once she left in two weeks, but she could never tell him so. They seemed to have adopted a secret pact not to mention the future; they dallied but neither spoke of, nor alluded to, that nebulous by-and-by when they would separate.

Their circumspection lent a recklessness to the assignations. The
dénouement
was drawing nigh much too quickly, so every encounter held a special semblance of finality. As though they were destined for the gallows come the morn, each rendezvous was more intense than the last, with both of them desperate to wring every speck of passion out of their communal experience.

This one, she was positive, would exceed the prior ones in excess, excitement, and satisfaction, and she would do everything in her power to ensure that the evening was merry and gay. When it ended, she wanted Michael to be ever so glad he’d passed his leisure hours with her rather than another.

Knocking softly, she opened the door without pausing for a response. They were so comfortable—like an old, married couple—that polite comportment was superfluous. She came and went, never hesitating to intrude on his individual quarters. Even if he wasn’t about, she’d make herself at home, and those were the occasions she liked best. With his absence, she could snoop and pry among his belongings. Rifling through the wardrobe where he hung his shirts, or sifting through his tray of cuff links on the dresser, was enervatingly erotic.

And, of course, the dearest moments of all occurred when she fell asleep on his bed—a dreadful invasion of his privacy—and he arrived later, awakening her with kisses and more. The memory of those luscious appointments was too potent, so she steeled herself against their onslaught and walked in.

As usual, he was reclined in his chair by the window, a glowing cheroot dangling from his fingers. He lounged negligently, like a carefree prince or an Arabian sheik whose harem was about to fawn all over him. But as she’d learned
early on, with Michael Stevens, appearances were deceiving.

From the manner in which he immediately examined her, from how he rose to greet her, she suspected that he wasn’t nearly as unruffled as he strove to pretend. Magnetic, preposterously virile, he crossed to her. He was all grace and smooth motion, and there was a tension emanating from him that dispelled the affectation of ennui he labored so valiantly to sustain.