Cheryl Holt (35 page)

Just to scurry the absurd cabal Hugh had hatched, she had half a mind to reject the marriage, yet even as she mulled the sentiment, she knew she wouldn’t. Hugh had positioned her on a collision course with Michael, and she wasn’t sorry.

They would marry, and Michael would calm down. Time would pass, he would adapt, and they would build a solid life. They would have children, a family. She would support him in his business ventures, and he could recommend how she should restore the Scarborough estate after it was pillaged by Hugh’s latest gambling nemesis.

Michael owned a gentleman’s club. He might know the scoundrel who had bested Hugh. Once they were wed, he could approach the villain on her behalf, or he might have contacts who could plead her case.

She whirled with excitement. They belonged together. Down to the very marrow of her bones, she sensed that this was the proper route for both of them, and she wouldn’t
be dissuaded, no matter how he grouched and snapped.

“I’ll be a good wife to you, Michael. I swear it.”

“Well, bully for you, Lady Sarah, but I’ve never wanted a
wife
. And”—he stalked to the door—“if I had ever thought to select a bride, it would hardly be a conniving, duplicitous aristocrat such as yourself.”

“Will marriage to me really be so terrible?”

“Milady, I can’t conceive of anything worse.” He departed without a backward glance.

Horribly afflicted, she sank onto the bed, wondering how she’d ever make this right.

Rebecca tiptoed down the hall toward Hugh’s room. Her pulse tripping with excitement, she couldn’t wait to hear the joyous news of what had occurred during his meeting with Michael Stevens.

A smile tugged at her lips as she recollected every delicious moment of Sarah’s fall from grace. She was glad she’d accompanied Hugh so that she’d been able to witness it for herself. Though she’d only snatched a fleeting glimpse before Hugh had shoved her away, she’d seen enough to understand Sarah’s impossible situation. The bathing tub, the nudity, their scandalous seclusion, the imbroglio couldn’t have transpired more perfectly if Rebecca had staged it.

The fact that Sarah had humiliated herself so thoroughly was amazing. In her wildest fantasizing, Rebecca hadn’t anticipated anything so decadently marvelous. When they’d decided to enter, she’d thought they might catch Mr. Stevens in Sarah’s bedchamber, that the pair might be talking or even kissing. But to stumble upon them naked and washing each other!

The reality was simply too sweet

Her ruse to ensnare Sarah in a matrimonial web had been risky, and she hadn’t really been convinced that she’d prevail, but she’d been desperate to prove herself to Hugh. So often, he treated her as though she was of no value, that she was stupid or ineffectual, and his disregard stung.

For the past three years, she’d toiled to situate herself so he’d conclude that she’d be a wonderful countess. She’d minded his town house, administered his calendar, hosted his parties, warmed his bed. In every fashion, she’d ingratiated
herself so that he’d see her as viable to his enduring happiness. While her duties—especially the intimate ones—hadn’t always been pleasant, she’d performed them competently, confident that he’d note her proficiency, yet he was never satisfied. He reproached and ridiculed, and she wasn’t sure why she persevered.

The sole incentive that made it worth the effort was envisioning herself as the future mistress at Scarborough. She would revel in the position as Sarah never had. The house and property amply restored, a skilled staff at her beck and call, dressed in luxurious gowns and exquisite jewels, she would be society’s most notable, embraced hostess. With her exalted husband by her side, she would dine on the finest foods, drink the rarest vintage wines, throw lavish balls and parties, and be envied by all.

Thanks to Sarah and her lustful conduct, Rebecca’s reveries were about to come true. Who would have imagined that levelheaded, proper Sarah would be so freely led down the carnal path? Of course, from the looks of Mr. Stevens, it was easy to see why even a saint might be tempted.

Nearly skipping with delight over how circumstances had unfolded, and deliriously exhilarated as to her involvement, she hurried the last few steps. Hugh would be so proud of her! So gratified! He would finally behold her as a driving force, as the woman he wanted forevermore. They could be married, as he’d been guaranteeing for so long. With Sarah provided for, there was no reason to delay.

“Rebecca Monroe Compton, the Countess of Scarborough,” she practiced, liking how regal the title sounded.

Close to giggling, she reached the door to Hugh’s suite and stealthily slid inside.

Hugh was in a plush chair in front of the fire, clearly foxed, a half-empty decanter of brandy in his hand. There was no glass in sight, but she wasn’t about to castigate him. This was a night for celebrating. If he chose to crudely swill from the bottle, who was she to say nay?

“Is Sarah with you?” he testily inquired.

“Sorry, Hugh, but she’s still not in her room.”

“Damn! Where could she be?”

“I searched everywhere.” One of the servants had left a supper tray, and she grabbed some cheese off it before going to sit on his lap. “Her belongings are still in the wardrobe.”

“Indubitably. Why would they be gone?” He downed a swig of his libation. “How about Stevens? Was he lurking about?”

“No, he wasn’t there, either.”

“Do you suppose they went off together?” Disturbed by the possibility, he stared into the fire, then slammed his fist on the arm of the chair. “Blast! I need to discuss this with her before Stevens does.”

“What’s to discuss?” She snuggled her bottom in the manner he enjoyed, but he was too distracted to notice. Though imbibing heavily, he certainly didn’t seem to be jubilant. Suddenly worried, she prudently queried, “Everything proceeded as planned, didn’t it?”

“The blackguard refused to sign the contract I’d drafted.”

“How could he?”

“He laughed in my face!”

Instantaneously, her euphoria evaporated. Would her scheming be for naught? “He’ll marry her, though, won’t he?”

“He said he’ll need to
contemplate
whether his sense of
duty and honor
would require it.”

“But what about the marriage settlement you demanded?”

“He wouldn’t agree!”

Not recalling that she was perched on his thighs, he jumped to his feet and sent her sprawling, and she scrambled to latch onto a bedpost so she wouldn’t land on the floor. “So . . . we’re to get . . . nothing?”

“He swore he’d see me dead and buried before I received one farthing of his blessed fortune.”

How dare Mr. Stevens spoil her hard-earned victory! Utterly flabbergasted by this unseen turn of events, she sank
down onto the mattress, thinking she might be ill.

Pacing back and forth, clutching his accursed bottle of spirits as if it was a magic talisman, Hugh ranted and raved about Michael Stevens and his tyrannical procedures.

“What about Sarah?” she injected into his diatribe. “Could she convince him?”

“That’s what I’m hoping. She absolutely must consent to speak with him.”

“And if she won’t?”

Hugh didn’t reply or perhaps, in his overwrought condition, he simply wasn’t paying attention. He resumed his march across the rug, while she pondered how quickly her dreams had dwindled to ashes.

She’d plotted down to the smallest detail: Whichever fellow eventually ended up compromising Sarah, he would be a gentleman who recognized Hugh’s status and rank, and he’d feel obligated to rectify the slight he’d committed against Hugh’s family. The unlucky bridegroom would apologize in the only mode that mattered—by tendering money. Lots and lots of money.

Who would have thought that her strategy would be subverted by the likes of Michael Stevens? The man didn’t comprehend the rules of civilized behavior! He was so far below Sarah’s exalted station; it was a privilege for him to have been granted the opportunity to wed her! Didn’t he grasp that his actions constrained him to make amends?

Rebecca brooded, heartsick and distressed, listening to Hugh rail against fate, watching him stagger and fume.

She remembered Sarah, and the expression of joy she’d exhibited that odd afternoon on the lawn when she’d been in Michael Stevens’s presence, and one truth became abundantly clear: Sarah would never solicit Mr. Stevens on Hugh’s behalf. Never in a thousand years.

Their conspiracy had been to no avail, though Hugh didn’t know it yet. He never could face the consequences of his acts, but then, for much of his life, he’d had his father to hide behind, then Sarah, then herself. Despite their divergent interests, she and Sarah had shielded him from himself,
but this decisive fiasco had proved too great a folly. She wanted to weep for what was forfeit.

The town house, with its pretty furnishings and lovely view of the park, was gone. As was the jaunty carriage, with its high-stepping chestnuts, that Hugh drove when he was squiring her about town. So too her closets of fancy clothes and baubles.

Most painful to consider was her loss of Scarborough. What a charming vision she’d painted, and what a fool she’d been to assume that it might come to pass. For just a moment, she closed her eyes and pictured herself floating down the grand corridor on the main floor of the mansion, her skirts brushing the tiles, as she waltzed to the parlor and greeted a new group of guests who had stopped for a visit.

The illusion faded, and she focused on Hugh, once more. Much like a petulant child who’d been denied a treat, his tantrum was terminated, and he was reclined again by the hearth.

“We won’t be able to marry, will we?” She knew the answer, but she had to hear it from his lips.

“What?” He glared at her as if she was mad.

“You promised that we’d marry once Sarah was established, but we can’t now. Not without any blunt coming in.”

“Honestly, Rebecca.” As he stared her down, he didn’t seem quite so handsome; just inebriated and obnoxious. “You actually expected that we would marry?”

“But you said . . .”

“Bah . . .” He gestured obscenely, dismissing her—and her hopes—with a single motion. “I could never marry
you
. The notion is ludicrous.”

Frightened, she swallowed down a panicked breath. “The very first occasion when you coaxed me to your bed, you vowed that we would.”

“How could I?” Heedlessly, he trembled with mirth. “God, you’re my cousin! And you’re a commoner. Are you
that
naïve? I’m a man; I was just trying to lift your skirts. Surely you realized that?”

“No, I didn’t,” she mouthed.

“It worked, too!” Guffawing, he slapped his leg as though he’d just pronounced a hilarious joke at her expense, and she sincerely felt her heart might quit beating.

“I believed everything you said.”

She thought of his disgusting habits and temper, of his grumbling and fussing, his lewd bedroom antics. Because she so fiercely craved the future he could have rendered, she’d braved all.

“Gads, just last week, I offered for Tilsbury’s daughter”—he was babbling, having forgotten she was there—“but he insisted that I reverse some of my debt predicament before he’d reflect upon it.” He shook his head and studied the flames. “That deal’s shot to hell.”

The embers glowed, and his morose meditation continued while she meticulously evaluated him, an unvoiced rage at his betrayals brewing dramatically. Gradually, his eyelids fluttered shut, and he began to snore. The decanter fell and clanked on the floor, but the noise failed to stir him.

Quiet as a mouse, she rose and sneaked away, even as she was deliberating on how she would retaliate for everything he’d done.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the vicar intoned. “You may kiss the bride.”

A lengthy, uncomfortable silence ensued, and Michael gawked at him as though the man had snakes in his hair.

Taken aback by the virulent appraisal, the minister gulped then muttered something that sounded like “. . . or not . . .” and snapped his prayer book closed.

At the intentional slight of his new bride, Sarah stiffened and shifted away, unable to tolerate his boorish company.

Good
, Michael mused.
Let her be wary
.

When he’d arrived at the inn to retrieve her shortly before
eleven, she’d been eagerly awaiting him in one of the private parlors. Perplexingly, she’d primped and preened in preparation, as if the farce was a real ceremony. Wearing a simple gown, but with her hair curled and swept up on her head, she’d appeared cheerful and beautiful.

Any man in the kingdom would have deemed himself fortunate to wed her. Not Michael, for he knew that looks could be deceiving. Underneath that pale elegance and allure beat a black heart.

He was a cautious individual who’d been whisked up in a disaster. This was the type of wretched debacle more suited to James than himself, and if anyone had suggested that he might one day find himself repeating his vows as reparation for a moronic carnal misstep, he’d have laughed aloud. He’d always presumed that he was too astute, too smart, too calculating, to end up on the wrong side of a marital calamity.

Once he’d learned that she was Hugh Compton’s sister, he should have resisted his attraction instead of being beguiled by a virtuous flare and a pair of emerald eyes. How they’d sparkled when she’d beseeched him to engage in an abbreviated tryst! How they’d glistened when she’d shed enchanting tears! How they’d intensified when she’d called his name and cried out in sexual ecstasy!

What had possessed him to be so reckless, so negligent? He took pride in his self-control and discipline, and he couldn’t accept the depth of his idiocy where she was concerned.

Well, he had no one to blame but himself for this catastrophe. While he wanted to chastise Lady Sarah and her brother, they couldn’t have succeeded if Michael hadn’t been so atrociously gullible.

On principle, he should have declined to marry her, but he wasn’t that kind of person. Even before he’d gone down to the library the previous night, he’d been aware that Scarborough would insist on matrimony, just as he’d acknowledged that he would acquiesce.