Cheryl Holt (25 page)

The question had his heart racing. He never planned on matrimony, couldn’t imagine himself as a husband, which was the reason his deed had been so absurd. If she was increasing, he’d have to wed her, but he had no idea how to be faithful, how to be loyal. Why would she want him?

“Don’t let’s fret about it.”

“Would you?” she prodded, jabbing an elbow in his ribs.

“What if I said
yes?
What would you do with me if you had me?”

“I might surprise you.”

“You might at that.”

“I think you’re worth having, Michael Farrow. I think you’re worth keeping. Am I crazy?”

“Very likely.”

“I’m such a fool,” she murmured.

She sighed, the sound so forlorn and resigned, and he couldn’t abide her woe. He spooned himself to her, and he nestled in the quiet, holding her, relishing her essence, when the worst, most depressing sensation of conclusion washed over him.

Was this the end for them? Was it the last time he’d ever be with her? What could possibly transpire to separate them?

Yet there was such an aura of doom and tragedy that when he inhaled, it seemed as if he could smell them in the air. He couldn’t fathom why he felt calamity approaching, but he shoved away the impression, writing it off to his elevated emotional state.

“Let’s rest a bit,” he suggested. “Then I want to love you again.”

“You can’t stay in here,” she insisted. “You can’t fall asleep.”

“I won’t,” he claimed, but his rowdy fornication was taking its toll, and he was terribly drowsy.

She sighed once more, and he suffered the strangest surge of unease, as if he should make special note of the moment.

Would these innocuous words be the final ones they ever spoke? Would this be her final memory of their relationship?

The horrid prospect couldn’t keep him awake. His eyes drifted shut, and he slumbered.

 17 

“What’s happening?”

“Hush!” Amanda scolded. “He’ll hear you!”

“But I can’t see,” Pamela whined.

“You don’t need to
see
. Just do as I tell you, when I tell you, and everything will work out as planned.”

Amanda peeked through the door to Michael’s bedchamber, spying on him as he sat in a chair by the fireplace. Deep in thought, he stared at the empty hearth.

She and Pamela were huddled in the adjacent room, which would be his wife’s boudoir, although whether that woman would turn out to be Pamela was anyone’s guess. Pamela was merely a means to an end, and Amanda couldn’t care less whether any union was brought to fruition.

So far, he hadn’t approached the cupboard in the corner, where he had various decanters of liquor. It was early Saturday, the start of the weekend, and he ought to be drinking himself into a stupor, but when would the
blasted man take a shot? If he didn’t imbibe, how was she to pull off her scheme?

Over the years, there’d been many occasions where he’d reveled till he didn’t recollect his exploits, till he’d had lapses of memory, and she was positive she could goad him into like condition, then persuade him that he’d committed numerous horrid deeds.

Timing was critical, but he wasn’t participating as she’d intended.

She sighed. She’d have to show herself, would have to enter and spur him to his doom. She hadn’t wanted to be personally involved, but there was no other choice.

Her window of opportunity was closing. Very soon, Miss Barnett would be calling for the girls to attend her, would be prepared to leave for their party. It was the perfect moment for affairs to resolve.

In light of what was about to occur, the servants would blab. Despite how devoted they were to Michael, and how much they valued their jobs, the tale would be too juicy to keep secret. Whether or not Michael would succumb to pressure and marry Pamela was a gamble, but by evening, he might be engaged. Depending on how fast the scandal exploded, he might be wed by the following morning.

Miss Barnett would be crushed and flee the house forever.

Amanda would be shed of Barnett, would have weak, stupid Pamela ensconced at Michael’s side, after which she’d have no trouble regaining his affection and resuming her role as his mistress.

The sole wrench in the machination was Margaret Martin. Margaret was too astute, too clever. Amanda
didn’t like the child, so she wouldn’t be allowed to remain in the mansion. Permanent boarding school was the most likely option.

Amanda had given Emily Barnett sufficient warning, which she’d ignored, so it was Barnett’s own fault that matters had come to this dire conclusion. Amanda felt no remorse.

She glared at Pamela. “I have to hurry him along. Hide until I summon you.”

“But I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“As the event proceeds, I’ll instruct you.”

“I’m afraid,” Pamela complained.

Amanda reached in her reticule, retrieved a flask of liquor, and handed it over. “This should calm your nerves.”

Pamela took a greedy gulp, and Amanda shook her head in disgust. The girl had no concept of restraint, and she was destined for a bad end, but Amanda couldn’t worry about her. There were bigger fish to fry.

She opened the door and slipped through. Michael was so distracted that he didn’t notice her until she was a few feet away.

He scowled. “Why are you here, Amanda?”

“I must speak with you. I’ve asked you to visit me, and you refuse. What would you have me do?”

“Have you considered that there might be a reason I don’t wish to talk with you?”

“You’re being stubborn.”

“Absolutely.”

“Which is nothing new, but I’m weary of these games.”

“Bully for you.”

She went to the cupboard, poured him a brandy, then
offered him the glass. For a second, he hesitated, and she was so frustrated by his moderation that she wanted to rail at the heavens. If he didn’t partake—at once!—she’d wrestle him to the ground and dump the vile brew down his throat.

“How did you get in?” he inquired. “I have a key.”

“Why would you presume you’re welcome to use it?”

“I’m still your mistress. And your hostess. Though you seem to have forgotten, I occupy a position of importance in your life.” She struggled to be flirtatious. “I haven’t earned my keep in ages.”

“We’re through, Amanda. Why are you being so obstinate?”

“Oh, posh. You’ve told me we were through on a hundred different occasions. You never mean it.” She grinned. “Remember all the times we frolicked in that chair? Shall we give it another go?”

“I don’t think so.”

She rested her foot on the cushion, and tugged her skirt to her knee, having him view an expanse of shapely leg. She had a maid who shaved her, even her privates, so that she was smooth, silky, just for him. She leaned over, her cleavage flaunted, her breasts barely contained by the neckline of her red gown. It was his favorite dress and a reminder of a better period between them.

“Drink up, darling,” she urged, and she was pleased when he swallowed down the contents. She grabbed the decanter and dispensed more.

“How were you able to convince the servants to admit you? I can’t understand why Fitch didn’t sound an alarm.”

“Why would they deny me?”

“Because I ordered them not to let you in.”

“They’re terrified of me. After we kiss and make up, as they are certain we will”—she winked—“they need to be on my good side, so they don’t dare cross me.”

“You are the most exasperating woman I’ve ever met.”

“Aren’t I though?”

He swigged his brandy again, and she could scarcely keep from bellowing in triumph. One or two more servings would do the trick.

“My governess advises me that you’ve been harassing her.”

“Your governess?” As if she couldn’t place the aggravating strumpet, she acted baffled. “Is that the ninny who saw us fucking in the library?”

“Yes.”

“Why would I bother with the likes of her?”

“That’s what I would like to know.”

“I haven’t done anything to her.”
Not yet, anyway!
“Besides, what is she to me? What is she to you?”

She almost hoped that he’d remark and indicate the depth of his feelings, although she couldn’t believe he had any. He simply wasn’t a man who grew attached. He loved a new conquest, reveled in the chase, but once he caught his prey, his interest waned.

He didn’t comment on his relationship with Barnett, but he frowned. “Leave her be, would you? She’s not corrupt, as you and I are, and she shouldn’t be exposed to you. When you pester her, I have to hear about it. She hasn’t learned how to ignore you—as I do.”

He swilled a third glass, and Amanda was extremely happy to pour a fourth. The change was gradual, but his
movements were slowing. Perspiration popped out on his brow, his speech slurred.

“Is it hot in here?” he asked.

“Very hot,” she replied, and she reached out and stroked his phallus. Though he pretended to be angry with her, his body responded, his cock hardening under her adept fingers. “Would you like me to suck you off? It’s been an eternity since I have. You must be about to burst.”

“No . . . I . . .”

He gaped around, as if he was lost or couldn’t find his balance. His cravat was already off, and she opened his shirt. His arms were like lead, so he didn’t resist.

“Let’s cool you down,” she suggested.

She dropped to her knees and snuggled herself between his thighs. He was unsteady, woozy.

“I don’t feel well. Have you put opiates in the brandy?”

“Of course not,” she murmured. “I recall how much you detest them. You merely drank too much too fast. You shouldn’t overindulge so often.” Later on, he’d be confused and disoriented, and she wanted to plant seeds of memory, wanted him to think that he really had been foxed. “Pamela is eager to fornicate with you, darling. She’s anxious for you to be her first. Wouldn’t you like to be?”

“No . . . no. . ..” He tried to decline but couldn’t raise much of a protest.

Not long now,
she mused. “You’ve always lusted after Pamela. You’ve always wanted the three of us to do it together. You can’t have forgotten. You begged me to bring her to you.”

“That’s crazy,” he managed to mumble. “I would never . . .”

“Relax, Michael.” She unbuttoned his pants. “Let me take care of you. I know what you like best.”

She pulled his cock from his trousers and sucked it into her mouth, but luckily, she didn’t have to perform to the end. After a brief interlude, his erection vanished and he dozed off. His head tipped to the side, and he snored.

Easing away, she paused to ensure he was unconscious; then she rushed to the door and dragged Pamela into the room.

“Help me get him onto the bed,” she commanded.

“What have you done?” Pamela inquired. “He isn’t . . . isn’t dead, is he?”

“No, he isn’t dead. I drugged him.”

“Why would you?”

“You can’t presume he’d do this willingly.”

“Are you serious? My father told me I was very pretty, that men would be fighting over me when I grew up.”

Amanda rolled her eyes in disgust. For a female with no funds and no prospects, Pamela was so set on herself. “Be silent, and let’s finish this.”

They lugged and heaved him to the mattress; then Amanda arranged him, mussing his hair, discarding his shirt and shoes, loosing his pants and lowering them to his hips. Once she had him looking as dissolute as possible, she focused her attention on Pamela.

“It’s your turn,” she explained.

“For what?” Pamela queried.

“Your hair needs fixing.”

“My hair? What’s wrong with it?”

“It can’t be braided.”

“But I always braid it when I’m in my nightclothes.”

“Stupid girl,” Amanda scolded, “it’s a child’s habit.” Amanda untied the ribbon and riffled through the golden tresses.

“I hate this,” Pamela griped.

“Shut up!” Amanda admonished. “You must trust me, and do as I say. You’re overdressed. It must appear as if something naughty happened, as if Michael behaved very badly.”

Pamela’s nightgown was a pristine, maidenly white, and Amanda grabbed it by the front and ripped it from top to bottom. Pamela shrieked and clutched at the fabric, as Amanda wrestled it away.

“Let go!” Amanda ordered.