Cheryl Holt (29 page)

“No. I’ll do whatever you ask, but you must promise you won’t send Mary away. Give me your word.”

She had the gall to make demands? To issue ultimatums?

“You betrayed me. You deceived me.”

“No, Reginald,” she claimed. “I’ve done nothing to you.”

She was so haughty, so proud, and he walked around her in a slow circle. Like a brave soldier about to be disciplined, she stared straight ahead, resigned that the ax was about to fall.

Vividly, he remembered every second of the degrading encounter in Winchester’s parlor. Reginald would never forgive her for the shame he’d endured on being evicted from the earl’s mansion. If she lived to be a thousand, Emily would pay for the disgrace each and every day.

“Answer one question for me,” he commanded.

“If I am able.”

“Are you still a virgin?”

“Reginald!”

“Are you?” he shouted.

She blushed bright red, and he couldn’t decide if she was embarrassed by the intimate query or if she was a whore. He was paralyzed by the possibility of her being seduced by Winchester. It was like a fetid wound, and he couldn’t let it go, but he wasn’t positive how to verbally probe for the facts.

He knew about the physical aspects, about the blood and the tearing, so there were ways to become apprised later on, but if, after he’d married her, he discovered that he’d been duped, he would kill her, and there wasn’t a man in England who would blame him.

In the interim, he had to have a denial from her own
lips. Her perfidious, devious tongue would have to soothe his torment.

“I would have the truth,” he insisted.

“There’s naught to tell.”

“Liar,” he hissed, and he slapped her as hard as he could. Stunned by the ferocity of the moment, she lurched to the side and tumbled to her knees.

As far as he was aware, Emily had never been hit before. She’d been pampered and coddled, and in an instant, he discerned a fascinating component to his character: He relished the violence, relished how he felt powerful and omnipotent, how she cowered and cringed.

He hovered over her, where she was crouched on the rug, and he grabbed her by the neck and shook her as if she were a misbehaving dog.

“Where is your fancy
lord
now, Emily? There’s no one to help you, no one to rise to your defense.”

“No, there’s no one,” she concurred.

“You thought you were so high-and-mighty, snubbing me to impress
him
. How dare you!”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

“Beg me,” he raged. “Beg me to permit you to stay.”

“Please!” She was gasping, clawing at his fingers as he squeezed her throat. Her arrogance had finally fled. “Let me stay.”

“Swear to me that it’s for Mary and Rose, that you want nothing for yourself.”

“Absolutely,” she agreed. “I don’t need anything for myself.”

“You will be a respectful and acquiescent wife, and you will submit to me in all matters.”

“I will,” she agreed again.

He shoved her away, hating to be in her presence, to be fretting over how she might have been disloyal. She scrambled out of reach, weeping and adjusting her dress, and he reveled in her dishabille, in her terror and confusion.

This
was how he wanted her—under his control, groveling, isolated, scared.

“Yes, Emily,” he hurled, “we shall marry. I will speak with the vicar this afternoon about calling the banns, once more. But,” he threatened, “you’ve made a devil’s bargain. If you ever refuse to do as you are told, Mary will be locked away in an asylum. I guarantee it.”

With a wail of despair, she clambered to her feet and ran out. He watched her go, and he chuckled, elated with how he’d bested her. In the future, she couldn’t defy him, and she knew it. She was out of options.

He was aroused, his phallus rigid and aching, and he pushed at the placard of his pants, wishing he’d taken their relationship to the next level. When she’d been huddled on the floor, he could have raped her. Why hadn’t he?

When dealing with her, he couldn’t be timid. She had to constantly be shown who was boss. But then, the longer he delayed, the more satisfying her capitulation, the greater his reward.

The altercation had him eager to look at his naughty books, to touch himself and relieve the tension she’d induced. He especially liked the drawings of the auburn-haired harlots. He liked to gaze at them and pretend they were Emily, that he was witnessing the things he would eventually do to her.

He proceeded to his room, where he closed and barred the door. He opened the trunk at the end of his
bed, and he pulled out his favorite envelope of pictures, of women being flogged, of women being ravished and tortured.

Emily’s room was down the hall. She was alone, unprotected, with nowhere to hide.

He smiled and unbuttoned his trousers, his hand on his cock, and—slowly, rhythmically—he began to stroke. Soon, very soon, Emily would be performing the task for him, and he couldn’t wait for her lessons to commence.

 20 

Margaret Martin huddled in the shadows and peeked through the door into her sister’s room. Pamela had just stormed in, and Amanda Lambert had followed. Though it was the middle of the afternoon, they were in their nightclothes, and Margaret wanted to find out why.

Many peculiar events had occurred throughout the day, and though she kept asking for answers, no one would tell her what had happened. The trip to the country had been abruptly cancelled. The servants were aflutter with gossip. Miss Barnett had fled, taking Rose with her, and Margaret couldn’t bear that her friend had left without so much as a farewell.

It was obvious that Pamela was up to no good. She thrived on causing trouble, and from the beginning, she’d resolved to be shed of Miss Barnett, but what had Pamela done? She had to be in league with Miss Lambert, and if she was, then turmoil was brewing, and Margaret was determined to unravel their scheme.

“I can’t believe how well your plan worked,” Pamela
said, and she grinned. “The stupid oaf bought every word, hook, line, and sinker.”

“Of course, he did,” Amanda boasted. “How could you have doubted me? I’ve been Michael’s lover for years. I know how to handle him.”

Margaret bristled. If Pamela had hurt Lord Winchester, Margaret would wring her neck.

“There at the end,” Pamela mentioned, “he didn’t look as if he was feeling very spry. He was white as a ghost.”

“The drug I administered has that effect.”

A drug? They’d given Lord Winchester a drug?

Margaret was so angry, she nearly burst in to demand an explanation, but she held herself still, anxious to hear more.

“Or maybe,” Pamela interjected, “the concept of tying the knot was so distressing that he was ill. He brags about being the consummate bachelor.”

“I wouldn’t count on his marrying you,” Amanda replied.

Lord Winchester was to wed Pamela? How could that be? Margaret was astonished. They must have tricked him.

“And why shouldn’t I?” Pamela queried. “The servants saw what transpired. The sordid story is probably all over London by now.”

“Yes, but he didn’t actually do anything to you.”

“
He
assumes he did.” Pamela chuckled.

“Well, don’t be too confident,” Amanda chided. “He’ll wiggle out of the trap we set.”

“What do you mean?”

Amanda scoffed. “He’ll never marry you.”

“That’s what you think.”

“That’s what I know.”

A fit of temper swept over Pamela. She had violent mood swings, and though Miss Lambert was older and taller, she had no idea how furious Pamela could become. Should Pamela fly into a rage, Miss Lambert would be no match for her.

“Don’t presume to lecture me,” Pamela warned. “I am about to be the Countess of Winchester, and you cross me at your peril.”

“Foolish girl,” Amanda needled. “If not for me, you wouldn’t have had the faintest notion of how to crawl into his bed, and if you suppose that you’re on some fast road to matrimony, you’re out of your mind.”

“Listen, you aging hussy.” Pamela grabbed Miss Lambert by the hair, yanking so hard that Amanda shrieked. “Your opinions have ceased to matter in this house. I’ve landed the best possible position for myself, so I no longer have to tolerate your presence.” She shoved Miss Lambert away. “Get out of my sight.”

“Michael is mine.” Miss Lambert pushed Pamela back. “He will always be mine.”

“As I’m about to have a ring on my finger, I’d say you’re suffering from insane delusions.”

Miss Lambert growled like a rabid dog and charged at Pamela. Pamela leapt to the side and seized a heavy candleholder, and she brought it down on Miss Lambert’s temple. It was a glancing blow, so it didn’t draw blood, but Margaret was frightened by the attack, and she gasped aloud.

Both women halted.

“Who’s there?” Pamela whipped around to peer through the crack in the door. “Margaret! Is that you?”

Pamela lunged toward the spot where Margaret was hiding, so Margaret spun away and ran.

“How many left my employ?”

Michael sat at his desk and glared at Fitch. A bath, a clean suit of clothes, and numerous shots of whiskey hadn’t helped in the slightest. His head was pounding, his stomach queasy, and he was dizzy and grouchy.

“Ten,” Fitch responded. “The men didn’t care, but the women were quite shocked. So we’re short of maids, and I’ll need to begin interviewing.”

Michael’s disgusting romp had been too much for his female workers. Several of them had donned their coats and walked out. “Could you convince them to reconsider?”

“I could try, but I doubt I’d succeed. They were extremely offended.”

Michael sighed. Could the vile day get any worse? “Why are you still here? Aren’t you ready to stomp out in a huff?”

“With all due respect, milord,” Fitch bravely proclaimed, “there’s very little you could do that would surprise me.”

“A low blow, Fitch.”

“Yes, it was, sir. My apologies.”

“I imagine I’ll survive.”

“If I may point out, sir, Miss Pamela is a tad young.”

“Isn’t she, though?”

“I believe that’s what upset most of the ladies. The others, who’ve agreed to stay, were wondering if there’s to be a wedding.”

Pamela had no one to speak for her, no father or brother to demand reparation. Michael wanted to shout
no,
but he’d stepped so far over the line of what was allowed that he had to pay the price for his reprehensible conduct.

“Yes, Fitch, you may assure them that wedding bells are about to chime.”

“Very good, sir. They will be relieved to hear it.”

Fitch started to go, but Michael stopped him. “May I ask you a question, Fitch?”

“Certainly.”

“I was informed that many members of the staff saw me when I was . . . when we were . . .” He was too ashamed to complete the sentence. “Were you one of them?”

“No, but Housekeeper was. It took all my persuasive abilities to keep her with us.”

“How about Miss Barnett?”

“She was gravely disturbed. She, and her sister and niece, packed their bags and fled about thirty minutes after the incident.”

So . . . she’d gone. He’d been curious. He’d sensed her absence, but it was awkward to inquire without his interest seeming heightened and inappropriate. “Could we prevail upon her to return?”

“May I be blunt?”

“Please.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“I owe her some salary. Do you have any idea of where they went?”

“I’m told that they proceeded to the village from whence they’d come.”

“Hailsham?”

“I don’t know the name of it, sir.”

He thought of her scurrying home, of her having to beg her cousin to take her in, and couldn’t bear that he’d driven her to such a dire fate. Would she marry her cousin? If Barnett refused her shelter, what would become of her?

She was devoted to her family’s safety, and he couldn’t have her living on the streets, nor could he stand by and have her forced into matrimony. In light of his abundant transgressions, he owed her the opportunity to build her own life, to be free of her cousin so she could make her own way.

“I need you to ascertain her whereabouts,” Michael said. “I’ll write her a note and enclose a bank draft. Have it sent as soon as you locate her.”