Cheryl Holt (31 page)

A heavy woolen one magically appeared, and Michael tucked it around Alex’s body, being careful not to touch the wound. It would need further tending, but Michael would leave it to the physician awaiting them at the mansion—if Alex lived till then.

“Tell Mary I’m sorry,” Alex murmured.

At first, Michael didn’t know to whom Alex referred, and it dawned on him that Alex meant Emily’s sister, Mrs. Livingston. Perhaps their relationship had entailed a deeper significance than Michael had suspected.

“You can tell her yourself,” Michael responded, “when you’re feeling better.”

He stood and lifted his brother, and when he staggered with his burden, Drake’s man leapt forward to assist.

They lugged Alex out, trying not to jostle him, which was impossible.

As they passed, Drake commented, “Don’t forget my hundred pounds. I’d hate to have to stop by to collect it.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Drake. You’ll get your money.”

“You owe me a blanket, too.”

“I’ll send a dozen.”

They went out into the cool evening. The sun had set and night had fallen, ending the terrible day. After much maneuvering and shifting, Michael mounted his horse, and Alex was hoisted onto his lap. Cradling his precious cargo, he raced for home, praying he would arrive before it was too late to matter.

 21 

“Tell me again. What happened?”

Michael sat at his desk and glared at Pamela, but she was unperturbed by his examination.

“What do you mean?” she inquired.

“It’s an easy question. Did I remove your clothes? Or my own?”

“Well . . .”

“It can’t be that difficult to remember. What was the order?”

“Amanda helped me with my clothes.”

“What was I doing?”

“Ah . . . watching?” With each query, she grew less sure of herself, and he tamped down his fury.

Poor Margaret had finally caught him alone, had relayed the argument she’d heard between Pamela and Amanda. Having no background in sexual matters, she hadn’t understood their comments, but they’d been more than clear to Michael.

Pamela knew that Margaret had eavesdropped, and
Margaret had been hiding for days, slipping in and out of rooms, sleeping in closets and sneaking food, so as to avoid her older sister’s wrath. Margaret was now secreted in Michael’s suite and carefully concealed from Pamela, but whenever Michael thought of the youngster’s terror, he saw red.

Who was safe around him? Who was secure?

“When and how did we lie down?”

She hesitated, then claimed, “You went first, then me.”

“I asked you to join me? Or I pulled you down?”

“I . . . I . . . simply crawled next to you.”

“What about Amanda?”

“What about her?”

“Where was she?”

“She was . . . she was on the other side of you.”

“Doing what?”

“Snuggling.”

He said nothing. Amanda performed many deeds in bed, but
snuggling
wasn’t generally one of them. “Then what?”

“Then . . . then . . . I expect we did the usual things couples do.”

“Such as?” She was silent for so long that he probed, “Were we kissing?”

“Oh, yes, there was a great deal of kissing.”

“And . . . ?”

“Touching. You touched me all over.” As if the memory was delightful, she gave a fake little shiver.

“Where precisely?”

She gulped with dismay. “Where?”

“Which bodily parts?”

“You want me to speak of them aloud?”

“If you would, please.” She was flummoxed, her juvenile age blatantly apparent, so he prodded, “Your breasts?”

“Yes.” Unable to look at him, she stared at the rug.

“Was I caressing them, or was I sucking on them, too?”

“You . . . you . . .” She leapt to her feet, stomped to the sideboard, and poured herself a hefty glass of brandy. “Stop interrogating me as if I’m a criminal! I’ve done nothing wrong.
You
seduced me!”

“Did I?”

“Yes, everyone saw you, but you’re acting as if I am to blame.”

His skepticism obvious, he studied her. “I’m merely curious. You’re parading around as if it was the most magnificent night of your life, yet I have no recollection of what occurred. Why would you suppose that is?”

“You drank too much.”

“You’re positive?”

“Amanda says it’s typical behavior for you.”

“You and Amanda certainly have become a pair of chums.”

“She was close to my father,” she declared.

“As close as Amanda ever is to anyone, I guess.”

“She was his friend!”

“Your wishing it doesn’t make it so.”

“She was!”

Noise erupted in the hall, as several rowdy visitors rambled past. They tried the door, but Michael had had the foresight to lock it before beginning his and Pamela’s conversation.

There were dozens, perhaps hundreds, of guests in the house. He couldn’t count them all. He’d been distracted,
alarmed by Alex’s dire health, raw and churning over Emily’s abandonment.

While he’d been preoccupied, Pamela had proceeded with wedding plans. The current party was a betrothal fete, though his permission to host it hadn’t been sought. At a time when he only wanted solitude, his home was teeming with meddlesome people whom he couldn’t abide.

Pamela was strutting about as if she were already his countess, as if his mansion—and his money—were already hers. He had no idea why he was being so courteous to her, but she was sixteen and immersed in an intrigue that was far over her head.

“Do you know what I think, Pamela?”

“What?”

She downed her brandy, then poured another. In the few minutes they’d been sequestered, she’d swilled four glasses. She was a lush who put his own drinking habits to shame.

“I don’t believe anything happened between us.”

“Of course it did.”

“Sit down.” She didn’t move, and he pointed to her chair and shouted, “Sit! Down!”

At his command, she was incensed, but she crossed to the chair, and sniped, “Don’t you dare raise your voice to me!”

“Before we’re through, you will be lucky if my
voice
is all I raise.” Her misplaced bravado had pushed his temper to the limit, and he struggled to control his anger, for he had no doubt that, whatever their shenanigans, Amanda had brought them to fruition. “Were you aware that there’s a way to discover if a female has lost her virginity?”

Her gaze narrowed to a vicious squint, her expression growing cruel. “No, I wasn’t.”

“I’ve decided I should learn the answer for sure.”

“You have my word on it! As I’m about to be your wife, that should be more than sufficient.”

“Somehow, your assertions don’t allay my reservations.”

Prepared to fight it out to the bitter end, she bristled with affront. “Even if I’m still a virgin—and I’m not saying that’s the case—we’d have to wed. The story of my ruination is all over London.”

“You’re correct,” he agreed, “but I’d like to discern for myself just how desperate you are to snag me for your husband.”

He rang a bell, and an older matron entered.

Pamela scrutinized the woman’s plain attire, her aged face, and sneered. “Who is she?”

“She’s a midwife. You’ll accompany her to your room, where you will lie down and lift your skirt so that she can inspect your privates.”

“My . . . my privates?”

“Yes. I’ve hired her to determine whether or not your maidenhead is intact.” He paused, flashing a grim smile. “Unless you’d like to save yourself the embarrassment of being examined and tell me the truth.”

“I won’t do it,” she blustered. “You can’t make me.”

“I am your guardian. I am your fiancé. I am lord of this manor, and I am about to be your spouse. You will be checked if I have to tie you to the bedposts, myself.”

It finally dawned on her that she was trapped, the deceit unveiled, and a theatrical sheen of tears glistened in her eyes.

“How could you accuse me of treachery?” she wailed. “I am the one who was wronged. I sacrificed myself to your male lust. Is this the thanks I am to receive?”

“I’m busy, and I don’t have time for your nonsense. Let’s finish this, shall we?”

At seeing how he was unaffected by her outburst, she hurled, “Bastard!”

“Sticks and stones, Pamela,” he told her. “Sticks and stones.”

He walked to the door and opened it. She rose, and they engaged in a staring match she could never win. She hadn’t the resolve or patience to best him, and he’d had enough of her antics. She’d cost him Emily, and for that transgression she would never be forgiven. After they wed, she would be ensconced at his most isolated, rural property, where he and Margaret would never have to be around her. Only by separating himself, by sending her far away, could he guarantee that he wouldn’t grab her by the throat and choke that infuriating smirk off her pretty face.

Ultimately, she conceded the battle, and she swept by him, but the moment she was in the hall, she raced to the stairs and climbed. He couldn’t imagine how she thought she could evade him, and she was merely postponing the inevitable. He wouldn’t be dissuaded from his goal. The depth of her perfidy would be revealed.

He turned to the midwife. “I’ll have to find her. Wait for us in her bedchamber.”

The woman nodded and left him to the dastardly chore of locating Pamela. Fortunately, the upper corridors were empty, the guests having confined their revelry to the lower floor, so he was alone in his methodical search, and
he didn’t have to invent thorny excuses as to why he was hunting for her.

He reached a landing and stopped, positive that he’d heard Amanda, and he groaned. How did she keep sneaking in? Which servants were admitting her? Would he have to take a strap to somebody before they heeded his admonitions?

He hesitated, anxious to deduce from where her voice was coming, when he realized she was on the balcony that looked out over the garden. When he heard Pamela, too, and that the pair was involved in a heated exchange, he took off at a dead run.

“I’ll kill you first,” Amanda vowed.

“I’d like to see you try,” Pamela retorted. “Now get out of my house.”

“Your house? Your house?” Amanda knew she was yelling, that she sounded shrill and deranged, but Pamela had provoked her to irrationality.

“I won’t have you sniffing around my husband,” Pamela snapped.

“He’s not your husband yet,” Amanda reminded her, “and if I have anything to say about it, he never will be.”

Who could have predicted that Pamela would be bright enough to initiate a betrayal? That she would have had the temerity to stab Amanda in the back?

Amanda’s plot to be shed of Emily Barnett had worked fabulously. Barnett had scurried away in a thrice, but Amanda could never have envisaged Pamela’s conduct in the aftermath. She’d latched onto Michael like a leech on a thigh.

Pamela was a weak, gullible adolescent who could be bullied and led, who could be patronized and browbeaten. How had she mustered the audacity to carve out her own conclusion? A conclusion that didn’t include Amanda in any way, shape, or form?

Amanda wasn’t about to lose her place with Michael, and if Pamela presumed she could force Amanda to graciously step aside, then Pamela was a fool.

“Listen to me, you sagging harlot—” Pamela taunted.

“Shut your impertinent mouth, or I will shut it for you!”

“I will not be silent. You are not to consort with Michael!” To emphasize each word, Pamela jabbed a finger into Amanda’s chest. “If you so much as speak to him again, if you so much as glance in his direction, it will be the last stupid act you ever perform.”

“You dare to threaten me? Me?” Amanda slapped her pompous hand away. “You pathetic little virgin. Don’t forget that I know the truth.”

“As if I care.”

“You will,” Amanda declared. “I’ll tell Michael what we did, only I’ll lie. I’ll swear that you blackmailed me. I’ll insist that the entire scheme was your idea.”

Pamela snickered. “He’s already figured out that we tricked him, and he’s marrying me anyway. He has no choice. So I repeat: Get out of my house!”

Pamela shoved Amanda so hard that she nearly fell, and Amanda caught herself just before she landed on her rear. When she regained her balance, a blinding rage washed over her.