Cheryl Holt (33 page)

“If I ever hear that you’ve hurt her, I’ll kill you,” Michael vowed. “With my own two hands.” In light of recent events, it probably wasn’t the wisest threat to level, but Barnett had driven him beyond circumspection.

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Believe me, so would I.”

Michael pushed Barnett away, and Barnett fell to his knees. He was battered, his eyes blackening, his nose swelling and likely broken, but he was belligerent to the end.

“Bloody rich sod,” Barnett hurled.

Michael stared him down, disposed to lean over, to pummel him and pummel him until he was naught but an unrecognizable lump on the floor, but he resisted the violent impulse. The last thing he needed was to be involved in an altercation. He’d never live it down.

He turned and stomped out. The blow he’d delivered had been fierce, had bruised his knuckles, and as he walked to his carriage and climbed in, he was rubbing his hand.

Margaret was smiling and merry, excited to proceed to their destination. “Have you found out where they are?”

“Yes,” he responded steadily, determined not to display a hint of his distress, “but I’m sorry. They’re gone, visiting relatives. No one is at home.”

“Oh.”

She was so disheartened that he had to glance away. He couldn’t abide her woe, so he quickly added, “Have you ever been to Brighton?”

“No. Father had promised to take us for a holiday, but he never got around to it.”

“It’s just down the road,” he explained. “What if we have a bit of a holiday, ourselves, before we head back to London?”

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes. We can rent a cozy cottage and enjoy the sea air. It will be very fun.”

She studied him, shrewdly noting his injured hand. Ultimately, she queried, “Are you all right?”

“Of course, I am.”

“Did something bad happen whilst you were inside?”

“No.” Eager to reassure her, he scoffed and smiled.

She was very mature for her age, and though she’d deduced that a nefarious incident had occurred, she also realized that she had to accept his insistence that all was fine.

“I think Brighton is a grand idea,” she said.

“Let’s be off, then. There’s no reason to linger.”

 23 

Mary ambled down the quiet country lane toward Barnett Manor, counting her strides and enjoying the smells of the autumn afternoon. Warm sunshine dappled her shoulders, but with the changing season, there was a briskness in the air that hadn’t been apparent when they’d first arrived home from their terrible excursion to London.

Occasionally, when she was lonely or bored, she thought about that chaotic episode, about residing in Lord Winchester’s house and fornicating with his brother. It was the sole instance in her entire life when she’d dared attempt something rash, something extraordinary, and when she was sitting with the neighbor ladies, chatting and drinking tea, she suffered from the strongest urge to say, “Would you like to know what I
really
did while I was in the city?”

If she ever described her wild fling, she’d likely send her less stalwart acquaintances into a swoon. Much of it seemed preposterous, even to herself, and she frequently wondered if it had happened at all. She had no
mementoes, no strands of hair pressed in a locket, no dried flowers tucked away in a book.

Had she actually met Alex Farrow? Had she been madly, passionately, in love with a man to whom she’d hardly spoken?

The whole experience was like a weird dream that, upon awakening, was vague and fuzzy.

She rubbed her stomach, depressed that she’d have to tell and soon. She couldn’t let many more weeks pass without acknowledging what she’d done. A woman could conceal a pregnancy for only so long before the secret told itself.

Oh, how could she have been so reckless? So foolish?

Emily’s wedding was in two hours, and Mary ought to be inside, helping and getting dressed, but she couldn’t feign gladness. She’d tried to talk Emily out of the union, but Emily wouldn’t be dissuaded. She was bound and determined to marry Reginald.

The few times Mary had raised the subject, Emily had been adamant. She felt as Mary did, that they shouldn’t have left Hailsham, that they shouldn’t have strayed so far from their roots. They knew their place and were destined to stay in it.

But how could Emily wed Reginald? Didn’t she understand who he was? Couldn’t she distinguish his malice and hostility? Mary had struggled to explain what she perceived, but to no avail. For better or worse—mostly worse!—Reginald was about to be Emily’s husband.

She tarried, pondering the past, debating the future, and she decided that she had to inform Reginald and Emily that she was having a baby. They had to be apprised before the ceremony. Reginald was so proud of
his new position in the community. Once he learned of Mary’s scandalous predicament, it was probable that he would evict her as a harlot, and she couldn’t continue to avoid the harsh sentence.

Like a felon to the gallows, she started walking. She had to confess, had to discover her fate. There was no reason to put it off, and though the tidings would cast a pall on the festivities, she had to proceed.

Wishing she could lengthen the journey, or never complete it, she took trudging steps. If she prayed fervently enough, could she make herself vanish?

She was at the stile, ready to squeeze through the break in the fence, when she noted the sound of wheels rolling down the lane. She listened, realizing that it wasn’t a cart from a nearby farm. It was too lightweight, too fast moving, and there were two horses clomping in a perfect rhythm, indicating they were an expensive, matched pair. This was someone new, someone from outside the area, and she paused, curious as to who would be driving up their road in such a fancy vehicle.

To her utter surprise, the driver slowed, then halted right next to her. The carriage occupant leaned out the window, and she discerned him to be male, for she could smell tobacco on his clothes. She waited for him to speak, but he was strangely silent and staring at her so intently that she could feel his gaze as definitely as if he were touching her.

“Hello, Mary,” he finally greeted her.

At hearing that rich baritone voice, she was so rattled that she had to grab for the fence post lest she fall to the grass in an astonished heap. She summoned her courage and curtsied. “Mr. Farrow.”

She wasn’t about to say anything more, would choke before the beloved name of
Alex
slid from her lips. Her heart was thundering, her mind whirling with questions: Why had he come? What did he want? What did his appearance portend?

The driver climbed down from the box, and there was a creaking of wood and leather as he assisted Alex to the ground. As if Alex was disabled, the servant steadied him, and she frowned. Had he been ill? Had he been injured?

He approached, and she was assailed by his familiar heat and scent.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, which was the sole query that signified.

“I had to see you.”

“Well, now you have.”

She spun to go, desperate to be away from him, to hide so he wouldn’t witness her tears. Anymore, she was so accursedly sentimental, her condition making her fret and stew until she was maudlin. Suddenly, she was simmering with a longing and regret that she’d presumed she’d buried during the frenzied trip home to Hailsham, but evidently, her weeks of reflection hadn’t granted her any wisdom.

Absurdly, she was thrilled that he’d sought her out, so ecstatic that she could barely keep from flinging herself into his arms.

She was such an idiot! Had their history taught her nothing?

He was a deceitful, untrustworthy cad, and she locked her fingers in the folds of her skirt so that she wouldn’t reach out to him.

“Mary,” he called.

Don’t stop! Don’t turn around!
she scolded, but her feet wouldn’t obey.

“What?” She whirled to face him.

He advanced, and she detected that he was limping. She braced, refusing to speculate, refusing to inquire as to what had happened. She wouldn’t care about him! She wouldn’t!

He stared at her again, but he was in turmoil and couldn’t begin a conversation, and she wasn’t about to help him. He’d caused her so much grief and misery, and she had no compassion to share, couldn’t manage simple civility.

Stunning her, he caressed her cheek. As if he was weak and the gesture difficult to accomplish, his hand shook, and she flinched away.

“I’m sorry,” he announced. “Can you forgive me?”

“You’re . . . you’re sorry?” It was the very last comment she’d expected.

“I behaved so badly toward you.”

“You’re correct. You were an absolute swine.”

She didn’t want him repentant, couldn’t bear his apologies. If he was remorseful, how was she to remain angry? How could she fuel the necessary fire to keep him at bay?

“You were always so kind to me,” he said, “so accepting of my faults, yet I used you; I took advantage of you.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I wish I could travel back in time and change everything. I ought to be whipped for how I treated you.”

She was bewildered as to what her response should be. On many previous occasions, she’d allowed herself
to fantasize about this confrontation, but in all the mental scenarios she’d concocted—most of them ending in castration!—she’d never envisioned him being contrite.

He craved forgiveness? Fine, he could have it.

“You’re forgiven,” she snapped. “Now go away and leave me be.”

He swayed, as if he was enfeebled, as if he might collapse, and without thinking, she leapt forward and hugged him, taking his weight on her slender shoulders. It occurred to her that they’d immediately fallen into the old rhythm of their relationship. She’d been the strong one, the stable one, and throughout their abbreviated affair, he had relied on her constancy.

“What is it?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

“Might I sit down?” he replied. “It’s been a tiring journey from town, and I’m not feeling very well.”

“Of course, of course,” she soothed, more perplexed than ever about what she wanted. As she led him to the house and into the parlor, as she settled him on the sofa and fetched a stool for his feet, it seemed so natural to be watching over him, once again.

She seated herself, and he murmured, “I couldn’t come for you. I meant to, but . . . but . . .”

He was referring to their imprudent elopement plan, but she couldn’t discuss it. Her shame was too great. “Don’t let’s talk about it.”

“We have to,” he insisted. “When I didn’t arrive, what must you have thought? I’ve been frantic to know.”

She wouldn’t lie or make it easier for him. “I
thought
that I’d been deluding myself, that a man like you would never marry a woman like me. I was a fool to believe otherwise.”

“A man like me . . .” he muttered, and he scoffed. “As if I’m so bloody high-and-mighty! Do you comprehend the type of man I really am, Mary?”

“Yes.”

“No, you have no idea. That’s why I cherished your company. You saw someone who didn’t exist.” He sighed. “I’m a drunkard, Mary, a disgusting, pathetic drunkard. I went to war, and I received a nasty scratch on my face, when many of my colleagues perished or lost limbs, and ever since, I’ve been too spineless to adapt.”

“Your habits can be detestable.”

Wearily, he chuckled. “You’re still being kind, but if you tossed me out on my ear, I’d deserve it.”

“I could never throw you out,” she pitifully admitted.

“Would you like to hear where I was, and what I was doing, when we were supposed to be eloping?”

“No!” Whatever details he was bent on sharing, she couldn’t listen to them.

“I was foxed”—he forged ahead despite her plea that he not—“and I was gambling, and when I’d imbibed to the point where I was incoherent, I was assaulted and robbed by a gang of ruffians. When we should have been merrily winging off to Scotland, I was dying in some criminal’s lair, stabbed in the chest and barely able to breathe—”

“Stabbed!”

“—and if Michael hadn’t come for me, I can’t predict how it would have ended.”

“Oh, Alex. . . .” What should she say? She couldn’t decide, so she bit down on all the words that were anxious to spill out.