Cheryl Holt (12 page)

So . . . what was he doing at her house?

Gambling impulsively, for incredibly high stakes, he no longer appeared to care how much he won or lost. Nor was he concerned over who was damaged in the process, even though he invariably harbored a reputation as deliberate in his games of chance. He’d witnessed too much of the havoc produced by wagering, so he seldom indulged more than the smallest bets, yet now, he was bent on destruction.

While she wouldn’t have been surprised by such outrageous behavior from his brother, Michael had perpetually been the more reticent of the two, and more likely to refrain from excess.

His sport with the female guests was typical of the recent changes. While he wasn’t averse to partaking in lewd entertainment, he wasn’t usually the first in line to volunteer, either. Yet when she’d suggested her latest visual amusement, which allowed her to take full advantage of the manor’s less savory attributes, he’d promptly agreed.

The lady party-goers were begging to couple with him, and the news that he was present and available had them scurrying from London. Though her fetes were constantly well attended, his appearance had made the gathering an absolute priority for many. She hadn’t managed to generate such enthusiasm since the time his brother, James, had done much the same.

The silly ninnies of the
ton
were scared of Michael Stevens, and they weren’t sure how to interpret his commanding personality. With his curt comments and fuck-meor-don’t attitude, the women were lining up in droves, greedy to experience his rough brand of illicit sexual intercourse and, though none of them would admit it, each slyly
yearned to be the unique paramour who cracked through his hard shell.

Plus, he was just so damned pretty. There wasn’t a woman in the kingdom who had the fortitude to deny herself such pleasure when it was freely offered.

“Let’s engage in some loveplay,” she stated baldly, wishing he’d acquiesce but figuring he wouldn’t. She’d invited him upstairs for a tryst, but he’d yet to indicate any interest.

Further opening the lapels of her robe, she granted him an abundant view of her rounded breasts—if he’d ever deign to look in her direction—then she stroked with her hand and squeezed the nipple, effortlessly arousing herself as she thought about how agile he was with that wicked tongue of his.

“I don’t think so.”

“You cad!” she grumbled, though she was smiling. They’d not been lovers for an eternity, and she missed him, enough so that she’d lured him into her private salon in the middle of the day. He was a man with whom she could flagrantly trifle and not worry about an unwanted pregnancy. Michael was extremely careful and would never provoke a conclusion that might lead to disaster. “Don’t you dare say you’re not in the mood!”

“I won’t” he concurred, and she was fairly confident he was smiling, too.

“I’ve undressed and everything!”

“Sorry.”

“You can be positively lethal to a woman’s pride!”

“I try my best.”

“You bounder. Now that you’ve been so cruel, I don’t think I’ll share the dreadful news I’ve received from London.” She playfully pouted, suspecting that her reference to the city would pique his curiosity, and she was correct. He glanced at her over his shoulder.

“I don’t care to be apprised of anything that is occurring in town.”

“Aren’t you a fine friend! You won’t fornicate with me, and you won’t listen to my woes, either.”

“I loathe your gossip.”

“Men!” she chided. “Why do I keep any of you around?”

He sighed, trying to sound put-upon but failing. “What is it?”

“My stepson, Harold”—she exaggerated the appellation of her late husband’s son, an ass who was ten years her junior, a boor whom she despised—“has resolved to marry. I’m about to become a dowager!”

The tidbit had the desired effect. He chuckled. “You? A dowager?”

“Yes, can you believe it!”

Mischievously, he regarded her scantily covered torso, inspecting the swell of her bosom. “Well,” he mused casually, “you
are
starting to sag a tad here and there.”

“Oh! You horrid wretch!” She laughed and grabbed a pillow, flinging it at him. “If the term
dowager
ever springs from your lips, I’ll wring your neck!”

“Yes, ma’am,” he avowed sternly, pretending to be thoroughly chastised. “Is he busy having the dower house cleaned and equipped so he can hide you away?”

“I’d kill the little worm if he tried.”

“Yes,” he asserted, “I suppose you would.”

Her feud with the callow boy was protracted and had begun the day his elderly father had selected a youthful bride. “I’m fortunate my dear, departed Charles provided for me so well.” If he hadn’t, she’d have very likely found herself out on the streets about now, beseeching old friends for food and shelter. Early on, she’d learned how to survive; she was proficient at chasing after what she wanted—and retaining it once she had it.

“You’ll be all right?” he prompted.

“Absolutely. My financial affairs are suitably arranged; he can’t touch any of my properties or my money.”

“You’ll advise me if you need assistance? Because Harold owes me a fortune. I could fend him off quite easily.”

His overture was typical. While he customarily displayed
an inflexible front, the handful of people who knew him intimately recognized the soft heart that beat beneath the steel exterior. “I’d come to you and James, straightaway.”

“I should hope so.”

He poured himself another whisky, and the silence lingered as she indulged herself by assessing his marvelous anatomy. She couldn’t wait to gauge his reaction to the next, so she delayed until he was completely comfortable once again. “I have other tidings from town—”

“And I told you that I’ve no desire to listen to—”

“James wrote to me.” He seemed to cringe slightly as if hearing of James was rather like receiving a physical blow, but the impression passed so quickly that she was certain she must have imagined it.

He shrugged. “So?”

“He inquires as to whether you’re here with me.”

“You may inform him that I am.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Why would I?”

“You tell me.” She raised a brow. “Are you two fighting?”

“Hardly. I don’t
fight
with my brother.”

That wasn’t true, but she let it slide. “He writes that he hasn’t received any correspondence from your parents, so he assumes that they’re well and enjoying their honeymoon in Italy.”

Michael was so unaffected by her pronouncement that she felt as if she’d mumbled in a foreign language. Two months after it had ensued, the hasty, unanticipated elopement of his parents was still the hottest topic of discussion in London. Michael hadn’t uttered a word about it, but the incident had to be the reason he was raging and alone.

After a while, he remarked, “Bully for them.”

“There’s more.”

“What?” He couldn’t prevent the question from slipping out, for try as he might to pretend he didn’t care, he did. Too much.

“James himself has married.”

In light of the dramatic and shocking nature of her disclosure, she wasn’t entirely positive what she’d expected, but not this overwhelming, imposing quiet. She rose and stepped to her desk, retrieving the letter and tendering it to him, but he didn’t reach for it, so she dropped it to her side.

“To whom?” he ultimately inquired.

“Lady Abigail Weston.”

“Of course . . .” he murmured.

“She’s the Earl of Marbleton’s sister.

“Yes, I’m aware of that fact.”

Pamela was perplexed that the information invoked no rejoinder. James had already suffered through one horrid marriage to a
ton
princess, and taking into account Michael’s entrenched dislike of the aristocracy, she had predicted a biting response. She—as well as everyone else in London—was dying to discover how James had involved himself with the beautiful, reclusive spinster.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” she inevitably blurted out. “Aren’t you curious about any of this?”

“Not really.”

She rested a consoling hand on his shoulder. “What is it, Michael? You can confide in me. Your secrets will never leave this room. I swear it.” He merely stared at her with those glacial, detached blue eyes that gave nothing away. More gently, she added, “I detest seeing you like this.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.” He shrugged again, and she stifled the urge to shake him. “He wants you to come home.”

“Not likely.”
Especially now
resonated clearly, though he didn’t speak the sentiment aloud.

“He’s been searching everywhere for you; he was anxious to locate you before the wedding so you could be his best man.”

“Well . . . that’s one affair I’m glad I missed.”

“He’s worried about you, darling. What may I divulge to him?”

“Whatever tickles your fancy. It matters not to me.”

Abruptly, he stood, momentarily towering over her, the masculine closeness of his body and the appealing scent of his skin making her light-headed. He slipped his fingers inside her robe, affording her breast a naughty caress, then he moved to the window, displaying his back once more.

“You’re impossible.” She sulked, retiring to the sofa and lounging as he gulped the last of his whisky and persisted in contemplating whatever was keeping him so fascinated down on the lawns. “I hate it when you don’t pay attention to me. If you’re not careful, you’ll destroy my self-confidence.”

“I doubt that,” he muttered, laughing softly. Eventually, he queried, “Who is the fetching woman who’s visiting? She has the most striking auburn hair. Her name is Sarah.”

“Oh, no . . .” Groaning, she proceeded to pour herself a drink. First, Sarah was asking about him; now he was asking about Sarah. This was bad. Very, very bad. “I presume you’re talking about
Lady
Sarah.”

“Who is her family?”

“Compton.”

He spun around, his fierce gaze on hers. “She’s Scarborough’s sister?”

“Aye.”

“They look nothing alike.”

“Different mothers.”

“What’s she doing in Bedford?”

“
He
maintains she’s determined to marry and is hunting for a husband, but
she
insists she’s just taking a holiday.”

“But why here? For Christ’s sake, she’s a virgin!”

“How would you know that?” For once in her life, she actually had the opportunity to observe Michael blushing. Would miracles never cease? Two bright spots of color marred his cheeks.

“I can tell,” he said lamely.

“What? Can you smell chastity or something?” Irritated, she approached, clutching the decanter, and refilling his libation while she peeked out the window. Below in the yard, Sarah was pointedly visible, sitting on a bench while surveying
the other guests and relaxing in the afternoon sun. “Stay away from her, Michael.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“She’s had difficult times lately, and there are even more ahead. She scarcely needs you as a complication.”

“I’d never involve myself with one such as she.”

“She’s a wonderful woman. I like her very much.”

“Then send her home. Today. She doesn’t belong with this crowd; she’s like a sheep among the wolves.”

Pamela was regularly privy to confidential knowledge about the clandestine intrigues of others, so she deemed herself to be an expert at deduction. Obviously, these two had done more than pass each other in the hall. Michael seemed totally smitten, with Sarah in no better condition.

“She’s delighted to be here,” Pamela noted, “and I’m glad she is. I won’t demand that she depart.”

“Do it because she’s your friend. Protect her.”

“She’s safe enough.” He shot her a penetrating glare that said he didn’t credit her denial, and she was affronted. Yes, she hosted ribald parties, but her male guests had never violated any of the females. There were too many convenient, willing women.

“You appreciate how Hugh acts,” she admonished. “You can’t begin to understand the kinds of unpleasantness she’s had to endure by being related to him. She’s entitled to this break from her obligations.”

“What she
needs
is a stern scolding. A swift kick in the rear wouldn’t hurt, either.”

She bristled with dread. They were already dangerously attached. How had this happened? “Michael, heed me: If Hugh is spewing the truth, for once, and she
has
settled on marriage, she deserves to find an appropriate mate.”

“Absolutely.”

“It can’t be you.”

“As if I’d ever want it to be me.” He snorted crudely. “I can’t believe you feel you have to warn me off.”

Disgusted with the sudden tenor of the conversation, he set his drink on the table and prepared to stomp off in a
huff, and she took hold of his arm, halting him in mid-stride. “Don’t be upset.”

“I’m not,” he finally remarked, and he acknowledged her expression of regret by wrapping a strand of her long hair around his finger and using it to draw her near.

“Will you play the game tonight?”

After pondering for a lengthy moment, he replied, “Oh, hell . . . why not?”

“Excellent. The ladies will be elated.”

“I’ll bet.”

“And if you decide you’d like to dally”—on tiptoes, she brushed a kiss across his unresponsive mouth—“just knock. I’m still interested.”

“I won’t change my mind.”

With that, he walked out, and she tied her robe and locked the door behind. Clucking in dismay over this newest turn of events, she went into her bathing chamber to wash. When she exited some minutes later, she peered outside again. There, bold as brass, was Michael Stevens sharing a garden settee with Sarah Compton.

“Bastard . . .” she grumbled, though not unkindly. Sarah was lovely, and Pamela couldn’t blame Michael for being tempted. Yet, for all his impetuous disposition, and though he continually and zealously disputed her opinion, Michael was a gentleman. He was gravely cognizant of his status where a woman such as Sarah was concerned, and he wouldn’t forget it.

Still, as she covertly watched the pair, their eyes sparking fire, their torsos sloped toward one another, a great wave of unease swept over her. They were attuned as only the most intimate of lovers could ever be. Their attraction was so blatant that she couldn’t help speculating as to whether an innocent flirtation with Michael might be beneficial for Sarah. The adventure would definitely boost her lagging spirits before she traveled to Yorkshire to confront the future.