Cheryl Holt (30 page)

Plainly, she’d succumbed, though just how far down the road of passion she’d ventured was still in dispute. Taking into account Michael’s sexual proclivities, Sarah was very
likely beyond redemption, and Pamela laid the blame, such as it was, squarely at Michael’s feet.

In light of his relationship with Hugh, his actions were reprehensible. Hugh notwithstanding, Michael was aware that, because of her stature and rank, he couldn’t dally with Sarah, but Sarah—with her rural, unpretentious background—didn’t recognize the dangers.

Pamela frowned, speculating as to how this would end, even as she was chastising herself for handling their budding romance so badly. The merest hint of intervention would have averted the entire, probable debacle.

She beheld Sarah before Hugh did, and she concluded that she ought to warn her or at least run interference. With a burst of feminine intuition, she was consumed by the notion that Sarah wouldn’t be pleased to see him.

As Sarah stepped over the threshold, Pamela sneaked a hasty assessment: hair neatly combed, gown appropriate, demeanor perfectly poised. Yet, the sparkle in her eye and the glow in her cheeks removed all supposition. Sarah had unquestionably spent the night basking in multitudinous episodes of carnal bliss.

She’s in love with the bounder
, Pamela swiftly deduced, shaking her head at their folly.

“Surprise, Sarah,” she welcomed a tad too heartily, “look who’s joined us.”

Sarah halted in her tracks, deep in thought, or perhaps, lost in her memories. Almost in a trance, she seemed confused by the brisk greeting and, with Pamela’s indicatory gesture, she honed in on her incorrigible brother.

“What are you doing here?” she asked irascibly.

“Always a pleasure,
dear
sister,” Hugh snarled, then smiled—for Pamela’s benefit, she was sure—although she received the distinct impression that he’d throttle Sarah as soon as he had the chance.

Upon his oration, Hugh’s company fully registered, and Sarah’s countenance transformed. She’d been daydreaming, and the sight of her sibling had rudely awakened her to
reality. Her spine straightened, and the glow that had preceded her disappeared.

“My apologies, Hugh. I’ve just risen. I guess I’m not quite myself.” The corners of her lips turned up in a smile, but the salutation didn’t reach her eyes, and she sounded deferential, but not very. “Rebecca had mentioned that you might be coming. How delightful that you’ve finally decided to attend.”

Pamela studied the two of them. When they’d both been younger, and in London for Sarah’s debut, their father had been alive to act as a buffer, so Pamela hadn’t been able to gauge their feelings for one another, but she had no trouble now.

From the taciturn manner in which Sarah watched him, there was no love lost, but from what Sarah had endured due to his recklessness, her disregard was completely understandable. On his best day, Hugh was difficult, and whatever deference Sarah might previously have possessed had vanished. As was typical of his type of highborn male, Hugh didn’t notice his sister’s disdain. He would simply never assume that he wasn’t liked or, at the least, greatly respected.

The siblings clearly had no knack for idle prattle, which meant that tarrying with them would be unpleasant. She desired no knowledge of, or participation in, whatever conversation might follow.

Momentarily, she pondered if she should abandon Sarah, but one glance assured her that the other woman was equipped to manage Hugh. Sarah was filling a plate, seating herself, and nibbling on a scone, very much behaving as if Hugh was no more than a pet in the corner, admitted but ignored.

“Well”—Pamela chose the coward’s avenue of retreat—“I’m sure you two have lots to catch up on. I’ll leave you to your chat.” She rose and went to the door, but not before pausing to peek over her shoulder at Sarah, and she was certain she spotted a love bite on her neck, though it was mostly shielded by a scarf. “I have a guest who must depart.
Today,” she emphasized, but neither Sarah nor Hugh was listening. “I’m off to tell him good-bye.”

Without delay, she headed for Michael’s room

Hugh lay on his bed and fluffed the pillows, the quarrel he’d just had with Sarah replaying in his mind.

The blasted woman! Arguing with him. Laughing at him. Why . . . she had the audacity to treat him as if he was still a lad in short pants! With whom did she think she was dealing?

Though he was technically her legal guardian, the arrangement wasn’t taken seriously by either of them, because Sarah wasn’t the type of female a man could rule. She was too quick-witted, too self-assured, and too stubborn to be ordered about; she could make a man cower and vacillate, induce him to distrust his purpose and objective. Even their dear, departed father hadn’t known how to control her. To the dismay of both of them, she’d always behaved exactly as she pleased but, for once, he wouldn’t permit her to call the shots.

“Not this time, little sister,” he muttered.

His father’s heir in every respect, his life was in London where pleasant diversions were available. He hated the country and always had, and he declined to waste his energy on any of the boring tasks that kept Sarah so enthralled. In his mind, it was sensible that they both aspire to occupations they enjoyed—his being gambling, debauchery, and vice.

Sarah refused to understand his position, but he was a man, an earl, a peer of the realm, so he need not justify himself to her. Theirs were separate worlds but, as she was about to brutally discover, her personal happiness and wellbeing were uniquely dependent on his, and her tranquil rural odyssey was about to come to a smashing conclusion. He was her brother, her master—her lord, by God!—and she would not trifle with him when there was so much at stake.

Against his better judgment, he’d left Scarborough and returned to town, graciously granting her the first opportunity to select a suitable match. Sarah was at her best when she was helping others and untangling their problems, and he’d wrongly presumed that she’d rectify this mess, too, as she typically had in the past.

With a confused rationality, he’d planned it all out: He’d facilitate an advantageous marriage for her, to a rich husband. As part of the settlement, her spouse would pay off Hugh’s debt. If he was extremely shrewd, perhaps he’d even negotiate a quarterly allowance into the deal. Sarah’s precious home would be preserved and restored, Hugh could go about his business in London, and they’d all carry on as before.

He’d been so desperately assured of the result! She was skilled at taking command and being in charge, and her efforts precluded him having to expend any of his own.

But he’d erred in acquiescing. She’d never intended to search for a husband, and he’d been played for a fool. All along, she’d simply thought her trip to Bedford was for recreation and relaxation. For weeks now, he’d gadded about town, stupidly believing that she was toiling toward a resolution, only to discover that she’d never meant to faithfully do her part!

How dare she circumvent his wishes!

Based on his expectations of her success, he’d ordered several new sets of clothes, checked out a team of horses for the coach he planned to purchase as soon as the marital contracts were drawn up, bid on a painting at an auction, and directed the housekeeper at the town house to have the furniture recovered—furniture that would be confiscated shortly, along with the property itself, if a financial rescue wasn’t finalized.

The commoners who flitted around on the fringes of his life wouldn’t confess as much to his face, but they were nervous about accepting his credit. Word of his arrearage had circulated, and everyone was convinced that he would loose all, so he was having a devil of a time making purchases
or hiring workers. He’d flat out promised numerous people that he was about to have an infusion of cash, but they had the gall not to believe him, a low blow that perpetually chafed.

Indigence was the worst sort of torture!

Now, with Sarah’s clever thwarting of his manipulations, he had to acknowledge that he shouldn’t have deposited such an important outcome in her hands. The accursed female hadn’t a clue as to how a woman attracted a man, and she was thoroughly incompetent at any situation that involved amorous matters, her failed
entrée
into society being the most striking evidence of her deficiencies in that arena. He should have recollected as much from the commencement, but he’d been so eager to have Sarah supervise the details of her betrothal.

Well, there were methods for obtaining what he wanted. In this, he would not be denied or dissuaded. He’d given her her chance, he’d trusted her, but she’d wasted it, and she was going to be shocked when she learned just how determined he was for a beneficial ending.

The door opened, and Rebecca rushed in. At age twenty-four, Rebecca was a year younger than Sarah, but different as night from day. A blond, voluptuous beauty, with features as perfect as a porcelain doll, she’d resided with them for the prior three years, after having survived a lifetime of excessive poverty inflicted on her by her profligate father. Never badgering, never complaining, never wailing over their pitiful lot, she appreciated—as Sarah never had—that affairs could be much worse.

While Sarah was likely in her room lamenting over the latest debacle, Rebecca was looking ahead to an auspicious conclusion. Sarah’s appearance at Lady Carrington’s gala had been her idea. Hugh could never have arrived at such a marvelous solution all on his own.

He studied her, his disapproval unequivocal. When she’d broached the asinine concept of luring Sarah to Pamela’s party, she’d contended that she could execute the required eventuality in a handful of days, that she could rapidly have
Sarah totally ruined, but Sarah was proving too elusive for even the generally effective Rebecca’s machinations.

Hugh was furious with her for her blunders. He’d sent Rebecca to Bedford with Sarah, thinking that their cousin would lend legitimacy to the finale. There was the additional benefit that Sarah considered Rebecca a friend, and Sarah would never suppose the other woman to be involved in any nefarious plot.

Sarah’s fiasco would seem utterly forthright, and she would never have guessed his role or his maneuvering. Even if she had a subsequent inkling, there would be nothing she could do to change the outcome, but regardless of whether Sarah ultimately ascertained who had precipitated her downfall, he should have journeyed directly to Bedford to set the proceedings in motion. Matters had become too grave, and she would wed if he had to tie her down and force the seduction, himself.

He was tired of being poor, tired of having others thumbing their noses at him, tired of being spurned at his favorite clubs, gambling houses, and brothels.

He would have his way!

“Did you find a key?”

“Yes,” Rebecca answered, approaching the bed, “although it was difficult without any help from the staff. Lady Carrington’s people are so dreadfully loyal.”

“Imagine that” he muttered sarcastically.

“When I suggested their assistance, they gawked at me as if I was speaking in tongues.”

“But you acquired one?”

“I’ve tested it in six different doors.” She held it out for his inspection. “It catches, but with some jiggling, it’s fine. I filched it from a rack in the kitchens.”

“Honestly, Becky, how common.”

“It’s not as if any of the employees would abet me. I felt like a wretched pickpocket.” As she imparted a withering glare, she tossed the key, and it bounced on his lap. “I stole it for you. You might at least try to be a bit gracious.”

“You’ll see my gratitude when we’ve accomplished our goal.”

“You’d better mean it, Hugh. If you’re lying . . .”

He couldn’t abide her flip attitude, and he’d had his fill of her whining and evasions. Since she’d been in Bedford, she’d penned three separate letters, defending her mistakes, and justifying her lack of success. He’d had to endure her continual bungling, so he didn’t need to suffer through a feminine mood, as well.

“Are you threatening me?” he queried quietly. “
Me
, Rebecca?” His stern tone caused her to blanch, and she backed down immediately, once again the meek, solicitous female he demanded she be.

“No, Hugh,” she said. “I apologize.”

“As you should. You prevail upon our relationship too much. It makes you forget yourself.” He patted the bed, urging her closer, and she obeyed. She might pout and brood, but she never stayed angry. “Did you locate any of the Chinese herbs I like?”

“Yes. In the library. Lady Carrington keeps a box for the guests. I took what was left. Here.”

She rendered a neatly wrapped parcel and, as though it was the rarest of jewels, he wildly clutched at it. In London, his supplier had been out, as had his various friends, so he’d been frantic, and he was horridly relieved that Rebecca had stumbled upon a stash.

Apprehensive and irritable, he struggled to curb his obdurate craving. Realizing that the anticipation would be worth it when he finally imbibed, he laid the packet on the table, compelling himself back to his task, to his strategy for Sarah, and how it was likely to unfold.

He dictated, “Tell me again why you infer it is Stevens with whom she’s dallying.”

“From how they were acting when I witnessed them together. They have a much deeper acquaintance than anyone suspects. It’s the manner in which she looks at him.”

“How is that?”

“She’s in love. It’s the only explanation.”

“Sarah? In love? Bah . . .” He waved away her deduction. “You’re mad.”

“No, a woman knows these things.”

God, how he wanted her to be correct! And if it was Michael Stevens! The revenge would be so sweet!

“Did you ever ask him about that first night? When you sent him up to her room?”

“No, a second overture would have sounded suspicious. When I made the initial proposition, I’m sure he thought I was a servant, and I didn’t want to disavow him of the impression.”

“You needn’t have fretted,” he mused, recalling Stevens’s history with beautiful women. “If he saw you again, he’d never remember you.” He was too self-absorbed to notice the hurt that came over her, and he perked up. “Well, then, we’ll pay a call on her this evening. Not too late. How about an hour or two after she retires?”