Cheryl Holt (37 page)

Walking down the dusty lane, he scooped them up, crushing the petals in his fist as he watched her disappear in the distance. He should have been savoring some moment of satisfaction; he should have been shouting good riddance and
adieu
, but all he felt was alone again and very much like the young boy in that Paris flat, waiting . . . waiting . . . for the father who never arrived to fetch him home.

Michael paused on the stoop of the London home where he had passed the prior decade of his life. The three-story row house was situated on a narrow, busy street, a few blocks from their gambling club, and a few more from the Chelsea Theater where his mother spent so much of her time.

They’d moved into it shortly after leaving Paris. He’d been seventeen, and for all intents and purposes, a Frenchman, having been whisked away to the exotic country at the age of three so that he had few memories of England or the world they’d left behind. He’d loved their Continental lifestyle and friends, the foods, the wines, and the pretty, generous French girls, and he’d greatly begrudged his mother her decision to return.

What a shock the change of cultures had been! In Paris, he had been the son of a renowned celebrity. In London, he was merely a scorned oddity, one of the dozens of bastard boys of the aristocracy, trying to find their place in a community that shunned them.

Luckily, he’d fared better than most, due in no small part to his father, Edward Stevens. Though he hated to admit it, he had to give the man credit. Edward had purchased their gaming establishment for them, presenting it to James as a gift after his first marriage when he was but a lad of twenty in the hopes that the guarantee of regular employment would curb some of his more wicked tendencies.

The ploy had worked. Overly proud, they’d refused to flounder in front of Edward’s peers—especially when those exalted nobles were positive that he and James would never
amount to anything. In a big way, they’d proved everyone wrong.

They had a knack for earning money, possessing an innate aptitude for gambling, and for commerce with the types of fools who were drawn to it. They knew how to amuse and divert even the most surly guest, and they’d lined their purses in the process.

Their effective management had gained them powerful prominence on the fringes of High Society where they were admired and despised in equal measure. Customers detested their success, but still they came to play, unable to avoid the lure of the club that was the best spot for a fashionable gentleman to be seen while in town.

From the wagering and their dubious side ventures, they had grown obscenely wealthy, and they’d used the profits wisely, investing for the future and caring for their mother. They’d bought her this residence, and she’d constantly adored it. The sturdy abode of brick and mortar had shielded them from the harsh glare of London’s snobbery and contempt. Theirs was a high-profile existence that provided scant privacy, and they’d been safe and carefree behind the closed front door.

He’d loved its spacious salons, comfortable furnishings, and efficient staff. A peaceful haven from his hectic hours at the club, the rooms were warm and cozy and, whenever he’d arrived home after a long night, he’d been soothed by shedding his cloak in the foyer as the aroma of James’s American-style coffee wafted down the stairs, as his mother’s laughter rang through the halls.

Tarrying for a moment, he relished the memories before he stuck his key in the lock.

Would it still fit?

With James’s wife shaping her own domestic arrangements, he had very likely forfeited his freedom to come and go and, though he wasn’t personally acquainted with the new Mrs. Stevens, he was quite sure that the ambiance created by his flamboyant mother would be a tad too extravagant for the composed noblewoman. He couldn’t help
pondering how much reorganization he’d confront and how he would deal with it. While he desperately needed the solace of hearth and family, the traditional might have vanished.

Surprisingly, the door opened, but as he stepped through, he vividly recalled the last time he’d entered. He’d just rescued James from a pub where he’d been drinking and carousing and suffering from the aftermath of his burgeoning love affair with the woman—Abigail Weston—who would become his wife.

Distraught, afraid for his brother, Michael had wearily trudged home, only to walk in on his parents and the tidings that they were lovers, that they were finally destined to marry. The scene that followed had been dreadful, and every word Angela had uttered in Edward’s defense had stabbed like the sharpest blade.

After all the ways Edward had dishonored her, she’d fallen for him like an infatuated girl. Her decision had seemed abhorrent and crazy, disgraceful, and he still couldn’t comprehend why his proud, strong mother had been so willing to debase herself over an aging reprobate who’d never given her anything but heartache.

Affronted and dazed, he’d left London that day, filled with exasperation and rage, and he truly hadn’t known if he’d ever return. He’d simply had it—with his mother, his brother, his father—but his pique had ultimately faded, so there was no reason to have stayed away so long, yet he hadn’t been able to make his way back.

His mother had wed, and Michael wished her happy. He really, really did, for he loved her very much, and he could never send her a bad thought. But if Edward hurt her again . . .

Michael repressed a shudder. If Edward hurt her, Michael couldn’t imagine what his response might be.

He stood in the silent anteroom, feeling a bit lost. Recollection swamped him: the marvelous years with James and Angela, the terrible conclusion wrought by Edward. His father was a bane, like a cloud of poisonous gas hovering
over Michael so oppressively that he couldn’t shed the onerous cargo.

Edward’s treachery when Michael was but a child had made him permanently wary, unequivocally cautious, and he had never let his guard down until Sarah Compton had ripped through the fabric of his staid environment, inducing him to yearn for things he couldn’t have, encouraging him to dream, to speculate over what
could
be instead of settling for what
was
.

The burden of relinquishing Sarah—before he’d ever had her—was more than he could bear. When he’d lingered in that rural churchyard, and his carriage had lumbered away with her inside, he hadn’t known where else to go but to London.
Home
had been the only option.

After their sham of a marriage ceremony, and the brutal comments they’d exchanged, he’d been perplexed and rankled. He was an excellent judge of people and their veracity, and on learning that he was a gambler, Sarah had been aghast and outraged that he was the individual who’d destroyed Hugh Compton.

Had Sarah been innocent? Had she been a pawn to Hugh’s manipulations—just as Michael had been? Hugh insisted that she was culpable, but her categorical pleasure over their marriage had been authentic. If she’d acquiesced solely to placate Hugh, why feign such joy and affection?

If she was guiltless, he’d treated her abominably, and he couldn’t face the notion that he’d erred, that he’d jumped to a faulty verdict. He’d just been so bewildered and angry that he couldn’t think straight, and he’d craved a stable destination, a refuge where he could rest and regroup. So London had beckoned.

But now . . .

This was a mistake. I don’t belong here anymore
.

The concept spiraled through his head, and he couldn’t remain. He turned to depart, but before he could escape, Abigail Weston strolled into the corridor. Completely absorbed, she was reading a letter, so she didn’t notice him, and he furtively studied her. She was slender and petite,
with pale creamy skin and eyes as green as Sarah’s. Her hair was long and blond, and though it was the middle of the afternoon, she wore it down and tied with a ribbon as a young girl might.

He’d always been aware of who she was, because he made it a habit to investigate the family members of their clientele, but he’d never been this near to her before, had never judged her comeliness.

No wonder James couldn’t resist
, he petulantly conceded. She was a raving beauty, but then, his brother would have settled for nothing less.

Sensing his presence, she glanced up, and her brow furrowed, as she searched to deduce his identity.

“Michael . . .?” she asked haltingly. The letter dropped and fluttered to the floor.

He tipped his head and acknowledged her in French, though he had no idea why he would. “
Bonjour
.”

“I’m Abigail Ste—”

“Yes, I know.” He cut her off. “I stopped by to pick up my belongings, but I’ll try later when I won’t be a bother.”

“No, no, it’s not a problem.” She acted as if he were a frightened dog that might scurry off if she moved too rapidly.

An accurate description
, he mused, for that was exactly how he felt, as if he’d been stranded on a desert island and no longer understood the rudiments of speech or civilized behavior.

“Please, won’t you come in?” She gestured toward the receiving parlor, but he couldn’t compel himself to meander in the direction she’d indicated. “We’ve been distressed by your absence,” she said quietly, “and James will be so relieved that you’re here.”

He’d meant to speak his good-byes, but her overt concern had him dawdling like a mute imbecile.

More footsteps reverberated down the hall, and a new maid approached. Lady Abigail shifted toward the girl, but her focus was fixed on Michael, apparently afraid he’d evaporate into thin air.

“Would you fetch my husband?” she advised the servant. “Fast as you can?”

The maid hustled up the stairs, and momentarily, James hastened toward them. He skidded to a halt at the top step, his trousers scarcely on, his feet and chest bare.

His wife beamed up at him as if he controlled the moon and the stars. “Look who’s here.”

“Michael . . .” The appellation spewed out in a rush.

“Hello, James.” He replied casually, pretending that his arrival was perfectly normal, and he was pleased at how unemotional he seemed. There was no tremor in his voice, and none of his anguish poked through.

James froze, anxious, then he took the stairs two at a time, racing down until they were face-to-face. “You bastard!” he crudely exclaimed, totally forgetting himself in front of his wife. “It’s been three months! You had me frantic with worry!”

“You shouldn’t have fretted,” Michael asserted. “I told you I’d be all right.”

“Liar! You look like death warmed over. What’s happened to you?”

He grabbed Michael and crushed him in a fierce hug that continued on and on. Michael didn’t reciprocate, but endured the reception like a statue, though he did close his eyes and inhale James’s pacifying scent. James ended the embrace, but he kept touching, running his hands up and down Michael’s torso and limbs, checking for injuries, or perhaps, verifying that Michael was real and not an apparition.

Locking an arm around Michael’s neck, James pressed their foreheads together, whispering, “Don’t ever scare me like that again!”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m just so glad you’re here.” He pulled away, once more, but not before bestowing another tight squeeze, and Michael garnered the distinct impression that James was cushioning him for a blow.

James said, “Many events have occurred while you were away. Mother married.”

“I know.”

“So did I.”

“I heard.”

“Abby, come.”

James motioned to his bride who was across the foyer. Nervous, she didn’t step toward them, so James went to her, and the manner in which he smiled at her caused Michael’s heart to reel in his chest.

Clearly, this was not a marriage of convenience, not a misdeed James had righted by offering his name. There was steadfast devotion between them, stalwart emotion. James appeared exhilarated and smitten, and Michael was stunned to discern that his brother was terribly in love.

From the genuine regard mirrored by Lady Abigail, it was obvious that she loved him, too. Their open, irrefutable affinity afforded glaring evidence of how reality had been transformed while he’d been away. His worst suspicions were confirmed: The house was no longer his home. James now shared it with another, and though James would never say as much, he would need abundant private opportunity to establish himself in his new life with his wife.

While Michael wanted to castigate his sister-in-law for instigating the modifications, he couldn’t. Yes, she’d thrust herself at James, and her tenacity had been the catalyst that had brought the disasters crashing down, so Michael longed to condemn her, or at least dislike her but, on discovering how fond she was of James, it was difficult to maintain any aggravation.

James had encountered little tenderness in his thirty years; few people had truly cared for him, and Michael was heartened to see Lady Abigail displaying such warm, visible sentiment

“Abby,” James proclaimed, “this is my wayward brother, Michael.”

“Hello, Michael.” She gifted him with a dazzling smile. “It’s splendid to meet you.”

“How do you do, Lady Abigail.”

“Please call me Abigail.”

“I will.”

“We were just about to eat so that James can be off to work. Won’t you join us?”

“You must!” James asserted. “We’ll catch up on your travels, and then we’ll go to the club. The staff will be so excited to have you back.”

Bright, expectant, they stared at him, a paired unit of like disposition and purpose, eagerly anticipating the dissection of his adventures over a leisurely meal.

On innumerable occasions, he and James had come home at dawn, intending to sleep the day away, but before they took to their beds, they’d relaxed in the dining room, replaying the hours of vice and sin they’d experienced. Their mother was usually with them, adding her pithy observations and insights.

He missed those times and, while he ached to participate in the modest ritual, he recognized that he dare not. They would quiz him as to where he’d been, what he’d been doing. How could he possibly explain? He didn’t understand it, himself, so he could hardly render an accounting to others.