Cheryl Holt (41 page)

She proclaimed it with such finality that Abigail couldn’t see how James would dissuade her. Nevertheless, he visually spurred Abigail to intercede as he implored, “I really don’t think that’s wise.”

James was outright pleading now, and suddenly, Abigail got his message. “Oh, dear . . .” she grumbled, not meaning to grouse audibly.

“What is it?” Sarah asked.

Abigail sighed. Poor Sarah had been through so much; she didn’t need any grave tidings. “James is right,” Abigail gently cautioned, “perhaps you should remain behind.”

“I’m not a child.” Sarah glared testily at both of them. “I demand the truth.”

James flashed Abigail a tortured look, in typically male fashion, incompetent to elucidate, forcing her to do the dirty deed. “Michael probably isn’t alone.”

“With whom would he be?”

Abigail yearned to soften the blow but couldn’t decipher how to make it sound less damaging than it was. “Presumably, he’s with Pamela.”

“Pamela . . . Pamela Blair?”

“Yes.” Abigail drew near to her. “He’s been cavorting quite shamelessly with her since last summer.”

“There’ve been rampant rumors they might marry,” James felt obliged to append.

“James!” Abigail scolded, and he reddened at how his disclosure affected Sarah.

Her legs had ceased to support her, and she sank onto the sofa. “But she’s my friend.”

“I’d bet my last pound that she doesn’t know about the two of you,” James inappropriately interjected. “Michael hasn’t confided in anyone.”

Abigail was exasperated with James. His remarks were cutting like a knife. Obtuse creature! In light of his employment and the uproars in which he typically became embroiled, he was usually adept at handling the most difficult situations. The fact that he was stumbling only underscored how rattled he was by Michael’s deportment, so she couldn’t be too aggravated.

She sat with Sarah and held her hand. “What James is clumsily saying”—she optically threatened him with dismemberment—“is that we don’t understand Michael anymore or what’s troubling him. He’s been so contrary that we hardly know him.”

“Exactly,” James put in. “He’s so strange, and he’s been so uncommunicative, that he and I scarcely converse. I’ve always assumed that he endured a trauma while he was away, but I’ve never ascertained what it was.”

“He seems heartbroken to me. Very sad,” Abigail volunteered. “He’s grieving.” Encouragingly, she suggested, “Perchance, he’s hurting over what transpired, and he can’t figure out how to mend your differences.”

“Carrying on with Pamela . . .” Sarah muttered to herself. “I will
absolutely
wring his pitiful neck!” Blatantly furious, she marched over to James, fists clenched, eyes sparking with rage. “Take me to him immediately!”

James appealed to Abigail for guidance, but she merely shrugged. “Maybe you should.” She brightened. “We’ll all go.”

“
We
will not!” James declared, then cleared his throat. “I mean . . . I want to keep you out of it.”

“Why? Sarah may need me.”

“Abby . . .”

She bristled over his reticence. He was, once again, treating her like some wilting noblewoman, and she hated it. “You’re embarrassed to introduce me to Michael’s”—she almost said
mistress
but couldn’t utter the despicable term in front of Sarah, so she switched to—“companion. Honestly, James, I won’t expire.”

“This might not be pretty, and I won’t have you involved.” Disconcerted, he reminded her, “The babe’s been making you ill all morning.”

“But I’m fine now.”

Not wishing to induce dissension, Sarah interposed, “James is prudent to fret over you, Abigail. Michael and I both have tempers, so what I have to say to the cad won’t be pleasant.”

“Please?” James sweetly requested. “For me?”

“All right,” she griped, powerless to refuse him anything. “But you must promise that you’ll relay all the gory particulars; you can’t leave anything out! And Sarah . . .”—she went to her newfound sister-in-law and enveloped her in a tight hug—“if your meeting with him is overly wretched, return here at once. You’re family; we’ll help you.”

“You’re very kind, Abigail.”

They departed together; James guided Sarah into his carriage, then he scrambled in behind, and Abigail watched, feeling left out.

“Come for supper,” she called at the last, “and bring Michael with you—if you can!”

Sarah waved her confirmation, as James pulled the door closed and motioned to the driver. Abigail lingered until they disappeared around the corner.

Sarah loitered in Michael’s bedchamber and critically surveyed her surroundings. There had been a few signs of Pamela’s occupancy, but after James had acquainted her
with the staff, they had readily complied in assisting her to erase any evidence of the other woman. The handful of combs, the red silk petticoat, and the slinky peignoir she’d located were currently being delivered to Pamela’s own domicile.

Satisfied with her afternoon’s endeavors, she descended the stairs to sit with James in the parlor where he was patiently sipping on a brandy while awaiting his brother.

Michael’s house was a charming place that James had purchased years earlier for his first wife and, from the moment they’d arrived, James had acutely enjoyed himself as Sarah had stormed about. Her fury had escalated as she’d proceeded from room to room, witnessing how comfortable Michael had been while she’d been scrimping and freezing in the country.

The three-story row house was nearly identical to the one where James and Abigail lived. On a busy, affable lane, it was cozy and plushly decorated with a welcoming ambiance. There was a feminine flavor to the decor that she liked, and she couldn’t move beyond the despicable, petty notion that this warm, snug abode could have been hers—had she not been a coward and let Michael contend that their marriage was a fraud.

When they’d shown up at his door, Michael had been out, but the servants had insisted he’d be back soon, so they’d bided their time rather than track him all over London. Yet, once they’d settled in, Sarah couldn’t abide the dawdling. She’d begun exploring, and though Michael’s personal mark was scarcely apparent, his clothes were in an upstairs bedchamber—along with some of Pamela’s. If Sarah hadn’t been so angry, she might have been shattered.

While they’d been separated, she’d convinced herself that she had no feelings for her husband. During those long, lonely months at Scarborough, she’d persuaded herself that their brief affair had been an aberration, that she hadn’t loved him madly and passionately but, as she’d fingered his apparel and shaving equipment, as she’d rifled through his dresser—just as she’d loved to do when they were together
in Bedford—the sorry truth had crashed down on her. His presence had been so strong that she’d been impelled to admit how much she still cared.

How could he have set her aside so easily?

From what James had imparted, she was aware that Michael had come back to the city, then started up with Pamela shortly after. He’d hardly blinked between taking a wife and taking a mistress.

What was she to make of such disrespect?

She appreciated that he was overly virile and had an unrelenting sexual drive, that he regularly assuaged it with any woman who acted the least bit interested, so she harbored no illusions about his carnal attributes. Yet, she was stunned that he’d so hastily turned to another lover.

Oh, how it distressed her to acknowledge that she hadn’t mattered to him! That she very likely hadn’t crossed his mind after he’d walked away from the small church where they’d wed.

Well, Michael Stevens was in for a surprise. Sarah had had plenty of opportunity to reflect during the laborious, frigid trek to London. She craved a valid marriage, and she wanted a house full of boisterous children, with Michael as their father.

With the exception of the unfathomable Rebecca, her own family was nonexistent. Her father and mother were dead, and Hugh—pitiful Hugh, whom she didn’t mourn or miss—the last of their line. The Scarborough estate she’d fought so valiantly to protect wasn’t hers. She belonged nowhere and felt as if she had no past or future, and the single component that connected her to the rest of the world was that she had a spouse; a husband who didn’t fancy her, but that was about to change.

If the trying killed her, they would come to terms with what had transpired. Michael Stevens hadn’t discovered what her father and Hugh had always known: She was stubborn and determined. She didn’t quit, she didn’t surrender, and she never capitulated until she’d achieved her goal.

From her perspective, conditions looked desperate; she
was out of options, and she wouldn’t desist until she had, once again, broken through Michael’s wall of reserve. She hadn’t forgotten what it was like to have his undivided attention, to bask in his admiration, to win his regard. There was nothing quite so fine as holding him close while knowing that she was the sole person who had ever loved him. He was no match for her in resolve or persistence.

She stepped into the parlor just as a key clicked in the lock. Her heart skipped several beats, her step faltered, but she regrouped, ready for battle.

“Are you up to this?” James asked.

“Yes.”

“Abigail and I are here for you.”

She smiled at the man who was already a good friend. “I’m grateful.”

“If he tosses us out on our ear . . .”

“I won’t permit it,” she scoffed. “Your brother’s days of bossing me around have ended.”

“I can see that.” James chuckled at her pluck and tucked her arm in his. “But in case you’ve miscalculated, you can stay with us for as long as you like.”

What amenable news! To be granted shelter! Somewhere clean and safe, where people cared about her! Until that precise moment, she hadn’t truly believed that she could escape her seriously dire straits.

“Your hospitality won’t be necessary. Michael will be thrilled to see me.” They walked out to the foyer. “It just might take him a while to realize it.”

They halted in front of the door, and Michael strolled in—with Pamela by his side. She was lovely as ever, fashionable in a dark fur cloak and hat, with red feathers dangling over her shoulder. Her nose and cheeks rosy-red, she was laughing over something Michael had just said.

It had commenced snowing, and a flurry of huge, white flakes cascaded in behind them. Michael stamped his feet against the cold, then spun around and espied them huddled, critical and condemning, but as was his habit, he displayed no outward sign of consternation or recognition.

Sarah might have been crushed by his seeming lack of reaction, but she wouldn’t allow herself to grapple with pity or regret. She simply stared, then stared some more.

He was more handsome than she remembered, and her heart ached at observing his masculine beauty up close. She had never been able to gaze upon him without being moved. He was too dynamic, too commanding, and her pulse wasn’t steady.

With the snow dusting his hair and shoulders, his blue eyes aloof and withdrawn, he appeared distant, unapproachable, unattainable, and she steeled herself to the daunting task that lay before her. She would not fail in claiming him for her own!

“James . . .” Michael nodded. “Sarah . . .” he adjoined cautiously.

“Why, Sarah Compton,” Pamela gushed merrily. “How wonderful that you’re in London! You’re the very last individual I expected to see in town today!”

“I’ll bet,” Sarah responded miserably, reining in her resentment. Pamela wasn’t cognizant of the circumstances; the blackguard had never told her!

Pamela clutched Sarah’s hands and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “How have you been?”

“Fine,” Sarah lied.

“In June, you abandoned my party so fast that we never even said good-bye!”

“I’m sorry.” Sarah threw Michael a quelling glare that he coolly mirrored. “Michael promised he’d make my apologies.”

“Oh, he did, but you know men!” Pamela gestured gaily, flinging them all off as unreliable. “He wouldn’t say why you’d gone. I hope you weren’t upset about anything . . . ?”

There was a question posed in her remark, and Sarah’s wrath intensified. How dare Michael do this to Pamela! How dare he put Sarah in such an awkward position!

Tired of the ruse, wishing the acrimony over, she barked at Michael. “Tell her.”

“Tell me what?” Pamela innocently grinned up at Michael who was wholly unaffected.

“Tell her!” Sarah repeated sharply.

“Sarah and I married,” Michael acclaimed, calm as all get out.

“When?” Pamela choked, instantly looking sick.

“That last day in Bedford.”

Pamela’s mouth fell open. “All this time . . . you were . . .” She couldn’t complete her sentence, and her expression was so full of indignation that Sarah was somewhat appeased. “Oh, you unmitigated rogue! How could you!”

“That’s what I’ve been dying to know,” James accused, tensing with virulent menace. “I’d love to have your answer, brother—if you think you could possibly provide one that I would tolerate.”

Michael was firmly, doggedly silent, though his eyes glittered with a peculiar fire. A thousand words were poised on the tip of his tongue, but Sarah knew him well. He’d never speak up in the middle of this vile scene.

“Sarah,” Pamela interrupted, “forgive me! I had no idea!”

“I believe you.”

“You’re my friend. I would never . . .” She cast Michael another scathing look. “I am so mortified! I should go . . .”

But she didn’t depart, and an awkward interlude developed, so Sarah said, “I’m going upstairs to dress for supper. You have five minutes to make your farewells. Then, I don’t want you over here again.”

“No, I won’t come by,” Pamela vowed, shaking her head in dismay, “but would you . . . would you visit me later? After everything is more settled?”

“We’ll see,” Sarah blandly acquiesced.

Sarah turned to James. “I won’t be having supper with Abigail this evening. I’m dining in—with my husband. I’ll send a note to her on the morrow.”

“No need.” James expressed. He leaned near and whispered, “If it turns out that you can’t bear to stay, send one
of the servants to my club. They’ll know where. I’ll come and get you. Despite the hour.”