by Cheryl Holt
"I'm glad you confided in me, though." He didn't respond, but she didn't care. She lay still, letting his smell surround her senses, and cherishing the fact that he'd given her such a stunning glimpse into his private affairs. The
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silence lingered, and she finally revealed, "I met your father the other night."
"Good old Eddy." He snorted disdainfully.
"Gossip has it that the two of you are quite close. Isn't that true? Do you not get along?"
"One does not 'get along' with the Earl of Spencer. One just stands back."
"Is that how you view him? I find him to be extremely pleasant."
"I suppose you would. He can be charming when he wants to be. Unfortunately, some of us aren't graced with regularly witnessing that side of him."
"Did he act badly toward you and your mother? Is that why you dislike him?"
"I don't like him or dislike him."
"I can tell that's not true." James's acrimonious opinion of Edward didn't jibe with the funny, overwhelmed gentleman she'd stumbled upon at Caroline's party, and she couldn't make the two versions of Edward Stevens combine into one person. "What did he do to you and your mother that was so horrid?"
"He didn't do anything. He's simply very good at walking away from his responsibilities."
"You're overwrought and—"
"One day . . ." he rudely interrupted, "one day, he was there, living in our home and part of our lives, fully involved in our family, and the next, he wasn't. I was five years old, and we moved to France in the middle of the night. I didn't see him or hear from him again until I was nineteen." Without warning, he set her away and rose to his feet, crossed to the sideboard, and poured himself a brandy. Then he sauntered to the window and stared out at the street below, pensively sipping the amber liquid. "I'm not sure how one ever comes to grips with such an event, so spare me your drivel about what a pleasant fellow you perceive him to be."
Mortified by how thoroughly she'd distressed him, she grasped that this was exactly the type of debacle she de-
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served for brashly plunging ahead without respecting the intricacies of the situation. When she'd befriended Edward, she'd imagined there might be consequences, and she was just now discovering what some of them were.
She remained seated but turned to stare at him over her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't intend to disturb you."
He downed the contents of his glass. " Tis simply an old wound that seems to have never quite healed. I've spent my life being advised of what a great man my father is, and I'm rather tired of it. I don't mean to vent my frustration at you, but I don't need you extolling his virtues to me."
"Please forgive me. I didn't realize he was a painful topic."
"How could he be anything but? He broke my mother's heart. She never recovered."
"What did he do?"
"He married .. . one of your kind."
The insult was expertly delivered, and she caught herself peeking down, checking for flaws, and finding many. His furious regard encompassed none of the good and all of the bad that were represented by her station. "He had to, James. Surely you comprehend the sacrifices his position required him to make."
"He wasn't required to marry anyone he didn't wish to marry. He simply felt that Mother wasn't worthy of him. That we weren't worthy of him."
"Oh, James . . ." she chided sadly. "Is that what you really believe?"
" 'Tis what I know. What I've always known. That's why we fled to the Continent. My mother couldn't stand to stay and watch what he was about to do to the three of us."
From across the room, his eyes bored into hers, and the intensity of his gaze alarmed her. When he spoke again, goose bumps prickled on the backs of her arms.
He said, "I've been thinking about our meetings."
"What about them?" Her heart pounded between her ribs. Would he quit visiting her solely because she'd
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quizzed him about his family and referred to his father? The idea didn't bear contemplating.
"I have made a commitment to you, that I would tutor you regarding sexual matters. I shall honor my pledge; however, we must contrive some modifications."
His pronouncement fell into the silence like a leaden ball. "What sorts of 'modifications'?"
"We should just go about our lessons. You oughtn't delve into my personal life, and I won't interrogate you as to the details of your day."
"Why can't we learn more about one another?" She sounded as though she were pleading for a few scraps of his attention, but she couldn't desist. "I've never encountered anyone like you before. I want to understand you. You're fascinating to me."
"So?" he barked edgily. "What does your fascination have to do with anything? With us? If we meet on the street, will you stop and chat? If I'm with my mother, will you beg an introduction and ask about her latest play? If I'm with my brother, will you tease him about his lack of marital prospects? What exactly is it that you hope to accomplish?"
"I'm merely curious about you," she answered evenly, striving to remain calm, and unable to credit how agitated he'd become over her simple questions. " Tis not a crime."
"No, 'tis not," he ultimately agreed. "But to what purpose do you inquire? There can never be anything for us beyond this room."
"I grasp that," she retorted quietly, but was it so terrible to pretend that the reality was otherwise? Like it or no, he was a bright ray of sunshine in her dreary existence who had completely illuminated her world. For a change, she had something to look forward to, and someone to think about. "What can it hurt for us to become better acquainted while we are here together?"
" 'Tis not a question of 'hurt,' Abby," he said more gently. "I simply fear that you are indulging in silly daydreams."
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"Why do you find it 'silly' that I would like to be your friend?"
"I suspect you are calling it friendship, but you are picturing another image entirely. Perhaps you fancy that I will become so swept up in these encounters that I will marry you, and we will live happily ever after."
His statement was so close to the mark that she could hardly deny it. She'd never been a proficient liar, and she wasn't about to attempt bluffing away her increasing attachment. Secretly, she'd fantasized about proclaiming their relationship around the kingdom, going against the tides of her society, and flouting convention while reaching out and grabbing what she dangerously coveted.
It was ridiculous, girlish wishing, but she couldn't stop herself. She couldn't have defined why she was so positive of the possibilities where he was concerned, but an amour between the two of them seemed to be an eventuality she could make come true.
Now was not the moment to be timid. She gestured about the parlor, indicating the small space and what occurred between them inside it. "Would it be so awful for us to hope for more than this?"
"Oh, Abby . . ." He closed his eyes, her query painful to hear. "What if you had me? What would you do with me?" He ran a distracted hand through his hair. "I already went through this with my bride. She was convinced we would have the most illustrious romance of all time—"
She sharply cut him off. "Don't compare me to her."
"All right, I won't."
"That was unfair of you," she retorted hotly. "You don't know anything about me."
"And you don't know anything about me."
"But I want to!"
"No, you don't. Not really. These past few days, you've let some reverie grow regarding my intentions and what they might ultimately prove to be. I take the blame for any capricious plans you're harboring, but you have frightfully
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miscalculated what I am willing to do for you. You have no conception of the man I am."
"Then tell me," she urged softly.
"I'm trying!" he asserted testily. "For your sake—and mine!—there will be nothing between us but this handful of discussions. De
spite how hard I've tried to be different, I am my father's son in all ways." He seemed to deflate with the admission, declaring, "I decline to be held accountable for your tender emotional state, because I'm well aware that I am incapable of revering you with the esteem you deserve. If you expect more from me, you are only deluding yourself, and you will suffer in the end."
He was working so hard to convince her that he was a cad and a bounder, but she refused to assume the worst about him—in spite of the perception he apparently preferred her to carry. "I decline to believe that you're really so callous."
"You must, Abby," he announced. "I am not one of the cultivated swains who sips tea in your polite drawing rooms."
"I understand that about you," she responded, frustrated, irritated. "Perhaps that's why I am so thoroughly attracted to you."
"I'm attracted to you, as well," he admitted, "but I am attracted to many women. It is my way. It has always been my way. I have many lovers; scores of women welcome me to their beds, where I do unspeakable things with them. I furnish no apologies for my lifestyle, and I shan't endeavor to rationalize or justify it to you. "lis simply my fashion to enjoy erotic interludes wherever and whenever they are presented to me."
"It sounds so calculated."
"I seek physical pleasure. Nothing more. Nothing less."
"And your ... women . . ." She could barely utter the word. In the meager amount of time they'd passed together, she'd naively begun to consider him her own man. Though she understood that he was possessed of a strong sexual drive, she'd foolishly concluded that knowing her had
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brought about some changes in his attitudes and comportment. Oh, how it distressed her to concede how little he cared! While she spent her days pining away for him, very likely she never crossed his mind in return.
"What about them?" he asked.
"What do they think of your indifference?"
"They are sophisticated women, and they accept how the game is played."
"And how is that?"
"I make no commitments to any of them. I shall make none to you."
"I see."
His affirmation was brutal, but luckily, she'd had many years of practice at schooling her facial features. How she'd lingered over impossibilities! A few kisses, an insubstantial quantity of stolen moments, and she'd imagined herself at the commencement of a grand passion. She felt like an idiot.
"I warned you from the beginning"—he was compelled to grind salt into her wounds—"that I could render no promises to you. That still holds true. If we forge ahead with this plan you've concocted, only heartache will result. You would not recover, while I, on the other hand, would casually stroll away without a backward glance to detect how you fared."
She shook her head at her folly. She'd chosen him because of the rumors she'd discerned as to his prowess and his widespread sexual appeal. Women reveled in his free dispensing of favors, worrying not a whit that he harbored no affection toward them in return. When she'd initiated her alliance with him, she'd recognized that she would simply be one in a field of many.
Why, then, was it so devastating when he communicated his propensities so candidly?
He cared about her—she was certain he did!—and she rejected his obstinacy that he was telling the truth about his conduct. He was bent on disparaging himself, and she was incensed by his low opinion. A fine man was hiding under
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that hard shell, and she yearned to bring him to the fore.
Perhaps he'd never endured an emotional association with a woman, and the idea scared him. Maybe he'd never had a female friend before and was one of those absurd fellows who determined such a relationship to be improbable. More likely, he felt he was being chivalrous, shielding her from herself and her unruly desires, when she was adamant that she needed no guardian.
The blasted man! Deciding he knew the best course without taking her opinion into account! Yet, so long as he persisted, she had no option but to accede to his wishes, or he'd never agree to continue with their meetings, and she couldn't abide the thought that their assignations might be over.
If James walked away, all of her joy would go with him.
"I apologize," she stated, "and I hope you'll forgive me for acting in such a tactless manner."
"Don't apologize for being the person you are. We're oil and water, you and I. We simply don't mix."
"Do you truly believe that?" The question hovered in the air, but she didn't press, and he didn't respond. She rose to face him, her cheeks flushing bright red as she recounted her sins. "I had no right to ask you about your family or to pry into your personal life. I don't know what came over me. I suppose it's this house and the intimacy we share here. I presumed a connection that doesn't exist." She swallowed, chagrined at the tears burning behind her eyes. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"But I've abused you horribly, and I'm not even sure how or why."
" 'Tis my own individual troubles that you've addressed, and I'm simply not comfortable with having them aired. You've done nothing wrong, love."
A soothing balm, the tender endearment flowed over her wounded pride. Had he even realized he'd used it? If he'd recited the word unconsciously, from the heart, perhaps all was not lost.
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"How shall we progress?" she queried.
"Just as we'd always proposed. I shall instruct you in those prurient areas about which you are curious, and when you've heard enough, we'll go our separate ways."
Which meant no kisses, no embraces, no lingering touches or smoldering looks. And if there was a hint of regret in his voice that their trysts would proceed so un-inspiringly, she had no one to blame but herself.
"As you wish. .. ." She sighed.
"Don't let's fight, Abby," he said so earnestly that another surge of tears inundated her eyes. "I can't bear for you to be unhappy."
"I'm not unhappy," she contended. Just exceedingly disappointed. And horribly deflated, as though she'd just been cheated out of a wonderful prize. Forcing a wan smile, she urged, "Let's have our lesson, shall we?"
CHAPTER
EIGHT
James stayed by the window, watching as she settled herself on the sofa. She'd turned her back to.him, hiding her sheen of tears. Her slender, sculpted fingers reached for his satchel, and he knew he should seat himself beside her and begin their dialogue, but he couldn't. Considering his emotional and physical condition, proximity was dangerous.
When had this become so difficult? In deciding to assist her, he'd merely intended a diversion from the tedium that reigned in his life, and he'd eagerly enmeshed himself in her deranged scheme. But somewhere along the way, his best-laid plans had gone awry.
Instead, he found himself enchanted by her, caught up in her fantasy, and wondering what it would be like to build a future with her.
Lunacy was quickly overtaking him!
He'd actually spoken to her about his mother and father! Candidly, he'd professed his private opinion regarding his father's behavior, and he'd loudly proclaimed the hurt he'd suffered as a boy that had followed him into adulthood.
Except to his brother, he'd never revealed his innermost thoughts about what his father had done. He'd never discussed his mother's broken heart, one that still lingered twenty-five years later, with another soul. She'd stoically carried on after Edward's abandonment, even though her world had been shattered. They'd all struggled, his mother most grievously, but he'd been so proud of her ability to persevere that he'd guarded her secret well. Yet, with hardly a moment's consideration, he'd confessed all to Abigail Weston.
Beyond all reason, he craved her understanding and longed for her empathy. He wanted her to be aware of past events, and his yearning made him appreciate that he had
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buried many painful memories. Meeting her had caused them to flood to the surface.
Vividly, he remembered the past. There had been the initial
confusion when they'd fled to Paris, the melancholy that had descended when he realized that Edward wasn't coming to fetch them home. A pervasive gloom had hovered over their once-joyful household. By his teen years, his distress had transformed to anger and resentment, so that by the time his mother felt strong enough to return to England, he'd been frustrated, acrimonious, hell-bent on trouble and finding it wherever he went.
Of the three of them, he was the only one who had ever sought out the Earl of Spencer. He'd accosted his father outside his gentleman's club, and surprisingly, Edward had been glad to see him. He'd patiently waited while James had hurled his stored-up venom, then he'd proudly escorted his incorrigible son inside for a leisurely meal, where he'd spent hours peppering James with questions about every topic under the sun.
After, they'd developed a strained but workable relationship. They'd gathered occasionally for supper or drinks and, like a starry-eyed supplicant, James had fluttered about on the fringes of his father's life, hoping for bits of Edward's attention—irritated when he received it, enraged when he didn't.
Always, his father inquired about Michael, but Michael refused to communicate with him, claiming that he'd been but three years old when they'd departed, and that he had no recollection of Edward, and thus no need for any belated interference or guidance.
As to their mother. . . Edward Stevens, bastard that he was, had never once asked about her.
While James liked to believe that Edward's renunciation of their small family had had no effect, he'd only been deluding himself. His father's conduct had completely shaped him into the man he'd become. One who formed no attachments, created no bonds. One who distrusted emotional entanglements and eschewed ardent chains.
