by Cheryl Holt
Terrified by what he might say or do, she frantically searched for the proper method of handling the situation. Not by even the smallest hint of a smile could she give any indication that she knew him. She cast about for a solution, but her astonishment and panic were so great that she couldn't find one.
At the same time, he was flashing her an angry stare, daring her to acknowledge their acquaintance, to tip her head, to endorse him in any slight fashion at all, but, coward that she was, she frankly couldn't react. She responded as she'd been taught: She pasted a smooth expression of disinterest on her face, pretending indifference to the man in front of her.
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He hesitated, offering her an extra chance. And an extra one after that. Waiting . . . waiting ... waiting . . . for some tiny sign of recognition mat didn't appear.
Never more ashamed, she failed his test, remaining silent and serene at his father's side, on his father's arm, understanding how deeply she was hurting him, how piercing the wound, how dreadfully disgraceful her uncivil comportment.
She loved this man! But she could not, and would not, reveal her connection to him by so much as the flicker of an eyelash. Then and there, she wished that she would fall dead. That the heavens would open and suck her up. For surely her life had just ended.
James's eyes widened minimally, with that lucid motion communicating his disappointment in her, his distress over her repudiation, the degradation he felt by her disavowal.
Quick as a heartbeat, his torment melded into fury, and he aimed it at his father.
Standing, they were of equal height, exact copies of one another. Handsome, influential, and dynamic, there was a strange current of energy flowing between them. Palpable dislike coming from James. Powerful affection coming from Edward.
"James . . ." Edward said pleasantly. "How nice to see you. What brings you out?"
"Since you never show your face at the Chelsey, I could ask you the same," James replied- "Of course, you'd have no way of knowing. . . ."
"Knowing what?" Edward inquired, his interest in James evident.
"Mother is taking to the stage tonight."
Abigail was certain she was the only one who could sense Edward's reaction. A faint shudder traveled through his body, and his hand squeezed hers so tightly that she thought he might break bones, but other than that, he presented no outward sign that the news had had any effect. "How wonderful," he said cordially. "I look forward to it. What role is she playing?"
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"The lead. The regular actress fell ill, so Mother had to fill in." James obviously relished how those closest were turning to eavesdrop on the juicy confrontation. " 'Tis the part of the wronged woman. I'm sure you'll be able to recognize her."
Edward sighed, once, sadly—this was a tedious, ongoing argument—then he pulled himself together and beamed with approval. "She'll be fabulous. As always."
With an exceptionally malicious glare in Abigail's direction, James rotated slightly, imparting a view she'd not previously enjoyed.
A woman accompanied him!
She was tall, dark-haired, clothed in a fabulous red gown that was low-cut to highlight her splendid bosom and slender waist. Regrettably, she was incredibly beautiful, but what had Abigail expected? The striking belle was exactly the sort Abigail conjectured James consorting with—whenever she could bear to dwell on such a depressing topic.
"Eddy"—James placed particular emphasis on the nickname, as though desiring that those around them be shocked by the salutation—"may I present my companion, Barbara Ritter, Lady Newton."
The woman stepped forward to pay her respects to the earl, but not before pausing imperceptibly in front of Abigail to display a look of hatred so virulent that Abigail felt as if she'd been slapped. She actually jerked back as though contact had been made, but as the other woman said hello to Edward, she wore a lovely smile and was the absolute picture of pleasantry and decorum. The strange sensation of loathing passed, and Abigail wrote it off to the stress of the encounter.
Lady Newton graciously curtsied to Edward and demurely addressed him, sounding sweet and soft-spoken, but as she straightened, Abigail could perceive Edward's distaste. He appeared to know her—or know of her—and he caustically assessed both her and James until his regard nearly reached the point of rudeness. Clearly, he was pondering his son, his conduct, his choice of associate, but he
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was unable, just as Abigail was, to utter what he was really thinking.
"And who is your pretty young friend?" James inquired, showering Abigail with his livid gaze. "I had heard you were seeing someone. That wedding bells might be in your future. Is she to be my new mum?”
"James!" Edward exclaimed, mortified and exasperated. He moved slightly, watching James out of the corner of his eye as though his willful son might do something rash if he wasn't observed carefully. "I apologize, Abigail."
"No apology is necessary, Lord Spencer." Two bright spots of embarrassment colored her cheeks, and she opened her fan, hoping to cool herself, but there was no air left in the room. "But your colleague appears upset," she added politely. "Perhaps it would help if we were introduced."
"Yes, Lord Spencer," James agreed, plainly taunting his father, his own cheeks marred scarlet, his eyes glittering with bitterness, "do let us be introduced."
Edward took a long, slow breath. The entire world braced for his decision, and finally he said quietly to Abigail, "No, I'm sorry, dear. You may not be."
Had there ever been a more vicious, more heinous cut direct made in all of history?
The earl's statement rang like a death knell, killing all three of them. Edward sagged a little, some of the vitality flowing out of him. Abigail flinched as if she'd just been impaled with a sharp, hot knife. Her agony was bleeding from every pore, and the voyeuristic group surrounding her, packed elbow to elbow, was able to analyze her terrible sins as they coursed across the floor. Yet, horridly as she'd been run through and exposed, James's injury was far worse.
Their outrageous behavior toward him was more than just a blow to his pride, although it had been forceful and apparent. Edward's refusal to present him dug much deeper, shattering illusions, slaying dreams, ruining expectations, obliterating love. Finally and forever.
James! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, she longed to shout. But
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still, to her undying shame, she said nothing. She did nothing.
He chuckled malevolently, expecting nothing more from either of them, and Abigail shivered with uneasiness at what the showdown would mean for him.
Wanting to exit the wretched scene, she cast about seeking escape, just as Charles and Caroline approached. Not aware of what was unfolding, they strode into the circle that encompassed James and his paramour. The onlookers, bent on determining how delectable the occasion would become, were more than happy to let them close.
"What is it?" Charles asked at witnessing the tense confrontation. His gaze roved and settled on James, and he stiffened as instant recognition dawned. "James . . ." He murmured the name and stared up at his older half-brother with something bordering on hero worship. Echoing the question Abigail had raised only moments earlier, he beseeched, "Father . . . may I be introduced?"
Horridly torn, Edward looked back and forth at his remarkable sons, then at Abigail and Caroline, but their innocent, eminent female presence precluded any family reconciliation. Edward simply daren't proceed when James was such an inappropriate person for the two women to meet. A cataclysmic mien—a combination of ancient pain, grief, and disappointment—seemed to envelop Edward as he publicly denied his eldest son for the second time in a matter of minutes. "No, Charles, I'm sorry."
"Father—" Charles started to protest, but Edward interrupted.
"Not now," he said calmly. "Please escort the Ladies Weston to our box."
"But I want to—" Charles tried again.
"Do it immediately, Charles."
The authority in Edward's tone brooked no argument, and his youngest son grudgingly obeyed. Caroline's hand was still in the crook of his arm, and he held out the other for Abigail. She wavered, wanting to say something, anything, but she couldn't conceive of what it might be. Ed-
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ward and James seemed as though they might come to blows, and she wished she could diffuse the situation, but this was an old war, one in which she couldn't choose sides, because she didn't understand who was the enemy or what were the issues over which they were fighting. She only knew thiat there could be no winner.
Charles proceeded toward the stairs, and the assembly parted to allow them passage. As she moved by James, she visually begged him to take a quick peek in her direction so that he could behold her unspoken apology, but he kept his gaze firmly locked on his father's. Any comment from her would only provide more fodder for the gossip mill, so she carried on.
As though they were members of a funeral procession, they ascended the narrow steps, then slipped through the curtain to their box. Like mechanical dolls she'd once seen at a museum, they transferred about and silently selected their seats. In the adjoining boxes, the incident was already being dissected. People were discreetly pointing and laughing behind their hands. The entire audience seemed to be staring at them, yet they sat proudly, their heads held high.
The strain was so profound that Abigail thought she might start screaming, but there was no means available for alleviating the tension. She couldn't mention what had transpired to either of her two companions. Since she wasn't supposed to know of James, or his sordid background, she could hardly begin conversing about him as though they were familiar.
From Charles's reaction in the lobby, he was evidently aware of who James was, but he could never be so crass as to raise the issue of a bastard brother—his father's ultimate misdeed—in front of a young lady he wished to marry. In their bizarre world, James didn't exist.
Caroline was the most perplexed, remaining straight and rigid in her chair, while pretending to be fascinated by the pit and the wave of commoners who were packing the rows.
Eventually, when Charles espied an aunt and two cousins across the way, Abigail heartily gave her blessing for
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the visit that allowed the younger pair to depart. She was left in solitude, and shortly, Charles and Caroline joined the opposite box.
As she watched, they huddled, whispering intimately, and from their positions it was obvious they'd grown much closer than anyone suspected. Charles appeared to be explaining the deadly undercurrents that had swirled belowstairs, which only emphasized how intimate their association had become. Abigail was quite certain they were holding hands in the shadows, the confidential gesture hidden underneath Caroline's full skirts.
Would they wed? They made for a merry, elegant couple, and viewing their bond made her pitifully jealous. With her own disgraced heart breaking into tiny pieces, she couldn't abide their conspicuous connection. Tears stung at her eyes.
Where was Edward? Why didn't he come? Was he still with James? Were they arguing?
If she'd had any idea of their whereabouts, she'd have gone in search of them. She couldn't stand to think of them clashing when she was the cause. Her despicable comportment had created the entire mess, and poor Edward had been left to sort it out when he had no clue as to what had precipitated the calamity. James was in a state, so there'd be no reasoning with him. He needed to lash out, and Edward was the easy target, so he'd unleash his wrath regardless of whether his father deserved it or not.
She hoped Edward would be strong enough to weather James's harsh words. They had a tenuous relationship at best, and Abigail would never forgive herself if she was the one to destroy what litde affection they shared.
Caroline and Charles tipped their heads together, and Caroline murmured soothingly. Abigail couldn't bear it. She had to escape from the snoopy, gawking neighbors in the surrounding boxes, from Caroline's overt displays of fond empathy, so she slipped into the hall, whispered to an usher, and received directions to the ladies' retiring room.
Yearning for the opportunity to regroup, she hastened to
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the haven. Inside, she advanced to the mirror, pretending to check her coiffure, when to her horror she realized that she was sequestered in the small space with James's paramour, Lady Newton.
As Abigail studied Lady Newton in the polished glass, she was graced, once again, with an unmistakable glint of hostility, but the other woman hastily covered it with a congenial smile. Still, Abigail knew she hadn't invented her unease this time. For some reason, Barbara Ritter despised her, and she couldn't help but suffer the impression that the woman was a dangerous adversary.
"They haven't returned?" Lady Newton asked, not even pretending that Abigail didn't understand of whom she spoke.
"No," Abigail replied haltingly. She couldn't tolerate this unknown, rancorous person, but she was completely at a loss as to how she might execute a graceful exit. And though she didn't want to chat, she couldn't help inquiring, "Where did they go?"
"The earl suggested they step outside where they could have a bit of privacy." She primped at her hair. Appearing bored, she queried, "You do know how they're related, don't you?"
"Well, yes," Abigail answered hesitantly, not wanting to reveal too much unexplainable knowledge. "I had heard that James is the earl's son. From a previous affair."
"I just love it when they fight. James is always such a tiger in my bed after they've had a good row." She checked her reflection again, and the venomous gleam was back. "He was quite potent this afternoon, before he'd even seen his dear old da, so I can't begin to guess what he'll be like later. I'll hardly be able to keep up—"
"Excuse me?" Abigail's bones seemed to have crystallized; she'd been turned to stone. Surely her ears had deceived her. She'd lain with James this morning. He couldn't have been with this . . . this creature in the afternoon!
"Have I offended you?" Lady Newton casually assessed Abigail's patent distress. She laughed coyly. "Oh, please
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tell me you're not some squeamish miss. The earl will never remain intrigued with that kind of prudish behavior."
"What?" Abigail couldn't form a single coherent comment. James had gone to this woman's bed? Only hours after they'd ended their own night of blissful passion?
"I must admit that I'm quite well acquainted with Edward Stevens. Like father, like son, as they say." Lady Newton winked. "Edward likes his women a tad on the wild side. Just like James does."
"You believe that the earl and I... that he and I..." In front of this hideous woman, she couldn't even contradict the shocking sexual allegation.
"Dearie, we're both grown-ups. You don't have to deny it to me. I'm extremely friendly with the Stevens men. Why ... once you marry Edward, and I marry James, you and I will be . . ."—she raised her brows—"family. . . ."
"You and James are marrying?" These were the most appalling tidings she'd ever received, and considering everything else that had already occurred that evening, it was more than she could endure.
"Of course," Lady Newton said, definitely smirking. "We've been planning it for months. Hadn't you heard?"
"No." Abigail felt sick.
"We've been rather quiet about it, but that's why I'm in such an excellent position to offer you solid advice. If you're expecting to snag the earl, you'll listen to me. You may get a ring on your finger, but you'll never keep him in your bed by acting all prim and proper." She dabbed at her lips with a rouge stick. "Take James, for instance. He just adores the chance to seduce an innocent female. There's nothing he relishes more. He dallies, he lures, he entices. And eventually"—she shrugged, unconcerned— "he fucks, but he always comes back to me when he's through. Do you know why?"
"Why?" Abigail choked.
"Because he detests inexperience. Bumbling virgins are fun, but over the long haul, he likes
a woman such as myself. One who comprehends what he truly needs. He's no
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different from any other man: He fancies the chase, but once the girl is caught..." She shrugged again. "The rascal has had me at my wits' end all this month over his latest conquest. But yesterday, he finally bedded her. Thank God that's over! All afternoon he was beside himself, crowing about how well it had gone—I have to listen to the details; can you believe it?"
James had discussed her, and what they'd done, with this vile individual? "You're joking. . . ."
"No, I'm not. The bastard was preening like the biggest cock in the barnyard. I actually felt sorry for the poor child. They all fall in love with him, and he doesn't even have the good grace to let them down easily. But then he's ready for a real woman." She shuddered with delight and anticipation. "After this skirmish with the earl, I can't conceive of what he'll demand of me tonight. What do you suppose put him in such a state that he—"
"I have to go." Abigail lurched out to the hall and somehow stumbled down the corridor. Her vision was failing, everything was dark; she was blindly floundering through a tunnel. Her heart was beating so hard that she wondered if it might burst out of her chest.
It couldn't be true! It simply couldn't be!
In grave despair, she blundered into Edward's box, relieved to come upon him calmly sitting by himself as though nothing untoward had transpired. Wanting only to flee, to rush home and crawl into the safety of her own bed, she scooted next to him just as the curtains parted and a man emerged to announce that the leading lady for that evening's performance would be none other than the incredible Angela Ford. He took a quick bow and retreated.
The gathering was quiet for several seconds as the proclamation sunk in. Then the news buzzed through the auditorium like wildfire, several men called out, and the place burst into uncontrolled applause. A testament to her fame and popularity—all these years after she'd abandoned her position at center stage—the ovation was still continuing as the curtains opened. The patrons' rapt attention was cen-
