by Cheryl Holt
If the blasted woman didn't have the good sense to leave James alone, Michael intended to see to it that she recognized the error of her ways. No way in hell was his mother going to endure a repeated calamity like the occasion when James had married his spoiled little ton princess. There were numerous methods Michael could devise to ensure that Lady Abigail listened to reason, and he would try all of them until he achieved his goal. The idiotic noblewoman needed to scurry back to her ivory tower before her irresponsible behavior perpetuated any more chaos.
Overly fatigued, frightened for his brother, craving solitude, he stuck his key in the lock and entered the foyer. It
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was strange to be home so late in the day; if his mother was still about, she'd certainly be amazed to see him. By this hour, he was always at work, setting up the cash drawers, or checking the liquor inventory, or doing any of the dozens of chores that were required before the crowd of wealthy patrons overwhelmed them.
Not wishing to worry her unduly, he hadn't told her that James had run off, or that he'd been retrieved from one of his unacceptable circumstances, yet her elder son was about to blunder in sporting a black eye, fat lip, torn clothing, and reeking of cheap perfume and stale liquor. Their dear mother could put up with a lot, but even she had her limits, and she had to be warned of James's plight.
One of the servants scurried for his things, then he started up the stairs. Down the hall in the dining room, his mother was chattering gaily, and the sound lifted his lagging spirits, although he was curious as to who was visiting. He was hardly prepared to meet with guests.
Still, he had to speak witgh her before James's undesirable arrival. Thinking to catch her eye, he tiptoed to the door and peeked inside, and the sight that greeted him froze the blood in his veins.
Edward Stevens! The cad was sitting in the chair at the head of the table as though he belonged there! He wore one of James's robes and nothing else. The robe was open, his chest bared, and Michael felt foolish as his first cogent thought was that his father appeared older than he ought; his chest hair was gray with only a small sprinkling of the brown it had once been.
Angela was perched on his lap, clothed only in a robe herself. It, too, was parted, her cleavage and most of her breasts were visible. Her long hair was brushed out and hanging down her back. Her bosom was pressed against him, and she dangled a strawberry for him while he playfully took tiny bites.
They looked to be exactly what they were: a pair of lovers who had just enjoyed some rather extensive bed play. They were rumpled and mussed, smiling, and staring
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into each other's eyes with such glowing affection that he was terrified and disgusted.
He had no idea how many paramours his mother had had over the years; though he suspected there had been a few. She always had male friends, but her sex life was her own business, so he'd never inquired as to the depth of her relationship with any of them. Certainly he'd never before caught any of them sneaking out of her bed, and he'd never had to face any of them across his breakfast table!
For it to have occurred now, on this ghastly afternoon! With this man of all men! What game did Stevens play, that he risked breaching the sanctity of their home? They didn't need him; they didn't want him! After all he'd done, he had an incredible amount of gall to speak with Angela, let alone tup her!
Angela reached for a glass of champagne and tipped it to Edward's lips. He drank, then steadied the glass as she sipped from the same spot on the rim. They were giggling, stealing kisses, and whispering like besotted newlyweds.
Trembling with rage, he burst into the room and hissed, "Get your filthy paws off of her!"
They jumped at being startled but didn't move apart, as though they were already so completely connected that nothing could divide them.
"Michael," Angela chided, but she was laughing as she said his name, "you scared the life out of me." Then she realized her untenable state and tugged at the lapels of her robe. "Oh, my"—she blushed like an innocent lass—"this is so embarrassing. I hadn't expected either of you boys to be about. ..."
Edward straightened in the chair as she closed the front of his robe, as well. He kept a proprietary hand on her waist, murmured something in her ear, and she bit back another giggle. He was blushing, too, but showed no remorse for his lewd, outrageous conduct.
"Hello, Michael," he said.
He flashed a smile of such genuine affection that Michael burned with fury. How dare he come here! How dare
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he do this! "Get away from him, Mother," he decreed, but she didn't comply, so he yelled, "I said, get away from him!"
"I can't believe you are ordering me about," she reproached. "I swear, your manners have flown out the window!"
He turned his furious regard to Edward and bellowed, "Let her go!"
When neither of them paid any attention to his dictate, he stormed around the table, grabbed his mother's arm, yanked her to her feet, and pulled her off of him.
"Michael!" his father scolded, rising. His chair toppled over. "Don't treat your mother so."
Michael felt as if he'd gone mad. In his entire life, he'd never raised his voice to his mother. He'd assuredly never manhandled her! But his distress at seeing her with Edward was so immense that some sort of crazed animal seemed to have inhabited his body. "Don't speak to me about my mother." His tone was cold and deadly. "She is none of your concern. / am none of your concern."
"Calm down, son," Edward gently remarked.
To be hailed as son by this man was more than he could abide. He stepped forward and seized Edward by the front of James's robe, shaking him once, then pushing him against the wall. "I have no father, and I am not your son."
"Michael!" his mother retorted sharply. "Apologize this instant!"
"I will not!"
Then she did the very worst thing he could possibly imagine: She turned to Edward and burrowed herself against his side. His arm came protectively across her shoulders, and he hugged her close. Their mutual response appealed to be a betrayal—of himself and James, of the family they'd sustained on their own without any of Edward's assistance.
"Well, if you won't apologize," she berated him, "I'll certainly do it for you." She gazed tenderly at Edward. "I didn't rear him up to act so abominably."
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"I know you didn't," Edward said, smirking as though they shared a secret joke, then he applied his angry concentration to Michael. "Your mother and I wish to discuss several matters with you. But I won't allow you to hurt her, so I ask that you cool down. We'll proceed as rational adults, or not at all."
Michael had no intention of talking with Edward Stevens. He couldn't conceive of a single topic the man could possibly address that would be worth hearing, so he did not meet Edward's challenging glare. Instead, he focused on Angela. "Mother, go to your room."
"Oh, for pity's sake," she grumbled. "I will not! You're acting like a petulant, willful child. Is this the kind of person you want your father to suppose you are?"
"I don't care what he thinks of me!" Michael roared. His world was tipping upside down, and he was rapidly losing his balance. "Will you allow him to do this to you again?"
"Do what?" she queried irately in return. "He didn't do anything before."
"He used you," Michael shouted. "He toyed with you, just as he's toying with you now, and he'll break your heart a second time. He's to be married soon! To another one of those girls. Don't you want more from life than to play his whore while he scurries home at night to snuggle with his own kind? Have you no pride?"
Angela promptly slapped him as hard as she could. As she'd never struck him before, not with so much as a swat on the bottom when he was a lad, it was an astonishing moment for both of them. Tears welled to her beautiful blue eyes, and she covered her mouth. "Oh, Michael . . ." she implored. "I'm so sorry. Forgive me—"
"Don't beg his pardon when he's behaving so con
temptibly," Edward cut in. "If you hadn't slapped him, I would have." He cradled her more tightly in the circle of his arms. Already they'd transformed themselves into one unit. They were of like mind, separate and distinct from their son, and Edward shifted her so that she was behind his body and
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shielded from Michael's wrath- "Your mother and I have decided to marry."
Michael shook his head in dismay, taking a step back, then another. "No . . . you can't mean it."
" Tis true, Michael," Angela said. "We should have done it years ago . . ."
"So we're doing it now." Edward finished the thought for her.
"This can't be happening... ." Michael was choking on his denial. "Please tell me it's not true." But from Angela's compassionate demeanor, he knew it was.
"I didn't intend for you to find out like this... ." She held out her hand in entreaty, but he stared at it as though it were a venomous snake.
Just then, James entered, but Angela was so enamored with Edward that she didn't so much as notice his dishevelment.
On observing the frozen tableau and Michael's startled expression, James's gaze settled on his father. "Why are you here?"
Before either of his parents could answer, Michael said crudely, "The bastard crept in here while we were out and crawled into her bed like the vermin he is." He snorted with derision. "He claims that he's going to marry her this time."
"Aren't we lucky?" James murmured. He assessed his parents, their state of undress, the gleam in their eyes, the patent admiration, and the evidence of what they'd been about for the past two days was unmistakable. In disgust, he commanded his father, "Get out."
"I don't recall asking him to leave," Angela admonished furiously.
"Perhaps I should," Edward remarked placatingly, but to Angela, not to James. Appearing forlorn, but love-struck, he regarded her adoringly. "We can hash this out when we're all more calm."
"No," she replied. "This is my home. You don't go unless I request it."
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"Weren't you listening, Eddy?" James menaced. "You're not welcome here."
"Oh, but he is," Angela announced firmly, "and he shall be."
"Never," James asserted. "Not in this house where he caused so much heartache and pain."
"Is this my house or isn't it, James?" Angela pressed. There was a long, charged silence, and she added, "You always maintained that you bought it for me, so I consider it mine, and I say he stays."
"Mother . . ." James pleaded softly, "don't do this to Michael and me. Don't do it to yourself."
"Then don't force me to choose between you. My decision is already made, and I don't think you'll care for it."
"You don't need him in your life."
"Oh, but I do, James. You know I do. I want to be happy. 'Tis all I've ever wanted." She waited an eternity for some tiny signal of his acceptance of her life-altering decision, but none came. Both her sons were too set against their father, too adamant in their feelings. Finally, her disappointment and indignation gravely apparent, she shrugged sadly. "All right, then. I'll begin packing—"
"No ..." James breathed, aghast and perturbed.
"Come, darling," she said to Edward, and she linked their fingers. Together, they headed for the door.
"Mother, you can't do this!" James persisted. "I won't let you."
" 'Tis not up to you." she declared.
They kept walking, and as they passed, Edward laid a sympathetic hand on James's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he admitted, "for what occurred between us on Saturday night. I was upset and overwrought, and I didn't mean what I said. Please stop by my club tomorrow so we can talk about it."
James shook off the unwelcomed touch. "Leave me be."
With a collective sigh, their parents continued on, and at the last moment Angela noted over her shoulder, "Should
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you wish to contact me, I'll be staying at the Carlysle. Just until everything is finalized. . .."
She closed the door with a resounding click, her exit perfectly timed to be fabulous, as always.
In the absolute quiet that followed, Michael whirled on James. In some manner—he wasn't certain how or why— this was all James's fault. His brother opened his mouth to speak, but Michael stared him down with such rancor that no words emerged. "Don't you say a bloody thing to me."
He lifted a vase off the sideboard, threw the flowers onto the floor, then flung it against the fireplace, where it shattered into dozens of pieces. Because he felt so much better after, he stalked around the table, removing all the china and stemware and tossing it, as well. Frantically, he hurled every breakable object in the room until, from the middle of a mountain of broken glass, his breathing labored, his heart breaking, he decided that he could do no more damage.
Unable to hide the flood of blistering, tumultuous tears, he hurried for the door. James, who had observed his frenzy with tolerant reticence, reached out to stop him, but Michael raced past.
"Michael. .. wait. . ." James called. "Don't go."
But he kept on, down the hall, down the stairs, out to the street. Running. Running as fast as he could.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
With a trembling hand, Abigail knocked at the door of James's home. As it was late in the day, he was at work, preparing for the night ahead, but she hadn't come to see him. Not that she hadn't considered it, but if he'd learned she was waiting on his front step, he'd not have allowed her in.
Most likely, his residential servants were as efficient as the ones he employed at his club. There, his competent staff had regularly prevented her entrance until, on her fourth attempt, one gentleman had kindly, but bluntly, told her that they had standing orders—from James Stevens himself— to turn her away.
It had been nearly two weeks since their ghastly encounter at the theater. She'd sent him so many notes, begging for a meeting, but they had been all for naught. He'd answered with silence.
Each Monday and Thursday afternoon, she'd gone to their secret hideaway, hoping he'd show. Even if it was anger that motivated him, she'd not have minded, for she absolutely had to speak with him. Assuredly, she needed to apologize for her abominable behavior, but more than anything, she was frantic to ask him about Lady Newton and what his offensive paramour had said.
She had to learn the truth! The woman's words were tormenting her. During the never-ending days and nights that now stretched endlessly together without James, Barbara Ritter's hateful diatribe was an unceasing litany that rampaged on and on until Abigail had begun to imagine that she just might go mad from listening to it.
Had James, by bedding her, simply been playing some sort of evil, wicked game? Had it been a crude sham on
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his part? She refused to believe it; she would not believe it until she could confront him face-to-face.
The door opened, and a servant rudely glared at her. She was a sight, in her dark clothing and cloak, with no coach or escort and dusk approaching.
"May I help you?" the man inquired.
"I would like to speak with Mrs. Angela Ford."
"I don't think she's receiving visitors. Have you a card?"
"No ... I. . ."
The retainer tsked at this appalling breach of good manners. "Then, madam, I am quite confident that she is not at home," and he commenced closing the door in her face.
"But this will only take a moment." She added, "Please. . . ."
She sounded desperate, and she was. At her wits' end, she could conjure no other means of proceeding. James deeply loved and respected his mother, so Abigail intended to inappropriately impose on Mrs. Ford, requesting that she convince James to attend a final meeting. A last rendezvous would allow Abigail to make verbal amends and to raise the questions that had been driving her insane, and thus she hoped to ease her guilty conscience and her aggrieved heart.
From behind the stoic houseman came a husky, full-bodied female voice, and
Abigail instantly recognized it as that of Mrs. Ford.
"Who is it, Arthur?" she asked.
" 'Tis a visitor, ma'am. With no card of introduction, so I don't know her name." He blocked Mrs. Ford with the door, but he glanced out, giving Abigail a chance to reveal herself, but she declined with a quick shake of her head.
"I'll handle it," Mrs. Ford said.
"If you're sure?" Arthur looked overly worried, as though Abigail might do something nefarious to his employer if admitted inside.
"I'm fine, Arthur. Truly." She stepped into view, and the servant retreated as she called to his departing back, "There are two boxes in the back bedchamber. Could you fetch them down for me?"
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As she focused her attention on Abigail, Abigail was impaled by those intense sapphire eyes, and she suffered a hasty intake of breath. At the theater, in wig and makeup, it had been difficult to discern her resemblance to James, but up close, their similarities were uncanny. She was just as striking as her handsome, seductive son. More so, if that was possible.
Taller than Abigail, she was lithe yet buxom, a stunning beauty trying to hide her appeal in homemaker's drab clothing, which was laughable. Angela Ford's charisma was simply too blatant to disguise in a gray dress, white apron, and conservative chignon. She appeared ready to burst out of her plain costume in order to reveal the majestic person concealed underneath.
"Thank you for agreeing to see me," Abigail said.
"Are you here about James? Or Michael?" she queried without preamble. "If you're wanting one of them, Michael is out of Town, and James is temporarily staying at their club."
"I didn't know . . ." Abigail murmured, disturbed by this turn of events.
" Tis a long story," Mrs. Ford remarked, gesturing dramatically as though she'd love nothing more than to tell it then and there. "But let's get you off the stoop, shall we? You obviously desire a discreet discussion, so we hardly need all the neighbors gawking."
