by Cheryl Holt
Mrs. Ford flashed a confident, knowing smile, so radiant and full of dazzle that Abigail was temporarily paralyzed by it, but she shook herself into action as the other woman disappeared into the house, and she had to follow or lose her opportunity.
They entered a parlor on the second floor, and Mrs. Ford seated herself on a large sofa, directing Abigail to the one across. Abigail went through the motions, taking extra time in adjusting her skirts, while in reality, she was furtively surveying the well-appointed chamber. James lived here, passed his private hours here! He probably enjoyed that chair by the window, threw a log on that hearth. She sa-
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vored the moment, wanting to imprint every color, shape, and image so that she'd remember all the details after she left.
It was clearly a pleasantly decorated residence, designed for use by a robust family. The drapes and rugs were brightly done in reds and greens, the furniture overstuffed and comfortable. The walls were covered with outstanding watercolors of Paris street corners, and Abigail suffered a sharp pang wondering if they'd been painted by James's friend Pierre, who had created his notorious collection of erotic pictures. She was dying to sneak a peek at the artist's signature, but she restrained herself, forcing herself to concentrate on her task.
In one corner, there were several shipping crates. Household belongings were haphazardly dumped inside. On observing Abigail's curiosity, Mrs. Ford breezily explained, "I'm moving out."
"You're what?" Abigail wasn't certain she'd heard correctly. She sagged a little, not understanding why, but something about the deed seemed wrong.
"Moving," Mrs. Ford repeated. "I've had a huge disagreement with my sons, so I'm abandoning them. But I'm sure they'll survive without me." A servant came by with a refreshment tray. Mrs. Ford glanced at Abigail, but Abigail was too nervous to consider any sustenance, and the maid retired from the room. When they were alone once more, Mrs. Ford faced Abigail.
"All right, let's have it," she said. "Is it James or Michael?"
"James," Abigail replied.
"Are you in the family way?" Mrs. Ford questioned bluntly.
Abigail gasped, her cheeks coloring to a flaming scarlet. In deciding to call, it had never occurred to her that James's mother might form such a low opinion.
As she stumbled for a response, Mrs. Ford continued.
“Because if you are, I'm not sure what I could do about it. James is a grown man, and my opinion holds very little
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sway with him. Besides, he wed previously after a dalliance, and it was quite horrid for him. I wouldn't demand mat he endure such a fate again, and I’d definitely never pressure him to marry someone he didn't love."
"I'm carrying no babe," Abigail assured her, though a part of her wished her visit were about that very subject. She could fathom no greater miracle man to be increasing with James's child.
"Well, then," Mrs. Ford mused in her succinct fashion, "what brings you here?"
"James is a friend of mine."
Mrs. Ford raised a dubious brow. "Really? I wasn't aware that he had any female friends. I’m quite confident that he intends another purpose entirely for his feminine companions."
"Be that as it may," Abigail pressed ahead, "he is a close friend. Perhaps the best I’ve ever had."
"Sorry .. ."—Angela shrugged casually, disbelieving— "but he's never mentioned this purported friendship to me."
"I don't know that he would," Abigail persisted. "Our association has been rather... well. .."
"Clandestine?"
"Yes."
"How charming," Mrs. Ford muttered sarcastically.
"I'm very worried about him."
"So am I," his mother allowed. "I have been for a long while."
Abigail was apprehensive about how much to say, but she wanted the entire, sordid story out in the open, so she started with, "I attended the theater, Saturday last, with the Earl of Spencer"—Mrs. Ford perked to attention at Edward's name—"and I caused a row between James and his father. I didn't mean to," she hurried on. "One minute, James was standing before me, and I was so astonished that I behaved atrociously by pretending I didn't know who he was, and the next, he was demanding that the earl introduce us, and then . . . then . . ."
"Yes, yes," Mrs. Ford interrupted, waving away addi-
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tional clarification, "many, many people told me all about it." Appalled, she deduced, "You're one of the Weston girls, aren't you? One of Jerald Weston's sisters?"
"I am." Abigail couldn't see any reason to sustain her ruse now that she'd been discovered, and she gained immense relief by admitting her identity to James's mother.
Aghast, Mrs. Ford fumed. "You're having a sexual affair with James?"
"We have been . . ." Abigail whispered.
"Oh, Lord," Mrs. Ford groaned. "How long has this been going on?"
"For several weeks now," Abigail acknowledged.
"Well . . . that explains many things."
"Like what?"
"Like why my family is in such a disordered mess," Mrs. Ford responded irascibly. "If you truly know James's propensities as you claim, then you must be aware of his feelings regarding his father. Why would you provoke him while waltzing about on Edward's arm? Do you have any idea of the damage you've wrought?"
"I never planned to hurt him!"
"But you did," she chided, "and several others, yet I'm supposed to gather that you've developed a deep attachment with him."
"I'm so in love with him that I can hardly breathe."
"And what are his sentiments about this amour that he's never disclosed to me?"
"He loves me, as well. Very much," Abigail contended, but even as she finished the assertion, it seemed terribly embellished.
"Pardon me for being skeptical, my lady"—she shifted forward in her seat—"but I comprehend my son's motives extremely well. Better than you obviously do. James does not fall in love, he does not have meaningful relationships, and he most certainly does not fornicate with pretty women as though there is some higher purpose behind it."
"Don't make it sound so tawdry," Abigail pleaded. "There's so much more between us than mere lust."
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"What were you thinking," she scoffed, "embroiling yourself so recklessly in my son's life? Have you any idea of the furor you will cause if you are discovered? You say you care for James. If so, why would you risk putting him in such a predicament?"
"I hardly know where to start. . .." Abigail attempted to elucidate, but hastily realized that she wasn't very convincing. "From the first moment I met him, I couldn't resist, and with each passing day, my love for him has grown until I can't abide my life without him in it."
The silence was prolonged as Mrs. Ford studied her. Then she rose and went to the sideboard, pouring herself three fingers of a pungent brandy. "Would you like one?" she offered, but Abigail said no. As the older woman pensively sipped, Abigail watched, jealous of her freedom and confidence, of her ability to do something as shocking as enjoy hard spirits in the middle of the day.
Angela Ford was a female who had always lived exactly as she chose, others' opinions be damned. She'd done things and gone places about which Abigail could only fantasize. Where Mrs. Ford reveled in autonomy and adventure, Abigail struggled with routine, boredom, and duty. She was twenty-five years old, and she could scarcely leave the house without obtaining her brother's permission first.
How she wished she could be more like Angela Ford!
As Abigail stared covetously, Mrs. Ford tarried along the wall, sampling her liquor until the quiet became jarring, then she returned to the sofa, and Abigail couldn't resist filling the void. "I apologize for the subterfuge. I just didn't want to be ... to be . . ."
"Seen on my doorstep; yes, I comprehend your dilemma. You and your bloody kind," Mrs. Ford grumbled, though not uncharitably, as though the same criticism had been leveled at her a thousand times before. "S
orry, Lady Abigail, but I don't understand you. You're here, presumably, because of your concern for James, but considering the fact that you don't want anyone to ascertain your acquaintance, I'm having a bit of trouble in generating any empathy for
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you. My son is such a dynamic, fine man—"
"I know, I know," Abigail readily agreed. "He is."
"Any woman should be proud to be in his company. For you to be ashamed of him, to try and conceal your connection, well. .." She swallowed down the remaining contents of the glass and set it on the small table with a resounding crack. "I don't have much sympathy for your problem. Whatever it is."
Abigail appreciated how she must appear: a snobbish, wealthy, pampered noblewoman with no integrity, no scruples, and nothing to occupy her time but immoral, destructive liaisons. As she'd recently learned so painfully, she was the type of despicable woman who would privately trifle with a man of lower station, but who wouldn't speak to him in public later on, so some of the appalling perceptions Mrs. Ford had of her character were unquestionably deserved.
But I don't want to be this kind of person, she yearned to shout. She wanted to be more like Angela: independent, brave enough to throw caution to the wind, to impetuously plunge forth, conferring free rein to her love for James. But to what end?
Their affair would never be more than a physical diversion for him. He would never marry her, and she wasn't foolish enough to deem such a happy conclusion as being likely. If James could be convinced to recommence with their assignations, they would continue as lovers until the terrifying day arrived when he decided he was bored and inclined to move on, and she would be left heartbroken and alone.
In the meantime, she would have been excommunicated from her family, totally shunned, cut off from everything and everyone. She would never be allowed to see her dear sister again, or the ancestral home, or the smattering of relatives around whom she'd grown up. Labeled as a female of loose morals, she would become invisible, no one would speak to her, no one would associate with her.
Perhaps a stronger woman would forge ahead, heedless
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of the consequences and unconcerned over any dreadful future. Perhaps a more capable one could withstand such a fervent upheaval that would never relent or abate. For if she proceeded to her doom, then year after long year, she would suffer unceasingly for her single, rash act of loving too desperately. She'd be cast out forever, and she simply couldn't tolerate the eventuality of passing the remainder of her days as a scorned, solitary pariah.
"I'm not the woman you perceive me to be," she asserted quietly. "Despite how I came here, and how I appear, I'm not ashamed of James or what has happened between us. I honestly don't know how I'll persevere without him. I love him with all that I am, but I realize he'll never marry me—"
"I afraid you're right about that," Mrs. Ford concurred gently.
"—and I am too much of a coward to face, on my own, the aftereffects of our romance should it become common knowledge. If I thought he would stay by my side, I would attempt any hurdle."
"That's something, I guess," Mrs. Ford murmured. "So . .. what is it you would have me do?"
"Please . . . just speak to him on my behalf. Encourage him to meet with me on Thursday. He'll know where and when."
"And the reason for this meeting would be . .."
"That I might apologize, and tell him how much I have loved him."
"I assume you're also hoping to have another chance to be intimate with him." The candid comment caused another furious blush to color Abigail's cheeks, and Mrs. Ford chided, "You've been lucky so far, but perhaps on the next occasion you will accidentally wind up pregnant. Then what?"
Abigail scooted forward and reached out, taking Mrs. Ford's hand in her own. "He has so much anger. At himself. At his father. I can't bear that I've made it worse by my irresponsible conduct. I hate that it's ended like this."
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Mrs. Ford pulled away and walked to the sideboard again, pouring another brandy, but then not drinking any. She swirled the amber contents around and around in the glass. "If I could have one wish granted," she finally said, " 'twould be to see James married to a woman who truly cares for him. If I had a second, I would wish he had sons to bring him joy—as mine have imparted such gladness to me, but I am beginning to doubt such happiness will ever occur for him. I don't know ..."—she shook her head dejectedly—"perhaps if I'd done things differently all those years ago ..."
"Don't second-guess your actions," Abigail insisted compassionately. "You did what you thought was best at the time."
"Yes, I did," Mrs. Ford concluded halfheartedly, "but I've never been persuaded that I chose the correct path, although, looking back, perhaps there was no correct choice. There were only victims; mainly my sons." With a sigh, as though she'd determined to sustain an untenable burden, she straightened her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Lady Abigail, but I'm afraid you've wasted your time by coming here. I won't talk to James for you. He wouldn't listen to me, and I can't say that I'd want him to."
Abigail had erroneously thought they were making headway, and she could only watch in agony as her last chance with James dissolved to ashes. "Please—" she begged.
"No," Mrs. Ford interrupted. "While I long for James to find contentment in his life, you could never be the one to bring it to him."
"I love him!"
"I'm sure you think you do."
"I love him more than my life."
"But you've said naught to convince me that James shares your emotional attachment, and, as you've pointed out, he will never marry you. He's well aware of what a disaster such a union would be." With a flick of her wrist, she downed the brandy, eyeing Abigail with a stern expression that silently told her the meeting was over.
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Abigail felt as though she were clinging to a sinking ship, that she was fast losing her grip. "I promise that he and I will just talk."
"I understand my son's behaviors. I appreciate what kind of meeting the two of you would have, and I won't do anything that might help you create a babe together. I would never want another child to suffer as my boys did." She walked to the door of the parlor. "Forget about James, Lady Abigail. Despite how much you currently wish it, he's not the man for you. Go home and don't come back. I'll have Arthur show you out."
******************
Abigail paced about the bedchamber, her ears straining toward the stairs. Presently, exactly at the hour of two, the front door opened, and her heart skipped a beat. Despite Mrs. Ford's assertions to the contrary, she must have said something to James. Just as Abigail had been hoping she might.
He'd come! He'd really and truly come!
Wanting to appear calm and collected, she hustled to the bed and reclined against the pillows. Leaving nothing to chance, she'd staged the room to entice him. There was a fire in the grate, food and wine on the table, scented candles burning in their holders.
Hoping to tempt him beyond his limits, she'd donned the red outfit he'd sent. Dressed only in the crimson pantalets, stockings, and heels, she'd shed the top that cupped her breasts in such an erotic fashion, leaving them bare, with the raised nipples just visible through the filmy fabric of the robe. The lapels were parted at the center to reveal her cleavage and abdomen.
Her hair was down in the fashion he liked, brushed and curling around her hips; her lips were tinted a rosy hue. Worry had elevated her pulse and flushed her cheeks to a becoming pink. She appeared luxurious, sensual, and ready to provide unceasing pleasure to the man who was about to walk over the threshold.
If only he would let her!
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James was furious with her, and would probably refuse to talk candidly, so she had to have a method of breaking through any barriers he erected. Without a doubt, making love was the perfect way to center his attention and ensure that his anger faded. With a little effort on her part, he'd revert to the
loving, charming person to whom she'd lost her heart.
As her relationship with James was her one and only dalliance, and this, her first and only attempt at significant seduction, it had never occurred to her that she wouldn't succeed. The possibility that James might be too wounded to accept her apology had not crossed her mind, and she declined to consider that there might be a negative outcome. James would forgive her! He loved her, and she loved him, and in her naiveté she was convinced that their strong emotions could cure all that ailed them.
The door swung open, and she braced herself as he stepped through. He looked as poorly as she felt, which she took to be a very good sign. He'd obviously been suffering! Surely he'd be prepared to set aside their differences.
Gone was the pristine coat, the perfectly tailored trousers, the highly polished boots. He was casually attired in a loose-fitting shirt, leather vest, wool trousers, and a pair of worn boots, making him look as if he'd just been riding or hunting. His hair was overly long and in need of a trim; he hadn't shaved and beard stubble darkened his face.
Without speaking, he moved to the foot of the bed and started a crude assessment. Beginning at the tip of her head and roving down, he rudely perused all that she had intimately displayed. Where before he'd gazed at her with lust that had been a definite mix of fondness and affection, now there was a studied apathy, and she received the distinct impression that it could be she or another lying there so scantily clad. With rising dread, she recognized that she'd already become one of the women from his past.
Prior to arriving, she'd rehearsed a dozen speeches, but now, staring at him across an expanse as vast as an ocean,
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her contrived words flew out the window. Nothing seemed appropriate.
"Hello, James," she finally said, shattered and afraid.
"You went to see my mother."
This cold, hard individual was not anyone with whom she was acquainted. Sitting before him, nearly naked as the day she was born, she felt foolish and silly. Had she imagined their ardent affinity? Had those handful of heady exchanges actually transpired? Perhaps she had dreamed it all.
