by Cheryl Holt
The thoroughfare was busy and noisy, with innumerable people and vehicles passing, so nary a head spun in her direction. She called again, but if he heard, he gave no indication. He kept on.
******************
"Well?" Barbara Ritter prompted as the curtain covering the carriage window fell into place. "What do you think about my story now, Lady Marbleton?"
For a long while, Margaret Weston didn't answer. She continued to stare, her gaze drawn to the upper-story window where her sister-in-law had just made a scandalous
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fool of herself, though no one on the street below appeared to have noticed.
Abigail was a pitiful sight, her hair askew, her breasts barely covered by one of the flimsy undergarments that James had purchased from Madame LaFarge. Weeping and shouting his name, her hand outstretched in supplication, she couldn't have been more heart-wrenching if she'd been on the stage and acting out the latest melodrama. If Barbara had directed the event herself, she couldn't have planned it more perfectly.
Margaret had seen all.
It had taken a great deal of cajoling to induce her to come, and even more sweet-talking to persuade her to stay. Abigail had shown up shortly after they'd arrived, causing Margaret to raise her bushy brows in consternation, but Margaret hadn't actually believed Barbara's strange report until James had also appeared and sauntered inside. Even then, Margaret had remained skeptical, watching and waiting in silence as the hour had ticked away. If Abigail hadn't ended her sexual assignation so spectacularly, Margaret might still be wondering.
But with Abigail's frantic good-bye, there could be no doubts, no suppositions, no uncertainties. While pristine Caroline Weston pranced around London's fancy drawing rooms, her supposedly chaste chaperone was spending her leisure moments fornicating with James Stevens. Through Margaret Weston's eyes, Abigail couldn't have picked a more sordid character with whom to commit her monstrous sin.
Abigail finally put them out of their misery by stepping into the shadows and pulling the shutters closed. At witnessing her despair, Barbara almost felt sorry for her. Almost. But she couldn't help the gleeful smile that begged to burst out, and she had to hide it behind her fan, lest Margaret discover how delighted she was with the afternoon's proceedings.
Margaret surreptitiously observed the house for another thirty-two minutes—Barbara timed every agonizing sec-
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ond—until Abigail departed through the front door. Lost and forlorn, she walked down the street to a parked hansom cab and dejectedly climbed inside.
Once the conveyance rounded the corner and disappeared from view, Margaret's hand dropped away from the curtain, and she settled her massive bulk on the seat. Two bright spots of red marred her cheeks.
"I have to tell you, Lady Newton"—she breathed out a heavy sigh—"that when you first approached me, I didn't credit your wild tale. Abigail has always been such a fine, upstanding young lady; I couldn't accept your account as being true. To find her like this! With that man! Of all the scoundrels in the world!" She shuddered in distaste.
"I'm sorry to have been the bearer of such bad tidings," Barbara said meekly, displaying the fawning docility that Margaret expected. "I was so shocked myself when I stumbled upon them that I decided you simply had to know."
"You did the right thing by coming to me, dear," Margaret agreed, then grumbled, "Afternoon 'painting lessons' indeed!" She stared out once again, looking but not really seeing anything.
"Your poor husband," Barbara gushed mournfully. "I hate to contemplate how he'll suffer the news."
"This will just kill him," Margaret mused sadly, emotionally. Clucking her tongue, she added, "If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes . . . well... I just never would have believed it." Momentarily, she shifted her attention to Barbara. "Let's go, shall we? All of a sudden, I'm not feeling very well."
"Of course, Lady Marbleton," Barbara cooed. "We'll have you home straightaway."
******************
James stirred uneasily on the chair in the sitting room of his mother's hotel suite. It was firm and jarring against his back, and he wished that Angela were at home where she belonged, so he could be stretched out on one of the comfortable sofas in his own parlor, instead of here, awaiting
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her grand entrance, which, knowing her, she wouldn't make until she was bloody good and ready.
The chamber was a bit on the garish side for his tastes, but exactly the type of pretentious, gaudy fashion Angela favored. She enjoyed flaunting her wealth, daring others to see how far she'd traveled from her humble beginnings. While the members of High Society refused to be impressed, the commoners, who were the bulk of her true fans, adored her, and she had the hotel employees tripping over themselves to do her bidding.
In the adjoining bedchamber, he could hear her stirring about, dressing herself—no doubt—in some outrageous garment meant to shock anyone who happened to lay eyes on her later in the day.
She'd thoroughly proven her point: She was furious enough to spit at her two sons and their boorish behavior, so irate that she'd moved out of the house she'd always loved. Whether they wanted her to or not, she was marrying her beloved Eddy. Despite the upset she was causing everyone, she was going to do as she damn well pleased.
She was allowed, he supposed, granting her that much. After the initial shock had worn off, he'd come to terms with their pronouncement. He wasn't crazy about it, but he could accept it. He loved Angela, and he liked Edward, too, when the man wasn't being an absolute bastard. James imagined that he and his father could tolerate one another in a state of companionable aversion that would keep Angela content.
Angela was an adult woman who could form her own decision about marriage to Edward. James had told her as much several times, so he didn't understand why she wouldn't come home, but she continued to insist that her rooms were working out well, and she intended to stay until the wedding.
In order to lessen the furor their union would create, they were delaying the ceremony until after the Season ended and Edward's peers scuttled back to their country estates. Then they planned to sneak off to the Italian coast for an
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extended honeymoon, hoping that subsequent scandals would occur and that by the time of their return they would have become old gossip.
Their secretive, elaborate scheming was all for Edward's benefit. Angela couldn't have cared less about the members of the ton. She'd long ago gotten past being vexed by their convictions, but for Edward and his precious reputation, she would jump any hurdle.
The notion that she was still so in love made James sick to his stomach.
He surveyed the room once again, and he couldn't get over the sneaking suspicion that she was relishing the disruption she'd precipitated. She fancied having him waiting attendance on her, while squirming like a naughty schoolboy about to be disciplined.
Just about the time he decided to leave, she swept through the door in a swirl of bright red. The gown was sinfully low-cut, with a tiny waist and full skirt that emphasized her voluptuous figure. Her glorious blond hair was piled high on her head, her face artfully painted. She was beautiful, confident, successful, full of mischief and trouble, and he was glad he wasn't the man who would have to put up with her for the remainder of her days. He almost pitied Edward. His father hadn't lived with her in twenty-five years, and James hoped that Edward truly realized what he was letting himself in for.
"Have you heard from your brother?" she commenced, never thinking of apologizing after forcing him to cool his heels for the preceding hour while she'd primped and preened.
"Yes. He sent a note." He held it out and observed her while she scanned it.
She was so unconventional compared to the other women he'd known who were also mothers. As she'd never been what one would describe as overly maternal, he couldn't help wondering what kind of person he might have grown to be if he hadn't had this flamboya
nt, charismatic figure as his sole parent.
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Her zest for life, and her view of the world, had shaped him into an assertive, powerful, prosperous man, but deep down, he was still the lad who'd always worshiped her. He longed to unburden himself of his woes, yet with a grave certitude, he recognized that if he revealed the smallest tidbit, he couldn't bear to learn what her subsequent reflections might be.
"He doesn't know when he'll be back?" She frowned. "What the hell does that mean?"
"Don't fret, Mother. He's just blowing off steam."
"Where is he?"
James shrugged. "I haven't the foggiest. But he says he's all right, so I'm not concerned. I don't want him about when he's in a snit, anyway. He needs to cool down."
"But what about his job at the club? Are you to limp along indefinitely until he deigns to carry his share of the load again?"
" Tis not a problem. Truly." But he was lying. Michael had heavy responsibilities at the club, and he was always missed when he wasn't there, but that wasn't why James detested his absence. Michael was his best friend, and if nothing else, his presence would allow James to pretend that life was continuing on at its normal pace. That he'd never met Abigail Weston. That Angela wasn't totting off with Edward.
"I assume he'll return," she said, "after he's certain he's driven us all mad with worry."
"And not a moment before," James interjected. "You know what he's like. There's no use distressing yourself," and they both smiled at how willful and stubborn Michael could be.
On a sigh, Angela went to the mirror and checked her coiffure. Appearing suddenly unsure of herself, a side she rarely showed to others, she questioned quietly, "Do you think he'll ever forgive me for doing this?"
Considering how adamant Michael could be, James couldn't predict his brother's future behavior, but he'd never hurt her by saying so. "I'm sure of it."
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"If I thought he wouldn't, I'm not sure I'd go through with it."
"Mother, if marrying Edward will make you happy"— egad, but he'd fallen into the role of defending his father!— "then that's what you should do. Don't deny yourself because of Michael."
Sighing again, she turned to the mirror and adjusted a comb. "What about you?" she inquired much too casually. "What's become of that girl who called on me?"
"I haven't the foggiest."
She narrowed her eyes. "Tell me you didn't meet with her."
"Yes, Mother, I did."
"I asked you not to!" Worry creased her brow. "You're a smart man. Why would you engage in such craziness? Unless you . . ." She faced him, bathing him in the stare that had ceaselessly caused him to tremble in terror as a child. "She was right! You care for her!"
He shifted uncomfortably. "No. I went simply because I felt someone should talk some sense into her."
When he didn't elucidate, she barked, "And. . . ?"
"I broke it off."
"How did she take it?"
"Fine," he responded cryptically.
"Perfectly amicable? No hard feelings and all that?"
"Yes."
"Did you sleep with her first?"
She liked to shock with bawdy words, so he wasn't surprised by her query, but still, he blushed with embarrassment. "Of course," he responded, trying to seem bored. "I always take what's freely offered."
"You are such a libertine, my dear." She tsked and shook her head, then stalked across the room and towered over his chair. "Don't lie to me, James Stevens. That girl believed herself in love with you. Very much so. You must have absolutely broken her heart. And don't sit there claiming she was one of your usual doxies, because she wasn't. She was a genuine lady—in every sense. I can't believe
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that you'd lie down with her, then be so cruel as to give her the heave-ho as soon as you were finished. When did you inform her? When you were lacing your trousers?"
Because that was pretty much how it had transpired, James retreated to the sideboard and poured a brandy, sipping it while gazing out the window so that he'd have somewhere to look besides at his mother. " 'Twasn't as bad as all that," he fibbed.
"You're right," she asserted sarcastically. "I'm sure it was much worse. How could you be so callous? What's come over you, that you would treat such a tender girl that way? I raised you better."
"I did it for her, Mother," he contended, yearning to confess how tragic it had actually been.
He thought about Abby, of how generously she'd offered herself, and how naively she'd expected all to be mended. Until the very end, she'd never comprehended what a bastard he could really be.
He'd gone to the house with the noble aim of finally and irrevocably terminating the affair, but once he'd set eyes upon her, he couldn't remain separate. Even though he'd acted the complete cad by having sex with her, their joining had been magnificent, awe-inspiring, the most intense, dramatic encounter he'd ever had with a woman, and he was so glad he'd taken her that one, final time. Bedding her had been insensitive and wrong, but he had no regrets.
"You did it for her?” Angela scoffed, incredulous. "Now I've heard everything. That girl loved you. She'd have done anything for you."
"She didn't love me, Mother. I was the only man who'd ever paid any attention to her. That's all. She was infatuated and intrigued; she confused love with desire, but don't be concerned. She'll be over me like that." He snapped his fingers, then walked back to his chair and sat, attempting to appear at ease while desperately hoping she'd drop the entire subject.
He didn't want to discuss Abigail Weston! Not with his mother or anyone else! She was like a pesky insect, buzzing
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around his heart, occupying his mind. He couldn't eat, sleep, think without her presence intruding.
"I can't believe you're spewing such drivel." Angela moved to his side, falling to her knees and resting her arms on his thighs. Her light perfume wafted over him. "Jamie," she murmured softly, "do you love her?"
"Of course not!" he insisted much too adamantly. He loved Abby more than words could describe, needed her like he needed air or water, but he wouldn't impose himself into her life when she so obviously didn't want him there.
Throughout their last assignation, he'd waited for a gesture, a signal, a sign—anything!—that would have indicated she was prepared to brave a relationship outside their secret hideaway. He'd afforded her every opportunity, but she hadn't grasped her chance to truly make amends. She'd apologized for her behavior at the theater. She'd yearned to mate, but she hadn't intimated her slightest inclination to travel beyond their clandestine amour.
Though he cursed having to admit it, she was no different, deep down, from any of the other shallow, immature females of the ton. She was too imbued with the social strictures she'd spent twenty-five years cultivating, and she could never cast aside her polite, ordered world for his own.
He wanted to hate her for it, to fault her, but he couldn't. Once, when he was a younger—more foolish—man, he'd assumed that he could overcome the types of burdens a woman like Abby was forced to carry, but transformation was impossible. He'd sworn to never put another lady through such hell, and he'd meant it. If by some dastardly stroke of fate they wound up together, she'd always be miserable, which would ensure that he'd always be miserable, and he refused to inflict that much wretchedness on either of them.
So . . . he'd let her down brutally. He'd abused her terribly and unconscionably. She'd mourn for a time. Then she'd become furious. Then . . . she'd get over him and strive on.
Though it hurt to picture her eventually finding an ac-
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ceptable partner, marrying, and starting a family with one of her own kind, he wouldn't dwell on the prospect. He'd conducted himself appropriately by crying off, despite his mother's opinion. From the beginning, he'd known that he shouldn't have involved himself with Abby. In his own judgment, he'd behaved honorably for a change, and thus
he'd saved her from a predicament she never should have entered in the first place.
Angela laid her palm against his cheek, while searching his eyes for the buried emotion she was so regularly adept at locating. "You're lying again, Jamie. I can see how much you love her. Why can't you let your love flourish? Why must it be so frightening to you?"
" 'Tisn't a matter of love, Mother. She simply deserves someone better than me."
"Better than you! Oh, Lord, will you stop it!" She grabbed the front of his shirt and gave him a fierce shake. "Where did you acquire this lack of confidence? Not from me, certainly! When did you grow so bloody timid?"
"I'm not being timid," he contended. "I only want what's best for her."
"But if you truly love her, you'd be what's best for her, don't you recognize that?" She ruffled his hair as she used to do when he was just a boy. "Go after her, Jamie. Convince her to have you. You could win her if you set your mind to it."
"Easier said than done, Mother. She can't look beyond our stations to accept me as I am. I attempted such a relationship once before, and you saw what a disaster it was."
"But you didn't love your wife, and she didn't love you! This time, it would be different. I know it would!"
For all her sophisticated ways, she had invariably been a romantic, and he couldn't help smiling. "Love doesn't conquer all."
"That's what you think, laddie," she said. "You'd be surprised what a little love can do."
Just then, a knock sounded on the door. She grimaced that their intimate talk was interrupted. "That's Eddy," she
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explained, offering her hand so that he could assist her to her feet. "I demand that you be civil to him. I'm not in the mood for any discord among the men in my life."
"I'll try to control myself."
"You'd better!" she warned.
She rushed to the door and opened it, barely closing it again before she was in Edward's arms and kissing him passionately. James observed them for a minute, then forced his gaze out to the street. In his childhood memories, he vividly recalled that his parents had treasured each other's company, that their lives had been filled with gaiety and laughter, but he didn't recollect this blatant, visible current of desire that flowed between them.
