by Cheryl Holt
"When?" she appealed stupidly, incapable of formulating a more cogent remark.
"So ..." he spit hatefully, "you admit it."
Before she knew what he was about, he slapped her with such force that he nearly drove her off the chair. Only her firm grip on the arm kept her upright. She bit back a sob. "Jerald ... please ..."
"You little whore!" he hissed. "Do you have any idea what kind of vile creature he is?"
"No . . . no . . ." She shook her head stridently, powerless to stay silent when James was being attacked. "He's a good man. A fine man—"
Jerald slapped her again, harder, and she crumpled to her knees, feeling as though all her bones had melted. Never in her life had she envisioned such treatment, and she was stunned beyond measure.
"Don't defend him to me!" Jerald growled. "Not ever!"
She could hear his harsh breathing as he attempted to rein in his temper, so she hovered on the floor before him, tears streaming down her face, a protective hand pressed to her stinging cheek, while she braced for whatever blow-physical or verbal—might fall next.
Eventually, he stalked to the window, putting distance between them, then he whirled around. "All these years, I've tolerated your remaining single. I've trusted you with Caroline's upbringing, and look what you've accomplished! What form of guidance have you been providing, I wonder? Under your sordid tutelage, will she turn whore, as well?"
"I love Caroline," she protested, but her ardent statement emanated as a whisper. "I would never hurt her."
"You abhorrent hussy, you've already hurt her more than you could ever know." He scoffed. "As of this moment, your responsibilities for Caroline have ended."
"No, Jerald, anything but that." She finally mustered the
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courage to look at him, and she flinched when she witnessed the repugnant way her regarded her. "I'm begging you."
"Dear sister," he asserted scathingly, "your days of requesting boons from me are over." He went behind his desk again and settled himself, nodding impatiently to her chair. "Get up! Straighten yourself!"
She utilized the chair for balance, but her legs had turned to mush, and she couldn't stand. When she took overly long in rising, his intolerance soared anew, and she feared that he might advance around the desk to assault her a second time. With immense effort, she slid her hips onto the seat, then held on as tightly as she was able.
"What have you decided?" she managed.
"You are going to get exactly what you deserve, and nothing less," he replied. "James Stevens—scoundrel, blackmailer, confidence artist, great lover of women—will be here shortly to propose marriage."
"James is coming here?" She moaned, shamed and embarrassed that he would observe her like this, with her brother so enraged and her defenses so low. Oh, how could her tremendous affection for him have delivered them to this horrid juncture?
"I expect him at any minute. By tomorrow afternoon, you will be his bride. You will never return to any of my homes, you will never speak to anyone in our family again—"
"Jerald, don't do this. You're angry now—"
"Be silent!" he bellowed. "You are about to behold what you have truly wrought. James Stevens is a man with no honor, no loyalties, who will do anything . . . say anything .. . fuck"—she winced at his use of the despicable word— "anything, and he will do it all to you over the years, while you agonize and watch and lament about the bed you have made for yourself. I can conceive of no better, or more appropriate, punishment for this impossible disgrace you have inflicted upon us."
"No one knows—"
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"You would be surprised by who knows." He laughed meanly, clearly disturbed by the prospect. "I can't believe it's not all over Town by now. I assume that it will be shortly, and when people determine what kind of a harlot I have for a sister, I will be scraping the bottom of the barrel to find a husband for Caroline. Are you happy, Abigail, with what you've brought about?"
She started to cry in earnest, for she truly hadn't meant any harm. Particularly not to Caroline, but what Jerald said was true. Once word got out about her liaison with James, Jerald would have difficulty locating a suitable partner for Caroline. He'd probably have to increase her dowry to a staggering height, an act Abigail doubted he would assent to, so Caroline either wouldn't marry or she'd end up in such an appalling union that the result would be beyond consideration.
Entirely because of her impetuous, rash behavior! That she could change the past and erase it all!
"James will not marry me," she murmured, needing to prepare her brother for the eventuality.
"We'll just see about that!" he declared smugly.
"Nor would I ask him to."
"You, Abigail," he retorted caustically, "have absolutely no say in the matter."
They lingered in a strained quiet, broken only by the ticking of the clock. Finally, the butler announced that the Earl of Spencer and James Stevens had arrived. Abigail was so mortified to encounter the pair—one her cherished friend, one her precious love—under such appalling circumstances that she couldn't look up as they were ushered in, though she felt James's concentrated attention passing over her.
With a nod from Jerald, the butler shut the door, and the strange quartet was sequestered. Edward and James approached the desk together. Jerald rose to challenge them.
"I will be brief," he started. "I have ascertained from an undeniable source that James Stevens has been having unrestricted carnal relations with my sister Abigail over a pe-
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riod of weeks. His irresponsible actions have ruined her marital chances and very likely left her with child. He has completely compromised her, jeopardized my family's reputation, and destroyed the nuptial expectations of my other sister Caroline. What say you in response?"
"I just learned of the situation myself, Jerald," Edward said, struggling to inject reason. "Let's sit down, shall we, and review the circumstances calmly?"
"We will not sit. I do not intend to have that individual"—he rudely gestured toward James, but didn't glance in his direction—"under my roof any longer than it takes him to propose. The two of you will then depart, while I arrange the special license. The archbishop is awaiting instructions from me. A private ceremony will be held here, in my home, tomorrow morning at eleven. I want Abigail gone by noon."
Edward sighed and glared at James. "Well?" he demanded.
"I've already given you my answer," James rejoined, plainly bored.
As Edward was the only one who knew what James's answer was, a long, dangerous interlude ensued. Jerald broke it by slamming his fist against his desk.
"Ask her, damn you!" he ordered, his voice breaking.
All three men turned to her. Jerald's cheeks were so crimson, he appeared ready to suffer an apoplexy. Edward was sad, sympathetic, and apologetic. James seemed totally unfazed, as though the proceedings had no effect on him personally.
She examined him, searching for the tiniest flicker of consideration, the barest hint of fondness. If she'd observed the smallest indication of esteem, she might have thrown herself at his feet and pleaded with him to save her from the fate she would sustain at Jerald's hands. Yet he contemplated her with nothing but apathy and disinterest. They might have been strangers who had just met on the street.
Her heart, already bruised, shattered into a thousand minuscule pieces.
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"I don't believe Lady Abigail wishes to marry me," James said. "She never has."
"It is not up to her!" Jerald insisted.
Ignoring Jerald, James inquired, "How do you reply, milady?" His tone was disrespectful and mocking. "Are you prepared to lower yourself to wed one such as me?"
The trio held its collective breath. One little word— yes—and she would become James's wife. Once upon a time, she'd have done anything for such an opportunity, but as he stared her down with such insult and contempt, she couldn't agree.
<
br /> Not only did he fail to love her, he apparently didn't even like her. How could she compel him to marry when he harbored such profound loathing? If she acquiesced, she'd spend her entire life struggling with the knowledge that he'd never wanted her, pining away while he lusted after one woman and another.
What kind of existence would that be?
"No." She shook her head as she gazed up into his beloved face. " 'Twould be a terrible mistake."
For the shortest instant, she imagined that a wave of regret and hopelessness nearly swept him away. He sagged slightly as though he'd just received a terrible blow, but as quickly as she perceived it, the impression vanished. Her desperate mind had merely been playing cruel tricks.
"There you have it," James said brightly. "Milady, you recall our agreement, don't you?"
"What agreement?" Jerald huffed indignantly.
"When we commenced our affair"—-James shifted his focus to Jerald—"I informed her that I would do nothing to salvage her reputation if we were exposed. She understood the terms and conditions of my involvement. From the beginning, I'd resolved to dally, but no more than that." He shrugged as if he'd just explained all the intricate puzzles of the world.
"You advised her up front"—Jerald nearly choked on his outrage—"that you simply meant to dally? What kind of man are you?"
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"I am every despicable thing you conceive me to be."
"James!" Abigail scolded. She hated it when he disparaged himself in such a fashion. "Don't act this way." But no one was listening to her.
Jerald leveled his animosity on Edward. "Despite how he was raised," Jerald grimly emphasized, "James Stevens is still your son. Will you let his behavior stand without reparation? Will you tolerate his refusal to make amends?"
"He's an adult, Jerald," Edward returned. "I've tried talking to him, but I can't force him to do what's right. I wish it were possible, but I can't make him marry her. You know that."
"He is of your blood! You fathered this . . . this .. ."— his eyes bulging, his nose beet-red, he directed a condemning finger at James—"this contemptible example of manhood. How can you bear to be in the same room with him?"
"I won't dignify that with a response," Edward snapped.
"Get OUT of my house!" Jerald shouted, pushed beyond his limits. "Take your bastard and go! And while you're at it, be sure that Charles never shows his sorry face 'round here again, either."
"No, Jerald," Abigail gasped, "don't punish Caroline. She loves Charles!"
"Shut your mouth, Abigail!" he roared. Crudely, he said to Edward, "The apple never falls far from the tree, does it, Spencer? Well, I'll not have any other of your detestable brood hounding the women of my family."
James bristled and stepped forward. "You know, Father"—he emphasized his means of address—"I don't care what this horse's ass thinks about me, but it really bothers me when he denigrates Charles. Would you like me to pummel him for you? I'd be more than happy to."
"No, James," Edward murmured ruefully. "Jerald, I realize you're upset, but please don't make such a hasty decision about the children."
"Go!" Jerald shouted again. "Before I call my servants and have the two of you thrown into the street like the carnage you are."
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"Come, James." Edward sighed miserably. "You've caused enough damage here."
They headed for the door, but, startling all—especially Abigail—James moved to her side. She was too humiliated—by her brother's conduct and comments, by her own wanton, lustful comportment that had landed them in the middle of this dreadful scene—to look at him. He cupped her chin, raised her face to the light, and tipped her cheek back and forth. It was swollen and throbbing.
"Did he hit you'.'" he asked softly, ominously.
Afraid of what he might do if she divulged the truth, she didn't reply, but then, she didn't need to. The evidence was too conspicuous. He spun around, stormed behind the desk, and grabbed Jerald by the lapels of his jacket.
"With the amount of money you owe me, Marbleton," he warned, "I make it a point to know everything that occurs in your petty little life. If I ever hear that you've laid a hand on Lady Abigail again, I will bring a few of your bastard children over and introduce them to Margaret"— their eyes widened at the implication, Jerald's most of all— "then, I will kill you—slowly—with my bare hands." He lifted Jerald off the floor until his toes were dangling and seams were popping, then James tossed him into his chair with a hard thump. "Think about it," he cautioned.
He stomped away, but paused in front of Abigail. "If he touches you again, send me a note immediately. I'll deal with him." Amazing her, he took her hand and placed a tender kiss on the back, but he didn't meet her eyes. "Now I must say au revoir, and I apologize for all this upset. I hope that someday you will be able to forgive me." He straightened, but as he did, he was staring at a spot over her shoulder. "Let's go, Father."
They reached the library door just as the butler opened it. Caroline was waiting on the other side.
"What going on?" she queried anxiously.
"I'm sorry, Caroline," Edward expressed.
"For what? What's happened?" She was rapidly growing frantic.
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"Your brother will explain."
Edward patted her shoulder in commiseration, then he and James departed as a pall of doom descended on the house.
Jerald righted himself, then stood. "Return to your room, Caroline."
"I won't!" she asserted. "Not until—"
"I will not tell you again!" he screamed. As he'd never raised his voice to her before, the decree had the desired effect. With a final, sympathetic glance at Abigail, she hustled away, her skirts swishing as she stomped up the stairs.
The butler closed the door, and Abigail was perilously secluded with Jerald once more.
"Do you now understand what kind of man you have delivered into our lives?" Jerald seethed. "Do you see?"
"He's not like that," she persisted, remembering the warm chats they'd had, the tranquil moments, the stirring confessions, the ardent arguments. "He's truly not—"
Jerald cut her off. "You will proceed directly to your room, where you will be locked in for the night."
"You wouldn't dare!"
"You will go of your own accord, or I will beat you senseless, then drag you there." He was just outraged enough to carry through on his threat, and evidently he'd worry later about any possible retaliation from James. "You will never speak to Caroline again."
"You can't stop me!"
"Can't I?" he asked gravely. "She will be taken from this house immediately so that she will have no further contact with you. In the morning, you will leave for the country. During the coming month, I will contract a husband for you. To avoid any scandal, you will marry as expediently as the ceremony can be arranged."
In all her ponderings of the viable consequences, she'd never conceived of such a drastic resolution. To be married to another! While her spirit was still aching for James! After what they'd shared, she could never wed anyone else.
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The very idea seemed like an atrocious sin. "I won't do it, I tell you! You'll never get my consent!"
"I wouldn't be too sure, if I were you." He nodded toward the door. "Be gone! I'm sickened by the sight of you."
CHAPTER
TWENTY
James's carriage rattled to a halt several blocks from the club. Pulling back the curtain, he peered outside. The surrounding establishments were doing a brisk evening business on the busy thoroughfare, so the area was well lit, and it was easy to see that traffic was stalled for quite a stretch. The cool night air beckoned, and he decided to walk the rest of the way. He rapped to signal his driver, and momentarily his coachman released the door and lowered the step.
There were scores of people out, mostly wealthy gentlemen in Town for the Season, so the short stroll was safe enough, but he almost wished the street had been
dark and deserted. In his current state, he'd have loved to encounter a ruffian or two. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than the chance to administer a sincere thrashing to some despicable character who thoroughly deserved it.
Two weeks had passed since the hideous confrontation with Jerald Weston, and his heart continued to bleed from the grievous wounds he'd sustained. His level of outrage was so acute that he could barely function. After suffering through Abby's stinging admission that marrying him would be a "terrible mistake," he'd stoically tried to carry on, but her bitter words rang in his ears. Considering the manner in which he'd treated her, what had he anticipated? Love and kisses? Professions of devotion? By her denouncement, he'd gotten just what he deserved.
Still, he couldn't get past the feeling that he should have compelled her to marry him, whether she wanted to or no. At least then she'd have been under his protection and beyond Jerald's wrath. Whenever he recalled the swelling on her face, he saw red. Why he hadn't beaten Jerald to a pulp for laying his filthy hands on her was a mystery, but he'd
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already convinced himself that he'd caused enough anguish for all concerned, so he hadn't dared go further with Jerald, lest he wind up committing murder. For without a doubt, if he'd thrown one punch, he wouldn't have been able to stop.
Up ahead, there was a break in traffic, and his heart skipped a beat as he thought he spied his father's coach. How he yearned for Edward to relent, to show up at the club, ready to mend fences, to have .a late-night drink in James's office as he was wont to do on many previous occasions, but the black conveyance turned the corner, and he realized that it hadn't been his father's, after all.
He missed his father; he'd not seen Edward since he'd exited his carriage in front of his grand Town house after their abominable visit to the Westons'. Edward's disappointment had been so prodigious that he'd asked James not to call upon him for a time—until circumstances were more settled. He'd left without a wave or a backward glance, and James had felt abandoned all over again, as though he were still that six-year-old boy at the flat in Paris, listening for Edward's footstep on the stair.
