by Cheryl Holt
Angela downed her whiskey while Abigail sipped hers, then the older woman refilled both glasses as she casually mentioned, "Aren't you going to ask me about James?"
"No." Abigail shifted uncomfortably. "Why would I ask about James?"
"I just thought you might be wondering how he's been, what he's been doing with himself."
"Besides orchestrating his brother's elopement, you mean?"
"Yes. .. besides that "
Both women smiled, but Abigail's faded, and she stood and walked to the end of the room. Unable to face Angela, or the topic she intended to address, she stared out the window, becoming keenly interested in one of the gardeners who was kneeling in the grass and pruning a hedge. "I don't want to talk about him."
"When you appeared on my doorstep in London"—Angela's skirts crinkled as she rose and crossed the room, as well—"you said that you loved him. That you loved him 'more than life.' Those were your very words."
Abigail shrugged. "Foolish sentiments," she murmured, "from a naive, stupid girl."
"I know he cared enough to meet with you even though I urged him not to. What did he tell you?"
"Nothing at all. You had warned me that he felt no at-
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tachment to me—or any woman, for that matter—and I should have listened."
Angela rested a gentle hand on Abigail's shoulder. "Did he actually say that he didn't love you?”
"Yes," she choked out on a hitched breath, recalling every hateful, mortifying comment that had sprung from his lips on that dreadful afternoon, "he said exactly that."
"And you believed him?"
''How could I not?"
"Don't you understand anything about my son? He assumed he was being noble!" She grumbled low in her throat, then clutched her fists to her bosom, as though enacting a melodramatic scene on the stage. "He sent you on your way, because he is so unworthy of you."
"I never thought he was undeserving!"
"Well, James certainly supposes that's how you feel. And why shouldn't he?" she inquired angrily. "What did you ever do that might cause him think differently? You initiated a clandestine affair; you were embarrassed to be seen with him, unwilling to let others know you'd been together—"
"That's not true!" Abigail broke in indignantly.
"The one occasion you could have recognized him—that night at the theater—you gave him a vicious public cut. How else should he regard your behavior?"
"I never meant to treat him badly!''
"Didn't you?"
The damning question hung in the air, and Abigail blushed with shame, unable to lie to his mother. She'd never done anything to show James how important he was to her. At every juncture, she'd denied him.
"Tell me the truth: Do yon still love him?"
"Yes. Yes, I do," Abigail confessed.
"Then why are you here, cowering in this house?"
"My brother ordered me home!"
"So?"
"I couldn't refuse!"
"Why not? How old are you? Twenty-five? With your
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own fortune and your entire life ahead of you!" She grumbled sarcastically, "Oh, that I had been able to start out with some of your horrid luck!"
Abigail wished she could explain how apprehensive she was over all these alien, drastic alternatives. The future seemed to be a huge, dark hole, yawning loudly, anxious to suck her in and pull her down. " 'Tis not so easy as you imagine!"
"Isn't it?" Angela asked in disgust. "Jerald is treating you like a babe. He decreed that you go to the country, and you scurried away as fast as your feet could carry you!"
"There wasn't any reason to tarry in London! James didn't want me!"
"Oh, you are wrong," Angela said, clucking in dismay. "You are so bloody wrong. I'd like to shake the pair of you!" She took Abigail's hands in her own. "Abigail, dear, what are your plans? Will you stay here until Jerald tosses you out? Until he selects some fishwife of a husband whom you will loathe till your dying day?"
"I don't know what's best," she mumbled dejectedly. "I'm so confused."
"Honey, you don't need to be," Angela consoled confidently. "Let me tell you something: When I was your age, I left Eddy. I was stubborn and vain and completely convinced that I was right, even though when I first became entangled with him, I knew that he would have to marry someday—and it wouldn't be to me. I knew how it would go, yet I couldn't stop myself. Then his destiny hit the two of us like a powerful sea wind, and I let arrogance be my guide. We were separated for twenty-five years, and I'm so lucky that fate has given me a second chance. We rushed off and married without even inviting our children to witness the ceremony."
"None of them?"
"No. We were tired of their whining. And guess what? I don't care a fig that they weren't with us. I'm just so relieved that he's returned. Nothing else matters so long as
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Eddy remains by my side. The rest of the world can jump off a cliff."
"But I'm not like you," Abigail persisted. Angela had had a lifetime of practice at reaching out and grabbing for what she desired, while the only singular act Abigail had ever committed had been loving James. And look where that had landed her! " 'Tis frightening to consider throwing all caution to the wind. I'm afraid of what might happen."
"What is there to be afraid of? The very worst conclusion is that you couldn't turn James's heart around and you'd wind up with a broken one yourself. But you're already there! Taking a chance can't make things any worse!" She tenderly patted Abigail's cheek. "Will you sit here on your laurels while Jerald organizes a life you couldn't abide? Or will you seize what you genuinely crave?"
"I don't know how," Abigail declared softly.
"Yes, you do," Angela asserted. " 'Tis simple. Just swallow your pride and go to James. Because he's not going to come to you! You'll have to risk that initial step. I realize it's scary, but if you succeed, won't the gamble have been worth it? For what is your other option?" She gestured around the perfectly appointed, sterile salon. "Will you forgo a home of your own? Children? No James to love?" Quietly, fervently, she stated, "I traveled down that road, Abigail, when I abandoned Eddy and fled to Paris with our boys, and it wasn't a pretty trip. Not a single day of it."
The clock down the hall chimed the hour, and Angela straightened and sighed. "I must be off; Eddy will be starting to worry." She went to one of the side chairs, lifted her wrap, and pulled it over her shoulders. "Please promise me that you'll consider what I've said."
"I will."
"If you decide to journey to London, my man Arthur is still at the house, watching after James for me. I've informed him that you might show. He'll let you in and help you get settled." She laughed bawdily. "Move in the damned place; I don't care. You're already a fallen woman; go ahead and fall a bit further. Just swear to me that you
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won't leave until James has the opportunity to ask you to stay."
"Where will you be?" Abigail's voice was quaking as badly as her legs, and she eased herself down on a nearby chair.
"We're bound for the Italian coast and our honeymoon. I'd hoped we could visit Paris so Eddy could see where the boys and I had lived, but with all die national upset, we can't stop there. I offered to write to Bonaparte—"
"You're friends with Napoleon Bonaparte?"
"Of course," she answered, looking at Abigail as though she were addled. "I was the darlings—she batted her long lashes—"of Paris for nearly two decades. He'd have granted us safe passage, but Eddy wouldn't even discuss it. His position and all. That man and his stuffy convictions!" She winked wickedly. "I'll have to work my wiles on him during our lengthy sea voyage. He'll come 'round." She leaned down and kissed Abigail on the forehead. "Goodbye, my dear."
"Good-bye, Angela. Godspeed to you both."
Angela gazed down upon her, then placed her open palm on Abigail's head, as if bestowing a benediction. "Be happy, Abigail. D
ecide what it is you want and go after it. Don't be timid! You'd be surprised by me small miracles that might occur."
In a swirl of skirts, she departed. Abigail lingered in her chair, too overwhelmed to escort her to the door. Sensing the woman's light perfume, her full-bodied laughter, her charismatic presence, she sat in the stunned silence Angela had left in her wake, and in the blind void enveloping her, she could only focus on one thought.
James! James was alone, and in London, and missing her! Angela claimed it was so.
What was she prepared to do about it?
With all her being, she yearned to storm from the house and march to Town, demanding her rightful place by his side. Angela Ford Stevens made it sound so easy but in all actuality it wasn't so simple to cast off one's past while
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recklessly plunging forward when there were no guarantees. Yet the older woman had lit a spark that was rapidly igniting into a raging torrent of longing for James. On any terms. Without condition.
Could she, dare she, attempt such a perilous leap for happiness? If she vaulted off this precipice into the great unknown stretching before her, and James didn't deign to catch her, where would she find herself when she hit bottom? Did it matter?
Her pulse pounding in her veins, her mind frantically searching through the possibilities, she quit the parlor and climbed the stairway to her rooms.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
James returned home just as dawn was breaking. His long night of employment was ending, but the rest of London was beginning to stir and face the day. He crossed the threshold and closed the door on the procession of carts and sellers who were slowly going about their business.
By his own request, no one was up to greet him. He was the sole person rattling around in in the large house, and he couldn't see any reason to have Arthur, or any of the other servants, hop out of bed to say hello, watch him hang his cloak and eat a few eggs. Competently, he took care of his own outer garments, then stood for a moment in the silent foyer.
By the very nature of their jobs and interests, they had always been a family of night owls. Usually at this time of the morning, he and Michael would have arrived together, animated from all the commotion at the club. Angela would have just arrived, as well, after an evening filled with a performance and parties. On many occasions, she would have brought along friends, and there'd be a loud, chatty, interesting group eating breakfast in the dining room.
More often, it had been the three of them. Fatigued from their endeavors, but unable to rest, they'd unwind by rehashing the happenings, sharing gossip, exchanging information, and enjoying each other's company.
Now there was only this dreaded stillness. Which he hated.
The hollow ticking of the clock echoed through the empty halls, a constant reminder of how alone he was. Angela had eloped with Edward, then left for Italy without so much as a fare-thee-well. When they returned to London— whenever that would be—they'd reside in Edward's Town house, so she'd never be back. The spirit and vitality she'd
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breathed into the drafty rooms were gone for good.
Michael was still having his temper tantrum, and rumor had it that he'd gotten himself involved with a woman, but James wouldn't venture to guess what that meant. There was no telling when his brother would reappear, making James wonder if he should simply stay at the club full-time, thereby avoiding these depressing homecomings entirely.
He climbed the stairs slowly, weariness pulling at his mind and body, and he thought about Charles and Caroline. At least one thing had gone right. They were safe at his country house, and the notion made him feel a little better. But then, for the briefest instant, Abby managed to creep into his musings as he pondered where she was and what she might be doing, and he was immediately overcome with misery. Refusing to consider her, he was successful in chasing her away.
No use going down that road!
At the top, he paused, listening to the overwhelming quiet that now occupied the spaces where there had once been so much laughter and gaiety. Strange, but he thought he could hear someone singing, and he shook his head. His mother and brother had only been absent a few weeks, and ghosts were already flitting about.
Still... walking down the hall, he couldn't get past the sensation that someone was on the premises, someone whose presence altered the atmosphere, though who it might be, he hadn't a clue. His senses on full alert, he strode into his bedchamber.
The drapes were drawn, candles lit, food and wine on one of the tables, the bedcovers turned down. A lace-trimmed corset, its strings dangling, lay across the foot of his bed. An aroma of roses wafted through the partially closed door to his dressing room. Water trickled through someone's fingers.
For pity's sake! It was six o'clock in the morning, he was dead tired, desirous of a few hours solitude and repose, and there was an unknown woman bathing in his private
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rooms! Surely this was more than a man should have to abide!
What female of his acquaintance would dare breach the sanctity of his home? Whoever she was, she was brash, bold, and either extremely brave or remarkably stupid. Considering his state of irritation anymore, only a fool would tangle with him. Anger and annoyance warred with one another at the notion that he'd be constrained to endure some sort of ordeal to get her to leave.
While he was willing to tolerate many things from the fairer sex, he was hardly ready to have them sneaking into his bath and bed. Yet, as he traversed the floor, his cock stirred as he contemplated the nude form he was about to view. Since that last, dramatic rendezvous with Abigail, he'd not visited a woman's bed. Not that he hadn't had plenty of chances, but none of those who'd acted interested had titillated his interest the least bit.
It had been almost two months since he'd enjoyed a carnal release, and the lack had added some undesirable side effects to his personality. He was surly, fatigued, irate, and ready to toss this interloper out on her pretty arse, but before he gave her the heave-ho, he was certainly willing to rudely partake of whatever she offered. A quick, heated coupling might be just the ticket to alleviate his stress and bring about some much-needed sleep.
In his dressing room, the smell of roses was stronger. The woman had disrobed in here, and her clothes were scattered about. The tub was shielded by a decorated screen. A lamp burned, illuminating only her profile, and he was treated to an enchanting, erotic exhibition as she steadied herself, came up to her knees, then her feet.
The water lapped against the edge as she exited. She leaned over to grab for a towel, and he hardened at the glimpse of her lush, rounded bottom. Starting at her head, she languidly rubbed her body, working the drying cloth down across her throat, her bosom, her flat stomach, cleft, thighs, calves, toes. Then, she wrapped it under her arms, but not before he noticed that her breasts were flawlessly
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formed, high and pert, the nipples two taut little buds. Tucking the flap at her cleavage, the long sheeting hung past her knees like a type of native's dress.
He held his breath. Aching. Ready.
She moved from behind the screen.
"Hello, James." Abby smiled. "I didn't realize you were home."
He wasn't quite sure who he'd been expecting, but unquestionably not Abigail Weston. If the Blessed Virgin herself had stopped by, he couldn't have been more stunned.
But for the towel, she was naked, her skin moist, slippery, fragrant. She was the most delectable sight he'd ever laid eyes upon, and as always transpired when she was near, his body reacted with amazing force. His erection expanded severely, and he became so overinflated that he had to grip a chair in order to remain upright, and he struggled to hide his surprise and blatant ardor.
He was furious that she'd come, furious that she'd put him in the position of craving her so badly, of having to chase her away all over again. He wasn't sure he possessed the fortitude to be so overtly cruel a sec
ond time.
Angrily, he asked, "What are you doing here?"
"Taking a bath." She stated the obvious as though his stumbling across her while she performed her ablutions was the most common of occurrences. He hadn't moved any closer, so she took the initiative, narrowing the distance until they were toe to toe, and he was assailed by a myriad of feminine bouquets, of perfume and sex and musk.
She flicked that wicked tongue of hers along her bottom lip, drawing his attention to it so thoroughly that he couldn't look away. "The water is still hot. Would you like to bathe? I could wash you."
Her husky voice, the one that sounded more indecent than any expensive whore he'd ever had, flowed over his body as though she were licking him with her words. Vividly, he could picture himself removing his clothes, sliding into the steamy cauldron, and letting her massage him all
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over. At the thought, his balls clenched and cried out for mercy.
"I don't want you in my home," he contended.
"Really? It seems to me that you've missed me."
So saying, she laid her hand on the front of his trousers, where his cockstand had swelled to a vulgar length, and his traitorous hips, of their own accord, flexed against her. She ground the heel of her palm into the sensitive tip before he managed to yank her away.
"Don't flatter yourself," he said meanly. "I realized there was a naked woman in my bath. I was prepared to fuck whoever was idiotic enough to saunter 'round the screen."
"I'm certain that's true." She eliminated the gap between them; her towel tickled his clothing. "Aren't I lucky that I get to be the one?"
Shifting back, creating space, he baldly declared, "I'm expecting my mistress."
"You don't have one," she responded, refusing to heed his protests. "Arthur told me you haven't bedded a woman in weeks. And I was ecstatic to learn"—she flipped that glorious mane of hair over her shoulder—"that you finally had the sense to send that Ritter woman packing. I never liked your being with her, and I'm sure she's the one who caused all our trouble." Appearing entirely too innocent, she inquired, "Would you dry my back?"
