by Cheryl Holt
“I’ll be back in a few days. I’ll contact you the minute I return, and you can fill me in on the details.”
“Guess what the biggest one is?”
“You mean besides your marrying a viscount, becoming a viscountess, and joining the top ranks of society?”
“Yes, besides all that.” Evangeline’s smile lit up the dim room of the mission, illuminating it in a way it would never be again. She had that kind of dramatic effect.
“Give me a hint of your news,” Maggie said, “so I can chaw on it while I’m away.”
“I have a family,” Evangeline announced.
“What? You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not an orphan and never was. I have a brother named Bryce and two other brothers I’m trying to find. We were separated when we were very young.”
“My goodness, Evangeline.”
“And when I was born, my name was Annie Blair.”
“Now, I’m doubly anxious to hurry back.”
“You’ll be astonished. My own head is still spinning.”
Maggie walked Evangeline to the front door, and they’d just stepped outside when Mr. Scott trotted up the street. Wouldn’t you know it? The blasted man was right on time.
He was with Ramsey Scott, and Ramsey was leading a mare that had no rider, so evidently the animal was intended for Maggie.
She’d hoped Evangeline’s carriage might block her view of Mr. Scott, but anymore Maggie couldn’t seem to generate any luck. Evangeline glanced over and said, “Oh, there’s Mr. Scott. What a coincidence.”
She merrily waved, and when he saw her he blanched with dismay.
Evangeline leaned nearer and murmured, “He’s so handsome, don’t you think?”
“Yes, he’s very handsome.” If you like untrustworthy, dissolute brigands!
“He looks just like my brother, Bryce.”
As Evangeline mentioned the similarity, Maggie stared at Mr. Scott, and it dawned on her that he also looked a lot like Evangeline too—although his hair was dark and hers was blond. They both had the most stunning blue eyes.
“Mr. Scott,” Evangeline said as he and Ramsey reined in, “we meet again.”
“Hello, Lady Run.”
“I realize I begged you to escort me to the mission someday, but once you told me Maggie was in the city, I couldn’t wait to speak with her.” Evangeline grinned up at him, pert dimples creasing her cheeks. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“I don’t mind,” he mumbled.
He had the strangest expression on his face, and he was ignoring Maggie completely, which was fine by her.
Evangeline didn’t notice his peculiar demeanor and—praise be!—didn’t inquire as to why he was passing by. But then his business establishment was just down the street, so it wasn’t that odd to bump into him.
She hugged Maggie, promised to stop by again very soon, then climbed into her carriage. The driver clicked the reins, and they rumbled away.
With a sad sort of yearning, Maggie watched her go. She’d have given her right arm to climb in with Evangeline, to be spirited away to Mayfair and leave all her troubles behind, but she couldn’t avoid the pending trip.
Michael Scott thought he’d tricked Maggie into being his mistress, but he was in for a surprise.
She’d agreed to his scheme, but she had no intention of ruining herself. What she did intend was to charm and flirt until she lured his kindness to the fore again. He could be funny and interesting and polite, and she would goad those traits to the surface if it killed her. Once she had him back on a more pleasant footing, she’d be able to cajole him into behaving exactly as she wished him to behave.
There would be no illicit affair. He was mad if he presumed so.
“Why was Lady Run here?” Mr. Scott asked almost in accusation.
“She’s a friend of mine. Apparently you were blabbing hither and yon about my missionary work, and she came to see it for herself.”
“I never blab,” he huffed, “and I most especially didn’t blab to her.”
“I stand corrected,” she sarcastically replied.
“Are you prepared to depart? Or are you a typical female who’ll make me dawdle for hours while you primp and preen?”
“You’re a bachelor, Mr. Scott. Why would you be so familiar with a woman’s traveling routines? Are you in the habit of absconding to the country with virtuous young ladies?”
“Yes, all the time.”
He glared so ferociously she couldn’t decide if he was telling the truth or not. Her confidence slipped a bit.
“You said we were riding,” she reminded him.
“We are.”
“So I assume I can only bring one bag.”
“Yes.”
“It’s upstairs. Will you carry it down for me or must I do it myself?”
“I can do it,” he grumbled.
“See?” she chided. “Your manners are already improving. If you spend a few days with me, I may actually turn you into a human being.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Ramsey Scott muttered.
She peered up at him and asked Mr. Scott, “Are you ever going to introduce me to your companion?”
“No.”
“I’ve been in his presence several times,” Maggie said, “but haven’t had the pleasure.”
“I’m Ramsey Scott.”
“Ramsey Scott?” she inquired. “Are you two brothers?”
“He should be so lucky,” both men grouched in unison, providing ample evidence of a lengthy acquaintance.
“Is he coming with us?” she asked.
“No,” Mr. Scott responded, and Ramsey Scott queried, “Who will run the mission while you’re away?”
“I have volunteers who know the procedures.”
“But…there’s no one in charge?”
“No.”
“You live here?”
“Upstairs in an apartment.”
“Your bed will be empty while you’re away.”
“I have no idea why that would concern you.” She turned to Michael Scott. “May we go?”
“The sooner the better. I’m eager to claim my prize.”
“Your prize?” At first, she didn’t understand, but his torrid gaze rudely wandered down her torso. “Oh, you mean me. I am the prize.”
“Will you be worth it?” he snottily inquired. “Time will tell, I suppose.”
“I’ll be the best thing you’ve ever won.”
He snorted and swung down from the saddle. A group of boys rushed up, all begging to hold his reins. He nodded to one of them, then stared up at Ramsey.
“You have your instructions,” he said.
“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”
“You know where I’ll be—if there’s trouble.”
Ramsey Scott scoffed. “As if they’d dare to cause trouble around me.”
“You might stumble on an idiot who’s unaware of your repute,” Mr. Scott replied.
“He’ll be aware of it after he meets me,” Ramsey Scott boasted.
He laughed malevolently, and Mr. Scott waved him off and led Maggie inside.
“Where is Mr. Ramsey going?” She needed to make conversation to smooth over the awkwardness of the moment.
“To break a few arms for me.”
She tripped, and he lurched forward to steady her.
“You’re not serious,” she scolded. “You’re not having anyone’s arm broken.”
He shrugged but didn’t comment, and again she couldn’t discern if he was being truthful.
She heard footsteps behind her and peeked back to find a hoard of street urchins following in Mr. Scott’s wake. They hovered in the doorway, tracking Mr. Scott’s every move, their expressions worshipful, as if he was a hero or saint.
“You have a gaggle of admirers,” she told him.
He glanced at them, and with the slightest gesture they hastily disbursed.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“I’m surprised b
y how they all seem to know you.”
“Why would you be surprised? I’ve lived on this street a lot longer than you have.”
“They’re enamored of you.”
“That’s because I’m one of them and on their side.” He peered around the room. “This used to be an orphanage years ago. I stayed here sometimes.”
She stopped and pulled him to a stop too. “I knew you grew up on the streets, but on this street?”
“Yes, and everyone on it is under my protection, so the children are safe. It’s probably why they tag after me. I imagine they’re grateful.”
He offered the explanation as if it was silly or embarrassing, and she scowled. “How did you become the man you are?”
“How does anyone?”
She thought he might reveal a tad more personal information, but evidently he’d already shared more than he’d intended. His cheeks flushed with what might have been chagrin, and he walked on, giving her the clear indication that he didn’t want her to realize he was discomfited.
He knew where her apartment was located, and he went to the stairs and tromped up. She strolled more slowly, evaluating his body, his clothes, his erect bearing.
He was dressed for traveling, but in expensive, perfectly-tailored garments, such as an aristocrat might wear: tan trousers, knee-high black boots, a flowing white shirt, a blue coat. His fingers were covered with gaudy rings, the stones appearing to be sapphires and diamonds and, considering his luxurious attire, she assumed the gems were real.
She’d understood that he gambled, that he owned his notorious club. But there were other stories too, that he owned ships and land and other vital assets. She’d discounted the tales as exaggerations. After all, how could a criminal accumulate so much wealth?
It didn’t seem possible, and in light of the general opinion that criminals weren’t very bright or educated, how could he have had the intellect to thrive? How would he have had the mathematical skills to tabulate the money that was rolling in?
A sliver of unease slipped down her spine. What was she getting herself into?
He strutted into her apartment, and she entered after him, almost tiptoeing, feeling uncertain in a manner she never was. He marched through the parlor and proceeded directly to the bedchamber where her battered portmanteau was on the bed.
He gaped at it. “Is this it?”
“Yes.”
He studied her gray gown, her tidy chignon.
“How many dresses did you pack?” he asked.
“Two—besides the one I’m wearing.”
“Are they all gray?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t have you traipsing around my home, looking dowdy.”
“You don’t have to be rude. I’m not rich like you.”
“I wasn’t being rude. I’m just stating the facts.”
“Well then, thank you for pointing out the obvious.”
“You’re welcome, and you don’t need to worry. I’ve bought plenty for you.”
“Plenty of what?”
“Clothes.”
“You bought me clothes?”
“Yes. They’ll be delivered over the next week, so you don’t have to take any of this if you don’t want to.”
“You can’t buy me clothes!”
“Why not?”
“It’s not…appropriate.”
“Maggie, we’re about to begin a wild, salacious affair. I think clothes are the least of your problems.” He nodded to the portmanteau. “Are we bringing this raggedy old stuff or not?”
“Yes, we’re bringing it.”
“Have it your way, but it’s a waste of perfectly good space.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He spun and stomped out, her bag under his arm, and she had to run to catch up.
* * * *
“I’m ready to start.”
“Start what?”
“Our affair.”
Michael stared at Maggie, his expression shielding his true sentiment, and she couldn’t conceal a gasp of alarm.
“Now?”
“Why not? We’ve been in my home for over twelve hours. I’m not in the habit of waiting for things.”
“But…but…” she stammered.
“But what? We came here so I can relieve you of your virginity. Let’s begin.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I mean, I need a little more time to compose myself.”
“I don’t want you to be composed. I want you anxious and scared.”
“Scared? Why?”
“It will be more enjoyable for me if you’re frightened and begging me to stop.”
She frowned. “That’s disgusting.”
He bit down on the smile that was struggling to break out.
They’d spent two very lovely days on the road, plus a night at a coaching inn, in separate rooms of course, and had arrived at his country house—Orphan’s Nest—on the third day.
Throughout the journey, she’d been engaging and sweet, and he’d found himself liking her more than was wise. Gradually he’d become troubled over his plans with regard to her.
From the outset, when Farrow had first proposed his illicit bargain, Michael hadn’t been interested in deflowering her. But she’d needled and nagged at him when he was in a temper, and he’d forced the issue simply because she’d given him an enormous headache and deserved a comeuppance for aggravating him.
Yet he wasn’t an idiot or a fool, and when he caught himself yearning to back out of the deal with Farrow, to return her to her family safe and sound, her virtue intact, he’d realized her ploy.
She was hoping to charm him into better behavior. She was hoping to make him feel sorry for her, but she didn’t have to earn his sympathy.
He felt very sorry for her. Sorry that Farrow was her brother-in-law. Sorry that Farrow had put her in such a predicament. Sorry that Farrow had destroyed her life when he’d jilted her.
But Michael wasn’t sorry that he’d ruined Farrow. It didn’t weigh on his conscience at all, and despite how she cajoled him, he would never change his mind about that one pertinent fact.
During the trip, he’d been the perfect traveling companion, so he’d allowed her to indulge in fantasies as to what he was really like, but it was time to rein in her mischief. He was happy to demonstrate how alone she was, that he could do whatever he wished to her and she couldn’t prevent it.
He wouldn’t harm her or force her, but honestly! How much manipulation was a man supposed to endure?
It was late, almost midnight. They’d dined together—a slow, lazy supper that had lulled her into a false sense of security—then they’d had a quiet brandy on the verandah and looked out at the stars.
Then she’d gone up to bed. He’d tarried a few minutes so she could undress, then he’d barged in as if he owned the place. Which he did.
“Take off your robe,” he ordered.
She gulped with dismay. “My robe?”
“Yes.” He gestured to it. “Take it off. Your nightgown too. I want you naked.”
“I don’t think I’d like that.”
“And I think I’d like it very much.”
He took a step toward her, and she took one back. She took another and he took one too. They were in her bedchamber, and he approached until she bumped up against the bedpost and couldn’t keep on. He pressed his body to hers and nearly sighed with contentment, feeling as if it had been years, instead of days, since he’d been so close to her.
He untied the belt on her robe and tugged it off so it pooled on the floor at her feet. Her nightgown was old and faded, the cloth worn thin from too many washings. Her nipples poked at the fabric, the pink color just visible.
“I don’t like that gleam in your eye,” she said, and she was trembling, which annoyed him very much. He liked to imagine she understood him and knew he wouldn’t hurt her. Not physically anyway.
“What gleam is that?” he asked.
“It appear
s you’d like to gobble me up.”
“Your perception is correct, Miss Wells.”
He dipped down and nibbled at her nape, liking how she squealed with dread, how she squirmed and tried to escape, but he wasn’t about to cease his torment.
“Could we discuss this?” she inquired.
“No.”
“The whole trip, you’ve been so…so…”
“What? Complacent? Polite?”
“I thought maybe you’d…ah…decided not to ravish me.”
“I had initially believed I wasn’t interested, but I’m tired of listening to you talk. There are things I’d like you to do with that pretty mouth of yours—besides babbling on and on—and I plan to show you what they are.”
“I don’t have to talk all the time. You seemed to be enjoying our chats, but I can be silent.”
“I’d rather have you shrieking and clawing at my back with your fingernails.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Good. Your claims about being a maiden must be true.”
“Of course they’re true, you oaf.”
“Some women have been known to lie about such an important detail.”
“Not me.”
He abandoned her nape and nuzzled up to capture her lips in a torrid kiss. She permitted the contact for only a moment, then she wrenched away, looking lost and alone and very afraid.
“What’s the matter, Magdalena? Don’t tell me you’re frightened. This is what we came here for, remember?”
“Yes, but…but…”
“A deal’s a deal. Isn’t that what you said?”
“Perhaps I was a bit hasty.”
“And perhaps I finally agree with you. When your brother-in-law offered you to me, I deemed it a terrible notion, but now I can’t wait to have you.”
“Well, I’ve changed my mind.”
“You can’t. It’s too late.”
He picked her up and pitched her onto the mattress, and before she could scoot away, he stretched out on top of her and pinned her down.
He grinned. “This isn’t so bad, is it?”
“It’s pretty bad,” she petulantly grumbled, and he laughed and laughed.
“You greatly amuse me, Magdalena Wells. I’ll give you that much.”
“So glad I could be of service.”
“Will you stop trying to charm me? It’s irritating, and you can’t alter my character.”
