by Cheryl Holt
There was motion out on the road, and as she glanced over, a carriage turned up the lane, a man on a horse riding alongside it. She stared, trying to discover who it might be.
Guests would delay her, which was irritating. Their arrival meant she couldn’t hurry off, so she tarried, not wanting to seem rude if it was a neighbor or acquaintance.
For a minute, vehicle and rider were swallowed up by the trees. Shortly they came into view again, much closer now, and to her stunned surprise the rider was Michael Scott.
The carriage had a fancy crest on the side, indicating an exalted family, and a pretty blond woman leaned out the window. She was peering up at him, and they were chatting amiably. He pointed at the orchards, at the park, at the hills beyond. He appeared very proud, as if he was giving her a personal tour.
Maggie’s pulse began to pound. What was happening?
He’d been called away to London by an emergency, one that had been so dire Ramsey Scott had rushed to the country to fetch him. She’d exhaustively imagined what it could have been—a fire at his club, the death of an employee, a horrid accident—but she knew so little about the day-to-day facts of his life that she couldn’t speculate with any accuracy.
But in none of her frantic imaginings had she envisioned him on a pleasure jaunt with a beautiful girl.
She hovered behind her own carriage, peeking out, spying on them. Up until that very moment, she’d truly expected everything would be fine. She’d pictured a tempestuous meeting in London where they’d spat and quarrel, but where they would realize it had all been a hideous misunderstanding. They’d kiss and apologize, and Michael would be sorry and would spoil her with gifts and pamper her like a queen.
Yet with how the blond woman gazed up at him—her expression a mix of awe and infatuation—Maggie was forced to accept that every detail she’d believed about Michael Scott was a lie.
They had no future together. The proposal she was positive she’d heard hadn’t been a proposal at all. What had it been?
“What do you think?” Michael asked the woman.
“It’s lovely, Mr. Scott. I’d say it’s nicer than Stone Manor.”
“I thought you’d like it.” He smiled at the woman in much the same way he’d smiled at Maggie during their lazy afternoon picnics. She’d presumed it was a special smile, showered on her out of fondness and regard, but apparently he displayed it for every female he encountered.
“When will the tenants be out?” the woman inquired.
“Six months,” he said. “I recently negotiated the end of their lease.”
“Perfect,” the woman gushed. “It leaves me just the right amount of time to arrange the ceremony.”
Six months!
Maggie sagged against the side of her carriage, out of sight from Michael and the woman. The tenants to whom he’d blithely referred were Maggie’s family. Was he giving Cliffside to his companion? He’d promised Maggie he’d be merciful about Cliffside. He couldn’t give it away! Not before she’d had a chance to speak with him about it!
And what about the six months he’d mentioned?
It was the length of Gaylord’s illicit bargain. Was that the period Michael was talking about? Could it be?
Maggie listened as the other carriage halted, as the door was opened, the step lowered, and the woman helped to the ground. Had Michael helped her? He must have. There were no servants about.
“Shall we go in?” Michael inquired.
“Yes, by all means,” the woman replied. “I’m eager to see every room. I’m so pleased.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” he said.
Maggie took a deep breath, then walked toward them. When the pair headed for the stairs to climb to the front door, she was standing in their path.
The woman was younger than Maggie by several years, perhaps still in her adolescence. She was pretty and plump, attired in a striking lavender gown that highlighted the blue of her eyes, the gold in her hair. Every detail, down to the tiniest stitch on her bonnet, bespoke wealth and privilege.
“Hello, Michael.” Maggie glared at him, refusing to cower or look away.
On observing her, he scowled, but evinced no other reaction. “Maggie, what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same.”
“I told you to wait for me.”
“Well, I didn’t.” She yanked her attention to the woman. “Who is your friend? May we be introduced?”
“Ah…”
Michael was visibly flummoxed. Two slashes of red darkened his cheeks, and he’d been rendered speechless.
Silence reigned. Birds stopped flying. The wind stopped blowing. The Earth seemed to have stopped spinning on its axis.
Maggie couldn’t bear the awkwardness, and she stepped to the woman. “Mr. Scott’s manners have fled. I am Magdalena Wells, and this has always been my family’s home. I am Mr. Scott’s fiancée.”
The woman blanched, then her gaze became insolent and rude. She let it travel down Maggie’s body, assessing Maggie’s dress, scuffed shoes, and messy chignon. Her disdain was overt and insulting, and she clearly deemed Maggie beneath her notice.
“You’re his fiancée?” The woman scoffed. “That’s not possible.”
“What do you mean?” Maggie asked.
“I mean that I am Lady Felicia Gilroy, and I am his fiancée. I have been for ages.” She slipped a proprietary arm into Michael’s, and she grinned up at him. “Let’s go in, darling. Show me my new home.”
Without another word, they swept by Maggie, and she was frozen in her spot. If Lady Felicia had pulled out a pistol and shot Maggie, she couldn’t have been more viciously wounded.
“Michael!” she called, desperate to receive some sort of explanation.
He glanced over his shoulder.
“We’ll talk later,” he said, but that was all.
They went up the stairs and vanished into the house.
Maggie’s knees gave out, and she collapsed to the ground and huddled in the dirt in a stunned heap. She wanted to leap up and chase after them, but she felt as if the bones in her legs had melted. She couldn’t rise, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think.
No one rushed to her aid, although the driver of Lady Felicia’s carriage—who’d heard all—leaned over and frowned down at her.
“Are you all right, Miss?” he asked like an idiot.
“Oh, yes, I’m just dandy.” A mad hysteria bubbled up.
“Would you…ah…like me to fetch someone?”
“No. You go on.”
He hesitated, then clicked the reins and his horses kept on to the barn.
Maggie stayed where she was, and she couldn’t have guessed how much time passed.
The term broken heart had often been bandied in her presence. People assumed it was a romantic expression, utilized to describe intense emotion. They didn’t comprehend that it was a real physical condition that was deadly and devastating.
Eventually a footman came out. He was the one who’d loaded her luggage, who was driving her into the village. He saw her and ran over.
“Miss Maggie! What happened? What is it? Shall I get your sister?”
Maggie stared at the house where she’d been such a happy girl, but she could no longer remember when anything good had occurred in it.
If she told him to bring Pamela, her sister would fuss and flutter and drag Maggie inside. Maggie would have to dawdle in the parlor, listening as Mr. Scott showed his fiancée around.
If Lady Felicia was his betrothed, what was Maggie? His consort? His concubine? Was she his prize to use and abuse so Pamela and Gaylord could remain a Cliffside a few more months?
In the period years earlier, after Pamela had announced that Gaylord had seduced her and they would marry, Maggie had always thought it the most wrenching time. She’d presumed that naught else could ever transpire that would hurt her quite so much. But she’d been wrong.
She peered up at the footman.
“No, don’t get my sist
er. I…tripped and fell. That’s all. Help me up.”
He looked dubious, but she extended her hand, and he drew her to her feet.
“Are all my bags in the coach?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“We should be off then. I’ve delayed so long, if I’m not careful, I’ll miss the mail coach when it stops in the village.”
“If you’re sure…?”
“I’m sure.”
Her knees were still very weak, so she let him lead her to the carriage door, let him steady her as she stumbled in. She flashed a tepid smile, trying to appear half-sane so he wouldn’t race inside to find Pamela.
He hovered for a moment, his concern visible, and she waved to the box.
“I’m fine, really. Let’s hurry, so I’m not late.”
He climbed up, called to the horses, and they pulled Maggie away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“You have a guest, Miss Wells.”
The cook’s helper had knocked on her apartment door, and Maggie peered over and asked, “Who is it?”
“He wouldn’t provide his name, but he’d like to speak with you down in the common room.”
Maggie bristled. It had to be Michael Scott, and she couldn’t bear the notion of sitting down to chat with him. She’d been back in London for three days and had been waiting for him to slink in like the cur he was.
He was so vain. He’d want to hash out every humiliating detail, would want to explain, but he could never make her understand, could never earn her forgiveness.
She blew out a heavy breath. “Tell him I’m busy.”
And she actually was busy. She was folding all the pretty clothes he’d given her and planned to donate them to her church’s next charity fundraiser.
The volunteer was nervously hovering, and Maggie inquired, “What is it?”
“He said he’d come up here—if you didn’t come down. He seemed quite determined about it.”
“He did, did he?”
Maggie’s temper boiled over, and she had to admit it was refreshing to feel an emotion other than bewildered shock. Since her return, she’d been staggering around like a blind person, unable to concentrate or focus on any task. She was so discombobulated that she couldn’t even muster any worry about her sister.
Rebecca had stayed in Maggie’s apartment as she’d advised Pamela she would. Several people had seen her arrive, but none of them had seen her leave. For her entire time, she’d remained in Maggie’s room and had never ventured out. No one had visited her, and she’d gone to visit no one.
Yet there was no sign that she’d been present a single minute. Whatever her ploy had been by traveling to London, it was over and she’d departed. She’d left no letter of explanation. She’d simply drifted in and out as if she were a ghost.
Maggie had forced herself to write a one-sentence note to Pamela, asking if Rebecca was at Cliffside, but Maggie had received no reply and that paltry query was all Maggie could do. She couldn’t do any more than that.
She felt feverish and ill, her mind wandering aimlessly as if she was elderly and growing senile. Was it possible to die of heartbreak? Of shame or regret?
Agonizing questions tormented her: Why was she so gullible? Where men were concerned, why was she so naïve? Was she so desperate to be loved that she’d believe any lie a man told? Was she so desperate to be loved that she couldn’t discern truth from reality?
Due to Gaylord’s perfidy, she’d resolved to never succumb to affection ever again. It had been the foundation of every decision she’d made as an adult. Why then had she stumbled off the path she’d chosen for herself? Why had she let Michael Scott mean anything to her?
“I’ll take care of this,” she muttered, and she marched out and headed to the stairs.
She was so angry. She’d intended to storm down, to order Mr. Scott out of her building and out of her life, but as she began to descend, her strides slowed. She had no idea how to have this conversation. She’d once had a similar one with Gaylord, and it had been horrid and pointless.
How dare Michael Scott put her through such agony? How dare he show his face where he was so unwelcome?
Trudging to the bottom, she glanced over. To her stunned surprised, it wasn’t Mr. Scott. It was Gaylord!
She was astonished to see him. In all the years since she’d fled Cliffside, he’d never visited, and for an anxious instant she wondered if Rebecca had suffered a mishap and he was there to inform her. But no. There was no sign of distress about him. If Rebecca was imperiled, even a man as jaded as Gaylord would have to evince some unease, wouldn’t he?
He was seated on a bench at a dining table. In his expensive suit and hat, his gold-tipped walking stick, he looked distinctly out of place, and he nervously studied the dreary surroundings as if the poverty might rub off.
When he observed Maggie, his expression changed so he appeared smug and superior, as if he had a secret or as if he’d played a sneaky trick on her. There was an awkward silence, and Maggie went over and slid onto the bench across from him.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “Is it about Rebecca?”
“Rebecca? No.”
“Is she all right?”
He shrugged. “As far as I know.”
“Then if this is not about one of my sisters, I’d rather not talk to you. Get out.”
Gaylord smirked and raised an arrogant brow. “We have numerous topics to address, namely my contract with Mr. Scott.”
Maggie was so irate that red dots formed in the corners of her vision. If she opened her mouth, flames of rage might shoot out.
“You mention that lewd pact to my face, Gaylord? To my face?”
“Mr. Scott is very happy with the trial period.”
“Shut up.”
“Why did you leave his country house? I guess he told you to stay there, but you left.”
Maggie was aghast. “You’ve spoken to him?”
“Of course. We have a deal, and you’re front and center for all the terms.”
“The two of you had the gall to discuss me as if I was a…a…sow at the fair?”
“No one’s bartering over you,” he scoffed. “We’re merely confused about what’s occurring. Are you going back to the country or what?”
“No, I’m not going back.”
“But he’s so pleased! He’s agreed to let us remain at Cliffside for the whole six months.”
“Bully for him.”
“You can’t renege. Everything is arranged to the satisfaction of all parties.”
“Which parties are satisfied?” Maggie hissed. “I assume you’re referring to yourself and Mr. Scott, for I must tell you that I’m not satisfied at all, and from my vantage point I’m the only one who matters.”
“You have to continue doing your part.”
“With Mr. Scott?”
“Yes.” Gaylord’s voice became cajoling. “You have to help the family, Maggie. We’re all counting on you.”
“Mr. Scott is engaged!”
“So?”
“I can’t be his mistress! He’s about to marry an aristocrat’s daughter. They were at Cliffside, and it sounds as if they plan to live there after their wedding.”
“They just think they will. You’re aware that I’m working to retrieve the property from him. Lady Felicia and Mr. Scott will never make it their home.”
Maggie studied his deceitful eyes. “When you bargained with him, you knew he was engaged, didn’t you?”
“Well…”
“You knew, and you proceeded anyway.”
“I offered marriage, and he declined, so I offered a different option, and he jumped on it. He was extremely eager to have you.”
“Meaning he informed you that he was betrothed and couldn’t marry me, but he’d be happy to have me as his mistress.”
“Yes, but don’t get your petticoat in a wad over it. His betrothal has naught to do with you.”
“How can you say that? Call me foolish and naïve, but I
thought he would wed me.”
“You!” Gaylord snorted with amusement. “Why would you believe that? Mr. Scott is a wealthy, imperious brigand, and you’re poor as a church mouse. He can have any girl he wants, and Lady Felicia is giving him land and ships as a dowry, plus entry into the highest circles of society. If she can provide him with all that, why would he ever have picked a poverty-stricken spinster like you?”
There was no crueler comment Gaylord could have uttered. She wasn’t an aristocrat’s daughter, but once in her life, she’d had a fat, rich dowry and would have been a fabulous bride for an affluent man like Michael Scott.
But Gaylord had taken all of it away, and he’d never exhibited an ounce of remorse about any of the catastrophes he’d perpetrated.
She’d never understood how a person could be driven to commit murder, but at the moment, if she’d had a knife she’d have stabbed him in the center of his cold, black heart.
“Go away,” she quietly, stoically stated. “Go away, and don’t ever come back here.”
“I won’t depart until I have your promise that you’re heading to Mr. Scott’s country house to complete your six-month sojourn.”
“You disgrace yourself by suggesting it, but then I would expect nothing less from you.”
“Listen to me, you little shrew,” he said.
“No. I’ve been listening to you for seven years. I’m done listening to you.”
He wagged an angry finger under her nose. “If you don’t carry on with the bargain, what will happen to your sisters? I don’t care what you think about me, but what about them?”
“Don’t throw them in my face. Whatever happens to them is all your fault, and you never get to make me feel guilty ever again.”
She rose to her feet, and he leapt up too. His cheeks were red, the veins bulging in his neck. “You will heed me and do as I bid you,” he warned, “or by God, you’ll rue the day you crossed me.”
“You’ve already shown how you can hurt me. You proved it when you seduced my sister. I survived that calamity, so I figure I can survive any other disaster you toss at me.”
She spun and walked to the stairs, and he began shouting at her, threatening her, his booming voice echoing off the rafters. The cook and two male helpers were in the kitchen, and they rushed in to see what was transpiring.
