by Cheryl Holt
“You can keep on,” he insisted to the other players.
Still, they didn’t begin, and one of them asked, “Are you sure?”
“It’s just money,” he replied. “It’s naught to me if I lose some of it.”
They started in then, but with his temper festering, it was like having an elephant sitting at the table. He was impossible to ignore. He hadn’t shaved, hadn’t eaten. His clothes were unkempt, his condition messy.
Because he rubbed elbows with the premier rogues in society, he always dressed better, looked better, behaved better, and acted smarter than any of them. But for the foreseeable future, he simply didn’t care. People were aware that something had happened to disorient him, and they were speculating over what it could have been, but none of them dared to pry.
Only Ramsey could have inquired. Only Ramsey could have fixed what was wrong, or at least calmed Michael’s fury, but Ramsey was away just when Michael needed him the most.
A servant tapped him on the shoulder, and Michael scowled. “What is it?”
The man leaned nearer and murmured, “There’s a woman to see you.”
He glanced to the door, surprised to find Magdalena huddled in the foyer. She was attired in one of her frumpy gray gowns, her hair in a tidy, unflattering chignon. She might have been a fussy governess, a nun without her hood. Her eyes were cool and hurt as she tried not to notice the slattern on his lap.
“What does she want?”
“She’d like to speak with you. She claims it’s urgent.”
“Urgent?” he scoffed.
“Isn’t that the lady from the charity mission?” the doxy said.
“It is. She’s probably here to read a couple of Bible passages about sin and damnation.”
The doxy laughed, and the servant asked, “Shall I tell her you’re busy?”
Michael let his bored gaze meander across the room to her, his disdain oozing out. She wasn’t interested in a relationship? She’d discounted what had blossomed between them? Well, to hell with her!
Yet he was curious as to why she’d come. During their last meeting, she’d been very clear as to her opinion of him. Other men, weaker men, might have mourned and raged over her rejection, but not Michael. His whole life had been one of heartache and loss. He never grieved. He never lamented his fate.
For a fleeting instant he wondered if she was about to inform him that she was increasing with his child, but he suspected it was too early for her to know, and he hoped it wasn’t the case. She’d declined his help and support, and he was perfectly happy to leave her alone. A babe would complicate the picture, would force them into further contact.
“I’ll see her,” he grumbled. “Take her up to my office. Tell her I’ll join her when I’m damn good and ready.”
He glared at her, watching as the servant escorted her to the stairs. As she passed by Michael’s table, he laid a hand on the slattern’s breast and trained trollop that she was, she thrust out her bosom for greater access. He began kissing her, and he kept on kissing her until Maggie was out of sight, then he drew away and eased the doxy to her feet.
She pouted and tried to slip an arm around his waist, but he stepped away and headed to the bar to down a few glasses of whiskey. He dawdled until he was certain Maggie would be furious, then he went to the stairs and climbed.
He entered his office without knocking, annoyed to realize that he was pondering whether he should have knocked, if he should have been more courteous.
To hell with her, he fumed again. He didn’t want her on the premises and thought she possessed an incredible amount of gall to have visited.
She was seated in a chair in front of his desk, and he walked by her and plopped down in his own chair. There was a whiskey decanter next to his elbow. He poured himself another glass, then—rudely staring at her over the rim—he insolently slouched down, legs crossed at the ankles.
“What can I do for you, Miss Wells? The man guarding the door said your matter was urgent, so I agreed to meet with you. But I must confess that I can’t think of a single topic we need to discuss.”
Instead of replying, she asked, “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong? Nothing. What do you want? Get on with it and, for pity’s sake, be brief.”
“Are you ill? Has something happened? What?”
“Are you deaf, Miss Wells? I’m fine. Now speak your piece and go.”
She gestured to his shirt that was unbuttoned and most of his chest showing. “You’re…slovenly.”
“I definitely am, though why you’d notice or assume you’re welcome to comment is beyond me.”
“And you’re intoxicated.”
“So?”
“I’ve never seen you drunk before.”
“As you don’t know me very well and haven’t spent much time with me, you wouldn’t have had many chances to witness me in a state of inebriation, which I assure you is frequent and enjoyable.”
He was being a prick. He recognized that he was, but what did she expect?
Their sojourn at Orphan’s Nest had meant nothing to her. So…it hadn’t meant anything to him either. He could be a cold, cruel asshole. He was used to it. He was good at it, and he was exasperated that she’d feel free to pop in and criticize.
“You’re upset with me,” she said.
“Me, upset? Why would you think so?” He tossed his glass toward the corner, and it shattered quite effectively against the coal stove that heated the room in winter.
She frowned, but didn’t cringe or jump. “Don’t act like this. We’re friends, aren’t we? I hate that you’re so angry.”
“Miss Wells, you are laboring under the mistaken and misguided impression that you have the right to barge in and pester me. You don’t. You’ve found me in a condition you don’t condone, but if you don’t like it, you can leave.”
Her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink. Obviously he’d hurt her feelings, but he refused to be moved. She wanted no liaison and that’s what she’d receive. She’d suffered no heightened fondness, and if he had, so what? He wasn’t some green lad who’d had his heart broken by his first girl.
Women were a penny a dozen. He’d get over her. He already had.
A silence festered and grew awkward, and finally she murmured, “I need your help.”
“I’m not inclined to provide any assistance to you.”
“I have nowhere else to turn.”
Those beautiful blue eyes of hers had always been his undoing. He’d never been able to gaze into them and remain indifferent.
“What is it?” he was disgusted to hear himself ask.
“My sister, Rebecca, has run off with Ramsey Scott.”
He was positive he’d misunderstood. “She what?”
“She ran off with Ramsey Scott.”
“What do you mean by ran off?”
“Apparently they’ve eloped.”
“To where? Scotland?”
“Yes.”
She pulled out a letter and placed it on the desk so he could read the words her sister had penned. He was floored by the news, and he scowled, his fury bubbling up.
Ramsey had claimed he was riding to Dover to deal with a shipment of liquor they’d smuggled in from France, but he’d lied about his destination, and Michael couldn’t believe it.
Ramsey had left England with Miss Rebecca? Ramsey had married her without a peep to Michael? Ramsey had forged ahead without seeking Michael’s opinion or blessing? Ramsey had proceeded even though Michael had specifically warned him to stay away from Rebecca Wells?
Michael couldn’t decide which sin was the greatest, and he was practically dizzy with trying to sort through his various outrages.
“Rebecca came to town while I was in the country with you,” Maggie explained. “She was at the mission without my knowledge or consent. When I got back she’d already departed, with no one having any information as to where she was. I was hoping she was at Cliffside.”
“Cl
early she wasn’t,” he griped with more venom than was necessary.
“She wrote me this note, but it had fallen under the bed. I just found it.”
“What exactly is it that you expect me to do?” He checked the date at the top. “It’s been over a week since they sneaked off.”
“Would you…go after them for me?”
“No.”
“Please?” Tears swarmed into her eyes.
“If you assume some tears will sway me, you’re dead wrong.”
“I have so little left in my life. Rebecca and my sister, Pamela, are all I have. We’ve lost Cliffside, and I’m not certain I’ll be able to keep the mission open.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“I had a trust fund to cover my costs but…”
She couldn’t finish the sentence, so he finished it for her. “Gaylord squandered it.”
“Yes.”
She glanced down at her lap as if she was embarrassed, as if Farrow’s despicable behavior was her fault.
In the days since he’d returned to the city, since he’d gone to her with his heart in his hand and she’d stomped on it and sent him away, he’d been reeling with dismay.
Her disdain had rocked him in ways he didn’t comprehend, but he liked to picture her just down the street, liked to suppose that he could pass by her building and see her walking to the market or talking to a waif. The thought of her not being there, of the mission being closed and her moving away was extremely alarming.
He was about to tell her she couldn’t leave, that he would personally finance her bloody charity if it would guarantee she’d stay in the neighborhood, when she said, “Ramsey Scott can’t have any good intentions toward Rebecca.”
Michael shrugged. “Probably not.”
“Would he actually take her to Scotland? Would he marry her?”
Michael shrugged again. “Probably not.”
“Will you ride after them? Will you stop them for me?”
“It’s too late, don’t you think? I can’t imagine there’s much of her chastity or reputation remaining.”
She pushed herself up from her chair and rounded the desk, falling to her knees and clasping his hand as she had during a prior visit. He sighed with aggravation. It was all too much.
“I’m begging you, Michael. I know you can find your friend, that you can make him see reason.”
“I likely could find him,” he grudgingly admitted, not sure that he could.
“If I ever meant anything to you at all, if I ever—”
He couldn’t bear to hear how she might conclude the remark, and he groused, “Get up, Maggie. Get up. There’s no need to beg.”
He gripped her wrist and pulled her to her feet, reluctantly advising her, “I’ll look for them. I’ll bring them back.”
“Thank you.”
“When I locate her, I can’t guess what you’ll do with her afterward. What if they’re married? What if they’re not and he’s simply ruined her? Which situation would be worse?”
“I’ll deal with it when she’s home where she belongs.”
“All right.” He hated to have her so near, and he grabbed her arms and set her away. “Go now, and please don’t come here again.” She was about to argue the point, and hastily he added, “I’ll send word when I have news.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You’ll be at the mission?”
“Yes, I’ll be at the mission.”
He nodded, but was suddenly overwhelmed by the terrifying notion that he might rush to Scotland, then hurry back only to discover the mission shuttered and Maggie vanished.
A thousand panicked scenarios raced in his mind, and he absurdly yearned to clutch her to his chest and shout, Don’t leave me! Stay with me forever!
He swallowed down the wildly inappropriate sentiments he longed to utter, and relief swept through him as she walked away, for once behaving precisely as he’d requested.
* * * *
Maggie reached the door, and though she ordered herself to depart, she couldn’t. Feeling naïve and ridiculous, she whirled to face him. But why linger? Why extend her anguish? It was torture being in his presence. Why tarry and make it worse?
Since she’d learned of his engagement, since they’d quarreled so viciously, her world was askew. She felt feverish and ill, confused and off balance, as if the floor had shifted and she couldn’t stand up straight.
The previous night, as she’d tossed and turned in her lonely bed, it had gradually dawned on her that she was waiting for him to sneak in, to tell her he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant any of it. She’d been listening for his tread on the stairs, for his hand on the doorknob. But of course he hadn’t arrived, and she’d been crushed by his lack of regard, which was silly.
Evidently deep down she possessed a morsel of doubt as to whether she should have parted with him, so clearly she was insane. There was no other explanation, but she truly believed that if she never saw him again her life would not be worth living.
She couldn’t fathom why he wouldn’t cry off from his betrothal to Lady Felicia and marry Maggie instead. He was so stubborn. Why would he persist with Lady Felicia when the match was so insignificant to him? He was very rich, so he didn’t need the wealth Lady Felicia would bring.
He’d stated over and over that happiness was his goal. Why then would he cast Maggie aside over a few ships and a bit of land? If he sought contentment and Maggie provided it, why not stay with her? Why not choose Maggie over Lady Felicia?
Maggie recognized that her vanity was in play. Once prior, she’d been smitten beyond reason, then jilted. The exact same thing had happened again, and she simply couldn’t wrap her head around it.
Why was she so unlovable? She seemed determined to prove him wrong, to demonstrate her value, to demonstrate his error in selecting another over her. Yet what if she could convince him to wed? After all the harm he’d inflicted on her and her family, why would she want him? Was she mad?
“What?” he asked, on seeing her hesitate.
“I…don’t know.”
“I said I’d help you with your sister.”
“And I’m grateful.”
“Fine. You’re grateful. Now go away.”
“Don’t you wish…”
Her voice trailed off as she realized she had no idea what she wished, and if she wasn’t certain, how could she expect him to have an answer?
“Wish what?” he snapped.
“That…we could have found a different ending?”
“No. I gave you every chance, but you refused to take them.”
“I thought you cared about me,” she shamed herself by mentioning, as if she was begging for a crumb of affection.
“I did, but it didn’t matter to you, and I’m not the type to rue or regret. I offered you what I could, and you tossed it back in my face. I’m over you.”
How could he blithely move on? She was drowning with remorse, trying to figure out how to manage the remnants of fondness he’d stirred in her, but he didn’t seem bothered to have had it collapse.
His eyes were cold and hard, his expression stony, supplying no hint that he’d ever been the funny, charming swain who had reveled with her in the country.
“I’m sure it’s for the best if we part,” she tepidly claimed.
“I’m sure it is too.”
He came toward her, and for just a moment she braced, thinking he might pull her into his arms, that he might share some words of comfort or sympathy. Her mind was awhirl with debating whether she’d like it to occur or not.
Before she could decide, he stepped by her and opened the door, yanking it wide. He motioned for her to exit, indicating that she’d been dismissed, so it was pointless to dawdle, but despite all that had transpired, she was frozen in place.
The servant who’d initially escorted her was hovering in the hall, and when he saw them he leapt to attention, almost as if he was a soldier.
“Miss Wells is leaving,” Mr. Scott s
aid. “Show her out.”
The man gestured to the stairs. Maggie dithered, feeling as if so much had been left unsaid, but it hadn’t been really. They’d hashed it out to the bitter end.
“What will happen to my sister, Pamela, now?”
“Her circumstances are none of my concern. I suggest you ask your brother-in-law.”
“Will she have to move at once?”
“Yes.”
It was on the tip of Maggie’s tongue to tell him he could have his affair, that she’d proceed with it, that she’d rescue Gaylord and Pamela one last time, but she simply couldn’t. Not again. And when they’d always been so awful to her, why would she consider it for a single second?
She had to toughen up, had to grow a spine, had to stop letting the entire world walk all over her as if she was a rug in a parlor.
“Goodbye,” she told him.
He could have told her goodbye too, but he merely nodded. He pushed her into the hall and closed the door. Swine that he was, he turned the key in the lock. It was a particularly snippy act that was rude and unwarranted, and she was a hairsbreadth away from pounding on the wood, from informing him he was the biggest horse’s ass she’d ever met.
But if she responded in kind, she’d only be lowering herself to his level, would only embarrass herself further, so why engage in an untoward display? He likely wouldn’t even notice.
The servant said, “Miss Wells? If you’ll come with me, please?”
She spun and marched away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“What do you think of her husband being so accommodating?”
Michael hadn’t been listening to Felicia, and as he noticed she’d asked a question, he scowled. She was scowling too, glaring at him as if he were a barbarian who’d wandered in by mistake, or perhaps a burglar about to sneak off with the silver.
They were in Lord Stone’s music room, which was packed elbow to elbow as people squeezed in for a concert that was about to start.
Michael didn’t want to be at Lord Stone’s house again, didn’t want to be socializing with Felicia. The fete was another betrothal gala her mother had arranged—as if frequent interaction with Michael would make him more palatable to her snooty friends.
