by Cheryl Holt
She jumped into the embrace with a great deal of enthusiasm, her hands busy too. Depending on where she caressed him, he would tense or purr or sigh, and as always when they were together, the tryst quickly spiraled out of control. They couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t hold each other tightly enough. They wrestled, scratched, and bit, going at each other like two cats trapped in a sack.
Who kissed like this? Who carried on with such feral abandon? It felt as if they’d tumbled off a cliff, and they were falling down and down and down. Where would they be when they hit bottom?
A rhythmic noise intruded. At first, she assumed it was the frantic beating of her heart, but as it grew more incessant, it dawned on her that someone was out in the hall and knocking on the door.
She jerked away, and he frowned, confused over why they’d halted. He would have asked what was wrong, but she pressed an angry finger to her lips, warning him to silence. Then she dug into his pocket and retrieved the key.
She slid out from under him and hurried to the sitting room, calling, “Yes? It’s Miss Carstairs. May I help you?”
“Miss Carstairs! I’m so glad you answered me! It’s Lady Penny.”
Libby swallowed a gasp, and she peered over her shoulder at Luke, her eyes wide and furious, eager for him to see how irate she was that his irresponsible conduct had placed her in such an untenable predicament.
She shut the bedroom door so he wouldn’t be observed loafing exactly where he never should have been, then she rushed over and jammed the key in the lock. She peeked out to find Lady Penny with two maids flanking her, both of them prepared to spring into whatever action was required.
Penny was attired for the gala that was occurring in the lower parlors, wearing an exquisite blue gown that enhanced the color of her hair and eyes. She looked like the pretty, rich heiress she was. She’d adorned her outfit with tasteful jewelry. A fan dangled from her wrist, and her curls were highlighted by a slim tiara that twinkled when she moved.
It was clear she’d planned to bluster inside, so Libby blocked any entrance with her body, letting the younger girl glimpse her robe and petticoat. Hopefully, good manners would prevent her from pushing her way in.
“Lady Penny?” Libby said. “I must admit I’m surprised to have you visit. Is there a problem down at the party?”
“The better question is: Are you all right? I spoke to Miss Fishburn, and she advised me that you were indisposed. I simply had to check on you.”
Libby forced a smile. “That’s very sweet. Thank you.”
“You’re not under the weather, are you? Or weary from your trip from town? Please tell me you’re not. Please tell me you’ll come downstairs. The guests are excited for you to join us, and I am too. It won’t be the same without you.”
Libby stifled a moan. “I am fatigued tonight. I had thought I might rest, then take part in the fun tomorrow.”
Lady Penny, for all her being rich and spoiled, really was charming. “May I be frank, Miss Carstairs?”
“Certainly.”
“I’m thrilled you’re here, and I’d like us to be friends. There’s something about you that makes me feel it’s our destiny to be cordial. I sensed it the moment you climbed out of your carriage.”
Libby could have validated Lady Penny’s sentiment. She was aware of what was causing it to flare, but she wouldn’t walk down that road. Probably not ever.
“I’d like us to be friends too.”
“Won’t you come down to the party with me?” Lady Penny said. “Say yes! Say you will.”
Libby was usually very stern in sticking up for herself, but from the minute she’d arrived at Roland, she’d been distraught. What sort of trembling ninny would she be when the visit was over?
“When you’ve asked so kindly,” Libby said, “I can’t bear to disappoint you. Of course I’ll come down.”
Proving her youth, Penny clapped with glee. “I knew you’d agree. I brought my personal maids to help you dress. Will you let them? They can have you ready in an instant.”
A thousand visions of disaster darted through Libby’s mind. Luke was a few feet away and stretched out on her bed. There was no rear exit, so he couldn’t sneak out.
“I’m flattered that they would volunteer,” Libby said, “but Miss Fishburn handles my clothes. She’s covetous of her spot by my side, and she’d be incensed if I allowed anyone else to assist me.”
“I understand.”
“Could you send her up? Would it be too much of a bother?”
“I’ll locate her immediately and tell her you need her.”
“I appreciate it, and I’ll see you soon.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you? You’ll be down right away?”
“I’ll be there before Miss Fish can button the last button.”
“Wonderful!” Lady Penny gushed. “I’m so glad.”
She spun away and glided off, her two maids trailing in her wake. Libby dawdled until they rounded the corner, then she shut the door and locked it again.
She marched to the bedroom where Luke had slithered off the mattress. He was over in the chair where he’d initially been sitting. He’d poured himself another glass of wine, and he sipped it casually, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“I take it your presence is demanded downstairs,” he said.
“Yes, and you have to leave.”
“I suppose I should. Apparently, I’ve tempted catastrophe as much as I dare for one evening.”
He rose and went over to her. He pulled her to him so their torsos were pressed together all the way down. Sparks ignited, and she was practically weak in the knees from feeling how luscious it was to be so close to him.
“Lady Penny seems to like you,” he said.
“I have no idea why.”
“You fascinate her.”
“I’ll try my best not to. Once I depart Roland, it’s my specific intent that she never think about me again.”
He kissed her, and she struggled to not kiss him back, but she couldn’t keep from participating. He had that effect on her. Fate had shoved her into his path for a frightening purpose she couldn’t yet identify, and she wouldn’t be able to flee until that purpose was realized.
“You’re not heading to London in the morning,” he said, and it sounded like a command.
“I should,” she half-heartedly responded.
“Yes, you probably should, but you are not going. You’re staying here.”
“Why, Lucas Watson? What can you hope to achieve with this torment?”
He grinned. “It amuses me, and we have to let it play out. For now, I can’t agree to part from you.”
He stared at her, his stunning blue eyes taunting her with the recognition that he had a hold over her she couldn’t deflect. Ropes of connection were wrapping around her ankles, tethering her to his side, and she didn’t have a knife sharp enough to cut the cord.
“I might return to London,” she stupidly insisted. “You couldn’t stop me.”
“If you decide to be that ridiculous, I’ll chase after you.”
She smirked with exasperation. “You would, wouldn’t you?”
“I am mad for you, Libby Carstairs, and until we figure out how to maneuver through this quagmire you’ve stirred, you’re not sneaking off. I can read your mind, remember? You plan to flit off to town and disappear while I’m not there.”
“I wasn’t planning to disappear.”
“Liar. How could you imagine you’d succeed? You are the Mystery Girl of the Caribbean. You’re too notorious to hide.”
“Perhaps I couldn’t hide from you, but if I avoid you, your interest will wane. I’m sure of it.”
He laughed a tad cruelly. “My interest isn’t about to wane, so there’s no point in vanishing. It would simply stoke my obsession.”
He took another kiss, then walked to the door. She followed him and stuck the key in the lock. Then she peered out to be certain no one was strolling down the hall.
“Go,” she mouthed.
“I will—for the moment,” he whispered. “But I’ll be back. I guarantee it.”
He strutted out, not concerned if he was seen. When he reached the stairs, he glanced at her over his shoulder, shooting her a look of such passion and desire she was surprised it didn’t knock her over.
She staggered to the nearest chair and eased into it.
“What now?” she asked the empty room, but the room had no answer.
She would wait for Fish so she could dress in her most stylish gown, then she’d waltz down to socialize with Lady Penny. Luke would be lurking in the corners, watching her, wanting her. She’d be watching and wanting him too. Would they light the house on fire with their strident attraction?
Any terrible detonation seemed likely.
“Fish! There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere.”
Fish braced, then relaxed. She smiled at Charles, her dear Lord Roland. He’d briskly approached, his hands outstretched, as if he’d pull her into a hug, and she shifted to the side, preventing an awkward embrace.
He scowled, but didn’t comment.
She was standing on the verandah, leaned on the balustrade in a shadowed corner where she was mostly invisible. She could stare into the parlors and enjoy the festivities without having to actually be part of them.
She liked to watch the dancers twirl by, liked to watch the men gamble in the card room. She liked to keep an eye on Simon and Libby too, always suffering from the oddest perception that they might vanish if she wasn’t paying attention.
She’d just turned forty, and for much of her life, she’d glommed onto corrupt cads, and thus had been supported by them through their dubious schemes and swindles. Harry Carstairs had been typical. He’d been a handsome scalawag with a felonious heart, and he’d had a sly way of accumulating money from people who shouldn’t have trusted him.
Harry was dead, and it wasn’t likely she’d persuade another rascal to let her attach herself. She’d grown more dependent on Libby and Simon, needing them for financial security, but needing them emotionally too.
They were her family, a mix-mash of disconnected orphans who’d bonded as if they were relatives. If she’d had any maternal tendencies, she’d have viewed them as her children, but she didn’t have them, so perhaps she was more like a cordial aunt or a much older big sister. They would keep her company in her old age, and they were both loyal in their own way, but if she could find another paramour to take Harry’s place, she wouldn’t necessarily complain.
She liked to have a man around, but she liked being a spinster too. She was too independent, too stubborn and impatient. The notion of having a husband was like a tough piece of meat she’d never been inclined to chew.
“Hello, Charles,” she said to him.
“Why are you lurking by yourself in the dark?”
“It was hot and crowded in the house. I was desperate for some fresh air. How about you? What dragged you out?”
“I told you. I’ve been searching for you.”
From the moment he’d recognized her in the driveway, she’d figured he’d want to get her alone so they could talk. At least she’d been hoping he’d want that. It was the main reason she’d been hiding. She hadn’t decided how she felt about bumping into him again.
When Simon had wrangled the invitation to Roland, she hadn’t known what to expect, and she hated to be disappointed. It had been twenty years since she’d last seen Charles, so it hadn’t seemed probable that he’d remember her. Their fling had occurred during a period when they’d been young and stupid and had thought they could break all the rules.
Back then, he’d had a passion for actresses and other loose strumpets. His debacle with his first wife, Amanda, hadn’t cured him of it. Fish had been an actress herself, but without the talent to succeed at center stage. Eventually, she’d been forced to accept a different role, working behind the curtain to design costumes for glamorous vixens like Libby who had the special allure that captivated audiences.
Charles had been scandalously divorced by then and far down the road toward wedding his plain, dour cousin, Florence, as he should have done from the very start. Florence had been the bride initially selected for him by his father, but he’d met Amanda and had eloped with her instead.
By trudging forward with Florence, he’d convinced himself that his raucous proclivities were vanquished and that he could be happy with the small, ordinary existence she would provide. But in the interval Fish had consorted with him, his debauched appetites hadn’t been vanquished in the slightest. He’d been an ardent beau who’d tantalized her with possibilities.
He’d been a wounded soul too, mourning his failed marriage and the loss of his daughter, Little Henrietta. He’d been a tormented man that any woman would have loved to save.
He’d temporarily flirted with the idea of spurning Florence a second time, of running off with Fish, but a friend had yanked him to his senses, which had been the only logical ending.
They’d parted on sweet terms, with him offering her money and jewelry as a goodbye gift. She’d been offended by the gesture and had refused them, but with how her fortunes had plummeted afterward, she shouldn’t have been so proud. She’d been glad they’d dallied, and she’d been glad too over how completely he’d broken her heart.
It had galvanized her opinions about men. She’d come out of it smarter and much less gullible. After him, when she’d jumped into new affairs, she’d picked scoundrels from her same class, oafs like Harry who never surprised her and never made promises.
“What brought you to Roland?” he asked, pulling her out of her dreary reverie.
“I go where Libby goes.”
“Are you her . . . mother?”
“No. Just her friend and costumer.”
“You always had an aptitude for fashion.”
“She’s so gorgeous, and I’m lucky that she wears my clothes.”
He snorted at that. “How long have you worked for her?”
“Too long probably, but I like helping her. It suits me.”
She didn’t really work for Libby though. She’d been Harry’s paramour off and on for almost ten years, so she’d lived with them occasionally, but she’d never had any authority over Libby. She’d never supplied anything Libby had truly needed except for the fabulous outfits she sewed.
She didn’t want to talk about any of that though. It would mean discussing her bad choices in life, such as hooking her wagon to a charlatan like Harry Carstairs. After falling for rich, titled, Charles Pendleton, Harry had been quite a step down.
“How have you been?” he absurdly asked.
“I haven’t seen you in twenty years. What portion of that period would you like me to describe?”
“That was a stupid question, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but then, I always deemed you to be very silly.”
“I remember that about you. You were never impressed by me.”
“Well, you rarely displayed behavior that was impressive.”
He laughed fondly. “You look good.”
“Thank you. So do you, but then, you always were a handsome devil.”
“And you were always a beautiful woman.”
He was tall and slender, dapper and fit. He still had all his hair, but the blond color had faded to silver, so he appeared very distinguished, and no doubt, he’d grow more handsome as the decades passed.
Being forty, she was still plenty attractive too. At five-foot-five in her slippers, she was enticingly curvaceous. Her green eyes were merry, her auburn hair lush and curly as ever, but there were a few hints of gray woven into the strands.
In a world where nearly every
female was blond and blue-eyed, she was incredibly unique, so she and Charles had been an arresting couple. They’d caused bystanders to stop and watch them when they’d walked down the street together. She missed those days when people had stared and wondered if she was someone important.
“If we keep tossing compliments at each other,” she said, “the air will become so sickly sweet we won’t be able to breathe.”
“I’m just so delighted to see you. I can’t guard my flattering tongue.”
“I enjoy a bit of flattery so feel free to shower me with it.”
“I’ve thought about you so many times,” he ludicrously said.
She’d obsessed over him too. Not that she’d admit it. What was the point?
For years, she’d peeked out at audiences, checking the dandies up in the box seats, wishing he’d be there, but once he’d retired to the country to wed Florence, he’d never returned to town. Or if he had, she hadn’t crossed paths with him.
She’d taken to reading the newspaper in the hopes that his name would be printed there, but after his debacle with Amanda, he’d sworn to never engage in any conduct that would put him back in the public eye, so there’d never been any articles.
Florence’s obituary had been reported when the unlikable shrew had died, and with his being a widower, Fish had toyed with the idea of traveling to Roland to ask if he’d needed comforting. But in the end, she hadn’t committed the idiotic act.
“You haven’t thought about me,” she told him. “Don’t tell lies or my head will swell due to my assuming you’re sincere.”
“I’m not lying. I have often pondered you.”
“Have you been fixated on what might have been for us?” She scoffed. “Nothing sensible could have transpired. At this late date, please don’t rewrite our history.”
“Haven’t you ever imagined a different conclusion?”
“Since I was the one who would have been happy to stick around, and you were the one who scurried home to wed your cousin, I don’t believe I should have to answer you.”
“Touché, Fish. You always were pithy in your assessment of any situation.”
