by Cheryl Holt
“I hadn’t thought of that either.”
He yanked the garment down and off, not giving her a chance to balk or complain. Her petticoat and corset were next, and very quickly, he’d stripped her to chemise and drawers. She didn’t protest, which was a relief. With how skittish she’d been, he’d been wondering if she was a virgin and that would have been the most horrid conclusion imaginable.
He never wasted time with innocents. It was too dangerous. He might wind up with a ring on his finger, and he was determined to remain a bachelor unless his bride was rich as a queen.
“That’s better, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Much better.”
He took her hand and led her in. Initially she was hesitant, and ultimately she admitted, “I don’t know how to swim.”
Just as he’d suspected. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not deep. You can stand on the bottom.”
She grinned. “Lovely.”
He guided her out to the middle, and finally—finally!—they began kissing. Gradually he eased her to her knees, wanting to cool her down, wanting them both wet and slippery, and with her learning the water wasn’t deep, her trepidation had vanished.
They were chest to chest, thigh to thigh, her full, round breasts riveting his attention. Her bosom was covered only by the thin fabric of her chemise so she might have been wearing nothing at all.
Their kiss went on and on until she reached down and cupped him between his legs. Apparently she had a bit of amorous skill, had been taught a few tricks that a man might enjoy. Thank goodness!
To his great delight, she unbuttoned the front of his trousers.
“It occurred to me,” she said, “that you might assume I was trifling with you.”
“It had crossed my mind.”
“I’m not a flirt or a tease.”
“I certainly hope not.”
“I’ve simply been fretting over Katarina, and it’s distracting me from what’s important.” She tugged at his waistband. “I think these have to come off.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Yes, we are.”
She slid in a hand and took hold of his cock, giving it several proficient caresses that nearly had him shooting his wad like a green boy. He was that aroused. He tried to pull down his pants, but they were stuck to his skin.
He stood, and she was still kneeling so his crotch was directly in her face. Would she dare to provide a salacious treat? Was she that brazen?
With how she’d just stroked his phallus, it was clear she’d been schooled in all the appropriate tasks. He jerked his trousers down to his flanks, his erect rod perfectly positioned. She didn’t bat an eye, but studied him with unbridled curiosity.
“You’re built like a stallion, Mr. Hubbard.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You’re a fine specimen of a man.”
“I trust I meet your high standards, your ladyship.”
He pronounced the word ladyship sarcastically, but she nodded, liking the sound of it. “You can call me a lady, if you like. If matters work out as I’m expecting, you’ll be surprised by how far I’ll rise.”
“Speaking of rising,” he said. “Let’s keep our focus where it needs to be.”
“Oh, I’m focused, Chase Hubbard. I’m very, very focused.”
She flicked her tongue over the tip, then opened wide and sucked him inside.
Luckily he’d been wrong about her. She wasn’t innocent after all. He rested a palm on the back of her head and started to enjoy himself much more than he’d imagined possible when the evening had begun.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Susan Blair stood in her bedchamber at Radcliffe Castle and gazed out the window toward the village. Usually she could see the church’s steeple and be comforted by the sight, but the morning was cool and foggy so it wasn’t visible. She was disturbed that she couldn’t see it. She didn’t want a single detail altered, wanted to stare out as she always had at the familiar view.
She was growing weaker by the day, the tumor in her abdomen pressing on her other organs, making it hard to breath, to sit, to sleep. A traveling doctor visited occasionally, and though he kept telling her to be optimistic, that she’d get better, she knew it wasn’t true. He simply couldn’t bear to inform the lady of the manor she was dying.
His sole remedy had been to bleed her over and over until she’d begun to worry she had no blood left in her veins. After his last visit, she’d told him not to stop by again, and instead the local healer came.
She was more of a comfort. She talked bluntly about death, about how to muddle through with a modicum of dignity. That was the worst part for Susan. In her time as a debutante, then a young wife, she’d been a great beauty, and despite birthing three children, her splendor hadn’t faded for decades.
Now she was skin and bones and looked more like a skeleton than a human being.
She fingered her pocket, touching the pouch of lethal herbs the healer had given her. Susan was extremely pious so she would never consider taking her own life, but she received enormous satisfaction from having the herbs, from being aware they were in her pocket should she change her mind.
She scowled at the fog, wishing she had magical eyes so she could peer into the surrounding countryside to discover what was happening, what gossip was spreading.
Michael and Matthew Blair were out there, chatting with the neighbors, asking questions that Susan didn’t dare have answered. What would the villagers and tenant farmers say about the incidents that had occurred those many years ago? What secrets would they reveal?
She had no idea what people suspected, what they could prove, and she’d never wanted to know.
At age eighteen, she’d been engaged to the twins’ father, Julian Blair. His father had arranged the match without consulting him, and he’d been adamantly opposed.
He’d been a viscount, the oldest son and heir, so it was madness for him to have assumed he could reject his father’s choice of bride. But he had, and it was a humiliation she’d never forgotten or forgiven. In the end though, the snub had been irrelevant. He’d perished in a hunting accident, and George had become the heir. She’d married George instead.
With the union, she’d stepped in line to be a countess. Everyone—including herself—had pretended that one fiancé was the same as another, that the objective was to wed a viscount and eventually be a countess. When assessed in that light, how could it matter which man was standing at the altar?
Yet she’d never admitted how upset she’d been. Julian Blair had been a dashing, flamboyant explorer and adventurer. He’d been tall, dark, and handsome, like a hero out of a romantic novel, and every girl in the kingdom had fantasized about having him as her husband.
In comparison, George had been…nothing much at all. He was average in stature, in intellect, in demeanor. He had a temper though, and it was the only trait that stood out in any noticeable fashion. He was stubborn too, bone-headed and inflexible and always positive he was in the right. Since he normally wasn’t right, it was a huge character flaw.
He’d been a shrewd son though, fawning and obsequious and able to flatter his wretched, unlikable father. George was perfectly obedient, while Julian was obstinate and independent and never cowed by anyone.
When the two were held up side by side, George came up lacking. Susan figured that was why he’d hated Julian. Julian was the better man in every way, and no one—most especially George—could deny that fact.
A knock sounded on the outer door to her suite, and she pushed away from the window and slid into a nearby chair. She nodded to her cousin, Katherine, who was her companion and confidante.
Katherine was pretty and pleasant, but at age twenty-four, she was a spinster with no options. As the dreaded poor relative, she had no dowry, no home, and no family save for Susan.
Dear, pathetic Katherine. She’d been reduced to caring for an invalid, to waiting on Susan hand and foot as Susan grew weaker and more infirm. W
hat a dismal role!
“Answer that, would you?” Susan said.
“Yes, certainly.”
“It will be my husband. Let him in, then you can leave me for a bit so he and I may speak in private.”
“I’ll watch for him to depart, then I’ll be back.”
“Fine, thank you.”
Susan listened as Katherine greeted George, as they exchanged a few words, then George appeared in the doorway. He pulled up a chair, his dour expression not surprising.
They’d never gotten along, even in the early years when esteem might have been expected. Their marriage was an unpalatable sham. Julian’s ghost had hovered between them, and despite how hard they’d tried, they’d never shoved him away.
She’d done her duty by her husband, had birthed him three boys, but they hadn’t been lucky enough to raise any of them to manhood. George had schemed and plotted and rid himself of his brother so he could seat himself on the throne of the earldom, but none of his machinations had brought him what he’d sought. None of his dreams had come true.
They were old now, Susan dying, and George impotent and incapable of siring more children.
“You wanted to see me?” he asked.
“Yes. We have to talk about the Blair twins.”
“Honestly, Susan, we have no evidence their surname is Blair. Don’t imbue them with an importance they don’t deserve.”
“They claim to be Julian’s sons.”
“So?”
“Don’t lie about it. At least not to me. You know they’re his.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” he huffed.
“What shall we do about them?”
“What do you mean?”
“They don’t seem the type who will simply go away.”
“They can stay. They can go. Their movements don’t concern me in the slightest and they shouldn’t concern you either.”
He was cruel and petty as his father had always been cruel and petty, and often she’d suspected they enjoyed being malicious just for maliciousness’s sake. Because they could. Because they were rich and powerful and they liked proving they were.
“You told me Julian’s children were dead,” she said.
“How could I have told you that? He was a cad who sired a thousand bastards. It wouldn’t have been possible to keep track.”
“He wasn’t a cad, and I wish you would stop insisting he was. It’s embarrassing.”
“Yes, Saint Julian. Allow me to praise him for you.”
“He was a devoted husband and father.”
“Don’t defend him to me.”
“It’s his four children, George! His children with Anne. It’s three sons and a daughter.”
“Was it four?”
“You know it was. Why must you pretend they never existed?”
“Why would I care if he had bastard offspring running around on the streets of London? Why would I care if he left four waifs or a hundred?”
“They’re your niece and nephews,” she tersely reminded him.
“They’re yours too, but I don’t recall you shedding any tears over their plight. Perhaps you’d rather I’d brought them to Radcliffe. Perhaps you’d rather I’d put them ahead of your own sons.”
They glared, a thousand comments bubbling up that were never voiced aloud, but maybe they ought to finally discuss them.
When Julian had disavowed Susan, he’d stated he couldn’t wed her because he was already married. Susan’s father-in-law had refused to accept the union, had refused to acknowledge it or declare it valid. He’d never wavered.
Susan had been spoiled and horrid, incensed by Julian’s rejection and offended by Anne’s intransience.
Anne could have stepped aside, could have admitted she’d up-jumped into a role she never should have had, but Anne wouldn’t. Or Julian could have agreed that the marriage had never transpired, could have had it annulled. It would have meant bastardizing his children and denouncing his beloved wife, but Julian had never been the sort of man George was.
At the time and for many years after, Susan had viewed his decision as a personal affront, and she’d wanted him punished. So…when Julian had been killed and her father-in-law had set Anne’s downfall in motion, Susan had kept her mouth shut.
Very soon, she would be standing at Heaven’s gate and eager to be invited in. Before she could enter the Lord’s kingdom, her life would be laid bare, and she’d be asked to explain and justify her worldly sins.
How would she?
“Anne cursed us, remember?” she said.
“Yes, and I have always told you that I don’t believe in curses. She had no special power or ability. She was simply blowing smoke, hoping to scare us.”
“Well, she succeeded with me. I’m still afraid of her.”
“I don’t know why you would be. She’s dead and gone. Where she’s currently located—which is in a deep, dark grave with a doorway that leads straight to Hell—she can’t hurt anyone.”
“She warned us that Julian’s death would be avenged, that she would have vengeance against us.”
“I shouldn’t have had her shipped to the penal colonies. I should have had her dragged to Scotland and hanged as a witch.”
“She threatened any sons we might have. She said they wouldn’t reach manhood, that they’d be destroyed as hers had been destroyed. Our sons all died at seventeen.”
“It was a coincidence, Susan.”
“It wasn’t!”
“Why must you remind me of that hideous curse? You’ve constantly demanded I lift it for you, but how could I lift something that doesn’t exist?”
“She harmed our boys and you did naught to prevent her.”
“I had her deported to Australia, didn’t I?”
“It wasn’t far enough,” she hissed.
“I swear your illness is affecting your mental capacities, and I won’t tolerate this absurd ranting. Get control of yourself.”
“I am in firm control.”
“You couldn’t prove it by me.”
He pushed himself to his feet, ready to storm out, but she couldn’t let him go. If he left in a temper, she wouldn’t be able to coax him back for weeks, and she had no time to waste.
“I want to make amends to Anne and Julian,” she said.
“Amends?”
“Yes, I want to fix what we did to them.”
“Fix it! How would we?”
“It’s easy. You’ll simply designate the oldest boy as your heir.”
He studied her with distaste. “You’re mad.”
“What was his name? Bryce?”
“Don’t mention him to me. Besides, I’m sure he’s deceased, despite what those miserable twins are claiming.”
“You can’t continue to conceal the truth. Not with their showing up and telling people who they are.”
“I’ll never admit they’re Julian’s children.”
“They are, George! Stop pretending.”
“I’m not pretending. I sent their father to Hell, and I can send them too.”
“Listen to yourself! Still posturing! Still threatening! Stop it!”
“Don’t order me about. I won’t stand for it.”
She should have dropped the issue, but she couldn’t. Her immortal soul hung in the balance.
“There’s no one else to inherit the estate,” she said. “The property will revert to the Crown.”
“Yes, strangers can have the whole wretched place.”
“Strangers! Rather than your own flesh and blood? And you say I am mad.”
“Good day, Susan. Don’t summon me again until you’ve regained your wits.”
He stomped out, and she might have called him back, but their quarrel had drained her.
She was haunted by what she’d done to Anne Blair, consumed by guilt and terrified over how she’d be received in the next life. Anne and Julian were both on the other side, waiting for her to arrive, waiting to get even. Susan could feel it in her bones.
Though Julian had supposedly been killed in a hunting accident, she knew that wasn’t the case. Her own husband had pulled the trigger, and she’d remained silent. He’d falsely prosecuted Anne Blair, and again she’d remained silent. They’d cast Anne’s four children to the winds of fate, and yet again she’d remained silent. But she was finally at a spot where she was choking on all her secrets.
It was a supreme irony that she’d kept those secrets for her husband, but he had never deserved her loyalty. She’d kept those secrets for herself because she’d wanted to be a countess so badly.
Yet it had all been futile. She had no sons, and she was dying with the weight of this dreadful transgression on her shoulders.
Was it too late to atone?
* * * *
“Will we ever go home?”
“You shouldn’t count on it.”
Kat flashed a tremulous smile at Isabelle. She was only ten, and she’d been such a good sport about sneaking away with Kat. She never complained, never cried, never begged to turn around. Even at such a young age, she was a wonderful princess, and it broke Kat’s heart that her little sister would never marry according to her station.
She’d have been a marvelous wife for an aristocrat. No king was likely, but certainly a duke or prince. Kat had had her hopes that high. It would never occur now, and all because of Kristof. How could one cousin be so cruel to another?
Kat’s father had been kind to Kristof, but they’d all been repaid with perfidy. If Kat had been a rugged, burly male, she’d have gladly murdered him for the insults leveled on her family.
“Will we stay in Cairo?” Isabelle asked. “Nicholas said you might rent a house.”
“Would you like that?”
“I’d rather live somewhere that isn’t so…different from what we’re used to.”
“Cairo is definitely different.”
Kat sighed, yearning to be brilliantly wise and have all the answers. She’d left Parthenia, desperate for advice from her uncle, but he wasn’t inclined to give any, and she wasn’t having any luck picking a path on her own. She was too beaten down, too worried that any choice would be wrong.
