by Cheryl Holt
“How are the wedding plans proceeding?” he asked, desperate to divert her.
“It’s been a bit hectic, what with the short lead time, but my father will pull it off. He’s competent that way.”
Michael thought of the drunken, slothful man who was about to be his father-in-law, and he felt ill. “I’m sure it will be marvelous, whatever you’ve arranged.”
“It’s just been difficult having you gone so much.” She drew him to a halt, and she peered up at him. “I suppose I oughtn’t mention this, but it’s embarrassed me. I’ve had to make so many excuses for you, and I’ve run out of lies to tell. People have been talking...”
Her voice trailed off, her spurt of bravado waning. Despite how she craved a frank conversation, she wouldn’t dare allude to any facts, and he wasn’t about to dispel the gossip. His infidelity was a discussion they would never have.
“What have people been saying?” he goaded, merely to rattle her. “And why would you assume I care?”
He was being condescending, when he hadn’t intended to be, but he was just so angry. He wanted to throttle the Duke with his bare hands. He wanted to shake his sister until she stopped flitting around in the shadows and clucking her tongue like a mother hen.
His world was spiraling out of control, and he wished he and Fanny and Thomas could sail off to a deserted island where no one knew him, where no one expected anything from him.
The snide remark had hurt Rebecca, and her blue eyes blazed with a fury that she hastily tamped down.
“Why are you being so cruel?” she quietly said, making him ashamed.
“I’m sorry. It’s been a stressful few weeks. I apologize.”
“It hasn’t been easy for me either.”
She looked petulant and aggrieved, and her perfume was choking him. He dropped her arm and stepped away to lean against the trunk of a nearby tree.
“What would you have me say, Rebecca?”
“You needn’t say anything. I’m merely curious as to what’s happening with you, and as you’re about to be my husband, I believe I have the right to ask.”
“First,” he started, reining in his temper, but wanting to be very clear, “as you’ve reminded me, I am about to be your husband, so you should understand that I will never be at your beck and call. I will go places and do things, and I won’t seek your approval or permission. Nor will I allow you to interrogate me about my activities.”
“I see.”
“If you were anticipating a different sort of relationship with me, you will be sorely disappointed. While I will be kind to you, and will show you the respect and courtesy you deserve as my wife, I will always behave exactly as I please, so you need to re-evaluate your vision of what is possible between us.”
“You don’t want to marry me, do you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m just warning you that I am not the man you think I am.”
“And who are you?”
“I’m Viscount Henley. Someday, I’ll be Duke of Clarendon. That’s who you’re marrying.”
“But I don’t know anything about you.”
“No, you don’t.”
She gaped at him as if she’d suddenly realized that he was practically a stranger.
“John used to kiss me out here in the garden,” she said. “He used to kiss me all the time.”
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t share details about you and my brother.”
“He...he liked me. He liked me very much.”
Michael had no reply. It was a futile conversation.
“You’ve never even tried to kiss me,” she pointed out. “Why haven’t you?”
“I’ve heard enough.”
He reached for her, desperate to return to the party, when she absurdly wailed, “You don’t love me.”
“Rebecca...”
She studied his eyes, searching for a fondness she would never find.
“Could you learn to love me?”
How was a man to answer such a question?
“Let’s go back to the house,” he insisted, but she didn’t move.
“I want you to kiss me,” she demanded, “this very instant. I want you to kiss me like you mean it.”
He sighed, wondering how they’d arrived at such an embarrassing impasse. Would it always be like this between them? Would he forever enrage her? Would she forever be disillusioned by him?
“It’s not appropriate for us to be out here alone like this. Your father is probably looking for you.”
“My father is drunk, and you know it. He doesn’t care where I am.”
“Well, I care that Anne’s guests might gossip.”
“Do you not want to kiss me? Am I repugnant to you? Is the notion distasteful?”
“No,” he lied.
“What is it then?”
There seemed no hope for it, and why shouldn’t he kiss her? All too soon, he would have to do much more than kiss her. Why not proceed?
Linking their fingers, he drew her close, an arm gliding around her waist. While he’d intended an innocent embrace, she snuggled herself to him, her entire front pressed to his, supplying evidence that John had—in fact—taught her how to dally with a man.
He kissed her, tentatively, then more vigorously, and she joined in. She was taller than Fanny, and she felt different, all willowy and lithe in a way that Fanny was not. He trifled with her, growing accustomed to the shape of her, to the smell and heat of her.
It wasn’t chaste, by any stretch of the imagination. Their tongues sparred, their loins rocked together, and her nipples poked into his chest.
He kept on for a long time, much longer than he should have, but he was trying to light a spark that wouldn’t flare. All he could think was that he was cheating—cheating on Fanny with another woman, and cheating on Rebecca by denying her what was rightfully hers.
Eventually, he pulled away, and she appeared to be satisfied with the attempt. She was smiling, content with what she’d wrought.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she inquired.
“It was very nice,” he agreed.
“Will you kiss me again in the future? I hate it when you ignore me. I won’t spurn your attentions. I want this from you. I’m...I’m...eager to do my duty.”
At the mention of her doing her duty, he nearly groaned aloud.
“We’ll get on just fine,” he told her. “Don’t worry so much.”
“I won’t.”
She took his arm, and they returned to the ballroom. As they entered, she was preening like the cat that had eaten the canary, and he was positive every person there was furtively grinning, having guessed precisely what they’d been up to out in the dark.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“He’s gone again? You must be joking.”
The Duke glared at Rebecca and shrugged. “He went back to Henley Hall.”
“Why?”
“Because he didn’t want to stay in London.”
“But we came to an understanding. Everything was fine.”
He could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she tried to figure it out, but she was too young and too naïve to grasp that Michael would always gambol and copulate with a reckless abandon. The words fidelity and loyalty weren’t in the vocabulary of a Wainwright male.
“My father’s party is tonight.”
“It certainly is.”
“Michael and I are the honored guests.”
“Yes, you are.”
“My wedding is four weeks away!”
“I’m aware of the date, Rebecca. It’s written on my calendar.”
He stared her down, his expression carefully blank, but on the inside, he seethed with fury.
Michael had forgotten the cardinal rule of dabbling with loose women: It was only fucking—nothing more, nothing less—and he’d let his heart become engaged. He imagined that he...he...loved Fanny Carrington.
If it h
adn’t been so pathetic, it would have been downright laughable.
“Will there be anything else, Rebecca?” he queried. “If not, I’m very busy. Anne is home if you’d like to chat with her.”
He riffled through some papers, indicating that the meeting was over, but maddeningly, she didn’t depart.
“What’s really going on?” she demanded. She pulled up a chair and sat across from him, and it appeared that a long, unpleasant conversation was about to commence.
He sighed. While he had no desire to be the one who disabused her of her foolish notions, if necessary, he would.
“What are you asking, Rebecca?”
“Michael has been gone since the day he offered for me. He’s shown no interest in the wedding, and he’s deliberately absented himself from nearly every festivity. Why?”
“You’ll have to take it up with him—next time you see him.”
“Am I about to be jilted?”
“As far as I know, he still intends to marry you.”
“As far as you know! Am I supposed to be comforted by such a tepid reassurance?”
“Michael is a strong-willed, thirty-year-old man, Rebecca. He will always act precisely how he pleases. I suggest you get used to it, or I can guarantee you’ll be miserable for decades.”
“You’re trying to tell me something, but I’ve never been adept at deciphering riddles. What is it? Spit it out.”
“You’re beautiful and rich, yet he’s avoiding you like the plague. What would you guess is happening?”
After several seconds of pondering, the awful truth sank in.
“Are you saying he’s...he’s...involved with someone?”
“I’m not saying anything. You may make any inference you choose.”
“I’m his fiancée. He’s embarrassing me before the entire world!”
The Duke leaned back in his chair, hoping he’d hurt her, hoping she’d go away.
“How would I know what he’s up to?”
“Who is she? Am I acquainted with her?”
“Honestly, Rebecca, how would I—“
“Who is it?” she hissed, exhibiting such vehemence that he almost felt sorry for Michael. With his affair revealed, there’d be hell to pay.
The Duke pasted on an enigmatic smile. “I have no idea.”
“It’s that Miss Carrington, isn’t it?”
The Duke was silent, neither confirming nor denying her deduction.
“Would he cry off because of her?”
“Who can predict what a fellow might do?”
She was stunned, but resolved, and he had to give her credit. She was no shrinking violet. A more timid female would have collapsed in a bout of hysterics.
“What would you advise?” she asked. “How should I proceed?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“I assume that we have the same goal.”
She was regally staring down her pert nose at him in a way that showed she’d someday be an excellent duchess.
“And what would that be?”
“We both want him wed before the year is through. We both want the dukedom secured with an heir.”
“You’re correct: We are in complete accord.”
“So let’s make a deal.”
“No.”
“Fine, then.” She stood to go. “I will talk to my father and have him contact you about canceling the marriage contract. Goodbye.”
At the notion that she might run off with all her money, he leapt to his feet. “Hold it right there, little missy.”
“I’m not your little missy. Speak to me with the respect I am due, or don’t speak to me at all.”
“You will not talk to your father. I won’t permit the two of you renege on our agreement.”
“If you think I will sit idly by and let Michael shame me, you’re mad.”
Umbrage careened off her in waves, and he marveled at how her father tolerated her sass. Why hadn’t he beaten her into submission? The Duke would have.
“What is it you want from me?” he snapped.
“From you, nothing. From Michael, I want the wedding I’ve dreamed about since I was a child. He will not humiliate me. I won’t allow it.”
“How will you stop him?”
“You can’t seem to control him, so I will fetch him home.”
“Will you?”
“Yes, and as a bonus, I shall rid us of Miss Carrington once and for all. When I am finished with her, she’ll never bother us again.”
“What is it that you will require from me in exchange?”
“I demand to be shed of Miss Carrington’s nephew. Michael claims that the boy will live with us after we are married, and I haven’t been able to dissuade him. I won’t have John’s bastard in my house.”
“What would you like done with him?”
“It matters not to me—so long as I am not burdened with his care. Nor should Michael have any continuing contact with him.”
The Duke was of the exact same opinion. Whenever he remembered how Michael had the child ensconced at Wainwright Manor, when he remembered the boy strutting about as lord of the manor, the Duke’s grew enraged.
At the first opportunity, the boy had to be sent far away—the trick being to keep Michael from learning what had happened until it was too late for him to intervene.
“You win, Rebecca. We have a deal. If you rid me of Miss Carrington, Thomas will vanish like smoke, and Michael will never know you had anything to do with it. You will start your marriage in a perfect state of wedded bliss, unfettered by familial obligation.”
“I have your word on it?”
“Of course.”
He extended his hand to shake on the arrangement, but she refused it and scoffed.
“As if your word is any good.”
“Why...you act as if you don’t trust me.”
“No farther than I could throw you, but were I you, I wouldn’t cross me. I have a terrible temper; I get even when I’m wronged.”
She left, her heels clicking on the marble as she headed for the front door.
He was humored by her determination and spunk. She was more of an ally than he’d ever imagined she could be, and she would be an even worse enemy, a pesky detail he would keep firmly in mind in the future.
Then again, after they commenced with their secret bargain, after they crushed Fanny Carrington and betrayed Thomas, he’d have leverage over Rebecca and a method to coerce her with the threat that he’d tell Michael what she’d done.
Poor Michael. He was in for it. His affair with Miss Carrington was about to abruptly conclude, and he was about to wed a woman he’d vastly underestimated. The Duke had tried to warn Carrington that she should leave, had tried to make Michael see the error of his ways, but neither had heeded him.
The Duke grinned. He would love to be a mouse in the corner, eavesdropping when Rebecca arrived at Henley Hall.
Anne halted outside her father’s library, and she listened as he conversed with Rebecca, which was odd.
She nearly entered, but caution caused her to hesitate. Instead, she pressed her ear to the wood, and it sounded as if they were talking about being rid of Miss Carrington and Thomas.
The very notion, that the Duke would discuss such a dirty business with Rebecca, was disturbing. Her father could be ruthless, but how could he harm John’s son? She, herself, viewed Thomas as a gift, a piece of John that had survived to bring them joy after heartache.
Their chat ended, and as Rebecca’s footsteps approached, Anne hurried back to the stairs, pretending she’d just come down.
“Hello, Rebecca,” Anne welcomed as Rebecca walked into the foyer. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
“Hello, Anne. I just popped in to see Michael.”
“He’s gone again.”
“So I’m told. Where do you suppose he is?”
She studied Anne, giving Anne the distinct impression that she was being tested, but Anne felt that—no matter the answer—she would fail.
She was trapped between Rebecca and Michael, when she hated to be. Very soon, Rebecca would be her sister, and Anne hoped that they would have a close and cordial relationship. But if Michael was involved with Miss Carrington, Anne would never admit it, and she would never hurt Rebecca by mentioning the liaison.
“I don’t know where he is,” Anne insisted. “Did the Duke have any idea?”
“No.”
Rebecca’s gaze narrowed, providing evidence that she knew exactly where Michael was, and she knew that Anne did, too.
Suddenly, their friendship was on a precipice from which it might never recover. She cursed the Duke; she cursed her brother.
“Would you like to stay for tea?”
“No, I’m inundated by chores—what with the wedding coming so fast and all.”
“Oh, certainly. I understand.”
Rebecca had never previously declined refreshment, and as she left without a farewell, they both recognized it for the snub it was.
Anne blew out a heavy breath, wondering what new catastrophe she’d witnessed. No doubt it was all the Duke’s fault.
She marched down the hall again and swept into the library. Her father was over by the window, staring into the drive, watching Rebecca climb into her coach. He was pensive, his shoulders stiff with tension.
Without preamble, she asked, “What plot are you two hatching?”
As he glanced around, his face gave nothing away. “Whatever are you implying?”
She assessed him, noting the malicious gleam that was always there, but lately had seemed more pronounced.
“Don’t play games with me.”
He didn’t reply, but went to sit behind his massive desk, using it to make her feel insignificant, to emphasize his superiority over her.
“Is there something you wanted?” he queried.
“You saw how riled Michael was the other night. Why occupy yourself with Rebecca in a way that will only anger him more if you’re discovered?”
“Who says I’m occupying myself with Rebecca? Why would I? You’re being ridiculous.”
He was smirking, oozing with arrogance.
“Thomas is John’s son,” she reminded him.
“Yes, he is.”
“Why would you work to his detriment?”
“You may clasp him to your bosom if you like, but don’t expect me to do the same. I warned John that the boy...”
