by Cheryl Holt
12
All right.
He bent down, and she braced, certain he meant to kiss her, but at the last instant, he tugged at the bodice of her nightgown, baring her breast, the nipple puckering. He licked his tongue across it, rasping it, laving it, then sucking it into his mouth.
The action wrenched at something deep inside, prodding at the hidden place where her loneliness and desolation resided, and she clutched at him and urged him closer, wishing she could be subsumed until she was a part of him and no longer separate.
He nibbled at the taut nub, the agitation too painful to bear, and she lurched away, stunned to find that she was in her own room, in her own bed. There was ample evidence that she'd been tossing and turning. The blankets were mussed, the pillow on the floor.
She must have been dreaming. She must have been!
Staggering up, she winced as her head pounded with a violent headache, and her heart hammered so ferociously that her veins hurt. Between her legs, she was wet and sticky, her body weeping with an unfulfilled craving. She was drenched with sweat, and she shivered, needing to ward off her sudden chill.
She peeked down and was shocked to detect that her bodice was askew, that her breast was exposed. Trembling with unease, she rubbed her palm across the hardened nipple, moaning in agony at the flurry of sensation she unleashed, and she yanked at the fabric, concealing herself.
What had happened? What had she done?
Moonlight cast eerie shadows on the dresser, and she stared and stared, trying to deduce what she was
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seeing, when she realized it was the empty vial of the love potion she'd drunk on the stairs.
She jolted away, refusing to look at it, and as she retrieved her pillow, she noted an unusual weight on her hand. She lifted it and was alarmed to observe the ornate ring.
"Oh my Lord," she breathed. It was heavy, elaborate, the gold smooth and glossy, the jewels sharp and shapely.
Why did she have it? What did it indicate? If she was discovered with it, what would she say? She couldn't begin to guess.
She flopped down and squeezed her eyes shut, anxious to sleep for many hours. She hoped when she awoke the ring and the vial would both be gone.
2
"Who is the charming redhead visiting with the Lewis family?"
"The redhead?"
"Yes," Marcus said. "She's short, slender. Very pretty."
"I have no idea," Pamela replied. "As far as I'm aware, they're all blond."
Partially shielded by the drapes, Marcus peeked over the balustrade and stared down into the ballroom. A hundred people were mingling, Pamela's notion of an intimate supper party, and precisely the sort of society event he loathed.
The orchestra she'd hired struck the first chords of a gavotte, and couples rushed to take their places on the dance floor.
"Are you sure there's no one of that description with them?"
"Absolutely," Pamela insisted. "Lady Regina was tediously thorough at introducing her party. She's brought along her daughter, Melanie, and her son, Christopher."
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"He's the earl?"
"And quite the sweet darling, I must say."
Marcus scrutinized her. At thirty, she was his own age, and a renowned beauty. Her ravishing blond hair was piled high, her expensive gown—for which he'd paid—accented her glorious figure, but her physical splendor couldn't hide the shark lurking within.
She was a shrew, a fortune hunter, and from her remark about the Earl of Doncaster it was clear she had designs on him.
Poor fellow.
"What is he? All of eighteen?"
"I suppose."
"Isn't that a tad young? Even by your low standards?"
At the insult, she bristled. "I didn't claim any heightened interest."
"You didn't have to."
They'd been acquainted since they were children. As an adolescent, he'd foolishly imagined that he loved her, that is, until she'd wed his widowed father. She'd been desperate to be a countess and had greedily grabbed for the distinction, which had certainly given Marcus a swift and decisive lesson in how the world worked.
He'd never trusted anyone again. Had never cared for anyone, either.
"I merely find him to be handsome," she contended. "And pleasant. He's a pleasant boy—unlike some peers of my acquaintance."
"He's rich, too."
"Well, of course he is."
Marcus rolled his eyes and watched the crowd, irked to realize that he'd have to befriend naive, innocent Christopher Lewis, so as to whisper a few words of
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caution. By all accounts, the lad was an unschooled country dolt. Pamela would eat him alive.
"You're positive there's no redhead with them?" Marcus hated to raise the subject again, hated to provide Pamela with an indication that the matter was of any importance, but he couldn't avoid it.
He was dying to learn more about the female who'd stumbled into his bedchamber the previous night. She'd looked drugged, or perhaps she'd been walking in her sleep, and he was intrigued. Pamela had begged him to tryst, and against his better judgment, he'd come by the mansion—which he rarely did. During their foray, he was convinced he'd locked the door to his seldom-used suite, so he still couldn't deduce how his enticing voyeur had gained entrance.
It had been such a strange encounter. When she'd been in the room, and he'd gazed into Pamela's face, he'd seen the other woman's face, instead, as if she was meant to have been in the bed with him, or as if he could have willed her there had he but concentrated hard enough.
Then, there was the dream he'd had later, of the two of them having sex. It had been so stirring, so realistic, that his trousers grew uncomfortable whenever he recalled it. He knew she had a small beauty mark on her left buttock, could describe the exact shade of her nipples. How could that be?
Their fantasy assignation had been rousing, thrilling, and when it had ended, he'd felt such joy and serenity. He was determined to meet her, to ascertain if the special qualities he'd detected would be evident, or if his sense of connection had simply been part of a bizarre reverie. But he could scarcely explain as much to Pamela.
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She hadn't observed their visitor. She'd been too busy, trying to show him what a great lover she was, a pathetic ploy she'd hoped would render an increase in her allowance. She was a whore, and it was humorous to toy with her, to have her presuming she could rekindle his affection, but he was a smart man. He'd been bitten once, and wouldn't let the snake slither too near a second time.
"Why this sudden curiosity with redheads?" she asked.
Suspicious, she studied him, but he was a master at indifference, at remaining aloof and detached, so no hint of his intent was visible. She could stare to infinity and garner no clue as to his thoughts.
He changed the subject. "Have you seen my signet ring?"
"Why?"
"It wasn't there when I dressed this morning."
"Are you assuming this anonymous redhead stole it?"
"Actually, I suspected you."
Her mouth tightened into an unflattering pout "You are such a brute! I don't know why I let you in the door!"
"Because it's my house?" He rented an apartment over the Stevens brothers' gambling hall, while permitting her to reside in the home he'd always despised.
"As you boorishly remind me, each and every occasion you stop by. If you detest me so, why don't you toss me out into the street and be done with it?"
"A marvelous notion. I'll take it under advisement."
"You are too cruel, Marcus. Too damned cruel." Her eyes flooded with tears, but in light of her thespian abilities, it was difficult to discern if the tears were genuine or faked. "Why persist with tormenting me?"
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He shrugged. "It's so amusing."
"You trifle with me, you welcome me to your bed, but the next morn, you haven't a civil word to say."
"Don't blame me because you choose to act the harlo
t. If you're eager to spread your legs, I'll gladly crawl between them."
She glowered. "Ooh, I loathe you."
"Believe me, my dearest mama, the feeling is mutual."
"Don't refer to me as your mother!"
"Isn't that what you are?"
"Why not have the carriage brought round, and deliver us to the poorhouse right now? Put me out of my misery!"
She regularly harped on how soon he had to wed. His father had encumbered the estate, the dispersals tied to Marcus's marriage by age thirty-one, which was four months away, but Marcus could not care less.
He had stashed some cash, enough to sail off to India or Jamaica. He would start over, would abide as an ordinary man, without the burdens of the abhorred Stamford title dragging along behind. His father's decades of berating and disparagement, of duplicity and deception, had ground out any pride or fondness.
His distant cousin, Albert, could have it all, with Marcus's blessing, but then Pamela would be broke, too, a factor about which she never ceased to harangue. Marcus's father had bequeathed her no money of her own—a sign of their matrimonial bliss, no doubt!—so she was dependent on Marcus for everything.
If he didn't secure his assets, her fate was dire, and she suffered from a compulsion to speed his nuptials, which he didn't share. She was pushing every desperate, barely suitable girl in the kingdom at him, frantic
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for one of them to capture his fancy, but the harder she worked to finagle an engagement, the less inclined he was to consider any of them.
It occurred to him that he was lucky she'd declined to wed him all those years ago. With her whining and demands, she'd have driven him to an early grave.
"I'm not ready to abandon you just yet. It's much more fun to have you squirming."
"You impossible wretch!" She marched toward the stairs. "I'm weary of you. Let's go meet the Lewises. I want the ordeal concluded, so I can avoid you the rest of the evening."
"Until you need your midnight tumble."
"I'd rather eat hot coals than sleep with you again."
She was at the top step before she realized he hadn't followed. "Are you coming or aren't you?"
"What if I don't?"
Apparently, he'd goaded her beyond her limits, and she trembled with fury. "I swear to God, Marcus, if you don't accompany me, I shall walk into the ballroom and announce to all and sundry that you've decided to snub the Lewises, despite their being my special guests."
"Why would I mind if you make a scene?"
"Exactly. Why would you?" She waved at the throng below. "Do you suppose bridal candidates grow on trees? There are so few parents who've been willing to entertain a proposal from you. Of those who've been tempted, you've managed to insult and offend every one. Regina Lewis isn't aware of how despicable you are. Her daughter, Melanie, is our last hope. Now, what shall it be?"
Ladies Regina and Melanie could go hang, and he was unconcerned over what the assembled horde thought of his behavior. He'd contemplated not attending the
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gathering at all, but he was anxious to determine if his mysterious Peeping Tom was on the premises. She had to be an associate of the Lewises.
"Lead on, my beloved stepmother."
"Shut up."
Halfway down, she spun around. "I just remembered: There is a redhead with them. She's a chaperone or a maid or some such. Tell me the truth. Are you worried she's a thief? Should I lock up the silver?"
"No need. If anything else turns up missing, I'll search her room. Then, I'll search yours."
"Oooh, you ... you ..." Fuming, she stomped off, but as they reached the foyer, she reasserted her aplomb. When they were out in public, she pretended they were on amicable terms.
She latched on to his arm and escorted him into the ballroom. As expected, his appearance stirred a ripple, ensuring that speculation about Melanie Lewis would run rampant.
Pamela steered him to the back wall, where the Lewises were listening to the music and obviously impatient for his arrival. They were a dismal crew, attired in out-of-fashion clothes, an indicator of a lack of sophistication and preparedness for their London endeavor. A waltz was in progress, and they gawked as though they'd never viewed dancing before. They were so out of place that he almost felt sorry for them.
"Couldn't you have found a modiste for the girl," he whispered to Pamela, "before you set her loose among the vipers of High Society?"
"There wasn't time," Pamela hissed, her polite smile not slipping. "Besides, I'm not her mother. I'm not responsible for dressing her."
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Obese, dour Regina was positioned in the middle. She exuded gloom, arrogance, and he shuddered from imagining her as his mother-in-law.
Melanie was awfully young, pretty and plump, with blond ringlets, big blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. Except for her permanent scowl, she looked like a porcelain doll.
Christopher was handsome and charming, and even though his suit was dated, he carried himself well and wasn't glaringly abnormal, as were his female relatives. He was tall, lanky, blond and blue-eyed like Melanie, but he had a twinkle and a friendly air about him that had to have been inherited from his father's side of the family.
Standing adjacent and slightly behind was Marcus's red-haired fantasy. Her fabulous auburn hair, the likes of which he'd never witnessed prior, was tucked under a silly cap, as if she was afraid to have anyone discover how striking it was.
She wore a drab gray gown that was buttoned to neck and wrist, revealing no hint of the creamy skin concealed beneath. Although she was outfitted to blend in with the wallpaper, she was so rare, so unique, and she shone like the brightest star. On seeing her again, his heart literally skipped a beat.
Would she recollect what had happened? He was dying to know.
They drew nigh, and Pamela was at her most fawning, her most ingratiating. "There you are!" she gushed to Regina. "We've been hunting everywhere. May I present my late husband's son, Marcus Pelham, Lord Stamford."
As Pamela babbled, his dream visitor glanced up, and when she espied him, she blanched with such
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shock and horror that he was surprised she didn't faint. He hoped she never gambled, for her expressions were far too revealing.
She was terrified, frantic to melt into the plaster and vanish, and in a vain attempt to separate herself, she sidled away from the Lewises. Regina had risen for the introductions, but Marcus snubbed her by walking past and advancing directly to the redhead.
He bowed. "Lady Melanie, you're much more beautiful than I had been led to believe. Thank you for coming. I'm so glad you're here."
It was outrageous conduct, but he couldn't help himself. He detested everything about the encounter, particularly Pamela's desire to have it transpire in such a public forum.
The redhead winced, wishing the floor would open and swallow her whole. Regina sputtered with affront, Christopher stifled a chuckle and winked at the redhead, and Melanie shrieked and fanned herself. The guests loitering nearby tittered with what they assumed was Marcus's delicious faux pas.
His gaze holding hers, he raised her hand to his lips, and had commenced to kiss it, when Pamela yanked him away. She was shooting visible daggers.
"Marcus," she scolded playfully, as if it were a joke they'd all enjoyed, "you're such a tease. This is Lady Melanie's chaperone. Miss ... Miss ... I apologize, but I can't recall your name. What is it?"
"Duncan," the redhead answered quietly. "Kate Duncan."
"Any relation to the Doncaster Duncans?" he inquired.
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"Absolutely not."
She was appalled, horrified to have him questioning whether she had a connection to the previous earl. Why would any link need to be a secret? Had she a scandalous history? How marvelous if she did! "Well, pardon me then, Miss Duncan. I could have sworn you were a titled lady."
As if she'd been burned, she lurched away, flashing him an angry, reproachful frown, and amazing him with her bol
d nature. For some reason, he hadn't anticipated it. She wasn't simpering or timid, and his intrigue spiraled.
"Now, here is Lady Melanie," Pamela was saying, dragging him away, "and her mother and brother..."
Pamela went off, filling the awkward moment with idiotic chatter. Melanie and Regina curtsied, but their combined fury was so blatant that he had to wonder if they'd avenge the rebuff, if Miss Duncan would be punished. It had never occurred to him to think before he'd proceeded. In social situations, he cared so little for others' opinions that he never fretted over how he should comport himself.
He endured the Lewises long enough to smooth ruffled feathers, schedule a riding date with Christopher, and allow Pamela to coerce him into a supper party the following evening.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could detect the indomitable Miss Duncan plotting her escape, and the instant everyone had forgotten her, she faded into the crowd and sneaked out the closest exit, which led onto the verandah.
The second he could slip away, he did so, but he
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couldn't rush after her. Too many people had witnessed his prank, so he had to stroll the ballroom before he could finagle himself outside.
He caught sight of her immediately, hiding under a tree by the rear fence. In a dither, she was pacing and assessing the house, waiting for the path to clear so she could creep in the servants' entrance without bumping into anyone.
She hadn't seen him leave the mansion, and presuming herself alone in the yard, she made a beeline for the door. He skulked in the shadows, watching her approach, and as she reached for the knob, he laid his hand atop hers. She jumped and bit down on a squeal of fright.
"Hello, Miss Duncan." He smiled like the cat that had eaten the canary. "Fancy meeting you here."
"You!" She reeled away.
"Is that any way to greet an earl?"
"I'd afford you the deference due an earl... if you acted like one."
"You wound me," he mocked.
"You contemptible oaf! Have you any notion of the trouble you've caused?"
"No. Why don't you tell me all about it?"
