by Cheryl Holt
She could languish in the country with her horrid mother and sister. She could wither away and die of old age, living a hollow life, devoid of meaning.
“Who is here?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t a certain debutante who’d been inappropriately chasing after him.
“I’m told to say it’s Cassie.”
“Cassie?”
He searched his memory, trying to recall an acquaintance named Cassie, but he couldn’t recollect a single one.
“If the name doesn’t ring a bell—”
“It doesn’t.”
“—I’m to inform you that it’s Mrs. Cassandra Stewart.” His breath caught. “Cassandra?”
Before the man could reply, Paxton was racing down the stairs to the front parlor.
His apartment was small, with two rooms up and two down, so it was a fast trip, and with each step, his mind whirled chaotically.
What could she want? Why had she come?
Like a besotted buffoon, he stumbled in, sliding across the floor and nearly falling in his haste.
He struggled for calm, tugged on his vest, and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair.
She was over in the corner, riffling in the sideboard that had already been emptied, and she glared at him.
“Mrs. Stewart?” he stammered. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to pour myself a drink. And it’s Cassie to you.”
“You want me to call you Cassie?”
“Yes. Where is your liquor?”
“All packed.”
“Well, hell,” she muttered, “what’s a girl have to do to get a brandy around here? I could really use one. I’m a little out of my element.”
“You feel spirits will help?”
“Definitely. It will give me the courage to tell you what I’ve come to say.”
He glanced about, unable to remember into which crate the decanters had been placed. They hadn’t been nailed shut yet, so he scrounged through and retrieved a bottle and a glass.
He dispensed a liberal amount and handed it to her. She gulped it back, then she grabbed him by his shirt, pulled him to her, and kissed him full on the mouth.
Though he was accustomed to brazen women, the audacious move stunned him, and he staggered away as if he’d been hit.
“What was that for, you bold hussy?” he teased.
“It’s my version of an apology.”
“It was a fairly good one, but what—precisely—are you apologizing for?”
“For loitering in the hallway at Barnes Manor, with my mother scolding us, while I pretended I didn’t love you.”
He cocked his head. “What did you say?”
“I said I love you, and I’m sorry.”
“I heard the sorry part, but what’s this other nonsense? You love me? Don’t be absurd.”
“I’m not being absurd. It’s true: I love you.”
He scoffed. “When did this brilliant notion occur to you?”
“When I first met you. I was just a tad slow to realize it.”
He scowled, anxious to deduce what had come over her.
The last time he’d seen her, she’d been too much of a coward to admit to the slightest relationship. Now, a mere two days later, she was agog with amour.
The woman was mad as a hatter.
“I don’t understand you,” he complained.
“What’s to understand? I’m here, and you should be glad. Stop glowering as if I were a scullery maid who broke your favorite vase.”
“I’m not glad. I chased you around Barnes Manor for weeks, and you couldn’t be bothered to speak to me in an open parlor. I leave, and next I know, you’re beating down my door and claiming a heightened affection. Pardon me if I don’t buy it.”
“Oh, be silent. I’m trying to tell you something important.”
“What is it?”
“You were right.”
“Of course I was. I always am.” He frowned. “What was I right about on this occasion?”
“I’ve been hiding in my mother’s home, acting like a scared ninny. I’ve been prim and fussy and positively boring, but I don’t want to live that way anymore.”
“How would you like to live?”
“I want to live like you.”
“Are you insane? I’m a gambler and a wastrel who doesn’t have two pennies to rub together. I should take you over and introduce you to my father so he can lecture you on the wages of sin. He’d set you straight in a hurry.”
“I don’t care if you’re a wastrel. In fact, I’m delighted that you’re a wastrel.”
“You can’t be.”
“Who says so?”
“I do, I guess.”
He whipped away and started to pace, as he tried to figure out his motives.
He’d encouraged her to join him in indolence and vice. She’d thought about it, had decided to agree, yet he was working to dissuade her.
Was he ill? Was he growing demented?
He halted and gaped at her.
“I’m sailing for the Caribbean.”
“I know.”
“You’d like to come along?”
“Yes, you dunce. Isn’t it obvious?”
“No, it’s not obvious. You’ve spent your whole life under your mother’s thumb.”
“A huge mistake. I admit it.”
“And now—in the blink of an eye—you’re your own woman, and you’re valiantly ready to cast your lot with me.”
“Yes.”
She opened her reticule and retrieved a vial of what looked to be red wine. She removed the cork as if to swallow down the contents.
“What is that?” he asked.
“My sister Mary gave it to me. She said it’s a love potion.”
“A love potion?” He gulped.
“I’m in love with you, and it’s supposed to make you fall in love with me in return.”
He didn’t believe in magic or spells, but as she tipped the vial to her lips, he leapt toward her and tried to wrestle the thing away, but it was too late.
She’d ingested the entire amount.
His innards clenched, the strangest feeling sweeping over him, as if his fate had been sealed.
“Face it, Adair, you’re doomed.”
“Doomed,” he murmured.
“You’re going to take me to the Caribbean, and you’re going to marry me. We’ll live happily ever after. Since I’ve drunk this potion, you won’t be able to resist.”
“Why would you want me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I’m a drunkard.”
“So am I. A secret drunkard, but a drunkard nonetheless. It never seemed to bother you at Barnes Manor, so what’s the problem?”
“I’m a gambler. It’s how I earn my money.”
“Yes, and you cheat, too. You cheat everyone, constantly. I can put up with it if you can. Just promise me that you won’t let yourself be shot by some angry card player. I don’t wish to be a widow again. I intend to be wed to you forever.”
To a confirmed bachelor such as himself, the word forever sounded like a very, very long time.
“I’m a blatant fornicator.”
This detail galvanized her attention. She stared at his loins.
“If you ever peek at another woman, I shall castrate you in your sleep.”
At her threat, he shuddered. “You certainly make me eager to attach myself to you.”
“Could you please explain to me what’s happening? When you left Barnes Manor, you begged me to go with you.”
“That was then,” he hedged, “and this is now.”
“Now? It’s been forty-eight hours.” Her temper sparked. “You didn’t mean it, did you, you scurvy dog! You were toying with me! You didn’t really want me to come along, and you asked me for some perfectly vain, male reason I will never comprehend. Like a fool, I believed you, and I’ve burned all my bridges. If I were a man, I’d kill you where you stand.”
She picked up her reticule and marched f
or the door, which thoroughly rattled him.
“Don’t go,” he piteously said. “I’m glad you’re here. I am.”
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
“You surprised me. That’s all.”
“Shut up!” She tried to push by him, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to a halt.
“Release my hand,” she fumed, “or I will break your arm.”
As he touched her, he was overcome by the sensation that always occurred when she was near. His heart pounded; he began to perspire. He yearned to throw her down on the sofa and dally till dawn.
There was something about her that thrilled him as no other ever had, but if he let her stay, he’d be making a commitment. Had he the wherewithal to follow through?
He was such an undependable cad, and if she bound herself to him, he’d be responsible for her the rest of his days. It wasn’t as if he could tire of her and desert her in a foreign country. It wasn’t as if he could grow weary of marriage and move on to some other folly.
“Let’s discuss this,” he said.
“There’s nothing to discuss. Either you want me to go with you or you don’t. What is your answer? I would hear it immediately, and if you make the wrong choice, I’ll strangle you.”
“I’m worried about you coming with me.”
“Ha! You’re worried about yourself. You might actually have to get married.”
“There is that.”
“You might actually have to start acting like an adult.”
“Which is my worst nightmare.”
She studied him, searching for an assurance he never gave to anyone. Who could rely on him? Who would risk it?
Her shoulders sagged with defeat.
“What’s the matter?” she inquired. “I know you were sincere that day at Barnes Manor. Have you changed your mind? Have you decided I’m not who you want after all?”
She gazed up at him, her pretty blue eyes wide with concern. She was exquisite, and if he could make her his own, he would be so lucky.
“I’m afraid, Cassie.”
“Of what”
“Of failing you. I have no idea what it will be like there. What if it’s awful? What if I can’t run a plantation and we lose our shirts?”
“You’ll cheat to win some ill-gotten money, and we’ll buy some new shirts.”
He chuckled miserably. “What if I drink myself into a stupor and die in a ditch?”
“If you perish before me, I’ll kill you.”
“What if I find I hate being a husband? It’s completely within my mode of behavior to turn coward and abandon you.” This was the crux of the affair; this was what he most feared. “Where would you be?”
She scoffed. “You’ve invented all these idiotic scenarios as to why I shouldn’t take a chance on you. But what about you? What about your taking a chance on me? You think I’m such a great catch?”
“Well . . . not really. You have a few quirks that are quite disturbing.”
“Damn straight. I’ve never done anything; I’ve never gone anywhere. I was raised by a crazy woman and wed to an insane man, which is the sum total of my biography.”
“You’re correct: You’re pathetic.”
“I have more problems than you can count.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Stop agreeing with me.”
“All right.”
“But”—she stepped in so that her entire torso was pressed to his all the way down—“I will always love you, and I will make you so bloody happy.”
She rose up and touched her lips to his again, and he groaned with pleasure. It was simply impossible to be around her and not desire her.
There was a deck of cards on the table. She picked it up and held it out to him.
“I tell you what,” she coaxed. “If you draw the high card, I go with you to Jamaica. If I draw the high card, I crawl back to my mother in disgrace.”
They both knew it was a dare. He could make her select any number, so what did he want?
His life was changing fast. He was leaving England to become a prosperous gentleman in a strange land.
Was he ready to become a husband, too? Perhaps a father in a very short while? The notion of giving up his bachelor ways was terrifying.
If he wasn’t a gambler and wastrel, what sort of man would be left?
“Fine,” he said, accepting her challenge, and he was actually trembling. “Let’s play.”
He shuffled the deck, and they pulled out their cards, but as she saw them, she scowled.
“We both drew eights!” she complained.
“I can’t decide what’s best.”
“Oh, you ass!”
She punched him in the stomach—hard—and he gave a soft grunt.
“Try again,” she demanded, “and quit being such a baby. My future is hanging in the balance.”
“So is mine.”
He shuffled and shuffled, taking forever.
“You never lose, remember, Paxton?”
“I never do.”
“I’m the biggest prize you’ve ever wagered over.”
“I believe you might be correct.”
“Are you going to let me beat you in the only contest you’ve ever entered that truly mattered?”
If he allowed her to win, he’d never be alone again. He wouldn’t have to face the coming tribulations by himself. He would have a friend, a companion, a confidante.
She would be with him for the rest of his life.
That fact, more than any other, settled things.
He ceased his shuffling and held out the cards.
“You better have made the right choice,” she warned.
“I have.”
She drew a card, and he did, too. They flipped them over at the same time. Hers was a deuce, and his was a king.
She stared at them, then she started to shake, and she laughed until tears welled into her eyes.
“I knew you wouldn’t send me back to my mother!”
“No man could be that cruel.”
She leapt into his arms, the cards scattering, and she was kissing him and kissing him, only stopping when, behind them, the valet cleared his throat.
“You have another . . . ah ... visitor, Mr. Adair. What should I tell her?”
“Tell her I’m otherwise engaged.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Then you’ll have to finish the packing on your own. I’ll be busy all night.”
The valet grinned and tiptoed out.
“WHERE is she?”
Lauretta heard the question shouted from down in her foyer, and she frowned. It sounded like Redvers, but he wasn’t due back for a week.
She was seated at the dressing table in her boudoir, wearing a robe and brushing her hair. She had plans for the evening, and she was running late.
“Mrs. Bainbridge is in her bedchamber,” her butler answered.
The front door was slammed so forcefully that the windows rattled. Angry strides pounded up the stairs, then Redvers stormed in.
His clothes and boots were dusty from his journey, and he hadn’t shaved in ages, so his cheeks were darkened with stubble. His color was high, and he exuded menace and danger.
Something had goaded him to a furious state, but what could it be?
For the briefest instant, she panicked, worrying that her trickery toward Mary Barnes had been discovered, but she pushed away any concern. She couldn’t have been found out.
Who was there to have told him?
“Redvers? Why are you home so soon? I wasn’t expecting you for several days. I hope you’ve come to inform me of how rich we are.”
She smiled, but he didn’t smile in return.
He studied her in a way he never had previously, as if he . . . he ... hated her. She could barely keep from squirming.
“I will give you one chance to explain yourself,” he said.
“Explain myself? What are you talking about?” She spun away, showing him her back, and
she picked up her brush and began stroking her hair again. “How was the wedding? I trust it went well?”
He plucked the brush from her hand and flung it at the mirror, which shattered into a dozen pieces. “Stand up and face me,” he hissed.
“What is wrong with you?” She jumped up and whirled around. “Are you mad?”
“Where is Mary Barnes?”
Lauretta carefully shielded any reaction. “Mary . . . Barnes? Victoria’s stepdaughter? How would I know?”
“How many years have you known me, Lauretta?”
“Five? Six?”
“Yet you would hurt me this way? I realize there was never any affection between us, but I thought—on some level—we were friends.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying. You could be speaking in a foreign language.”
“Who owns the carriage in which you traveled to London?”
“You do.”
“Who employs the driver?”
“You do,” she repeated, slowing, starting to fret.
“You didn’t think I’d ask him where you took her? You didn’t think he’d tell me? Could you actually suppose he is more loyal to you than to me?”
She blanched.
How had he learned that Lauretta offered a ride to the stupid wench? What were the odds that someone would have tattled?
A myriad of replies flitted by as she tried to figure out how to play it. Denial seemed best.
“Are we still discussing Miss Barnes? Because if we are, I don’t—”
“Be silent!” he roared, and she lurched away, terribly afraid he would strike her. He never had before, but she’d never seen him so agitated.
“I know what you did,” he seethed. “I know what you arranged for her.”
“I arranged nothing.”
“Be silent!” he roared again. “Your cruelty sickens me. I am aware of your penchant for malice and treachery, but to have it directed at me—after all I’ve done for you.”
“Why are you droning on about—”
“I love her. You knew, didn’t you? It’s why you’re so determined to harm her.”
It was the admission she’d been dreading. If he loved Mary Barnes, where did that leave Lauretta?
“You love Miss Barnes?” Lauretta scoffed. “You’re being absurd.”
“Was it you who told Victoria?”
Lauretta shook her head. “Again—I haven’t a clue what you’re babbling on about.”
He pondered, then nodded as if reaching an important conclusion. “You never were a very good liar. How did you find out? Did you see us? What?”
