Only Mine

by Cheryl Holt

  Fenwick was baiting him so he bit down on a barbed reply. Instead, he said, “You and I had an agreement, and you were supposed to persuade her to accept.”

  “Yes, well, she usually listens to me, but not always. I’m not sure she likes you as much as we assumed.”

  “She likes me just fine,” Benjamin fumed. “I have no idea what you told her, but it pushed her into an exhausting temper.”

  “She’s stubborn, but you know that. I suggest you wait a few days then talk to her about it yourself. She simply needs to calm down.”

  “Calm down!” Benjamin scoffed. “She was so angry she slapped me.”

  Fenwick was incredibly surprised. “She slapped you? Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting...”

  “Hold on a minute.” Wesley was frowning so ferociously his face was about to crack. “You two have an agreement? About what?”

  Benjamin and Fenwick shared a significant look then Fenwick said, “It’s up to you, Captain. You can admit it if you want. It’s your choice.”

  Benjamin stared at his brother, weighing his responses. Ultimately, he said, “It’s none of your business, Wesley.”

  Wesley wasn’t exactly the sharpest nail in the shed, but on occasion he could be positively astute. “You’re taking her as your mistress? You can’t be serious. How long is the term?”

  Fenwick peeked at Benjamin then shrugged. “Five years.”

  Wesley gasped. “Five years! Benjamin, tell me it’s not true.”

  “All right, Wesley,” Benjamin facetiously said, “it’s not true.”

  Wesley shook his head, his disappointment clear. “You’re about to marry Veronica. How could you do this to her?”

  “I’m not doing it to her, Wesley. I’m doing it for myself.”

  “Have you no shame?”

  Benjamin couldn’t bear his brother’s derision. Nor could he defend himself. He knew his conduct was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself. She’d driven him mad—with desire, with yearning, with regret. When he was such a stoic, imperturbable man, and she inspired him to such heights of folly, how could he let her go?

  “No, Wesley,” he said to his brother, “I have no shame. Not in this.” He spun to Fenwick. “She told me she was off to London.”

  “She told me the same.”

  “You two live there?”

  “Yes.”

  “After you arrive, please inform her that I’ll call on her shortly.”

  Fenwick snorted. “That will have her trembling with excitement.”

  “What is your direction?”

  Fenwick provided an address, but Benjamin wondered as to his veracity. The pathetic schemer might give Benjamin a false one just because he thought it would be funny.

  “If you’re lying, Fenwick,” he warned, “I’ll track you down and beat you bloody.”

  “Why would I lie about my address?” Fenwick inquired.

  “You’d likely be amused by my running around the city hunting for her.”

  Wesley rippled with disgust. “You’d run around the city after her, Benjamin? You’re that besotted?”

  “Yes, Wesley, I’m that besotted.”

  “This will kill Veronica when she learns of it.”

  “Then let’s be sure she never does.” He said to his brother, “I’m riding to London.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to locate Soloman.” Wesley appeared as if he’d protest, and Benjamin held up a hand. “Whatever your comment, keep it to yourself. And don’t forget: Your friends are going tomorrow morning. Once I return from town, they better not still be here.”

  “Or what?” Wesley asked.

  “I guess we’ll discover or what after I’m back.”

  He stood and left, wishing he’d knocked their heads together, but he didn’t have the time or energy to deal with them. He had to find Soloman then Annabel, and until he accomplished those tasks he couldn’t bother with a pair of young idiots.

  SOLOMAN GREY DAWDLED IN the sitting room of his hotel suite, gazing into the bedchamber where Theodosia was sleeping on the bed.

  They’d met in Cairo when she’d been on holiday with her aunt and cousins. Though it had taken him an eternity to realize it, he’d fallen in love with her immediately. He’d loved her in Cairo, and he’d loved her after she’d sailed for England without him. He’d loved her every second during the long trip when he’d chased after her. And he loved her now. More than ever.

  Merely from watching her slumber, he was so overcome with joy that his heart didn’t fit between his ribs just right.

  He had to move her out of London and marry her as fast as he could. They had to be good and truly shackled, both so her father couldn’t snatch her back, but also to quell the outrage he’d initiated by absconding with her.

  After carrying her out of her betrothal ball, they were the two most notorious people in the kingdom which was hilarious. Ever since the catastrophe over Caleb, Soloman had spent every minute trying to avoid the slightest whiff of scandal. Yet Theodosia encouraged all sorts of wicked behavior.

  Initially, he’d told her they’d leave for Egypt the next day, that they’d have their ship’s captain wed them once they were underway. But after he’d dropped her onto his bed, after he’d snuggled with her under the blankets, he couldn’t seem to climb out and complete the chores that desperately needed completing.

  Marriage was at the top of the list, but in light of their circumstances, it wasn’t that easy to achieve.

  He had three choices. He could get her out on an ocean vessel (an idea he’d already abandoned), or elope with her to Gretna Green (an idea he was too lazy to pursue), or apply for a Special License so they could proceed without calling the banns. Due to his infamy though, he couldn’t imagine any bishop granting him an audience, let alone the consent to swiftly wed.

  The hotel proprietor had stopped by to demand Soloman depart the hotel. Apparently, news had spread that they were still in London, and the man was anxious to be rid of them before their whereabouts were revealed.

  A knock sounded on the door and he scowled, wondering if it was the proprietor trying to hurry him along. Or it might be a journalist, hoping to catch him in the middle of his sordid affair.

  The knock sounded again and Theo stirred which aggravated him. He wouldn’t permit a vulgar dunce to awaken her.

  He went over and yanked the door open, prepared to plead for more time if it was the proprietor or punch somebody if it was an uncouth gossip. Instead, he froze with surprise and muttered, “I’ll be damned. I thought you were in Scotland.”

  “And I thought you were in Cairo,” Benjamin replied.

  “I’m returning there just as soon as I can escape this paltry island.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Benjamin said. “Now that you’re home, I intend for you to remain.”

  Their short banter dwindled, and they stared and stared, a decade of unspoken comments flitting between them. In all the years Soloman had been away, Benjamin had been avid with his correspondence, his letters arriving with annoying regularity, but Soloman had rarely ever responded.

  Benjamin’s missives had been chatty and effusive for he liked to pretend everything was as it had always been, that they hadn’t both run away from tragedy and innuendo.

  “Invite me in, you rude oaf,” Benjamin said. “You never had any manners.”

  “I still don’t.”

  He hesitated, panicked over whether to let Benjamin stay. If he did, he’d very likely never muster the strength to leave England, and he couldn’t relinquish that plan just yet. But in the end, he pulled the door wider and gestured inside.

  “I suppose it’s pointless to refuse,” he said.

  “I suppose so.”

  Benjamin entered, and they stared again, the moment growing awkward.

  Finally, Benjamin stepped to him and drew him into a hug that was so tight and so comforting that—if Soloman had been a weepy type of man—he might ha
ve burst into tears.

  “It’s good to see you, you stupid prick,” Benjamin murmured.

  “It’s good to see you too.”

  “I haven’t been in Scotland. My mother lied to you.”

  “I figured she had. Some things never change.”

  “Some things don’t, but many things have. I rode to Lyndon Hall the other day.”

  “So did I. I must have just missed you.”

  “It’s a sad, sorry place,” Benjamin complained, “and it will take a fortune and an eternity to fix it up. Since I blame you for its condition, I expect you to keep your sorry ass in England to help me repair it.”

  “Maybe I will.” Soloman shrugged, thinking he couldn’t bear to pass a minute in the desolate, lonely house. There were too many awful memories awaiting him there, too many ghosts.

  “If you haven’t been in Scotland,” he asked, “where were you?”

  “I’ve been at Grey Manor, enjoying my bachelor party.”

  “Your...bachelor party? Who is the lucky girl? Anyone I know?”

  “My cousin, Veronica Mason.”

  Soloman’s brows nearly shot off his forehead. “Veronica? Really?”

  It was Benjamin’s turn to shrug. “My mother arranged it. Her dowry is incredible.”

  “I’m sure that will keep you warm at night. Why would you allow your mother to make such an important decision for you?”

  “I have no idea. I’m beginning to regret it, but it’s too late to protest or renege.”

  “When’s the wedding?”

  “After the investiture, and in case you’re hoping to slink out of town before it, I intend for you to stand up with me.”

  “Shouldn’t that be Wesley’s job? How old is he now? Twenty?”

  “He’s twenty-two and a more sorry excuse for a man you’ve never seen.”

  Soloman laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Neither have you.”

  He studied his friend, letting reminiscence roil him as he usually never did.

  They’d grown up together, had been raised like brothers, had been closer than two boys could ever be. His father had insisted on it, his kind, wonderful father whom Soloman had adored.

  He’d once believed that nothing could separate him from Benjamin, but he’d been young and naïve and hadn’t understood how cruel Fate could be.

  “A little bird told me,” Benjamin said, “that you’re about to marry yourself. Or have you already found a way to tie the knot?”

  “I’m fussing over it. I’m too slothful to travel to Gretna Green with her, and I doubt I can convince any bishop in England to grant me a Special License.”

  “I can persuade one of them to grant it. I’m about to be Lord Lyndon, remember? Every person in this bloody kingdom is about to start doing whatever I say. You want a Special License? I’ll get you a Special License.”

  Soloman snorted with amusement. “I’m never calling you Lyndon so don’t ask me to.”

  “Smart ass.” Benjamin chuckled. “You carried her out of her engagement ball.”

  “I did.”

  “After the scandal with Caleb all those years ago, didn’t we swear we’d never stir a single word of gossip ever again?”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t resist,” Soloman claimed.

  “Was she worth it?”

  Before he could answer, Theo popped up in the doorway to the bedchamber. Her hair was down and brushed out, and she was wearing only her robe. The fabric was very thin so it perfectly outlined her curvaceous torso. She looked rumpled and delectable and well-loved.

  “Soloman,” she sleepily said, “I heard you talking to somebody. It woke me up.”

  Benjamin glanced over at her and grinned. “Oh, yes, brother, she was definitely worth it.”

  Soloman agreed. “She definitely was.”

  “I’d have carried her out of her betrothal ball too.”

  “Like I said, I couldn’t resist.”

  NNABEL WASN’T SURE WHY she reined in at Lydia’s house. It was never a pleasant experience, but her mood was at its lowest ebb.

  She hated quarreling, and she loved Benjamin Grey so fiercely. At least, she thought it was love, but with how their conversation had ended she wasn’t certain what her feelings had been.

  He’d invited his fiancée to Grey Manor—while Annabel was ensconced in a bedchamber upstairs! He’d just proposed his salacious relationship to Annabel—the ink had hardly been dry on the contract—and his fiancée had been rolling up in her carriage.

  He’d expected Annabel to dawdle in her bedroom and remain out of sight while his betrothed was in residence. She’d never been more insulted. Not by anyone.

  As she’d trotted along, the miles had seemed incredibly lonely. She’d been desperate to see a friendly face, that being Miss Peggy’s. Peggy was always happy and cordial, and she worried about Harry as Annabel did.

  When Annabel had visited the last time, Mr. Boswell had taken Harry back to school. On learning what had transpired, she’d been so angry that she hadn’t stayed to chat, and she wanted to know the details about what had occurred.

  What had Harry said? Had he been upset? Had he been resigned? Had he left her a message?

  No one noticed that she’d arrived. She dismounted and walked to the door, and she entered without knocking. She probably should have, but she wasn’t about to admit she’d never been welcome.

  Lydia and Peggy were in the parlor, and they were fighting again. She couldn’t guess what was bothering them but suspected they’d simply lived together for too long. Peggy had the patience of a saint, but Lydia could try the patience of a saint.

  “Give them to me!” Lydia fumed.

  Peggy replied with a very curt, “No.”

  “I told you to burn them years ago.”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  “They’re not yours,” Lydia hissed.

  “There not yours either.”

  Annabel stepped into the room, and their bickering instantly ceased. A flurry of unvoiced, vile words shot between them then Lydia attempted a smile, but the look in her eyes was cold and dead.

  “Annabel, what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve departed Grey Manor, and I’m headed to London. I don’t know when I’ll travel in this direction again so I decided to stop.”

  “We didn’t hear you ride up.”

  “Don’t you two have anything better to do than argue constantly? Isn’t it exhausting?”

  They didn’t answer, and their animosity was almost tangible. Why would Miss Peggy continue on in such a hostile environment? Was she about to quit her post?

  She was over by the window, standing next to a table. She’d opened an old leather satchel and emptied the contents. As Annabel’s gaze shifted to it, Lydia sharply commanded, “Peggy, put those away. At once.”

  Peggy didn’t move, and Lydia leapt toward her as if she’d pack the things herself, but Peggy blocked her way. They actually engaged in a physical scuffle with Lydia determined to reach the items and Peggy determined to prevent her.

  “Honestly!” Annabel scolded. “What is wrong?”

  She walked to the table, frowning as she saw what was there: a soft blanket, a little nightgown and cap, a stuffed doll, a toy soldier. On the edge of the blanket and the nightgown, the name Lyndon was embroidered over and over in the bright red color of the Lyndon servants’ livery.

  She picked up the cap, and it was embroidered too with the name Caleb.

  She stared, her mind frantically working to deduce what she was witnessing. Why would Lydia and Peggy have possessions that clearly had come from Lord Lyndon’s home? Why would they have a cap that displayed the name of the most notorious baby in the kingdom?

  There was no explanation that made even a bit of sense, and she couldn’t settle on any reason.

  Slowly, she turned to Lydia, and her sister lunged to grab the cap out of Annabel’s hand, but Peggy seized Lydia around the waist, yanking her away so she couldn’t
get to it. Peggy shoved Lydia, and Lydia tripped and nearly fell, having to clutch at the sofa to keep her balance.

  Peggy spun away, and she folded the items and carefully laid them back in the satchel. There were a few other things inside the bag, more toys, another doll, perhaps some extra clothing.

  Had they raided the Lyndon nursery? Had they stolen some of Caleb Grey’s clothes and toys? Annabel hadn’t realized Lydia even knew the Grey family. How would she ever have mustered the audacity to visit Lyndon Hall and take what didn’t belong to her?

  She glared at both women then demanded, “Who wants to tell me what’s going on?”

  They were stoically silent, and when it eventually appeared as if Peggy would speak up, Lydia seethed, “Shut up, Peggy. Shut your mouth!”

  “I won’t, Lydia,” Peggy responded. “Not ever again. You can’t make me.”

  Lydia moaned with dismay and collapsed onto the sofa. She was pale and shaking as if she might be ill.

  Annabel faced Peggy. “What is this about?”

  With no hesitation, with no preamble where Annabel could have prepared herself, Peggy announced, “Harry Boswell is really Caleb Grey.”

  A pounding started in Annabel’s ears. Her pulse was hammering so hard in her chest that she thought it might burst through her ribs.

  “That’s not possible,” she mumbled.

  “Yes, it is,” Peggy bluntly said. “Lydia kidnapped him out of his cradle.”

  Lydia moaned even louder, and Annabel almost fainted from shock.

  She struggled for calm. “Peggy, that’s quite a damning statement.”

  “I understand that it is, but it’s true. She took him.”

  “And you’ve kept it a secret all these years?”

  “Yes, but I can’t any longer. It’s not right. Caleb is Lord Lyndon, but his title and fortune are about to be given to Captain Grey. It’s not right,” she resolutely repeated.

  Peggy glowered at Lydia, her loathing practically bouncing off the walls, providing stark evidence that this was an old and potent argument they’d chewed over many, many times. Lydia was groaning, rocking back and forth as if she was in a trance.

  “Lydia,” Annabel said, “tell me what you did.”