by Cheryl Holt
Her prior scandalous behavior had proven that she was possessed of a weak moral constitution and, given the slightest encouragement, she would do any reprehensible thing. She'd once been a virtual cauldron of smoldering lust, and she continually battled the scurrilous impulses. Yet a man had merely smiled at her again, and she was eager to leap to iniquity.
What was wrong with her? Had she no honor? No strength of will?
"What would it be worth to you," he asked, "to have Jamie's oath that you could remain at Gladstone?"
"Why? Could you get him to promise and mean it?"
"If I wanted to. If the price was right."
"That's the most sordid proposition any man's ever made to me."
"It was horrid, wasn't it?"
"I'm going to pretend that you had too much brandy after supper."
"It's more likely that I'm too exhausted to be circumspect." He scrutinized her, his interested gaze roving down her torso. "I notice that I didn't drive you into a maidenly swoon."
"I'm a bit beyond swooning."
"I'm glad to hear it. I can't abide a timid woman."
He shifted, narrowing the distance between them as she hadn't dared. She could feel his heat, could smell his skin.
"Are you ever lonely, Miss Carstairs?" "No," she lied.
"Well, I'm lonely—every minute of every day. And I'll be here for weeks, maybe months."
It was the very worst thing he could have said to her. She rippled with anticipation, already conjuring how they could arrange a few trysts.
"Good night, Mr. Merrick."
"Call me Jack."
He leaned in and kissed her, and at the feel of him, so warm and solid and masculine, her knees buckled. Instantly, he caught her and dragged her to him, her body wedged between his thighs, a hand fisted in her hair.
He was hard for her, his phallus igniting a flash fire of wanton desire she'd never been able to control. For a mad, wild moment, she joined in the fray, kissing him back with all the passion an unloved, untended spinster could exhibit.
She pulled and scratched and clawed. But as he reached for her breast, as he fondled the soft mound, she yanked away with a moan of anguish.
"I can't do this," she wailed. "I can't. Not again. Not ever again."
She whirled away and hurried into the house.
Jamie was awakened by the outer door to his suite being opened. As a female tiptoed toward him, he suffered a brief glimmer of hope that it might be Anne.
When he'd agreed to wed her, he'd scarcely considered what sort of person she'd be. He didn't plan to tarry at Gladstone, so the wife he'd leave behind had mattered very little. It could have been Anne or anyone.
But now that he'd met her, he was intrigued, thinking about her when he oughtn't, and stupidly anxious for her to consent of her own accord.
He knew her stride, though, and it wasn't her sneaking in. He'd left a candle burning, so he could see perfectly well that it was Ophelia.
Her fabulous blond hair was down and brushed out, the golden locks hanging to her waist. She was dressed in a slinky red negligee that outlined every lush curve and valley, and she'd reddened her lips to match her garment. The cosmetic enhancement made her look like a whore, but a very, very sexy one.
"Hello, Ophelia."
He scooted to a sitting position, propping the pillows against the massive headboard. Her interest piqued as she saw his bare chest and realized he'd be naked under the covers.
"Hello, Jamie," she said in a throaty, lusty way. "You don't mind if I call you Jamie, do you?"
"Not at all."
He remembered how cozy she was with Percy. He didn't trust Percy, and he trusted her even less. Had she come to shoot him? To stab him? To poison him?
"It's rather late, Ophelia. What can I do for you?"
"I've been in my room, trying to answer that very same question. What can you do for me?"
She sauntered over, her intentions clear, and he struggled to unravel her scheme. She and Percy were thirty years old, as Jamie was himself. By all accounts, she was a spinster who'd never had a single suitor, but from how she was advancing on him, she was no virgin.
How many lovers had she had? Who had they been?
She perched a hip on the mattress, a palm braced on either side of his lap. The front of her nightgown was loose, and he could see to her navel.
In a practiced move, she licked her bottom Up, by the simple gesture guaranteeing many courtesan's tricks. He was disgusted to find himself pondering how far he'd let her go before he stopped her. And he would stop her.
His standards regarding women were very low. He had no moral qualms, belonged to no church, worshiped no God, but he wasn't about to fornicate with his sister. It was a deed more depraved than he cared to attempt.
"When you initially arrived," she started, "you were throwing around marriage proposals." "Yes, I was."
"You can't seriously mean to wed Anne."
He shrugged. "She's the best choice. Sarah Carstairs is too sad, and you're too old."
"I'm the same age as you," she bristled.
"Every man likes a young, innocent bride. You know that."
"But Anne!"
"What about her? She's sweet; she's biddable. She'll be ideal."
"She's a timid rabbit! You'll eat her alive. You need a wife who possesses your same zest for life."
"And you presume that would be you."
"Of course it would be me. Have you forgotten"—she laid a hand on his belly and rubbed in slow circles— "that your roving eye landed on me first?"
"No, I haven't, but you're my sister."
"So? Affinity be damned. You're lord and master here now. You can make your own rules."
"That's my plan."
"I could be your countess," she purred. "I'd be so good at it. You'd never want for anything." "Wouldn't I?"
"No. I swear it to you." She was spectacular, oozing sexual promise and coaxing him to misbehave. "I know what you want, Jamie. I know what you need."
"Do you?"
"Oh yes."
"I'm very selfish. Whoever becomes my countess, she'll have to please me however I demand. I never permit a woman to refuse me."
"I'm sure you don't. That's why / should be by your side."
"Anne is so pretty and so amiable. I'm not certain I can be dissuaded."
"You'll let me try to change your mind, won't you?"
She crawled across his lap and tugged at the straps on her negligee.
Anne gave up trying to sleep and kicked off the tangled blankets. She was hot and sweaty, careening between despair and excitement. She was on fire with strange yearnings she didn't understand.
She slid to the floor and went to the window to stare out. The night was rapidly passing, and in a few hours she'd marry Jamieson Merrick. Or not.
"Oh, what should I do?" she wailed to the stars, but they had no answer.
If she accepted, Sarah would be safe forever. Anne would be a countess and as much in charge of her destiny as any female ever was.
What woman wouldn't kill for such a chance? Was she crazy to dither and debate?
She'd heard horrid stories about Lord Gladstone, but they weren't true. He could be domineering, but he was also smart and shrewd and kind and funny. He had a wry sense of humor and a wicked wit that she enjoyed very much. He was unique in every way, a handsome, dynamic, and brave individual who could be hers if she dared make him her own.
She didn't know the secrets of wifely duty, but it was clear that he grasped what was necessary. He'd ignited a spark that had her craving what he'd provide as her husband. Would it be so bad to revel in the pleasure he'd lavish on her?
"Safe forever," she murmured. "Sarah and I... safe forever." She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the cool glass of the window. "Oh, how can I do anything else?"
With her decision rendered, she was eager to inform him right away, and she wondered if he was still awake. She tiptoed into the corridor and raced down the
stairs.
If she had a more devious, more salaciously personal reason for returning to the master suite, she wasn't about to admit it. Perhaps—just perhaps—he might deign to rollick with her again, and if he suggested a dalliance, she wouldn't complain.
The door to his room was ajar, and she pushed it open and entered.
"Lord Gladstone?" she whispered. When she received no reply, she called more loudly, "Jamie?"
There was a candle lit in his bedchamber, and bold as brass, she marched over and peeked in, but the sight that greeted her was so shocking she couldn't comprehend what she was seeing.
"Ophelia?" she said, the name thick on her tongue.
Her cousin glanced over and chuckled as if she and Lord Gladstone had shared a joke; then she raised up so that her naked breasts were fully visible. Gladstone was naked, too, their nude flesh pressed together. Even the most sheltered of virgins could figure out what was transpiring.
"Anne, what are you doing here?" Ophelia smiled a sultry, malicious smile, intended to humiliate and wound. "Isn't it a little late to be roaming the halls?"
"Ophelia?" she naively repeated.
She was very hurt, very angry, and a surge of potent jealousy rushed through vein and pore. Her accusing gaze shifted to Lord Gladstone, letting him witness how he'd betrayed her, how he'd broken her heart.
"Dammit!" he cursed.
Anne whipped away and fled.
Five
“Where is your sister?" "I don't have any idea." Jamie glared at Sarah Carstairs, as the clock chimed the half hour, taunting him with how many minutes it had ticked past eleven.
Jack's boots pounded down the hall, and shortly he entered the parlor where the family was assembled for the ceremony.
"Well?" Jamie asked.
"She's gone. I questioned the maids and had them search her bedchamber. They say a satchel and some of her clothes are gone, too."
"Did she leave a note?"
"If she did, it wasn't in her room."
"Was she observed sneaking out?"
"One of the grooms believes he saw her, about seven o'clock this morning, walking down the road to the village."
Jamie's expression became lethal, and he focused it on Sarah Carstairs.
"I repeat: Where is your sister?"
"It sounds as if she left," Miss Carstairs replied, calm as you please.
"What was her destination?" "I haven't a clue."
Her pretty green eyes were guileless, open wide, brimming with candor, but she was absolutely lying.
He towered over her, but she wasn't intimidated, which made him even more irate. He couldn't abide obstinate females.
"Can the two of you actually presume to best me?" he hissed. "Have you any notion of what I can do to you? To her?"
"I'm not afraid of you."
He was humored by her bravado, but it was so pitifully misplaced. Here on his estate, he could behave in any foul manner he chose, and no one would gainsay him.
"You have managed to incur my wrath. I haven't the slightest concern over you or why you would deem it appropriate to intervene in my personal affairs, but pray tell, why would she dare defy me?"
"In light of your monstrous ego, I'm sure this will come as a huge shock, but she doesn't care to have you as her husband. She wasn't overly impressed by the company you keep."
Her gaze drifted to Ophelia, letting Jamie know that Anne had informed her of the debacle in his bedchamber. Under Sarah's hot scrutiny, Ophelia preened, looking smug, as if she and Jamie had intentionally set out to hurt Anne, which had been the furthest thing from his mind.
Who could have predicted that Anne would return in the middle of the night? What had she wanted? Why had she done it?
She'd seen him with Ophelia! They'd been mostly naked, and though Jamie hadn't planned on any serious mischief, and would never have dabbled with Ophelia in any way that mattered, it had appeared as if they were about to engage in a sordid session of incestuous sex.
Was it any wonder Anne had fled? Considering what she'd witnessed, what woman would have stayed?
Percy stepped forward, determined to butt his nose into the mess. "Jamie, I'm so sorry about this. I counselled her to accept the match. I can't imagine what she was thinking."
"Can't you?" Jamie sharply retorted.
"I've advised her that I can no longer support her. She understood the enormous boon you'd extended."
"Obviously, she failed to grasp a few of the finer points." He spun to Sarah Carstairs. "Pack your bags and get out of my house."
There was a stunned inhalation of breath from everyone, but no one was brave enough to speak against his harsh command, save for his brother.
"Jamie!" Jack chided, a hint of warning in his voice.
"Be silent, Jack," Jamie barked.
Sarah Carstairs peeked over to where Jack lurked like a berserker. A glance flickered between them that Jamie didn't comprehend. Then she curtsied politely.
"As you wish, Lord Gladstone."
If she was frightened about being tossed out without a penny, she gave no sign.
Insolently, she strolled by him, and as she passed, Jamie said, "Jack, before she departs, search her. Make sure she doesn't take anything of mine."
She scoffed. "Don't worry. I wouldn't sully myself."
He recognized that he was being a beast, but he couldn't remember when he'd last been so angry, and he couldn't stop lashing out.
He'd been ready to marry Anne Carstairs, to make her Countess of Gladstone, one of the most respected and wealthy women in the land. He'd been ready to provide for Sarah Carstairs—a female who wasn't even a blood relation—merely so Anne would be happy.
He'd never exhibited such kindness to anyone prior, yet the two sisters had flung his generosity in his face as if it had no value.
They were a pair of ungrateful, thankless curs!
Regal as a queen, Sarah sauntered out, but Jamie ignored her, and instead, stared at Percy, Ophelia, and Edith. They'd observed how Anne had humiliated him, and when he was surrounded by the Merricks he was standing in a nest of vipers. He couldn't let them see the smallest weakness.
"The rest of you will go, first thing in the morning."
Percy frowned, oozing feigned sincerity. "But you wanted us to attend the wedding."
"There will be no wedding."
"I could locate Anne for you," he cajoled. "I could talk to her again."
"There's no need," Jamie said. "She will be cast out, as her sister has been."
Ophelia piped up. "But Jamie, you can't mean to be rid of me. I thought..."
"Thought what?" His eyes were cold and hard.
"Wouldn't it be beneficial if I remained to aid you in the transition?"
"All of you are to go." He swept his hand, indicating mother, brother, and sister. "By tomorrow noon at the very latest."
He stormed into the hall and headed for the front door. Sarah Carstairs was in the foyer, huddled with Jack and whispering animatedly.
"Where are you off to?" Jack asked.
"I'm going to fetch Anne back to Gladstone."
"I thought you didn't know where she is."
"Oh, I know where she is, all right."
"And where is that?"
"The time is eleven forty. Do you see the vicar anywhere? He was supposed to arrive an hour ago to perform the ceremony."
"She's at the church?"
As Jack posed the question, Sarah trembled, proving that Jamie's deduction was correct.
"If not there, then somewhere close by."
"Would you like me to accompany you?"
"No. Stay here and escort Miss Carstairs off the property."
"Can't she at least wait for her sister?"
By arguing with a direct order, Jack was risking much. They were brothers, but captain and first mate, too. Usually, Jack was aware of what parts they were playing.
Apparently, Sarah Carstairs had rattled his wits—as Anne had rattled Jamie's.
"N
o. She had her chance to revel in my largesse, and she wasn't interested."
"But—"
"Just do it, Jack," Jamie snapped, "and be quick about it or you can return to the ship immediately. If you can't assist me in my endeavors here, then what good are you?"
"They're simply two anxious, poverty-stricken women who need your help."
"No, they don't. They've been very clear, and it's bad enough to have one of them plaguing me. I won't have two. I want her gone."
He marched out, and behind him, Sarah spoke to Jack.
"Will he hurt her?" she said.
"I don't know," Jack replied. "I've never seen him so enraged."
Jamie smirked, wondering himself what he might do. If Anne had been a man, he'd be loading his pistols, sharpening his sword, and checking the dagger in his boot.
No one refused him! No one! From the day he'd told the Prince Regent that he'd wed her, he'd felt that she was his—his charge, his chattel, his responsibility. Her skewed point of view was completely irrelevant, as Anne was about to learn to her peril.
He saddled his own horse in the stables and cantered off, the animal's hooves swiftly eating up the road to the village. Within minutes, he was dismounting outside the rectory. He proceeded to the door, rapped twice, then threw it open without his knock being answered.
They'd obviously been watching for him. He could hear frantic footsteps, hissing, and murmurs. Momentarily, the weasel of a vicar slithered in. He was all smiles and fawning courtesy, the precise sort of individual who aggravated Jamie the most.
"May I help you?" he inquired, pretending he didn't know who Jamie was.
"I am Jamieson Merrick, Lord Gladstone. You're late for my wedding. So is my fiancee. Where is she hiding?"
"Are you referring to Miss Carstairs?"
"Where is she?" Jamie demanded again, out of patience.
"I'm sure we can resolve this situation in a civilized fashion. If you would be so kind as to join me in the parlor . . . ?"
The vicar gestured to the room off the vestibule, a salon crammed with fussy furniture and objects. Evidently, he enjoyed having money to treat himself in frivolous ways.
"As I am now the earl at Gladstone," Jamie threatened, "the vicar's living in this parish is mine to dole out. I can keep you, or I can give it to another."
