by Cheryl Holt
"It's Jamie, you silly goose."
"How could it be? Last I heard, he'd gone to Scotland on business. He's not even in London."
"You're receiving regular correspondence, are you?"
Ophelia chuckled cruelly, her raised brow signifying that she was aware Anne had had no mail and couldn't possibly know where Jamie was.
"He posts a letter once a week," Anne insisted. "Like clockwork."
"Give over, Anne," Ophelia scoffed. "He's an illiterate barbarian. Any note from him would simply contain a large X in the middle of the page. He never learned to read and write."
"That's a lie!" Anne hissed, her undeserved loyalty to Jamie making her ripple with fury.
Jamie was smart as a whip and shrewd like a fox, so the notion that he hadn't been schooled had never occurred to her, and she was embarrassed to realize that she knew so little about her husband that she had no idea if Ophelia was correct or not.
"Poor Anne," Ophelia clucked. "So devoted. So misguided in the affairs of the heart."
She rose, giving Anne a condescending pat on the shoulder, then sauntered out. Anne watched her go and gnashed her teeth.
When Ophelia had initially arrived, Anne had been too distraught to care. By the time she'd been feeling stronger and might have put her foot down, Ophelia was ensconced in the countess's rooms. It would have taken a shovel to dig her out of them.
Jack had begged Anne to evict her, but Anne couldn't muster the energy to wage battles that seemed ridiculous. As she'd explained to Jack, it was a huge mansion. There was space for all of them.
Once Percy arrived, too—an event that Ophelia kept promising—Anne might change her mind and eject both of them, but for the moment she merely wanted peace and quiet.
She reread the torrid article, and she supposed it was an indicator of her improved condition that the information made her fighting mad. While she'd been languishing at Gladstone, grief stricken and bereft over being abandoned by Jamie, he'd been in London, wagering and carousing with loose women.
She scanned the words over and over, and with each repetition her rage sizzled a tad more. She envisioned him adrift in a sea of corruption and vice, his very soul in jeopardy from his dissolution. He needed to come home, where he was safe, where he belonged, where he was loved. And she did love him. She had no doubt. She'd had to lose him to figure it out.
She sat in the silence, mulling, fuming, when a resolution presented itself to her. It was diabolical, it was foolhardy, it was destined to fail, but she had to try.
She folded the paper under her arm and marched outside to where Jack was working with the horses.
She and Jack were necessary companions, charged by the absent Jamieson Merrick with keeping the immense property functioning. Even though they had no concept of how to go about it, they'd muddled forward together, and in the process they'd become friends.
He saw her storming across the yard, and one corner of his mouth quirked in a smile that was an exact duplicate of Jamie's.
"What is it now?" he inquired.
"Tell me why your brother is such an idiot."
"I only plan to live another forty or fifty years, so there wouldn't be enough time."
She snorted. "Was he always this way?"
"What way?”
"Heedless, arrogant, and exasperating?" "Yes, always." "How did you bear it?" Jack shrugged. "He grows on you." "Did you ever think that you'd like to simply reach over and throttle him?" "On a daily basis." "Come with me to the house." "Why?"
"We're packing our bags for a trip to London." "To London!"
"We're going to fetch him home."
"I don't imagine he'll come peaceably." "It doesn't matter," Anne said. "I'm going to kill him first."
"So we'll just be bringing the body for burial?" "If that's what it takes to get him back here." Jack chuckled. "I can't wait to see his face when you show up."
"Neither can I."
"He never lets anyone tell him what to do." "Well, someone needs to start. It might as well be me."
W
hat are you doing here?" "Can't I attend my own brother's soiree without undergoing an inquisition?" "No, you can't," Jamie retorted, glaring at Percy. The more Jamie got to know Percy, the less Jamie liked him. Jamie saw Percy at engagements all over London, had ignored and endured him, but he shouldn't have to tolerate him at his own party, in his own foyer.
"You weren't invited," Jamie continued, "so what do you want? If you're about to beg for another handout, you'd best do it quietly or your snooty acquaintances might overhear."
"I didn't beg—as you so crudely put it. I've never asked for anything that wasn't rightfully mine."
"No, of course not. Why don't you swallow your pride and agree to a stipend, after all?"
"I don't need an allowance from you," Percy boasted. "I'm about to wind up with everything I ever wanted." "And what would that be?"
"Why, Gladstone; what would you suppose?"
"You've repeatedly proven that you're too stupid to wrest it from me. Now why don't you go away before you hurt yourself? Or before / hurt you."
The place was crammed with guests. People were watching them, whispering and curious as to what was being said. Most likely, they were commenting on how much Percy had begun to resemble Jamie. Over the previous few months, dissipation had wreaked havoc on Percy's anatomy, and he'd lost a significant amount of weight.
Jamie had always understood that they were the same height and had similar features, but looking at Percy now, he felt as if he were staring into a mirror and seeing a blond version of himself staring back. Jamie was no longer a twin but a triplet, with Percy the third identical brother.
They were a spectacle, which Jamie typically didn't mind, but he was in no mood to tangle with Percy. Each time Jamie ran into him, Percy's condition was worsened. With no funds, no line of credit, and no true friends, he was in dire straits, but too conceited to admit it.
On one dubious occasion, Jamie had deigned to be charitable and had given Percy some money, but after receiving it, Percy had hurled so many insults that Jamie's patience was exhausted. He wouldn't spit up any more cash.
He studied Percy, disgusted by his deteriorated state. The man was falling apart, his clothes disheveled, wine spilled down his jacket, but he was too intoxicated to notice. He was a lousy drunk, prone to swaggering and confrontation, so eventually he'd cause trouble.
Jamie motioned to a servant—one of his crew members dressed in livery—and he came over and took Percy by the arm to escort him out, but Percy was determined to be obstinate and shook him off.
"I'll have Gladstone in the end," Percy swore, his words slurred. "My lawyers promised me."
"Your lawyers are fools."
"Then again, you might suffer a terrible accident."
"You already tried twice, Percy, remember? Your aim is bad. Besides, if I die, Jack is the heir. Not you. So he'll have to have an accident, too. You're not brave enough or smart enough to murder us both."
"Once you're out of the way," Percy taunted, "don't you wonder what will become of Anne?"
It was a shock to hear him speak Anne's name. From the day Jamie had left Gladstone, no one had mentioned her, and if he hadn't thought about her so often and so poignantly, he might have suspected she'd never really existed.
"I always desired her," Percy absurdly claimed. "Did you know that? With you dead, the first thing I'll do is fuck her blind."
At the vile slur, Jamie was stunned and couldn't believe his ears. "What did you say?"
"I'll fuck her till she can't walk, but I won't marry her! Oh no. Not after you've stuck your filthy rod in her. I'll use her till I'm weary of her; then I'll cast her out. She'll wind up penniless and forgotten."
"Shut up, Percy."
"Is she any good under the blankets?" he coarsely asked. "Would she be worth the bother of raping?"
Jamie hit him so hard that he was lifted off his feet and flung backward into the crowd. He collapsed
in a bewildered heap as Jamie stormed over and leaned down so that his face was an inch from Percy's own. Except for the color of their hair, they looked so much alike, and it was odd that they could be so similar on the outside but be so different on the inside.
Percy was Jamie's brother, but he was so weak, so lacking in character. From birth, he'd been given everything a man could ever want, but the largesse had been wasted on him. In a way, Jamie was glad for how their paths had diverged. Jamie's tribulations had made him tough and strong, had filled him with a righteous fury he wasn't afraid to exhibit.
He grabbed Percy by the shirt and threatened, "If you ever speak Anne's name again, I'll kill you."
"She's a cheap whore," Percy replied, too foxed to recognize that he should remain silent.
Jamie hit him again, harder, and he slumped to the floor, his nose oozing blood.
"When next I lay eyes on you," Jamie vowed, "I intend to murder you. Because we're kin, I'll give you a chance to get away, but I suggest you leave London immediately."
Jamie stood, rubbing his knuckles, and he nodded to a group of burly servants who'd hurried over to assist. They seized Percy and dragged him away, the guests parting like the Red Sea, but Percy was too dazed to offer any resistance. He was tossed onto the stoop like a sack of rubbish, and as the door was closed behind him, spectators smirked and murmured over the altercation.
Jamie worked his way toward the stairs, thinking he might sneak up to his room for a drink and some solitude, but he couldn't be gone long. By morning, news of their fight would be all over the city, and he didn't want anyone assuming that he'd been upset by it.
He was tired of London, tired of the rich, lazy nobles who now populated his world. He hated the noise and the crowds and the foul air, and he couldn't recollect what had driven him to come. Though he was loathe to stay, he was as stupidly proud as Percy. Having made one bad decision after the next, Jamie couldn't admit that he was miserable.
He missed Jack and yearned to fetch him, to board the ship and sail away, just the two of them out on the water, as it had always been in the past.
He missed Anne even more, so much so that the pain of it amazed him. Why did she have such a hold on him? Why was he so besotted? By fleeing Gladstone, he'd presumed his obsession would wane, but it hadn't. He wanted her more than ever, and he felt as if he'd lost a piece of himself, as if he'd hacked off a limb and couldn't grow it back.
He knew he should go home, that he should get down on bended knee and beg her to take him in, but he couldn't do it. She deserved better than a philandering libertine who had no loyalty and no constancy, and if he humbled himself by returning, what guarantee was there that she'd have him? Why would she want him?
He reached the staircase, and from the bottom step he could survey the crush of people. There were so many present, but he couldn't stand any of them. He had no friends, not even any cordial acquaintances. They'd come to see and be seen at the earl's latest decadent fete, but if he suddenly dropped dead, nary a one would rush to his aid.
An actress with whom he was regularly linked espied him, and she grinned and pushed her way over.
She pressed her voluptuous body to his, whispering a salacious proposition that made his cock stir, and she pointed up to his private quarters, where he never let any of them go.
Her cloying perfume was suffocating, and she clutched at his arm as if she owned it. He slid away and continued on alone, wishing they'd all leave but not having the energy to instruct the servants to usher them out.
He went into his room, shrugged out of his jacket, and poured himself a whiskey. As he was about to relax in a chair by the fire, he realized that there was someone in his dressing room, and from the sound of it, the person was ... having a bath!
He frowned. Who would dare?
Had some strumpet violated the sanctity of his bedchamber? Would any of them be that brave? That daft?
He gulped his liquor, then stomped over and marched in. The sight that greeted him was so shocking that if the Queen, herself, had been there, he couldn't have been more surprised.
"Anne?"
"Hello, Jamie."
She was lounged—naked—in his bathing tub, and before he could focus on the fact that she'd arrived, she stood, water sluicing down her thighs.
"Would you hand me that towel?"
"Anne?" he muttered again, too astonished to say more.
"The towel, Jamie, if you please. I'm in a hurry." Certain he was hallucinating, he physically shook himself.
"Who the hell let you in?"
"Why ... the butler, who else? I'm your countess; I don't need permission." "But why are you here?"
He couldn't move, and as it became evident that he'd be of no assistance, she climbed to the floor and grabbed the towel on her own. Like the most seasoned courtesan, she stroked it slowly, sensually, across her creamy shoulders, her perfect breasts, down her alluring belly, between her long, shapely legs.
Instantly, he was hard as stone. Though he'd tried his damnedest to forget her, it was obvious he still desired her more than ever. Would this insane lust never fade?
"It was so boring in the country without you," she was explaining, her busy hands meticulously drying every inch of her delectable skin. "And then, when I heard how much fun you were having in the city, I decided I should see for myself what it's like. Did you know I've never been to London before? I can't wait to try everything."
"Everything?"
"Yes. I'm told there are all sorts of amusements for a woman—if she's game."
"Game?" His voice came out as a squawk, and he coughed to clear his throat. "I don't want you here."
"Don't worry; I won't be underfoot. You'll scarcely notice I'm around."
"Not bloody likely."
She wrapped the towel over her lush, curvaceous torso, tucking a corner between her breasts like an African savage; then she went into the opposite bedroom, the room where his wife would sleep—if he had a wife. Which he did, but in name only.
Two maids had accompanied her from Gladstone. One was clutching a curling iron, and the other had fancy undergarments and a red ball gown strewn across the bed.
Anne glanced over to where he was loitering in the threshold like an imbecile.
"Do you mind?" she said. "I need to dress." He didn't budge, and she added, "In light of our estrangement, it's really not appropriate for you to watch."
He scowled. "Where are you going?"
"Jack and I are invited to a dozen parties, and I want to take in as many as I can before dawn."
"Jack is here?"
"Yes, just down the hall. He's getting ready, too. I didn't suppose you'd care, so I picked the bedroom for him that was nearest to mine. It's so convenient that way, isn't it?" She chuckled and winked. She winked!
"What are you talking about?"
"Me? Why ... nothing. He and I have just grown so close since you left. I do so enjoy his company. It's like having you there, but without all the arrogance and bluster."
She made it sound as if she and Jack were ...
Gad! He couldn't finish the thought!
Would his brother have the nerve? Would Anne? She was Jamie's wife! She couldn't start an affair with his brother! It was unseemly.
Was she mad? Was Jack?
A peculiar gurgling noise emanated from Jamie's chest, a growl or a bubbling rage, but she disregarded it and gestured to the door.
"Jamie, I can't dawdle, and I can't dress with you in here."
"It's my fucking house. I'll stay if I want to."
"Oh, don't be a beast. And I don't appreciate that kind of language being used."
He strutted over and pulled up a chair, a boot braced on the end of the mattress, the chair balanced on its hind legs. He studied her, his fury wafting out, his insolent attention raking her exposed body.
"Very well." She sighed with displeasure, then turned to her servants. "Help me, ladies, would you? If we ignore him, maybe he'll get bored and go away."
The maids tittered, then proceeded with their task, and Jamie observed, fascinated, as they curled and combed, as they laced and tied.
With each flick of a brush, with each knotting of a ribbon, Anne was more stunning, and he was disturbed by the transformation. He'd always thought she was lovely, but he'd known her at Gladstone, where the highlight of the day was a casual family supper.
He'd never seen her like this: bejeweled, fluffed, painted. She was ... was ... the most gorgeous sight he'd ever laid eyes upon. At last, corset taut, garters straightened, her gown was carefully drawn over her shoulders, the skirt smoothed down her legs.
Anne scrutinized her face in the mirror, her shapely ass stuck out, all that red silk taunting him with what he'd relinquished. As she smiled at one of the maids, he was miserably uncomfortable, his pants too tight, the temperature too hot.
"What do you think?" Anne asked the girl. "How about a little beauty mark right about here?"
"Oh yes, milady. A marvelous idea."
The girl took a pencil and dabbed the tiniest black dot on Anne's upper Up, which made Jamie vividly recollect the many times he'd kissed that very spot. He couldn't bear to have it emphasized. Every lecher in the world would gaze at it and ponder kissing her, and it was all Jamie could do to keep from rushing over, grabbing her, and rubbing it off.
Anne peered in the mirror again. "Is it too much?"
"No, milady, it's perfect. You are perfect."
"I am, aren't I?" Anne concurred.
She was exhibiting a conceit and confidence he'd never previously noted in her. When had this happened? How had it happened? He hadn't been gone that long!
He felt as if—in his absence—she'd metamorphosed into someone entirely new. The Anne of whom he'd dreamed, the Anne he'd mourned, had vanished, to be replaced by this purring, shimmering goddess.
Anne twirled in a circle, earning oohs and aahs from her servants, and as she spun, Jamie caught a glimpse of her bosom. His brows raised to his hairline. The bodice of her gown was cut so low that he could see nearly all of her breasts.
He leapt to his feet and snarled, "No. I will not allow it."
