by Cheryl Holt
It was the height of extravagance to have a fire lit, but Alex could afford it, and Price never felt guilty when he squandered Alex’s firewood or any other item. Price was a poverty-stricken viscount, and the world was a very unfair place that a commoner like Alex could have so much and Price so little.
He was the sole friend who’d stood by Alex during his troubles. Everyone else in their circle of acquaintances had written him off and continued to pretend they’d never known him. So whenever Price overstayed his welcome or borrowed money or engaged in any other uncouth act, he viewed the boons Alex extended as a reward for his unfailing support.
He was in a morose mood, fretting about his father, about the Russian princess, about the possibility of a betrothal being arranged.
Did he wish to wed? Could he bear it?
Men of his station had no choice. Not if they hoped to keep all that wealth and property for themselves and maintain them in good condition. Marriage was expected. Heirs were expected so he had to forge ahead sooner or later, but oh, how he’d like it to be later!
Alex’s difficulties with Eugenia were sufficient proof that a fellow couldn’t predict what cards he’d be dealt in selecting a bride. In the beginning, she’d been pretty and fun so she’d seemed perfect. It was only afterward, after it became clear she was insane, that everything had fallen apart.
What if Price shackled himself to a wife who was deranged? Or a shrew? Or stupid or annoying or ugly?
He grimaced at the notion, then shoved it aside. He needed an heir, and he was thirty already. He couldn’t persist with his vacillation.
A servant knocked, probably the footman delivering his liquor and food, and he barked, “Enter if you dare!”
“Where would you like these towels, milord?”
He froze, then scowled. He knew that voice, and he whipped around as Faith snuck in. She grinned as if she’d played the greatest trick ever. He wagged a scolding finger at her.
“You get out of here right now,” he said.
“No.”
“I mean it.” But he hardly sounded firm.
“No one saw me. I came up the rear stairs.”
“If Alex finds out, he’ll kill me. He will literally kill me, and I’m much too young to die.”
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of Alex.”
“I’m absolutely afraid of him. He nearly murdered the last man who angered him, and his aim is deadly. I wouldn’t want him to ever point a pistol at me.”
“He never would.”
She closed the door and spun the key in the lock, then she sauntered over and sat on his lap. She took his glass of whiskey and downed the contents.
She was the only woman he’d ever met who had vices. Well, other than a whore or an opera dancer. She drank and smoked, and she didn’t care what others thought. Particularly men. Her father had left her with a very low opinion of the male species.
She claimed she would never wed or have children, and she looked askance at rules and conventions and refused to be ordinary. What female would choose to remain a spinster? The fact that she’d declared such an odd path made her unbelievably intriguing to him.
“You didn’t visit me today,” she said.
“I did too. You weren’t there.”
“Oh. When I didn’t see you over there, I figured I should see you over here.”
“I would have stopped by after supper.”
“I know not to count on you.”
“I would have,” he insisted. “I’m leaving tomorrow so I wanted to be sure to chat a bit before I go.”
“You’re leaving? You just arrived.”
“Yes, but my charming presence is suddenly required at a party in London.” He deliberately neglected to mention the reason for it or that he might become engaged.
“You poor thing,” she sarcastically said. “Your life is so difficult. It’s soirees and balls and retreats at country manors. How do you stand it?”
“It is a chore. I admit it.”
“Will you come back after?”
“It depends on whether I find a more interesting activity to occupy me.”
“And if not, will you suffer along with us at Wallace Downs?”
“Yes. I can’t abide Camilla, but she sets a fine table, and Alex’s wine cellar is the best.”
“You use people for what they can give you.”
“Of course. Doesn’t everyone? It’s not as if I have anything of my own.”
“You are so hilarious. I have nothing of my own. I don’t have a home or a family—except for my brother, Trevor. I live completely at Alex’s mercy. You, on the other hand, are at the front of a line that will make you one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.”
“Yes, but my ogre-of-a-father has to die first.”
“There is that.”
He snorted with disgust, curious as to why he put up with her disregard.
He’d like to shake her and order her not to be impertinent. She wasn’t impressed by him, and it was because she’d known him when he was a boy. To her, he’d only ever been Alex’s annoying friend. She’d never been with him in town to see how he was fawned over so she didn’t understand how grand he actually was.
He’d like to apprise her—in no uncertain terms—but she’d simply laugh and insult him for his pompous attitudes. Then she’d depart, and he’d have to spend a tedious evening without her. He’d wind up down in a parlor, gambling and losing money he didn’t have. Wasn’t it better to stay upstairs with her?
“What is your plan, Miss Wallace?” he asked her. “I hadn’t expected company. How shall we entertain ourselves?”
“You decide,” she recklessly said.
“That’s a very bad idea.”
“Don’t be a baby, and don’t be an aristocrat.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you do when other women sneak up to your room?”
He scoffed. “I never allow women into my room.”
“Ha! You are so full of yourself. Will you pretend you’re a saint?”
“No, but it’s the perfect way to end up at the altar and having to wed someone I don’t wish to wed.”
“Unless she was revoltingly rich?”
“Yes, unless she was revoltingly rich. If that were the case, I would bite the bullet and proceed.”
“Well, don’t worry. I’m too smart to let you ruin me, and even if Alex or Trevor burst in and demanded I marry you, I never would. You’d be an awful husband, and I wouldn’t be that foolish.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said.
She always mentioned weddings though, and the comments were made in passing as if she was jesting, but with how often she referred to matrimony he had to wonder if—deep down—she didn’t secretly hope he would wed her.
He liked her so much more than he’d ever liked any female. He liked her spunk and her drive and her odd manner of carrying on in the world. But…
He would never pick her. Never in a thousand years.
He was a viscount and would eventually be an earl, and his life was not a fairytale. He would never shackle himself to Cinderella. As Faith had pointed out, he would ultimately be hailed as one of the greatest men in the land. A man on that path with that future would never choose the bastard daughter of a licentious commoner who’d been obsessed with his housemaid.
He’d never tell her that though because he’d never hurt her by speaking the truth aloud.
That said, he was eager to know her in a carnal way. He never had platonic relationships with women, but she was so pretty and he liked everything about her. If he’d had a hundred pounds in his purse, he’d have parted with it simply for the chance to see her without her clothes.
He was vastly experienced at amour and had learned many naughty tricks he could employ and not do any lasting damage. He would never actually fornicate with her. If he stole her virtue, Alex would be incensed, but if she was o
ffering how was he to muster the fortitude to refuse?
“I have a notion as to how we can keep ourselves busy,” he told her.
“How?”
He gestured to his bedchamber. “You’ll have to come in there with me, and I’ll show you.”
“You are wicked to suggest it.”
“I can’t deny it, but I’ve been working to coax you into my bed forever, and I don’t suppose I should pass up the opportunity. I can’t predict when I’ll get this lucky again.”
She hemmed and hawed, finally asking, “What’s in it for me?”
“A boatload of pleasure.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“The same.”
“I might agree to go in there, but you have to promise to behave.”
“No, I can’t promise that. I’m wild for you so it’s not possible for me to behave.”
“I’m merely requesting that you not scare me or hurt me or plant a babe in my belly.”
“Give me some credit, would you? Do you really think I’d scare you or harm you?”
“I have no idea.”
“You’re being absurd.”
He set her on her feet, then he stood too. As if they were adolescent sweethearts, he linked their fingers and hurried into the bedchamber. He didn’t want her to ponder her decision for he was sure she’d change her mind.
He tumbled onto the mattress and pulled her down with him. He stretched out on top of her, and for a moment his conscience pricked at him. She was so lovely, and he liked her so much. Why be cruel to her? No matter how she protested about marriage, he suspected—should he push the issue and propose—she’d leap to be his bride.
By trifling with her, he was encouraging her to yearn for an ending that could never be, but he was glum, restless, and dissatisfied, and she made him happy.
He started kissing her which he enjoyed, but the encounter had barely begun when there was a knock on his door.
At first, he ignored it, then it came again, brisker and louder. She was the one to draw away, and she raised a brow in question.
“Yes?” he called. “Who is it?”
“It’s the tray you ordered, milord. And your brandy.”
In his excitement over her arrival, he’d forgotten the food and liquor, and he grinned and rolled his eyes.
“Set it there in the hall,” he called again.
She scowled and mouthed, “Don’t be so rude, you oaf. Go get it.”
He chuckled at the absurdity, slid away, and went out to open the door a crack. The fellow had just placed his burden on the floor. Price’s sudden appearance flustered him, but he bent down and picked up the tray.
“Thank you,” Price said as the man handed it over.
He bowed and walked off, and when Price turned around, she’d climbed off the bed and had followed him into the sitting room. She looked a tad rumpled, but not debauched, and it was obvious their impetuous urge had vanished.
“Don’t tell me my erotic escapade is over,” he complained.
“You might persuade me to relent some other day. It was a mad plan anyway. I’m glad we were interrupted. It yanked me to my senses.”
“It wasn’t mad,” he insisted. “I’m determined we proceed to the worst possible conclusion.”
“You would, you bounder.”
She grabbed the tray and deposited it on a table by the window. Then she plopped down and started sampling the various items that had been delivered. She poured herself a glass of brandy, and she sipped it as she gazed across the park.
He tarried in his spot, watching her. The sun was dropping in the west, and for a few seconds golden rays broke through the rain clouds and illuminated her. She seemed ethereal, like a sprite or a pixie sent to bewitch him, but a cloud moved in the sky, the golden rays fading. She glanced over and frowned.
“What are you staring at?” she asked.
“You. You’re so beautiful sometimes you take my breath away.”
“Flatterer. Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I mean it!” he declared.
“It doesn’t matter though, does it?”
“Yes, it does. It matters very much.”
She scoffed and gestured to the other chair. “Stop being ridiculous and eat some food.”
She peered over at him, and for an electric instant there was a fiery, almost dangerous glow about her that he couldn’t name. It hinted at grand passion and emotional connection and living happily ever after. It was the type of heightened sentiment he assumed she possessed for him, but which she carefully concealed so he wouldn’t notice.
No doubt she understood if he discovered how much she fancied him, it would wreck their bond. He wished he could explain that he simply enjoyed the ease of knowing her, and it could never be more than that. Yet he was too much of a coward to be so blunt.
He flashed a cocky smile and joined her at the table. “I won’t halt my attempts to seduce you.”
“I’m sure you won’t, and if you quit trying I’d probably be insulted.”
“You’re a horrible tease, Faith. A woman has to give in eventually. Otherwise, why would a man keep on?”
“A woman gives in,” Faith said, “when she has a ring on her finger.” She held up her hand. “See? No ring. No giving in.”
There was that reference to matrimony again. There was that joke about commitment and their not having one. It made him nervous and sad. Why toy with her? What good could come of it? Why didn’t he put her out of her misery by departing and never returning?
The pathetic fact was that he cherished the moments he spent with her, and he was positive he’d never have such a cordial relationship with a female ever again. When he wed, what would happen to them? She’d be crushed. He was certain of it.
“If you never intend to dally with me”—his tone was light and jesting—“you’re cruel to torment me with what can never be.”
“You’ll get over it. Besides, I can’t figure out why I snuck in here and practically begged you to ravish me.”
“You’re wild for me, and you’re far past the day when you should have been thoroughly tumbled. It’s not natural for a woman to remain chaste. You realize that, don’t you?”
“I’ll try to bear up.” She filled a glass with brandy and passed it to him. “Now have a drink, and don’t be so glum. Since you’re leaving tomorrow, I can’t stand to have you moping and sulking. I only want to see your sunny, merry self.”
“And I only want to see yours.”
They clinked their glasses in a toast, and he kept his smile firmly in place. But all the while, he was thinking how aroused he’d grown when he’d temporarily presumed they might misbehave.
He hated to feel randy and out of sorts, and there was a widow among the guests who’d been dangling for an assignation. Perhaps he should accommodate her so he could shuck off some of the lust Faith encouraged.
Even though he relished her visit, he wondered how long she’d stay and how soon he’d be able to head downstairs to that widow so he could engage in conduct that more completely matched his mood.
He was an ass. He was an unrepentant, pompous ass. He admitted it. He acknowledged it. He flaunted it and never tamped down his worst urges.
Faith knew he was vile. She knew he was vain and self-centered. Was it his fault that she liked him in spite of his flaws? Was it his fault she liked him more than was wise?
No, it was not.
CHAPTER TEN
Abigail sat at the writing desk in her room, staring out the window at the dark night, but not able to see anything. It was cloudy, a light rain falling so there was no moon.
The house was quiet, and she was very much alone. She was in her nightgown and robe, woolen socks on her feet to ward off the chill in the air.
The twins were in bed, and Faith had gone to the manor again for one of the never-ending parties. She hadn’t dressed in a fabulous gown as she had previous
ly, and her brother hadn’t sent a carriage so Abigail wasn’t sure what she was doing and couldn’t focus enough to worry about it.
She was in a state of despair. She didn’t suppose she should continue to work for a man who had attempted to murder her brother, but she was desperate to stay close to the twins.
Her mind was awhirl with ideas, but she was certain she shouldn’t proceed with any of them until she could reflect on the benefits and detriments. Currently, she was too stunned to make a viable decision on any topic.
She was anxious to confess her identity to Mr. Wallace, but she couldn’t guess how he’d react. What if she blurted out her true name, and he fired her? She’d just stumbled on her nieces, and a rash admission might guarantee they were separated forever.
She was also tantalized by the notion that she should leave and take the twins with her. Not to abscond with them, but to simply proclaim she wanted them when no one else appeared to. She’d like to build a life with them, the problem being she had no home to bring them to and no money to support them once they arrived.
How might Mr. Wallace reply to that suggestion? Again, she couldn’t guess. Might he be thrilled to be shed of them? Might he give her a stipend she could use to support them?
Since she’d only known him a few days, it was preposterous and incredibly vain to assume she could tender such an outlandish request. In the meantime, she was dying to tell her sisters, Sarah and Catherine, what she’d learned. For hours, she’d been trying to write a letter that wouldn’t sound insane.
Hayden had been five years older than she was, and in her memories he’d seemed loyal and stable, moralistically inclined and even-tempered. He’d never gotten in trouble at school, had been polite and studious and eager.
In her eyes, he’d been the perfect son, the perfect heir. She didn’t recall a single incident where he’d fought with their parents, where her parents had raised their voices or punished him for an infraction. It was possible she hadn’t been privy to the more private aspects of his character, but her recollection was that he’d been fun-loving, kind, and attentive—to his parents, friends, servants, and sisters who’d all adored him.
