Forever Yours (The Forever Series #1)

by Cheryl Holt

  She glanced over her shoulder, and the man was still standing where he’d been. To her stunned surprise, he was staring at her—and grinning. Had he noted her presence? Had he known she was dawdling?

  She’d never been more embarrassed, and she hurried away. For a dangerous moment, she was afraid he’d call out to her or chase after her, which would be alarming. She dashed to the pavilion, rushed into their box, and sat down.

  Someone had laid out refreshments. There were bottles of wine and glasses on the table. Catherine wasn’t much of a drinker and never thought a female should imbibe in public, but she was unnerved by what she’d just observed.

  She poured herself some wine and sipped it as she fanned her face and steadied her breathing. Blindly, she peered at nothing while she worried about Libby and when she’d return. Why, oh, why had Catherine agreed to the reckless enterprise?

  She’d certainly learned her lesson, and the next time Libby suggested an outing Catherine would be smart enough not to participate.

  People entered behind her, and she peeked at them, hoping it would be Libby. But it was three of the couples that had been dancing. Another man sauntered in with them, and it was the roué from the woods!

  Viewed in the brighter lights, she could verify her prediction that he would be very handsome. He had aristocratic features—high cheekbones, strong nose, generous mouth—and he was very fit, his arms muscled from strenuous endeavor.

  He oozed confidence as to his place in the world, and he strutted into the box as if he owned it. The others shifted out of his way, and he plopped down beside her. He took the glass from her hand and swallowed down most of her wine. She was so shocked she couldn’t form the words to scold or stop him.

  “Hello.” His voice was a soothing baritone that tickled her innards. “Will you swoon if I introduce myself?”

  “No.”

  “I am Christopher Wakefield.”

  “Hello, Mr. Wakefield.”

  “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “No, it’s my first time.”

  “How are you enjoying the sights? Have you stumbled on anything interesting?”

  She was glad it was night, that there were lamps hanging but none of them were near her. At his question, she flushed such a hot shade of scarlet she was amazed she didn’t ignite.

  “Yes, I stumbled on a sight that was incredibly scandalous,” she said.

  “What was it?”

  “You know what it was.”

  He chuckled. “Are you about to faint?”

  “As you’ve already been apprised, I’m not the fainting type.”

  “Good.” He took another swig of her wine. “Didn’t anyone warn you not to wander the grounds? There are all kinds of activities occurring out there that you oughtn’t to witness.”

  “I told you it’s my first visit.”

  “So you did.”

  She glanced at the path that split off in all directions. Was Libby engaging in salacious activity? Most likely yes, and again Catherine was torn over her responsibility to intervene.

  “Are you expecting someone?” he asked.

  “Ah…no.” She wasn’t about to mention Libby. If she was misbehaving, it wasn’t this stranger’s business.

  “Tell me,” he urged. “Is it a shameful person? If so, I can keep a secret.”

  “I’m simply wondering about my friend. She’s walking with a gentleman.”

  “Are you suddenly afraid she might be a strumpet?”

  “No!” she huffed. “She’s just been gone for quite awhile, and I’m concerned about her absence.”

  “Has she been here before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then she knows better than to sneak off so you shouldn’t fret over her. It can be perilous out there, but she went anyway. These long summer nights and the balmy June weather have a peculiar effect on people.”

  “Is that your excuse? The weather and the balmy temperature?”

  “My excuse for what?”

  “Don’t pretend to be unaware of what we’re discussing.”

  He smirked with a very male sort of satisfaction. “I hardly need an excuse to kiss a pretty girl.”

  “Was she pretty? It was so dark I didn’t get a good look at her.”

  “Yes, she’s very pretty. I wouldn’t bother with one who wasn’t.”

  “She seemed particularly fraught over having to part with you. How about you? Will you pine away until next Saturday?”

  “No.”

  “You’re simply toying with her affections?”

  “Probably.”

  “Are you a libertine?”

  He considered the accusation, then shrugged. “I won’t admit to being a libertine, but I’m certainly a flirt.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Definitely,” he said. “If I were a libertine, I’d have bad motives. As a flirt, I merely want to enjoy myself. What’s wrong with that?”

  “You were a bit beyond enjoyment.”

  “I notice you didn’t stomp off in a snit. In fact, you were entranced by the whole encounter. You watched us forever.”

  “I didn’t watch,” she claimed. “I was embarrassed, and I meant to leave you in peace, but I couldn’t tiptoe away without being observed.”

  “No, you watched us, and I understand why you were intrigued. British girls are so sheltered. Have you ever been kissed in the moonlight?”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “You just might be the most impertinent man I’ve ever met.”

  “You could be right about that, and you haven’t answered me. Have you?”

  “Have I what?”

  “Been kissed in the moonlight. I’m betting you’d like it very much.” He waved toward the trees. “Shall we find out?”

  “Are you suggesting I stroll with you in the woods?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not only are you impertinent, but you might also be a tad deranged.”

  “You sound jealous of that little tart who was with me.”

  “Jealous! Don’t be absurd. We’re not acquainted. Why would I care if you carry on with strumpets?”

  “Are you simply a prude then?”

  “A prude!”

  “You seem upset by my antics.”

  “Again, Mr. Wakefield, why would I care what you do?”

  “Why indeed?”

  He scooted nearer so that his thigh was pressed to hers, their feet tangled together, and she was finally able to discern that his eyes were very blue. They twinkled with merriment, providing every indication that he was amused by her prim tendencies.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “I don’t believe I’d like to tell you.”

  “Don’t be grouchy. I don’t like it.”

  “Oh, you poor thing.”

  “Why aren’t you dancing?”

  “We’d just arrived, and my friend wandered off. I was looking for her.”

  “Were you? Really? I could have sworn you were spying on me.”

  “I was looking for her! Then I saw you with your trollop, and I was startled. I’m calming myself so I haven’t had a chance to dance yet.”

  “Will you dance with me?”

  “No.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Because I don’t like you, and I’m sure you’re much too fast for me.”

  “You don’t like me? How ridiculous. Everyone likes me.”

  “Let me be the first to say I don’t.”

  “The orchestra is about to play a waltz. Will you sit and twiddle your thumbs.”

  “Yes.”

  “Coward.”

  “I’m not a coward.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re here for the dancing, but you’re too timid to accept an invitation. What if no one else asks but me and you end up a wallflower?”

  “I’ll risk it.”

  He laughed, and he filled her glass to the
rim. He sipped the wine and stared at the people passing by in the park while the orchestra struck the chords to announce the waltz. She yearned to be out on the floor so badly her teeth ached.

  “You still haven’t told me your name,” he said. “What is it? Don’t be cruel and refuse to apprise me.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t wish us to be cordial.”

  “You’re being positively silly.”

  He was gazing at her in an enticing way, as if she was exotic and special. It was probably a practiced look that he used on every woman to get what he craved—that being a dalliance—so she was shocked to find herself quite spellbound.

  She couldn’t recall a single occasion in her past when a man had studied her as he currently was. Though it was horridly wrong to be enthralled, she was basking in the glow of his intense scrutiny.

  “It’s Miss Barrington,” she muttered before she could stop herself.

  “And what is your Christian name? Will you make me guess?”

  “You needn’t guess. You may simply refer to me as Miss Barrington.”

  “I’d rather not.” He assessed her, his warm, alluring appraisal taking in her golden blond hair, her big blue eyes. “You’re so pretty. Your name must match how beautiful you are.”

  At hearing him declare her to be pretty, she was rocked by a spurt of feminine vanity. She knew she was fetching. She could clearly see herself in a mirror, but she’d never had such a handsome, virile man tell her.

  She figured it was another practiced affectation, but she couldn’t deny it was very effective. She wanted to babble like a brook and share all sorts of information he had no business learning.

  She scowled her most chastising scowl. “I’m sure it will disappoint you to discover that my Christian name is very common.”

  “There’s nothing common about you, Miss Barrington. What is it?”

  A strange energy had flared, almost as if their proximity was generating sparks. She’d never felt such a bizarre sensation and had had no idea humans could create such a commotion. She didn’t comprehend why it was occurring and didn’t like how she was all jittery on the inside.

  She leaned away, determined to put some space between them. “You’re very sophisticated, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “And extremely confident.”

  “I always have been.”

  “I can understand why a certain type of female would be enchanted by you.”

  “It’s not a certain type. It’s every type.”

  “Is it your habit to sneak off with unsuspecting young ladies?”

  He snorted with derision. “If you assume my partner was unsuspecting, you’re mistaken. She has initiated every tryst.”

  She scoffed. “You’re a roué so you would say that.”

  Apparently, she’d vexed him, and he wasn’t very patient. He glanced down the table toward the rest of their party. “Frederick, what is this woman’s Christian name?”

  The dolt, Frederick, pondered, then said, “I believe she was introduced as Charlotte. Or was it Cassandra? It might have been Constance.”

  Mr. Wakefield turned back to her. “I see you’ve made quite an impression.”

  “I didn’t remember his name either,” she griped.

  “I don’t blame you. He’s hardly worth remembering. So which is it? I like Charlotte and Cassandra both. Constance too. Any of them would suit you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “If you must know—“

  “I must.”

  “It’s Catherine.”

  “Catherine Barrington…”

  Her name rolled off his tongue as if he was tasting it. It was just a name—and a fake one at that—but his pronunciation had it sounding unusual and mysterious. Her tummy tickled, butterflies swarming.

  “Tell me your life’s story, Catherine Barrington. Tell me every single thing about you.”

  “No.”

  “Ooh, you are so difficult. Let’s start with a few small details. How did you wind up at Vauxhall? Who did you come with? What possessed you to visit?”

  “I came with my friend.”

  “The one who immediately left with a beau?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s her name?”

  What could it hurt to admit the identity of her companion? “Libby Markham.”

  “Ah…Libby. I know her well.”

  Catherine bristled. “How well?”

  “She’s a renowned tart.”

  “She is not.”

  “She is,” he insisted.

  She studied him, wondering if it was an honest remark. If it was, then Libby was the very last person with whom Catherine should socialize.

  “Have you ever kissed her?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “But you would?”

  “If she showed the slightest sign of encouragement? Yes, probably.”

  His gaze was steady and firm, but his eyes were twinkling with merriment again, and she couldn’t guess if he was being candid.

  “Would you kiss just any woman?” she asked.

  “Not any woman. I’m a bit discerning. And now that I think of it, Miss Markham is awfully young and flighty. I like to suppose my standards are a tad higher.”

  “You don’t like girls who are young and flighty?”

  “No, I like women who are interesting, mature, and beautiful. Like you.”

  The cad shifted so he was even nearer than he had been. If she wasn’t careful, he’d pull her onto his lap.

  “Would you stop flirting with me?” she said. “I don’t like it.”

  “What female doesn’t like a man to flirt?”

  “This female doesn’t.”

  “You’re being completely ridiculous again, and you’re lying to me.”

  “Why would you imagine I am?”

  “Because Catherine Barrington, your face is an open book. I can read every thought that’s passing through that pretty little head of yours.”

  “If that was true, you’d have slinked away in shame shortly after you sat down.”

  He pushed back his chair, and he extended his hand to her. “Come, Miss Barrington.”

  She gasped with offense. “Into the woods? Absolutely not.”

  “No, not the woods, you outlandish ninny. Let’s dance.”

  “I told you I don’t wish to.”

  “Yes, and you’re being absurd. Come.”

  He stared her down, his demeanor commanding and compelling. He had a very imposing nature, and she suspected he’d been a soldier in the past. He seemed adept at giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed.

  “I won’t dance with you,” she churlishly said.

  “Coward.” He smirked. “I bet you don’t even know how. I’ll bet your father never had the money to hire a dance master for you.”

  His taunt about her father was her undoing.

  Her father had been the Earl of Middlebury. He’d been wealthy and acclaimed and marvelous in every way. She’d grown up rich and spoiled, had had dance masters and tutors and riding instructors. She’d been showered with every boon a cosseted, adored daughter could ever receive.

  But her father was dead. Her mother too. As well as her older brother, Hayden. Her cousin, Jasper, had inherited everything, and naught had been the same since he did.

  “I know how to dance, Mr. Wakefield,” she snapped.

  “Prove it.”

  His hand was still dangling there. She glared up at him, incensed that he was so smugly certain he could coerce her.

  She should have refused his request. She should have shoved him away and not allowed him to bait her, but she was very proud. She’d been reared with every advantage and could probably waltz better than any woman in the pavilion.

  With a vain, dismissive gesture of disdain, she rose. He was very tall, and with her being five-foot-five in her shoes, he towered over her. Though she didn’t like him and
deemed him to be a wretch and a rogue, she liked how handsome he was, how she felt young and petite next to him.

  He made her remember the girl she’d once been, the one who’d been sure she’d have a life filled with prominent, striking swains just like him.

  He raised a brow. “Should I take this to mean you can waltz, Miss Barrington?”

  “Yes, and I’m wearing my best slippers, you rude oaf. Don’t you dare step on my feet and ruin them.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  Like a regal queen, she swept by him and out onto the floor.

  * * * *

  Catherine’s and Christopher’s story—available now!

  * * * *

  CHERYL HOLT is a New York Times, USA Today, and Amazon “Top 100” bestselling author of forty-seven novels.

  She’s also a lawyer and mom, and at age forty, with two babies at home, she started a new career as a commercial fiction writer. She’d hoped to be a suspense novelist, but couldn’t sell any of her manuscripts, so she ended up taking a detour into romance where she was stunned to discover that she has a knack for writing some of the world’s greatest love stories.

  Her books have been released to wide acclaim, and she has won or been nominated for many national awards. She has been hailed as “The Queen of Erotic Romance” as well as “The International Queen of Villains.” She is particularly proud to have been named “Best Storyteller of the Year” by the trade magazine Romantic Times BOOK Reviews.

  She lives and writes in Hollywood, California, and she loves to hear from fans. Visit her website at www.cherylholt.com.

  Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author

  CHERYL HOLT

  “Best storyteller of the year…”

  Romantic Times Magazine

  “A master writer…”

  Fallen Angel Reviews

  “The Queen of Erotic Romance…”

  Book Cover Reviews

  “Cheryl Holt is magnificent…”

  Reader to Reader Reviews

  “From cover to cover, I was spellbound. Truly outstanding…”