by Cheryl Holt
Sarah refused to understand his position, but he was a man, an earl, a peer of the realm, so he need not justify himself to her. Theirs were separate worlds but, as she was about to brutally discover, her personal happiness and well-being were uniquely dependent on his, and her tranquil rural odyssey was about to come to a smashing conclusion. He was her brother, her master—her lord, by God!—and she would not trifle with him when there was so much at stake.
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Against his better judgment, he'd left Scarborough and returned to town, graciously granting her the first opportunity to select a suitable match. Sarah was at her best when she was helping others and untangling their problems, and he'd wrongly presumed that she'd rectify this mess, too, as she typically had in the past.
With a confused rationality, he'd planned it all out: He'd facilitate an advantageous marriage for her, to a rich husband. As part of the settlement, her spouse would pay off Hugh's debt. If he was extremely shrewd, perhaps he'd even negotiate a quarterly allowance into the deal. Sarah's precious home would be preserved and restored, Hugh could go about his business in London, and they'd all carry on as before.
He'd been so desperately assured of the result! She was skilled at taking command and being in charge, and her efforts precluded him having to expend any of his own.
But he'd erred in acquiescing. She'd never intended to search for a husband, and he'd been played for a fool. All along, she'd simply thought her trip to Bedford was for recreation and relaxation. For weeks now, he'd gadded about town, stupidly believing that she was toiling toward a resolution, only to discover that she'd never meant to faithfully do her part!
"How dare she circumvent his wishes!
Based on his expectations of her success, he'd ordered several new sets of clothes, checked out a team of horses for the coach he planned to purchase as soon as the marital contracts were drawn up, bid on a painting at an auction, and directed the housekeeper at the town house to have the furniture recover—furniture that would be confiscated shortly, along with the property itself, if a financial rescue wasn't finalized.
The commoners who flitted around on the fringes of his life wouldn't confess as much to his face, but they were nervous about accepting his credit. Word of his arrearage had circulated, and everyone was convinced that he would loose all, so he was having a devil of a time making pur-
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chases or hiring workers. He'd flat out promised numerous people mat he was about to have an infusion of cash, but they had the gall not to believe him, a low blow that perpetually chafed.
Indigence was the worst sort of torture!
Now, with Sarah's clever thwarting of his manipulations, he had to acknowledge that he shouldn't have deposited such an important outcome in her hands. The accursed female hadn't a clue as to how a woman attracted a man, and she was thoroughly incompetent at any situation that involved amorous matters, her failed entrée into society being the most striking evidence of her deficiencies in that arena. He should have recollected as much from the commencement, but he'd been so eager to have Sarah supervise the details of her betrothal.
Well, there were methods for obtaining what he wanted. In this, he would not be denied or dissuaded. He'd given her her chance, he'd trusted her, but she'd wasted it, and she was going to be shocked when she learned just how determined he was for a beneficial ending.
The door opened, and Rebecca rushed in. At age twenty-four, Rebecca was a year younger than Sarah, but different as night from day. A blond, voluptuous beauty, with features as perfect as a porcelain doll, she'd resided with them for the prior three years, after having survived a lifetime of excessive poverty inflicted on her by her profligate father. Never badgering, never complaining, never wailing over their pitiful lot, she appreciated—as Sarah never had—that affairs could be much worse.
While Sarah was likely in her room lamenting over the latest debacle, Rebecca was looking ahead to an auspicious conclusion. Sarah's appearance at Lady Carrington's gala had been her idea. Hugh could never have arrived at such a marvelous solution all on his own.
He studied her, his disapproval unequivocal. When she'd broached the asinine concept of luring Sarah to Pamela's party, she'd contended that she could execute the required eventuality in a handful of days, that she could rapidly have
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Sarah totally ruined, but Sarah was proving too elusive for even the generally effective Rebecca's machinations.
Hugh was furious with her for her blunders. He'd sent Rebecca to Bedford with Sarah, thinking that their cousin would lend legitimacy to the finale. There was the additional benefit that Sarah considered Rebecca a friend, and Sarah would never suppose the other woman to be involved in any nefarious plot.
Sarah's fiasco would seem utterly forthright, and she would never have guessed his role or his maneuvering. Even if she had a subsequent inkling, there would be nothing she could do to change the outcome, but regardless of whether Sarah ultimately ascertained who had precipitated her downfall, he should have journeyed directly to Bedford to set the proceedings in motion. Matters had become too grave, and she would wed if he had to tie her down and force the seduction, himself.
He was tired of being poor, tired of having others thumbing their noses at him, tired of being spurned at his favorite clubs, gambling houses, and brothels.
He would have his way!
"Did you find a key?'
"Yes," Rebecca answered, approaching the bed, "although it was difficult without any help from the staff. Lady Carrington's people are so dreadfully loyal."
"Imagine that," he muttered sarcastically.
"When I suggested their assistance, they gawked at me as if I was speaking in tongues."
"But you acquired one?"
"I've tested it in six different doors." She held it out for his inspection. "It catches, but with some jiggling, it's fine. I filched it from a rack in the kitchens."
"Honestly, Becky, how common."
"It's not as if any of the employees would abet me. I felt like a wretched pickpocket." As she imparted a withering glare, she tossed the key, and it bounced on his lap. "I stole it for you. You might at least try to be a bit gracious."
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"You'll see my gratitude when we've accomplished our goal."
"You'd better mean it, Hugh. If you're lying ..."
He couldn't abide her flip attitude, and he'd had his fill of her whining and evasions. Since she'd been in Bedford, she'd penned three separate letters, defending her mistakes, and justifying her lack of success. He'd had to endure her continual bungling, so he didn't need to suffer through a feminine mood, as well.
"Are you threatening me?" he queried quietly. "Me, Rebecca?" His stern tone caused her to blanch, and she backed down immediately, once again the meek, solicitous female he demanded she be.
"No, Hugh," she said. "I apologize."
"As you should. You prevail upon our relationship too much. It makes you forget yourself." He patted the bed, urging her closer, and she obeyed. She might pout and brood, but she never stayed angry. "Did you locate any of the Chinese herbs I like?"
"Yes. In the library. Lady Carrington keeps a box for the guests. I took what was left. Here."
She rendered a neatly wrapped parcel and, as though it was the rarest of jewels, he wildly clutched at it. In London, his supplier had been out, as had his various friends, so he'd been frantic, and he was horridly relieved that Rebecca had stumbled upon a stash.
Apprehensive and irritable, he struggled to curb his obdurate craving. Realizing that the anticipation would be worth it when he finally imbibed, he laid the packet on the table, compelling himself back to his task, to his strategy for Sarah, and how it was likely to unfold.
He dictated, 'Tell me again why you infer it is Stevens with whom she's dallying."
"From how they were acting when I witnessed them together. They have a much deeper acquaintance than anyone suspects.
It's the manner in which she looks at him."
"How is that?"
"She's in love. It's the only explanation."
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"Sarah? In love? Bah ...'" He waved away her deduction. "You're mad."
"No, a woman knows these things."
God, how he wanted her to be correct! And if it was Michael Stevens! The revenge would be so sweet!
"Did you ever ask him about that first night? When you sent him up to her room?"
"No, a second overture would have sounded suspicious. When I made the initial proposition, I'm sure he thought I was a servant, and I didn't want to disavow him of the impression."
"You needn't have fretted," he mused, recalling Stevens's history with beautiful women. "If he saw you again, he'd never remember you." He was too self-absorbed to notice the hurt that came over her, and he perked up. "Well, then, we'll pay a call on her this evening. Not too late. How about an hour or two after she retires?"
"She won't be hurt, will she, Hugh?"
How ludicrous for Rebecca to be experiencing a belated stab of conscience! "Where's the injury in her marrying a wealthy, successful businessman? By having the chance for a home and children of her own? That's what all women crave, isn't it? Now... be a dear and fetch me another brandy."
Without argument or condemnation of his bad habits, she proceeded to the sideboard, retrieved me decanter, and filled his glass.
"There's a good lass." He tossed it down in a single swallow as she hovered over him, seeing to his comfort, and he was struck again by how pretty she was. With mat lavish blond hair, and those magnificent breasts squeezed into that fiercely laced corset, she was an arousing spectacle. In her glorious sapphire eyes, he could read the bald— but idiotic—affection she harbored for him and, after the arduous interview with Sarah, her fondness was soothing.
While Sarah was content to wallow away in the country, Rebecca periodically accompanied him to London where she acted as his hostess—and more when the occasion pre-
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sented itself. He'd never admit to another soul that he lusted after his cousin, but she was so bloody accommodating. So bloody convenient. How could a man spurn what was so graciously offered?
"What if she's alone when we barge in?" Rebecca inquired. "What will we say?"
"We'll simply invite her down to the party—as though that was our sole purpose."
He'd worked it out in his head, in his disordered state, satisfied that he was making flawless decisions. Rebecca cheerfully assented as he'd predicted she would. She wouldn't question him, not after she'd created such a mess when left to her own devices.
"And if we don't catch her with Stevens," he pointed out, "we'll opt for another fellow. We'll unlock the damned door and shove someone inside—if that's what it takes."
"Too bad about Brigham," Rebecca noted.
"Too bad, indeed."
Rebecca had discreetly orchestrated Brigham's interest in Sarah and, with his fortune and title, he'd have been an excellent choice as her husband. Yet, nothing had progressed properly. Not only had the man not crept into Sarah's room, he'd been forcibly removed from possible consideration by his run-in with Michael Stevens.
No one had unveiled the basis for their violent disagreement, and Hugh shuddered over the pummeling Brigham had received. The nerve of Stevens, handling a peer as he'd done! The talk was all over town, though nothing would come of it. The man was a raving lunatic who ought to be hanged, or at the very least, transported at the earliest juncture.
Only Stevens's father, the Earl of Spencer, stood in the way of the contemptible scoundrel getting what he truly deserved. With his connection to Spencer, Stevens was untouchable.
Factor in the number of markers he owned, and the damning, confidential secrets he'd unearthed, and who was
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safe from the bastard's wrath? He was a menace, one that Hugh would be delighted to destroy.
All in good time, he counseled. Stevens would get his due, but for the moment, Hugh wasn't going to fuss about him. He was exhausted from traveling, and the constant trepidation induced by his fiscal dilemma, and he was geared up for some entertainment.
While he was anxious to retrieve his pipe from his bag, he pushed his impatience aside. Once he partook of the herbs, he wouldn't be able to adequately savor Rebecca's ample charms. After he'd debauched her a time or two, he'd indulge in his favorite pastime.
Obscurely, it occurred to him that sex had previously been his favorite diversion. When had that changed? And why? But the sentiment was fleeting as were so many. Recurrently, concentration proved elusive.
As he contemplated Rebecca, a welcomed stirring tickled betwixt his legs, and he almost wept with relief. Sporadically, with all the liquor and herbs he consumed, he was unable to perform his manly duties, and the incidents were beginning to frighten him. His inability to generate a cockstand had advanced into a recurring problem, and he was increasingly concerned that his aptness might vanish forever.
"Come here," he ordered.
More and more, women failed to spur his male urges. Even the most disgusting, unconstrained whores had no rousing effect on his limp manhood, so when he felt another prickle of desire in his nether regions, he was deluged with optimism and abruptly ablaze.
"Really, Hugh," she huffed, affronted. "Since you arrived, you've done naught but chastise me, and now you presume that I'll just blindly do whatever you require." Her pert nose went up. "Well, you've just pushed me too far."
"Come here," he repeated more forcefully.
"I won't, I tell you!"
"You will," he crooned softly, "or I'll be extremely angry."
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"For once, I don't care."
The bitch spun away, as though she'd march out in a snit! Who did she think she was, putting on airs? For the first time in months, he could fornicate without any disconcerting obstacles, and by the heavens, she would oblige. Just the notion that she had the temerity to reject him inspired him to a fierce cockstand.
Embarrassingly, there were many available women at the party besides his cousin, but he couldn't seek out any of them for fear of being incapable of maintaining an erection. So far, Rebecca was the only person who'd been with him when the worst had ensued, so Hugh never had to brook any discomfiting rationalizations or humiliating elucidations. She was in no position to discuss their sexual relationship with others, and she hadn't sufficient carnal enlightenment to grasp what was amiss.
She couldn't depart; he wouldn't allow her to.
Exhibiting uncommon agility, he leapt to the floor, grabbed her, and whipped her around. "Get back in bed."
"Hugh, stop it," she sniveled as he urged her toward the mattress. She attempted to stare him down, but her defiance waned—as always—when confronted by his firm insistence. "You're hurting my arm."
"I won't be denied, Rebecca."
In a visible rage, she lay down, and he fell on top of her. He bared her breasts and suckled, but she was unmoving as a corpse, declining to participate as he'd repeatedly instructed. He thought about slapping a response out of her, but didn't. At the moment, he was unconcerned by her deficient cooperation.
Stimulated by the fierceness of her insubordination, he spread her legs and feasted. Elated mat he was able, be climaxed in haste, then pulled out and collapsed on his side. She scooted away, scurrying to right herself.
"Don't leave," he decreed. "I'll have another go at you in a few minutes. As soon as I've rested." But the haze from his orgasm was clouding his deluded brain, and he faded into a disturbed slumber.
Chapter Seventeen
Michael was resting impatiently on his bed when he heard Sarah's arrival in her room. Though the hour wasn't overly late, he'd been waiting an eternity for her to return from supper. She'd begged him to join her, but he'd rebuffed her invitation—not out of his customary disdain for fraternizing with me other guests, but because of their diverse pos
itions.
They wouldn't have been able to converse in the parlor before the meal was announced and, due to their disparate statuses, they'd have been seated at opposite ends of the table. He couldn't conceive of watching from afar, pretending they weren't ultimate, as she chatted and mingled. If she was in proximity, he couldn't feign disinterest.
How he wished he could have accompanied her downstairs! That he could have proudly stood with her, her arm slipped through his. That he could have escorted her into the dining room, held out her chair, whispered in her ear throughout the banquet.
Astoundingly, he was chomping at the bit, hating the elite restrictions that kept them from acknowledging one another in public. While usually he could have cared less about the constraints upon him, for once, he was keenly feeling the divisions that his dubious parentage had engendered.
Over the years, he'd ridiculed James for his fascination with the members of the ton. Michael had always assumed that he had more sense, but since meeting Sarah and becoming involved with her, he recognized that he wasn't immune to the enticement of her world.
In Paris, with his mother a lauded, sought-after celebrity, his paternity hadn't seemed important. He'd been wel-
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corned into the looser French society, befriended by the noble sons of the wealthy families, eyed for future marriage by the daughters of the prosperous merchants. His ancestry hadn't had any effect on his behavior, so he hadn't worried about fitting in.
But in London, where lineage was everything, he'd been slapped in the face with reality. A trespasser, he'd fluttered on the fringes of their exclusive domain, an interloper simply because his father and mother—two dynamic, charismatic, selfish individuals—had never wed.
Edward Stevens had four adult children—three daughters and a son—who were legitimately born to him during his lengthy marriage, and it had been painful to discover how differently they were viewed. Michael and James were Edward's shameful indiscretion, and despite how much they looked like Edward, or acted like him, how much they postured and strutted, they could never be anything but his bastards.