Heart's Delight

by Cheryl Holt

  “I hate walking.”

  “What do you like?”

  He peeked over his shoulder to ensure no guests were behind him on the path. Then he turned to her again.

  “Come here and I’ll show you.”

  When she’d lured him out with that wink, she’d assumed they’d chat and flirt and she might eventually let him steal a kiss or two. That’s how her other breathless swains had acted—before they learned she was broke.

  But there was an air of authority and maturity about him that told her she might have bitten off more than she could chew.

  He wasn’t the type to stroll along holding hands in the moonlight. He wasn’t the type to woo and admire. No, he blustered in, took what he craved, and the woman had very little to say about what transpired.

  It was probably a mistake to have lured him outside, and she ought to have pushed by him and hurried back to the house, but she couldn’t remember the last time a man had glanced in her direction.

  What if she misbehaved with him? It’s not as if illicit conduct would matter. She spent her days wandering through the increasingly empty mansion, feeling invisible. Didn’t she deserve to have an adventure?

  She leaned in, ignoring her racing pulse and pretending she was in the habit of seducing strange men. In response, he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her nearer so they were crushed together from chests to toes.

  “What is it you want from me?” he asked.

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “Well I think I know, and I’m positive if I gave it to you, you’d die of shock.”

  “I’m not a child,” she huffed.

  “But are you a tender maiden? Are you a fresh English rose whose petals are just waiting to be plucked?”

  She scowled. “You make virtuous character sound like a bad thing.”

  “I detest innocent girls. Are you one? Tell me right up front, so I can determine whether you’re worth the bother.”

  “You have a very high opinion of yourself.”

  “It’s all deserved, and you haven’t answered my question.”

  “What question was that?”

  “You’re no spring chicken. Are you still a maid? Has some bloke taught you how to be a woman, or are you floundering around?”

  She’d never heard such scandalous remarks verbalized, and she was greatly flummoxed by them.

  “You’re from London, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Is that how a gentleman talks to a lady in the city?”

  “I’m not a gentleman, and I’m trying to find out if you’re a lady.”

  “I’m a lady.”

  “But are you a maiden? Confess your condition, and put me out of my misery.”

  He laid a finger on her chin and he traced it down her neck, her chest, stopping at the bodice of her gown just at the spot where her corset created a bit of cleavage. For a wild, insane moment, she thought he would slip his hand under the fabric to touch her breast, and she stood perfectly still, aware that she should shove him away, but if she did he’d never follow her into a dark garden again.

  “I might be a maiden, and I might not,” she blustered.

  He scoffed with derision and stepped away. “You’ve told me all there is to know about you.”

  “I couldn’t possibly have.”

  “You’re pure as the driven snow.”

  “So what? Maybe I’d like you to be the one to…to…”

  Salacious discussion was beyond her, and she couldn’t finish her sentence. He finished it for her.

  “To what? To plow your field? To hoe your row? To plant a few seeds?”

  “Ah…”

  “Look, you’re very pretty, and you obviously need to have a man between your thighs.”

  She frowned. “I have no idea what that means.”

  “Which is why I don’t have the energy to fuss with you.”

  “Fuss with me! As if I’d let you.”

  “Trust me, sweetheart, if I snapped my fingers, you’d come running. You should have been tumbled years ago. With how you sashay those hips of yours, I’m surprised no man’s ever pressed the issue.”

  “You’re talking in riddles.”

  “Yes, I am, and if you’d ever had a single valuable experience in your life, you’d know what I’m saying. I wouldn’t have to explain it to you, and you wouldn’t have to guess.”

  “Then don’t make me guess. Just say it flat out.”

  He leaned in and murmured, “Virgins bore me. I like trollops who’ve learned their way around a bedchamber, so I can’t imagine how you could entice me at all. Can you?”

  There was a challenge in his gaze, almost as if he was daring her to proceed to the secretive physical conduct engaged in by husbands and wives. Unwed people occasionally engaged in it too, but she had only vague notions of what those acts entailed. Still, she recognized he was taunting her, suggesting she ruin herself.

  What a vain oaf! They’d danced twice in the parlor and had shared a few words at the buffet table. This was the sole time she’d been alone with him.

  Was this sort of prurient conversation normal among adults in town? If this was what passed for flirtation in London, then it was a good thing she’d remained at Cliffside. Men in the city would have eaten her alive, yet she hated to have him view her as an annoying child.

  So she boasted, “I could do what you want. You could show me, and I’d do it.”

  “That’s precisely the problem, little lady. Some fellows like to teach and train a girl. I like a girl who already knows.”

  “Oh.”

  “Besides, if I laid a hand on you, Michael would have my head.”

  “Michael?”

  “My friend, Mr. Scott.”

  “I thought you two were brothers.”

  “No, we’re friends, and I work for him.”

  “Why do you have the same last name?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  She digested the odd comment, then asked, “Why would Michael Scott order you to stay away from me? What are you? His slave? Must you do what he says?”

  “I’m not his slave, but yes, I do what he says.”

  “Why would you?”

  “Because…he’s Michael Scott.”

  “And…?”

  “Who wouldn’t do what he says?”

  “Me! I wouldn’t. I demand that we have an affair, and I don’t care what Michael Scott thinks about it.”

  It was the most peculiar remark she’d ever uttered. She was demanding an affair? Would she despoil herself with this dangerous stranger from London?

  No doubt about it. Gaylord and Pamela had driven her insane.

  “You demand it?” He chuckled over her ridiculous naïveté.

  “Yes, I insist!”

  “Well, my dear, there’s a lesson I’ve learned in this hard life that you never have.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We can’t always get what we want, and I would never defy Michael on any topic—especially not over a female.”

  He put a palm on her bottom and shoved her toward the verandah.

  “Now get your shapely ass inside,” he said, “before you buy yourself a load of trouble.”

  She glared at him, a thousand caustic retorts begging to spew out. She yearned to call him rude names, but couldn’t devise one that was sufficiently cutting.

  To her eternal disgust, she marched off and proceeded to the verandah as he’d commanded, and while she was anxious to glance back, to find out if he was watching her, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  * * * *

  “What did Rebecca say?”

  “She laughed in my face.”

  Gaylord glowered at Pamela in that way he had, as if every calamity was her fault.

  “If you can’t convince her,” Gaylord threatened, “I’ll have to speak with her myself.”

  “There’s no need for you to speak with her. She’s my sister. I can make her see reason.”r />
  “How will you, Pamela?”

  “I’ll explain the stakes again.”

  “You’d better.”

  Gaylord shook a fist as if he might strike her, and she stood her ground. He’d never hit her, but he often blustered as if he might, and he exhausted her with his preening and temper. Before their wedding, she’d assumed their relationship would be all roses and poetry. It had never occurred to her that it might be awful.

  They were in Pamela’s bedroom suite, the morning sun shining in the window and highlighting Gaylord’s thinning blond hair, the frown lines bracketing his mouth, the paunch of his belly. He’d once been handsome and dashing, suave and smooth, but anymore he simply looked like the lazy ne’er-do-well he truly was.

  When Pamela had first met him, she’d figured he’d be the ideal spouse, but she’d had limited experiences with males or romance, and she blamed her father for not being wiser.

  A father was supposed to pick a good spouse for a daughter. Why hadn’t he warned her to be careful? Why hadn’t he seen the danger signs that Pamela had been too besotted to see?

  If only Magdalena hadn’t wanted him so desperately! If Maggie hadn’t been so intent on having him, Pamela wouldn’t have bothered, but she’d been incensed by Gaylord’s interest in Maggie.

  With Pamela being prettier and in possession of a much bigger dowry, it wasn’t fair that Maggie had snagged him before Pamela had had a chance. So Pamela had stolen him from Maggie, and in the intervening years she hadn’t suffered an ounce of remorse over seizing what should have been hers all along.

  She’d suffered other regrets though. Regrets that she hadn’t acted more shrewdly and not shackled herself to Gaylord. Regrets that she hadn’t noticed what was really there. Regrets that she hadn’t realized what he was like until it was much too late.

  But she’d never admit her mistake, would never confess how horrid it was or how ridiculous she deemed him to be, for she would never give Maggie the pleasure of gloating.

  She hated that Maggie hadn’t fought for Gaylord, that she’d let Pamela have him so easily. If Maggie had exhibited the tiniest fuss, their father might not have handed Gaylord over to Pamela. It was a great sin to lay at Maggie’s feet: If Maggie had demanded her betrothal be honored, Pamela would never have been wed to him.

  So…in a convoluted way Pamela’s dreadful marriage was Maggie’s fault, and Pamela would never forgive her sister for putting her in such a hideous predicament.

  “Rebecca won’t help us,” Pamela said, “because she doesn’t like Michael Scott.”

  “What has that to do with it?” Gaylord asked.

  “If she doesn’t like him, we’ll never persuade her to participate.”

  “I’ll persuade her by taking a switch to her backside.”

  Pamela rolled her eyes. Gaylord never thought he was in the wrong, and even though he’d wrecked their lives, he never felt he should have to fix anything. He expected Pamela and Rebecca to fix it.

  The bloodthirsty Michael Scott was in residence, ensconced in their nicest guest bedchamber, and Pamela had spoken with him several times. He was determined and resolute in a manner Gaylord could never dream of being, the exact sort who would enjoy humiliating Gaylord. Mr. Scott exuded rude pride.

  Gaylord had plenty of rude pride himself, so he should have recognized the same trait in another man. But Gaylord viewed himself as perfect, and he imagined everyone else viewed him as perfect too.

  He assumed they could throw Rebecca at Michael Scott, that the notorious brigand might be smitten and beg to marry her. If Rebecca became his bride, Gaylord insisted Mr. Scott would be driven to mercy and cancel Gaylord’s debt.

  On the odd chance that it would work, Gaylord was happy to sacrifice Rebecca to Mr. Scott, and Pamela wasn’t necessarily opposed to the idea. Pamela had no intention of losing her home, and if Rebecca could simply prostitute herself for a few months and save them all, why shouldn’t she?

  Yet Pamela hadn’t completely acceded to Gaylord’s scheme, because she kept envisioning how angry Magdalena would be. Maggie was too prim and proper, too morally upright. She’d escaped Gaylord and Cliffside—another sin to lay at her feet!—by moving to London, so she was safe no matter what happened to Pamela.

  With Pamela in such jeopardy, it didn’t seem she should have to suffer recrimination if she took drastic measures. Still, she hesitated, but maybe it was pointless to debate. If Rebecca refused to agree…

  “If Rebecca won’t assist us,” Gaylord nagged, “are you aware of what will occur?”

  “I’m not a dunce, Gaylord. I’m clear on what the consequences will be.”

  “Are you really? Michael Scott is a pitiless tyrant.”

  Then perhaps you shouldn’t have gambled with him! “Yes, yes, you’ve been very blunt in your descriptions.”

  “We haven’t planned our departure. Can you picture yourself packing a bag and walking down the road? To where, Pamela? Let me ask you that!”

  They had nowhere to go. She had no kin except Maggie and Rebecca, and Gaylord had an elderly aunt who’d once doted on him, but who had cut ties after he’d embezzled from her.

  “I don’t know where we’ll go,” she fumed. “I’ve admitted it, so why must you continue to harangue?”

  “Michael Scott won’t allow us an extra minute to make arrangements.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  Gaylord’s expression grew thunderous. “What do you mean?”

  “If you’d have given me a bit of warning, I could have squirreled away more of our possessions. But no, you had to keep me in the dark until the last second.”

  She’d known that his debt was very large. However, the true extent of the dilemma hadn’t been revealed until the prior week when he’d brashly announced that the entire estate was lost, and Michael Scott was coming to claim it. The whole affair was so bizarre that it didn’t seem real.

  Even the fact that Michael Scott was on the premises, that he’d brought clerks to inventory the contents, didn’t quite register. If she’d been shaken awake and told she was having a bad dream, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

  “You’re blaming me for the short notice?” Gaylord snapped. “How dare you! If you want to blame anyone, blame Michael Scott and his wretched club. Blame Fate. Blame your precious Rebecca for refusing to do her duty to this family! But don’t you dare blame me!”

  He spun and stormed out, which was a minor relief.

  She loathed quarreling and usually wouldn’t. The servants gossiped too much, and she wouldn’t provide fodder to fuel their fury. None of them had been paid in months, and when Pamela passed them in the hall, she noted their contemptuous glances.

  She’d like to take a whip to them. She’d like to fire them all. It was maddening that they would complain over a trifle. She still fed them, didn’t she? She still gave them a bed to sleep in and a roof to keep them out of the rain. Their ingratitude was galling.

  A knock sounded on the door, and a maid poked her nose in.

  “What?” Pamela barked.

  “Your sister is leaving, Mrs. Farrow.”

  “Magdalena is leaving?”

  “Yes, the butler thought you should know.”

  “Where is she going?”

  “The butler says to London.”

  “Already?”

  Maggie was supposed to have stayed for a week. The night before, she’d arrived late, after the party had begun, had hardly socialized, and now the very next morning she was waltzing back to the city? What was wrong with her?

  Pamela would be the first to concede that her relationship with Maggie remained a tad contentious, but honestly, it had been seven years since Pamela’s wedding. Maggie needed to get over it and move on. Pamela certainly had.

  The maid was hovering, and Pamela grumbled, “I’ll be right down. You’re excused.”

  She couldn’t fathom why she should have to say goodbye. After all, Maggie was departing without a word to Pamela. If Maggie wan
ted to pout and act like a baby, why was that Pamela’s problem?

  Yet she stood and started out, and as she did, she went by a window that looked out on the rear garden. Maggie was there, wearing her shawl and bonnet, carrying her portmanteau and headed for the stable.

  To Pamela’s astonishment, Michael Scott was there too, and as Pamela watched them she was amazed to discover that they were friendly. Very friendly.

  Pamela hadn’t known that Maggie and Mr. Scott were acquainted, and Maggie had only been in the house for twelve hours or so. When would they have had the chance to become so cordial?

  As Pamela spied on them, Mr. Scott stepped in very close, his body nearly pressed to Maggie’s in a suggestive way, and Maggie didn’t show any sign that she was bothered by his boldness.

  He murmured a comment that made Maggie laugh, and he grinned a heart-stopping grin that would have left Pamela weak in the knees if she was prone to that sort of reaction. Which she wasn’t.

  Mr. Scott appeared very smitten, and though it was ridiculous to think so, Pamela wondered if he might kiss Maggie. Right there in the garden, where anyone could see! It was a shocking turn of events.

  He said something else and Maggie laughed again, then he took her bag from her and they walked off, with Mr. Scott accompanying her out to the barn. Shortly they vanished from view, and Pamela tarried in her spot, considering what she’d witnessed. Clearly affection had blossomed. Who would have thought?

  After Maggie’s failed attempt to snag Gaylord she’d sworn off romance, and Pamela had always assumed her sister would live out her days a bitter spinster. Had she changed her mind?

  Whatever was happening, the sudden reversal of attitude would work to Pamela’s advantage.

  She hurried into her bedchamber, raced through the inner rooms and came out the other side in Gaylord’s suite. He was still there, fuming over their quarrel and generally feeling sorry for himself.

  “I have an idea,” Pamela said.

  “What is it? And don’t propose a stupid plan. I haven’t the patience for your nonsense this morning.”

  “It’s not nonsense.”

  “What then?”

  “We don’t need to push Rebecca about Michael Scott.”

  “Why—in your infinite wisdom—have you decided we shouldn’t?”