by Cheryl Holt
He should have left London already in search of Ramsey and Rebecca Wells. But after his most recent encounter with Maggie, he was more of a mess than ever. He hadn’t been able to focus or concentrate, so leaving the city to chase after her reckless sister had been impossible.
He’d ride out in the morning—if he could get his head on straight—and he was in no hurry to locate Rebecca Wells. He’d known Ramsey for more than twenty-five years, and there was no way in hell Miss Wells was still a virgin. Why rush around, trying to find her. The damage was done and couldn’t be repaired.
“What did you say?” he asked Felicia.
“Mother invited Lady Run to perform, and she agreed without first consulting her husband.”
Michael’s scowl deepened. “You’re shocked because she’ll perform without her husband telling her she can?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure the world will keep spinning.”
“If I wanted to sing, I wouldn’t have to seek your permission?”
“Why are you curious? Are you about to sing? I didn’t realize it was one of your talents.”
“It’s not, but I’m curious as to how lenient you’ll be with me.”
“I won’t be your nanny, Lady Felicia. As long as you don’t shop until you beggar me, you can behave however you like—unless I see you fraternizing with scurvy characters.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When I arrived, you were out in the garden whispering with a brigand named James Blaylock.”
She blinked and held very still, claiming, “I have no idea who you mean.”
“Nice try, Felicia, but he’s a snake in the grass. Be careful you don’t get bit.”
“Are you bossing me?” she huffed.
“In this matter? Absolutely.”
His reply incensed her and they might have erupted in a full-blown quarrel, but the entertainment was about to begin.
He was taller than most men in the room, so he could peer over the crowd to where Lady Run was standing next to a harpsichord. A blond man was seated at the instrument to accompany her.
Most of London seemed to be in attendance, so there was a crush of guests, and of course Michael had come late so he hadn’t been aware that Lady Run was present. He studied her, assessing her beautiful blond hair, her big blue eyes.
“Is she a renowned singer?” he asked.
“Very renowned. You haven’t heard her?”
“No. I don’t spend many evenings at musical soirees.”
“Your loss then, Mr. Scott.” Her lips were puckered, as if she’d been sucking on sour pickles. “She’s taken London by storm.”
“Who has? Lady Run?”
“Yes, Mr. Scott, and please pay attention.” She was exhibiting an unusual animosity. “It’s annoying when you ignore me.”
They were on the verge of a quarrel again, but he wasn’t interested enough to learn why she was upset. If she grew too snippy, he’d depart. He couldn’t figure out why he’d bothered to show up at all, but Lady Stone had sent him a dozen reminders, and he’d been too exhausted to flout her adamant summonses.
“Who is the man at the harpsichord?” he inquired. “Is that Bryce Blair?”
“Yes, he’s her brother. They were separated as young children, though no one knows why.”
Felicia continued speaking, but her words were just a loud buzzing in his ears. For some reason he was so dizzy he could barely remain on his feet. He felt as if he’d been poked with a pin. An old vision clouded his sight, and a query rang in his head.
How’s my little lord? How’s my little lord?
He saw a large, vibrant man laughing and tossing a blond boy up into the air. Michael was tiny too, watching the happy spectacle, grinning and holding hands with another boy. Was he holding hands with himself? Was he staring into a mirror? He and the other boy were whispering in their secret language.
He’s home! He’s home!
Michael was yanked from his disturbing hallucination by Bryce Blair’s fingers whisking across the keys of the harpsichord. Lady Run began to sing, her vibrant, robust alto echoing off the rafters.
Michael’s disorientation surged alarmingly, and his viewpoint narrowed as if he was observing Lady Run through a dark tunnel. She was standing at the end, surrounded by a halo of light. He couldn’t catch his breath and was very afraid he was about to collapse to the floor in a stunned heap.
“Mother…?” His voice was strange, as if he was a toddler rather than an adult, and his arm was extended out to Lady Run in a beseeching way.
“Mother!” Lady Felicia cruelly snickered. “She’s not your mother, Mr. Scott. It’s Evangeline Drake. It’s Lady Run. What’s wrong with you? Are you ill?”
Lest he faint where everyone could see, he staggered out, reeling down the hall in a blind panic. After a bit of stumbling and groping, he found a door that led onto the rear verandah. He lurched out, feeling like a drowning man who’d heaved to the surface.
He listed over to the balustrade and leaned against it, peering up at the stars. Was he ill? Felicia had asked if he was, and he thought it might be worse than that. He thought he might be deranged.
He dawdled, terrified that he belonged in an asylum. People were locked away for much less. Should he put himself out of his misery and have himself committed? Was that the answer?
Suddenly Felicia was there beside him, and he nearly snapped at her to leave him be. Couldn’t the bloody girl sense that he was desperate to be alone?
He had to compose himself, then sneak out and go home. He needed to drink copious amounts of liquor, imbibe until he was numb, then fall into a dead slumber so he could arise at dawn and rush to Scotland.
Why was he at another of Lady Stone’s ridiculous betrothal parties? He’d hated every one so far, and if he spent much more time around Felicia, he’d start to hate her too. He kept coming by simply to be civil, to let her become accustomed to him, but he didn’t care if she grew accustomed.
“When I mentioned that you looked ill,” she said, “I was joking. But you seem unwell, and I decided I should check on you. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You’re shaking like a leaf.”
“I’m fine!” he repeated more curtly.
“Didn’t you like Lady Run’s singing?”
“She was grand, Felicia. Stop prattling at me.”
She snorted with offense. “You don’t have to be rude.”
Lord, help me.
Struggling for calm, he forced a smile. “You needn’t tarry out here with me. Go back in. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
She was incredibly aggravated and appeared much too young to be a bride. What was he thinking attaching himself to her? When they fornicated, it would be like fornicating with a child.
“I haven’t seen you since we visited Cliffside,” she said.
He shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”
“Yes, you’re always busy, aren’t you?”
“It’s why I’m rich, Felicia. I work for a living, as opposed to some men I know.” His disdain obvious, he nodded to her father’s mansion.
“I need you to explain something to me,” she said.
“What is it?”
Instead of clarifying, she added, “I don’t suppose I should pursue the matter, but I’m anxious to have an answer.”
“Well, ask away. I can’t guarantee I’ll reply to your satisfaction, but I’ll certainly try.”
“This is difficult for me.”
“What is? Asking me questions?”
“No. Marrying you. I didn’t want to.”
“I realize that.”
“My father ordered me to proceed, and I’m trying to be a good sport.”
“You’ve been terrific.”
“So…” She took a deep breath, looking as if she was about to jump off a high cliff. “Tell me about Magdalena Wells.”
He frowned so hard his face hurt. “Miss Wells? Why would
you be worried about her?”
“She was waiting for you that day at Cliffside.”
“She wasn’t waiting for me. I have no idea why she was there.”
“Is she a friend of yours?”
He dithered, wondering how to describe Maggie, and finally chose, “I don’t have female friends.”
“She’s convinced she’s your fiancée. I heard her very clearly.”
“She’s insane.”
“Is she?”
“How could I be engaged to two women at the same time? Why would I embroil myself in such a morass?”
“I agree. Why would you?”
He studied her angry expression, her clenched fists and squared shoulders. She was braced for battle, but he didn’t have the patience to bicker. He was too befuddled by Lady Run and her brother.
“What’s this about?” he asked. “Why are you fretting over her?”
“I talked to Gaylord Farrow.”
Michael’s blood boiled. “Did you?”
“I assume you know Mr. Farrow? You don’t deny it?”
“No, I don’t deny it, but whatever he told you, you shouldn’t believe him.”
“Oh, really?” she sneered. “And why is that?”
“Because he’s a cad and liar. First James Blaylock, now Gaylord Farrow. You’re mad to confer with men of such low repute, and I hope to God you weren’t off alone with Farrow. Do it again, and I’ll have a word with your father.”
“Don’t try to bully me, Mr. Scott. You’re not my husband. Yet.”
“No, I’m not, but I recognize a scoundrel when I meet one—as you obviously don’t.”
She pulled herself up to her full height, which was very short. “I forbid you to consort with Miss Wells ever again.”
He snorted out a laugh. “You forbid me?”
“I may have to wed you. I may not have a choice, but I will not begin my marriage with your…concubine attached to your side.”
“My concubine?”
“Yes.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to sod off, but she was young and very inexperienced. Still though, he wasn’t about to have her commanding him.
“Lady Felicia—” he started.
“Don’t patronize me. When you use that tone, you’re about to treat me as if I’m a child. I’m eighteen, I am your fiancée, and I’m about to be your wife. Speak to me with the respect and deference I am due or don’t speak to me at all.”
He hadn’t previously seen this aspect of her character, but he should have expected it. She’d been raised with a silver spoon in her mouth, and apparently she viewed him as being on a level with her servants. Was it because of his low blood? Was she presuming he’d meekly acquiesce to being scolded? And by a woman no less!
“As you wish, Lady Felicia. I shall speak to you as the adult female you are.”
Regally, she dipped her head. “I appreciate it.”
“Let me be clear on one very important fact.”
“What is it?”
“My personal life will never be any of your business.”
She was feistier than he’d given her credit for being.
“I’m not poking into your private concerns. I’m simply informing you what I will tolerate and what I won’t. You will not have mistresses. Another woman might put up with such a humiliation, but I won’t.”
He ignored her comment and kept on. “I have no affectionate relationship with Miss Wells.”
Felicia scoffed. “I have it on excellent authority that you’ve been intimately connected to her for years, and you still are. I insist you cease your affair. I ask it as my bride gift from you.”
At hearing her question his word, his temper flared, but he tamped it down.
“Believe what you will, but Miss Wells is an acquaintance.”
“An acquaintance who thinks she’s your fiancée.”
“I told you she’s deranged.”
“She lives on your street, and she operates her charity there. I want her gone—from your neighborhood and your life.”
“She’s nothing to me,” he firmly stated, and he nervously glanced up at the sky.
If he’d been a religious fellow—which he wasn’t—he might have been struck by lightning for spewing such a bald-faced lie.
“If you don’t remove her from your world, I shall have her removed. I swear it.”
“Are you threatening me or Miss Wells?”
“I am not threatening anyone. I’m advising you of the consequences if you refuse to heed me. I’m very aggrieved, and I won’t abide cheating or betrayal.”
She was a veritable ball of umbrage, and he pondered how she could have mustered such indignation and bravado. It was shocking for her to have raised such a scandalous topic with him, and he was impressed.
Unfortunately for her though, no one bossed him or attempted to control his conduct, and most assuredly no one threatened him. Especially not a mere girl of eighteen.
“Let’s go inside,” he said, and he clasped her arm.
“We’re not finished discussing this.”
“We are finished. This subject is entirely inappropriate, and we’re not pursuing it any further.”
“I’m doing what my father ordered me to do!” She clutched a fist over her heart. “I’ve taken every action demanded of me by my family. So I think—on this small issue—I should get my way.”
“There is no issue. Despite what Mr. Farrow claimed, I barely know Miss Wells.”
“Liar.”
“Let’s go in,” he said again. “You’re overwrought, and I am in no mood to deal with a fit of hysterics. Nor will I listen to any slurs on my character.”
He tightened his grip, and though she tried to wrestle away she couldn’t. He escorted her in and pushed her into the music room where Lady Run was concluding her song to rousing applause. As the last notes rang out, he felt faint again.
Lady Felicia tossed a remark at him that was angry and insulting, but over the whoops and cheering of the audience, he couldn’t decipher what it was. He clicked his heels, gave a polite bow, and walked out the front door.
Would he ever return? She was bringing him a few ships and a plantation in Jamaica, but their value wasn’t equal to this sort of discord. If she could grow this incensed over rumors of Magdalena, just imagine how furious she’d be in the future when real matters arose to plague them.
Suddenly his marriage to an aristocrat’s daughter didn’t seem worth the exorbitant price.
* * * *
Ramsey scowled and sniffed at the air.
He could smell smoke, but had been slumbering so deeply that he couldn’t bestir himself to jump up and check Michael’s house for a fire. With Rebecca snuggled beside him, her curvaceous ass pressed to his thigh, wild horses couldn’t have dragged him away.
He sniffed again, hearing a cork pulled from a liquor decanter, the rim of the bottle clinking on a glass, liquid pouring with a glug, glug sound.
He glanced to the window, wondering what time it was and how many hours until dawn.
“Shit!” he muttered and he sprang up, the blankets falling to his lap.
Michael was seated in a chair, slouched down, his coat off, giving every indication that he’d been there for quite awhile. He was smoking a cheroot, sipping a whiskey, and from the diminished amount in the decanter, it wasn’t his first helping. How long had he been watching them?
“You’re in my bed,” he complained.
“Shit,” Ramsey said again. “Sorry.”
“Sorry you’re in my bed? Or sorry I caught you in it?”
Rebecca drowsily rolled over, an arm across Ramsey’s waist as she groggily mumbled, “What did you say?”
Michael answered for him. “I said, you two are in my fucking bed, and you’ve made a bloody mess of it too. I’ll have to buy a new mattress. I won’t sleep on that one again.”
Rebecca lurched up on an elbow and shrieked, “Mr. Scott! What are you doing here?”
; “I could ask you the same damn question, Miss Wells.”
“Ah!”
She skittered away from Ramsey as if he was too hot to touch, and she scooted down and yanked the covers over her head, acting like a child who assumed she could render herself invisible.
“I can explain,” Ramsey feebly insisted.
“I should hope to shout.”
“It’s just that—”
Michael held up a hand. “I’m not about to discuss this when you’re naked—and in my bed. Have I mentioned that you’re in my bed?”
“Yes, yes, I can see that you’re upset about it.”
“Put on some clothes,” Michael snapped, “and haul your ass down to the front parlor.”
He downed the dregs of his glass and stomped out.
“Shit,” Ramsey muttered a third time.
He slid to the floor and was tugging his trousers on as Rebecca peeked out.
“Why would he look for us here?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t tell anyone where we were, did you?”
“No, did you?”
“No.”
“A servant might have written to him,” Ramsey said. “The butler corresponds regularly.”
“The butler is a tattle? Why didn’t you apprise me? If the servants gossip, we should have been more discreet.”
He found her robe and tossed it at her. “Get dressed. He has a temper. Let’s not keep him waiting.”
“I can’t talk to him! I won’t!” She appeared horrified, as if Michael might tie her to the rack and torture her.
Ramsey sighed. “It’s probably best if I speak with him alone.”
In their raucous sexual foray, they’d pretty much destroyed the room, with chairs tipped over and furniture upended. He riffled through a pile and located his shirt and drew it on as she sat up, the blankets clutched to her bosom.
“What will he do to us?” she asked.
“To you? Nothing. To me? I couldn’t begin to guess.”
“What does that mean? Will he fire you? Will he beat you to a pulp? Will he shoot you? What?”
“He’ll pick a spot somewhere between firing me and murdering me.”
She gasped. “He wouldn’t murder you. You’re joking, right?”
“Yes, I’m joking. Get dressed for me though. He might kick us out, so we should be ready to go.”