by Cheryl Holt
“Thank you for inviting me,” she wanly replied.
“Wesley went to all this trouble on my behalf. Will I wind up being glad he did?”
“I have no idea. Do you like to gamble and gambol and chase after loose doxies?”
“I’m not crazy about the gambling or gamboling, but I enjoy a pretty girl—especially a loose one.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll be wildly happy with what he’s planned.”
“Will you be included on the menu?”
“Sorry, but no.”
“Why not?”
“I’m taken,” she claimed, abruptly delighted that her brother had insisted she pretend to be his mistress.
Since the fete was put together to celebrate the end of Benjamin Grey’s bachelorhood, every woman present would be required to obey his every command.
Suddenly, she was wondering if she should stay for the party. She would hate to get into a dicey situation with him where he might demand she provide more entertainment than she was comfortable providing.
She and Michael had a widowed sister, Lydia Boswell, who was living nearby with her ten-year-old son, Harry. Annabel hadn’t seen her nephew in months, and he was her favorite person in the world—after her brother and father. Perhaps she should chuck the whole notion of helping Michael and visit Lydia and Harry instead.
But as she considered the prospect, she realized it wasn’t tempting in the least. Harry would be away at school so there was no reason to call on Lydia.
She, Michael, and Annabel had the same father, Cecil, who’d been a rutting dog but they all had different mothers. She and Michael were very much alike, but Lydia was their complete opposite.
She was grumpy and nervous and cranky, and Annabel and Michael couldn’t abide her. Nor would she welcome Annabel as a guest. She survived on her father-in-law’s dubious charity, and he’d declared that Annabel not be allowed on the premises.
Annabel’s only other option was to head to London to the small house she and Michael rented there, but with Michael in the country, it would be too depressing. So she’d remain at Grey Manor, but she’d be wary around Benjamin Grey. He’d been in the army for a decade so hopefully he’d acquired some manners.
“Who has taken you?” he asked.
“My dear friend, Michael Boswell.” Michael was using the fake surname, having temporarily stolen it from Lydia and deeming it a huge jest that would thoroughly incense her if she ever discovered it.
“Would this be the gambler I’ve heard Wesley mention recently?”
“Michael gambles, yes.”
The admission had him caustically staring in a way that was extremely disconcerting.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
“Once a few legal proceedings are concluded, I will be very rich, and my brother will coast along on my wealthy coattails. Pardon me if I’m cautious about new acquaintances appearing in my circle. My brother isn’t the best judge of character.”
“And Michael is a scoundrel.”
“Is he?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I’ll have to keep an eye on him.”
“There’s no need,” she breezily said. “He wagers too much, but other than that vice I’ve found him to be harmless.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Have you much experience with rogues?”
“Vast experience.”
He refilled the glass with liquor and shoved it toward her.
“I’ve been hogging your whiskey,” he said.
“I’ve probably had enough.”
“You’re quitting after two drinks?”
“It’s occurred to me that I should have a clear head while I’m here.”
“You should have a clear head wherever you go.”
“Too true.”
She stood, eager to be away from him and his meticulous assessment.
“It was lovely chatting, Mr. Grey.”
“It’s Captain Grey.”
“Captain Grey,” she repeated. “I thought you’d resigned from the army.”
“Not yet.”
“Well, goodnight, Captain.”
“Goodnight, Miss Fenwick.”
He was rudely slouched in his chair, his lazy gaze meandering down her torso and insolently lingering at several risqué spots he had no business scrutinizing.
His focus was so intimate and so acute that she wanted to cross her arms over her bosom, but she sensed he was hoping to rattle her. But he never could. She was Cecil Fenwick’s daughter, and Captain Grey could never imagine what her twenty-four years had been like.
It would make any sane person despair over what sort of father Cecil had been. Not much of a one, but at the same time the greatest father ever.
Finally, he pushed himself up, and it took him forever to reach his full height. He was very tall, six feet at least, and with her being only five-foot-five in her stockings it was a chore to observe all of him.
There was a magnetic connection flaring, and it flustered her which she hated. She was never anxious or intimidated, but he seemed to be quite a bit more of a man than she’d ever previously encountered.
He stepped around the table so he was right next to her, and he leaned in so she could feel his leg pressed to her own.
“Are you trying to scare me, Captain?”
“Yes. Have I?”
“You couldn’t possibly.”
“I’m delighted to hear it. I can’t abide a trembling, delicate miss. What’s your Christian name?” he asked. “You never said.”
“No, I didn’t.”
He laid his palm on her waist, drawing her even nearer so the front of her body was touching his, her breasts brushing his chest in a shocking way. Their magnetic connection grew even hotter, almost as if sparks were shooting between them.
“Tell me,” he murmured, “or I won’t let you leave.”
“Annabel.”
“Annabel Fenwick,” he mused. “A pretty name for a very pretty girl.”
He pronounced it as if he were tasting it, as if he were savoring it. A tickle swarmed through her belly.
“I’m not a girl.”
“No, you’re definitely not.”
“I haven’t been for a very long time. Maybe I never was.”
“I’d say you’re all woman, Annabel.”
“You’ve bullied me into revealing my identity. Are you happy now?”
“I’m never happy,” he strangely confided.
“May I go?”
“Must you?”
“I’m thinking I should.”
“What if I asked you not to?”
“I wouldn’t listen.”
She jerked away, having to yank herself free from his alluring pull. She felt as if he’d bewitched her, as if there were magic at play she didn’t understand.
She hurried over to the door, and he called, “Annabel?”
She glanced back. “Yes?”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
It sounded like a threat—and a promise of delectable things to come.
“I’ll be here,” she said.
“Do you ride?”
“Probably better than you,” she saucily retorted, and she could have kicked herself.
Flirting? With Benjamin Grey? Was she mad?
Yes, very likely.
She raced inside and fled up the stairs.
ENJAMIN HAD JUST FINISHED drafting another curt, angry letter to his cousin, Soloman, and was sanding the ink when his brother spoke up from the doorway.
“Why are you sitting in this dark parlor?” Wesley asked.
“Lovely to see you again too, Wesley,” he replied.
“It’s a beautiful autumn afternoon, and I have lawn games out in the garden. Would it be too much of a burden for you to welcome your guests by participating?”
“Lawn games? Really, Wesley?”
His younger brother flushed ten shades of red. “We have to entertain peo
ple in the daylight hours. This gala can’t all be decadence and depravity.”
“Why? It’s a bachelor party. You promised me whores and orgies.”
“I did not,” Wesley huffed.
“It was certainly implied when you coerced me into attending. Why would I relish this sort of event unless it was to be positively debauched?”
“I find debauchery to be distasteful.”
“Yes, I know so I can’t figure out why you are hosting it. Why not put someone in charge who’s comfortable with dissipation?”
“You don’t have to be snide,” Wesley complained. “I’m your only brother so—despite my misgivings—it’s my job to host it. I’m trying my best, and I wish you’d show a bit of gratitude.”
“Oh, I’m ever so grateful, Wesley,” Benjamin sarcastically said.
“You’re being rude and condescending. If you didn’t want the blasted fete, why not just tell me? Why force me to go to all this trouble?”
“I’m absolutely delighted by it,” Benjamin lied.
“No, you’re not, but you don’t have to be a grouch and wreck it.”
“I won’t.”
Benjamin sighed and eased back in his chair.
Wesley was about to fly into high dudgeon, and the notion of their quarreling was exhausting. He hadn’t seen his brother in two years, and though he hadn’t actually wanted a bachelor party, he’d agreed because it would mean he could escape the pressures of London for a few more weeks.
He’d also hoped the celebration might smooth over his relationship with Wesley. They’d never gotten on because Benjamin was simply more of everything than Wesley. He was older and taller and smarter and shrewder and tougher and better looking.
They were both dark-haired and blue-eyed, both handsome and dapper, but Benjamin oozed a confident demeanor Wesley had always lacked.
Men were eager to follow wherever he led, and women were eager to join him in his bed. And he was about to be an earl which sent Wesley into regular paroxysms of jealousy he would never admit to suffering.
Benjamin was engaged to his cousin, Veronica Mason, who had a dowry large enough to make a grown man weep. With his investiture about to occur, he’d been in a hurry to select a bride, but he didn’t know the suitable candidates. He’d spent the prior decade in the army and had only visited England a handful of times so he’d had his mother arrange the match. His main contribution had been his advice that she pick a girl who was suitable and compatible.
But there were huge problems with his marrying Veronica. First off, he was thirty, and she was twenty, and they had nothing in common. He viewed her more as a little sister than a wife, and he couldn’t imagine being wed to her. He especially couldn’t imagine fornicating with her. His stomach churned with nausea whenever he considered it.
The bigger problem was that Wesley was in love with Veronica. He’d begged their mother not to proceed with the betrothal, but she’d refused to listen, and Benjamin had consented without grasping the ramifications.
He’d have gladly backed out, but Veronica wouldn’t let him, and a gentleman couldn’t renege. She was anxious to be a countess, and she’d told Wesley she didn’t fancy him and he needed to move beyond his unnatural fascination.
Benjamin was no fool. Veronica would have been perfectly happy with Wesley—if he’d been in line to inherit an earldom. But he wasn’t so Benjamin would marry her instead, and Wesley would always hate him for it.
“Are you finished with your correspondence?” Wesley asked. “Will you come outside?”
“Yes, I’m done.”
“Who were you writing to that it couldn’t wait?”
“Soloman. Who would you suppose?”
Wesley blew out an aggrieved breath. “Why must you persist with him?”
“How about because he’s the only true friend I ever had? Our past makes us kindred spirits that can’t be pried apart. It’s really that simple, Wesley. Why can’t you understand?”
“Your fondness for him drives Mother insane.”
“Why would I care if Mother is driven insane? Besides, I’m quite sure she’d exhibit deranged tendencies regardless of how I behave.”
Their mother, Millicent, was a grumpy, pompous harridan who was never content in any situation. At a very young age, Benjamin had learned to ignore her ranting and complaints.
“Soloman will never return to London,” Wesley said, “despite how often you demand it. It seems to me he’s forgotten your old acquaintance. Why can’t you?”
“Let it go, Wesley. It’s none of your affair, is it?”
“Not my affair! Our family has suffered every second for ten years because of Soloman Grey. You flitted off to the army for a decade because of him. If it’s not my affair whose is it?”
“I didn’t join the army because of Soloman. I joined because the people in London are idiots. Don’t rewrite history.”
Soloman was their cousin, and he and Benjamin had been best friends as boys. Soloman’s father had been Benjamin’s uncle, Lord Lyndon. He’d been a confirmed bachelor with a penchant for actresses and opera dancers so Soloman was his natural-born son. But his father hadn’t been concerned over his lowly status so Benjamin and Soloman had been raised together.
With Soloman being a bastard, he couldn’t inherit from his father so Benjamin had grown up believing he was Lord Lyndon’s heir and would eventually be the earl.
Yet it all fell to pieces when he and Soloman were twenty. Lord Lyndon had suddenly married a young wife who’d promptly given birth to a legitimate son and heir: Baby Caleb Grey.
Just from pondering the name, Benjamin had to tamp down a shudder. The implications surrounding Caleb were still reverberating for all of them.
Lord Lyndon had died shortly after Caleb was born, and for reasons no one could explain, he’d appointed twenty-year-old Soloman as the baby’s guardian. Soon after Soloman took over management of the child and the estate, Caleb vanished from his nursery cradle in the middle of the night.
The shocking nature of the incident had stirred rampant speculation, with actual claims that Soloman had killed Caleb so he wouldn’t have to fuss with him. There had also been claims that Benjamin had bribed Soloman to murder Caleb so Benjamin could be the earl.
Some had insisted they’d drowned Caleb in the Thames. A baby! Soloman’s half-brother and Benjamin’s little cousin! The stories had been that despicable.
He and Soloman had left England to escape the uproar. Soloman went to Egypt where he sailed up and down the Nile, and Benjamin had served in the army. In case they had harmed Caleb, bankers and trustees weren’t in any hurry to turn over the money or the estate to either of them. They had kept the matter in the courts for an eternity before Caleb was finally declared dead.
Through it all, Benjamin had lost any interest in becoming earl, but now—with the legal issues resolved—it was about to happen.
He would be the new Lord Lyndon, a title and position that galled him and that he would never value. He felt he’d received it by dubious means, that a child had had to disappear—and most likely perish—so it could be dumped in Benjamin’s lap.
He’d been sending frantic appeals to Soloman to come home for the investiture. The rumors would swirl again, and he and Soloman could face down the gossips as adult men rather than the frightened boys they’d been at twenty.
But his cousin was unusually obstinate and hadn’t answered a single one of Benjamin’s letters. The coward! Benjamin would like to wring his neck.
“I want Soloman here for my wedding,” he said. “If I have to hire a brigand to tie him up and drag him to England, I will.”
“Haven’t we had enough scandal, Benjamin?”
“When you purse your lips and nag at me like that you look and sound just like Mother. You need to watch out or you’ll start to turn into her.”
“Very funny,” Wesley groused.
“How is Veronica?” he asked, merely to needle his brother.
“She’s fi
ne which you’d know if you ever bothered to talk to her.”
“Why must I? You take care of it plenty well.”
“A fat lot of good it’s done.”
“I begged her to cry off, Wesley. I told her I’d step aside so you could have her.”
“I know.”
Wesley was practically suffocating on his outrage, and on witnessing his fury Benjamin wanted to strangle his mother—and Veronica. With Wesley so besotted, there could be no viable ending.
“Veronica is determined to be my bride,” he said.
“I know that too.”
“I wish you’d find some way to accept the match.”
“I’ve accepted it,” Wesley muttered, his lie blatant and maddening.
Benjamin stood and went over to the window to gaze out at the activities Wesley had arranged in the garden.
“Where are the whores, Wesley?”
“I have a few opera dancers coming out from London on Friday and Saturday.”
“But no whores?”
“It depends on how you describe an opera dancer.”
“All I see out there are couples. It seems the men have brought their mistresses. You should have told me to bring someone.” He scoffed and glanced at Wesley over his shoulder. “Then again, I suppose if I had a paramour with me it could hardly devolve into an orgy, could it?”
“Since you’re about to wed Veronica,” Wesley said, “you shouldn’t be consorting with prostitutes.”
“Well, I’m not married to her yet, Wesley, and I assumed the whole point of this ridiculous exercise was to have a spot of lewd fun.”
“It is.”
Wesley might have been sucking on sour pickles, and Benjamin rippled with resignation.
He’d loved serving in the army where he’d been busy and had constantly been occupied with important tasks. He couldn’t bear to be back in England, couldn’t bear to dawdle and loaf and wait to become an earl which would mostly indicate he was a gentleman farmer from then on.
And while he was as randy as the next fellow, he hated to consort with whores, and opera dancers drove him batty. They were all searching for a protector who would set them up in pretty apartments and give them allowances they could fritter away.
He didn’t have the patience for such pathetic nonsense, and his life was about to abruptly change. He’d sworn to himself that he would be a faithful, devoted husband. He’d sworn that he would be monogamous, but he had two months to amuse himself before the dreaded day when he would be shackled to Veronica forever.