by Cheryl Holt
The three women whirled in unison, gaping at him as if he'd sprouted a second head.
"You won't allow what?" Anne inquired.
"You will not go out in public in that dress."
There was a bewildered pause; then Anne laughed and waved him away as if he were an irksome fly.
"Men!"
She rolled her eyes, and the maids snickered as she sauntered out. Jamie stomped after her, mad as a hornet, but she appeared to have forgotten his existence.
"Anne!" he snapped when she didn't stop. "I don't give you permission to go out like that."
"Oh, Jamie, don't fret over it. I'm really none of your business. Isn't that what you wanted? Now that I've learned how much freedom a married woman has, I have to agree with you. Our split was for the best."
A door opened down the hall, and Jack stepped out. He was so formally attired that he might have been off for a presentation at Court. He was wearing an expensive, exquisitely tailored coat and trousers, his cravat flawlessly tied, his hair slicked back.
"Hello, Jamie," was the only welcome he had for the brother he hadn't seen in months; then Jack noticed Anne, and he lit up and gave a wolfish whistle.
"Look at you!"
"And look at you!" she gushed in reply. "My goodness, you handsome dog!"
She raced to Jack's side. He extended his arm, and she took it, the two of them as cozy as an old pair of slippers. Together, they hurried off.
"We'll be very late," Anne called to Jamie. "No need to wait up."
"When we get home," Jack felt compelled to add, "we'll be busy anyway, so we won't be in the mood to chat."
"We most certainly won't." Anne giggled in a sultry, seductive way Jamie had never heard from her; then she asked Jack, "Where to first?"
"Did Jamie ever teach you to throw dice?"
"No."
"It's my favorite game of chance."
"You'd actually take me to a gambling club? Aren't females banned from them?"
"They're admitted—in some establishments. You have to know the appropriate ones, which I definitely do."
She chuckled again. "You are so wicked."
"I can't deny it." He leaned in and whispered, "While we're there, I intend to teach you more than a bit of gambling!"
They flew down the stairs, and Jamie collapsed against the wall, wondering what had just transpired— and what he ought to do about it.
Nineteen
Anne crept down the hall toward her room, she and Jack tiptoeing hand in hand, like two thieves.
Dawn was breaking, and she was exhausted. She wasn't cut out for city life and couldn't fathom the attraction that drove the existence of so many. Like Jamie. Like her cousin Percy.
She wanted to simply fall into bed and sleep for hours. Her back ached, her head ached, and her feet were throbbing with blisters from traipsing about in such uncomfortable shoes.
Jamie's house was quiet, which surprised her. She'd assumed people would still be present and reveling, or perhaps passed out in the numerous parlors, but as she and Jack had flitted down the dark corridors the place had seemed empty.
They arrived at Jack's door, and he whispered, "Goodnight."
"I can't believe Jamie wasn't waiting up." She was whispering, too, her frustration clear. She'd been positive their ploy would have goaded him into a jealous frenzy, that he'd have been determined to confront her so he could harangue about her behavior.
"We'll try again tomorrow."
She nodded with resignation and went on to her own room. As she slipped in, Jamie growled from the shadows, "Get your ass in here."
She jumped with fright, then did as he'd ordered, though she dawdled, closing the door and toying with the lock. She needed a few moments to compose her features, to wipe the smile from her face.
He was sprawled in a chair by the window, moonlight streaming in. His coat was off, his shirt open, the sleeves rolled back. His hair was loose around his shoulders, his cheeks stubbled with beard. He'd been drinking, and he looked angry and dangerous, on edge, like a cobra about to strike.
A sane woman would have been terrified, but Anne shielded any reaction and blithely walked past him to her dressing room. He caught her before she made it, grabbing her and pulling her to him.
"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded.
"Out dancing—with your brother."
"You are never to go out with him again."
"How will you stop me?"
"I am your husband. You will do as I say!"
She scoffed. "You've picked the strangest time to claim me."
He shoved her against the wall, and he leaned into her. Down below, his erection prodded her leg, and a little thrill of victory tickled her stomach.
"You will attend me, at once."
"In what fashion?" she asked, pretending not to understand.
"Take off your clothes and climb into bed." "I most certainly will not."
He flexed, showing her how hard he was. She'd never doubted his physical desire for her, and she was pleased to note that it hadn't waned, but it was exasperating that she couldn't figure out how to spur him from corporeal lust to emotional affection.
"Do it!" he hissed.
"You're being a boor, and I've had a long night."
"Your night has not been half as long as mine."
He clasped the neckline of her dress and ripped it down the center. She clutched at the fabric, feigning outrage, acting as if she were desperate to cover herself, but in reality, she loved him like this, so obsessed, so wild for her.
He smirked, relishing her predicament, his authority over her. "Pretty, pretty Anne, have you been giving away what should only be mine?"
"What if I have? Why would you care?"
"Have you!" he bellowed.
"You have paramours lurking around every corner. If your marriage vows mean nothing to you, why should they mean anything to me?"
"I could kill you for that remark, and there's not a man in England who would gainsay me."
"I'm not afraid of you," she boldly insisted.
He gripped her waist and spun her, her palms braced on the plaster, as he reached for something in his boot. When she saw that he'd retrieved a knife, she grew alarmed. Had she finally pushed him too far?
He dangled it over her shoulder so she could assess the sharp blade.
"Ah ... I see I have your attention," he said. "Are you worried that I might use it?"
"No."
"If I learn that you've been fucking my brother, have you any idea of what I might do?"
With a quick flick of his wrist, he sliced through the laces on her corset and yanked it away. She shivered, naked, except for her stockings and shoes.
He leaned in again, his front pressed to her back, his arms circling her so he could massage her breasts, so he could painfully squeeze her nipples.
"Should I take you like a whore?" he taunted.
"You couldn't do anything to me that I wouldn't enjoy."
"I'm sure that's true."
Slowly, he unbuttoned his trousers, freeing his phallus from its confines, and she was eager to feel him plunge into her, but he didn't. He held himself in check, rubbing against her buttocks, moving her where he wanted, teasing them both with what was coining.
"Turn around," he commanded. "Get on your knees."
She whirled and dropped down as he glared at her, silent, angry, almost daring her to proceed.
Foolish man! She'd be his slave if he but asked it of her.
She stroked his balls, his cock, licking the length, the tip, till his sexual juice seeped from the end; then she sucked him inside.
He groaned—in agony, in ecstasy—and started to flex. He was being a beast, but she didn't mind. She knew how much he treasured the dissolute deed, and she could have knelt there for an eternity, loving and pleasing him, but rapidly he was at the edge. He pulled away, his respirations ragged, his head hanging down.
"Go lie on the bed," he said, not glancing at h
er. "No, I want to—"
"Go!" he fumed, and he urged her toward it.
She scowled, ready to argue, to fight, but ultimately, she complied. He was in a frantic, troubled state, and she couldn't wait to see where it would lead.
Scurrying away, she crawled onto the mattress and lazily reclined. She raised her knee and let it fall to the side so that he could view her most private parts.
"Do you want me, Jamie?" she needled. "Do you want me, or should I give myself to someone else?"
"Never!" He stalked to her, leaping onto the bed and covering her with his body. "You're mine! Do you hear me? Mine."
"Prove it."
He clasped her thighs, jerked them wide, and entered her with a hard thrust. She moaned and arched up, but he was in a heedless fury and oblivious to her needs. He slammed into her, his lust at a level she'd never encountered with him prior, his hips pounding like the pistons of a huge machine.
She couldn't delay or calm him. She could only hold on through the tumult. With her legs wrapped around him, her ankles locked, she gave him greater access, and he drove himself deeper and deeper. His passion spiraled, and so did her own.
Her orgasm commenced at the center of her womb, the waves of pleasure shooting out to her belly, her limbs, and as she cried out, he finished, too, roaring with the fervor of his release.
Time seemed to stop as they soared together, as they raced to the pinnacle, then plummeted to earth, crashing with an echoing finality that frightened her, that saddened her.
Surely, he'd have been swayed! Surely, he'd understand that she loved him, that she needed him! But what if he didn't? What if her scheme had all been for naught?
He collapsed onto her and rolled away. They were side-by-side, on their backs, not touching, like strangers, like enemies. His distance from her was so blatant that if he'd handed her a few coins for services rendered, she wouldn't have been surprised.
"Tell me there's been no one but me," he said.
"Oh, Jamie, how could you think it?"
"Tell me you haven't lain with my brother."
"I haven't. I swear."
She snuggled herself to him, but she might have been cuddling a log.
"I was trying to make you jealous," she admitted.
"Why?" He peered over at her, his expression unreadable.
"I love you," she staunchly announced, but he looked as if she'd hit him. "Don't say that."
"But it's true, Jamie. I love you, and I miss you. I want you to come home."
"Home!" He scoffed as if the word were an epithet. "And where is that?"
"It's Gladstone, you silly oaf. It's with me at Gladstone."
He relaxed a bit and drew her closer, her cheek on his chest. She couldn't see his eyes, but she could sense that he was awhirl with anguished thoughts. She didn't comprehend his demons, and since she didn't know what they were, she didn't know how to vanquish them.
He stroked her hair and sighed. "You shouldn't have come to town."
"I had to. I couldn't let you continue on as you are." "I'm fine, and I don't need you playing nursemaid." "I'm not playing," she insisted. "This is for real. This is for keeps."
"It was never meant to be forever." "It was, too! I love you."
At her repeating the strident declaration, he winced and pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her, preventing any further pronouncements he couldn't bear to hear.
"Hush now."
"Jamie!"
"Hush."
She ceased her protests, but she refused to be discouraged by his adamant assertion that they had no future. It was only her first night in London, and she would stay as long as necessary, would use every feminine wile she possessed to change his mind.
The sound of his breathing soothed her, as did the steady beating of his heart under her ear, and eventually she dozed.
When she awoke, the room was flooded with sunshine. She peeked over at the clock, seeing that it was afternoon and she'd slept the morning away.
Jamie wasn't with her, and she was very still, hoping he was nearby, but it was so desperately quiet. There was an emptiness in the air, the same one she'd felt the day he'd left Gladstone, and she knew—without having to search—that he had left her again.
She climbed out of bed, the floor cold on her bare feet. She tugged on her nightgown and robe, and she hurried downstairs, stumbling into the dining room, where Jack was eating breakfast, but Jamie was nowhere to be found.
As she entered, Jack glanced away, his pity obvious as she sat across from him. "Where is he?" "He left. I'm sorry." "Where was he going?"
"He ... ah ... he and some friends went to the horse races."
"Which friends?”
"It doesn't matter."
'Tell me, Jack. I won't faint. I promise."
"Two loose women, Anne. Actresses, I presume."
"I see," she murmured, and she really, really did. "Do you think the stories are true, that he's ... well... involved with them?"
"I couldn't begin to guess."
"But he might actually be betraying me?"
"He might."
She couldn't believe it. She just couldn't believe he would! She was such a naive little fool. "Did he say anything?" "The usual." "What does that mean?"
He leaned over and patted her hand. "Let it go, Anne. He's my brother, and I've always loved him dearly, but he's not worth it."
"I know he's not, but I can't help myself."
Jamie was like an addiction in her blood. She couldn't shed her need for him, and she didn't understand how he could make love to her with such wild abandon, then trot off with a pair of strumpets a few hours later.
He had to be made of stone. Ice had to flow in his veins.
He wouldn't treat a dog as he'd treated her. "Why does he despise me so much?" She hated the pathetic quaver in her voice. "He doesn't."
"Of course he does. What other basis could there possibly be for his behavior?"
"You don't know how it was for us, Anne," Jack gently said.
"Then explain it to me."
"We figured out, at a very young age, that it was pointless to grow attached to anyone. He simply never learned how to care. It was easier that way."
"Easier for whom?"
Jack stared at his plate, nibbled at his food. "He ... left you a note." "He did?"
Jack had hidden it under his napkin, apparently debating whether to show it to her. He pushed it toward her, and it lay there between them, like the kiss of death.
Finally, she mustered the courage to unfold it. After scanning the words, her eyes glistened with tears. She chuckled miserably.
"What is it?" he inquired.
"And here Ophelia claimed he couldn't read or write. Well, he seems perfectly articulate to me."
She crumpled the letter into a ball, clutched it to her heart, then walked over to the fire and tossed the letter in, watching as it dwindled to ash in the flames. For a long while, she stood, pensive, her hopes fading to nothing.
"I know I told you," she ultimately stated, "that I wanted to stay in London until we convinced him to come home." She turned to him. "But I was wrong. There's no reason to remain. How soon can you be packed?"
Hello, Miss Carstairs," Jack politely said. "Oh, for pity's sake, call me Sarah." "As you wish," he agreed, but he didn't speak her name aloud. Silly as it sounded, it hurt him to say it.
Since the terrible evening when Jamie had questioned them about their affair, they'd tiptoed around one another.
Jack had once thought he might marry her, that he might build a life with her at Gladstone. But it all seemed to have occurred in the distant past, like a sweet dream he couldn't quite recollect.
He'd never again sneaked to her room, had never again fought or chatted with her. At all costs, he avoided her, even sleeping in the grooms' quarters over the stables with the other bachelors so he'd never see her. He was more comfortable there than in the fancy mansion filled with the feminine craziness generated by the Carstairs
sisters and their wretched cousin Ophelia.
Over the months, he'd grown acquainted with Sarah's son, Tim, and their relationship made Jack realize how much he'd missed by never becoming a father. He was hungering for a different future, and he was determined to meet a woman who could overlook his faults and history and have him in spite of them.
He wanted to go somewhere where no one knew him, where he wasn't viewed simply as the useless, powerless brother of the wastrel earl. He was eager to start over, maybe in America or Australia. Men were equal in those places. He could have a plot of land for the asking, could create a humble but satisfying existence.
If he spent a few days in London, he was certain he could stumble on a female who shared the same vision. Not for an impressive house and an expensive wardrobe, not for a snooty husband and a lofty position in the neighborhood, but for stability and constancy, for serenity and permanence.
He wasn't choosy. Nor did he expect the type of passion he'd experienced with Sarah Carstairs. He needed a tough partner, a pragmatic and sturdy ally, and he imagined that, without too much trouble, he could find someone who would be happy to accompany him.
"Where are you off to?" Sarah queried, studying his heavy coat and scarf, his hat pulled low on his head. "I'm leaving."
"You oughtn't to go anywhere. The temperature is so frigid; I swear it's about to snow."
"I've seen better," he churlishly replied. "I'll see worse."
It had been a beautiful summer, but the harvest was completed, and autumn full upon them, winter close behind. A smart fellow would be sailing south, with the wind at his back and the sun on his face, as he traveled to warmer climes, which was Jack's exact intent.
To hell with Jamie! To hell with Gladstone and the flighty, unappreciative females who roamed its halls!
Without another word, Jack stomped to the door. A packed satchel and a bedroll awaited him, but that was all. He hadn't advised anyone that he was going, so there was no one to see him off. No one rushed out to say good-bye or wish him Godspeed, but that's the way he wanted it.
Farewells were annoying and pointless.
He took a last glance at the fussy foyer, at the priceless carpets, the sparkling chandeliers, the paintings, and furniture, and all the rest. He could have gagged at the excess, and he was delighted to be departing with no more than he'd arrived with.