Addicted

by Charlotte Featherstone

  How would she ever manage it, for she was a weakling and a fool when it came to Lindsay and her love for him.

  After dressing in a gown that Robert Middleton’s wife had sent for her, Anais searched out her father’s sickroom. She found her father dozing, propped up on pillows, his head wrapped in white bandages that were shadowed with blood. Robert had dosed him well with laudanum owing to what her father said “was like gunfire going off in his head.” She sat for long minutes, holding his hand, watching his stubbled cheeks sink in and out with his snoring breaths. Her mother’s impatient sighs mingled with her father’s peaceful breaths, and Anais found she could not sit in the chamber with her mother any longer, watching the wretched woman sitting beside her father, knowing that her mother had never cared about her husband.

  “We have nothing now,” her mother cried, despair ringing in her voice. “All my gowns, my jewels,” she wept. “The new furniture and the rugs. All of it gone. What shall become of me?”

  “The house and its contents were insured, Mother,” Ann said sharply. “You should be giving thanks that Lord Raeburn talked Papa into taking out the new policies that Lloyd’s began underwriting. Very forward thinking, if you ask me.”

  “Yes, but how long will the business take to settle?” her mother cried, glaring at her daughters over her shoulder as they stood at the foot of the bed. “What if Lord Raeburn was wrong about this business of paying for insurance? What assurances do we have that they will come through with the money to replace what I’ve lost!”

  “What you’ve lost?” Ann asked incredulously. “What we have all lost. And furthermore, I have heard you complain of nothing but the loss of material possessions, things that can be replaced very easily. It could have been much worse, Mother. You could have lost your husband. You could have lost Anais.”

  Her mother’s eyes settled on her. There was no love lost between them, she knew, but Anais was confronted with the harsh reality of the truth when she saw the way her mother looked at her. In that instant she knew her mother would have gladly thrown her into the flames if it would have saved her jewels.

  It should have hurt her—cut her to the quick—to see what very little a child could mean to its mother. But the truth was, it did not. A year ago, she could not have believed, let alone understood, how someone could be so utterly mercenary. She understood now, she comprehended the workings of the world. Her naiveté was lost, replaced by life’s lessons.

  “Now I shall be forced to live with your father’s sister,” their mother snapped as she looked away and glared at her sleeping husband. “Why did your sister have to go scampering off to Cádiz for the winter? We should be staying with her. She should be taking care of me.”

  “Mother,” Anais chastised. “Abigail is newly married. You cannot fault her for deciding to honeymoon someplace warm.”

  “She has already been gone two months! She doesn’t need to be gone till spring.”

  Anais sighed. “Even if Abigail were home for the winter, there is no guarantee we could travel such a distance and in such weather. The north of Scotland is not an easy trek. No, it is much more prudent to go and live with my aunt until Abigail arrives home in the spring.”

  “I suppose it is impossible to think that the house will be rebuilt by then.”

  “No, Mother. The house will not be rebuilt. It will take nothing short of a miracle to have that happen in four months.”

  Her mother snorted, disgust marring her considerable beauty. “Then I am stuck with her, my sister-in-law. Lord, I cannot abide that woman—not a fashionable ounce in her over-flabby body. There will be no balls, no dinners, no excursions to the pleasure gardens. Just intolerable afternoons and evenings spent in her drab little house in Portman Square.”

  “Mother,” Ann retorted. “We are indebted to Aunt Millie for her kindness to our family. She has never been anything but generous and loving toward us.”

  “I cannot live there,” her mother snapped. “I cannot abide her small home and her silly society of women. I cannot stand that unfashionable creature she calls her companion—I will not be seen in that girl’s company.”

  “Jane has been a support to Millie,” Anais challenged, hating to hear her mother taint the merits of her aunt’s companion. Anais had always thought of Jane as a friend, and listening to her mother abuse her friend’s name set her teeth on edge. Her mother wouldn’t know a true friend if it hit her over the head.

  “Millie has supported that…that nobody for years. That girl has taken everything away from Millie—it should have been yours, girls. It could have bought you a duke,” her mother said with a menacing glare. “All that money that Millie keeps hidden could have been yours if not for that conniving girl. And now, ham-fisted as Millie is, I will have to suffer her small home and poor furnishings and penny-pinching ways. I cannot begin to know how I shall show my face in society. What will my friends think? Oh, why did Abigail’s husband have to steal away to the wilds of the Mediterranean? No one considers my thoughts or my needs.”

  “I will not listen to another word of this,” Anais snapped. “Abigail is off on her honeymoon. Be happy for her. She has caught herself a rich lord. Was that not your goal?”

  “It was my goal for each of you, but you will not achieve it.”

  Anais felt the familiar barb, though the sting was much less than it was a year ago. “You may send word to me when Papa awakes. I will come to visit when you have vacated the room. I can’t imagine it will be too much longer as compassion and caring for your family was never high on your list. We could never come before a new ballgown or an invitation to a prestigious soiree, could we?”

  “Ungrateful, spoiled child. I should have thrown you to the streets.”

  As her mother glared at her, Anais felt the unexpected nausea rear in her belly. How easy it would have been for her mother to toss her aside, and the reality cruelly gripped her middle.

  Anais couldn’t help but wonder if the numbness she had felt settle in her soul these past months was because she was turning into the same sort of selfish woman as her mother. As she looked from her mother to her father lying asleep in bed, the vision changed so that she saw Garrett lying there, and herself sitting beside the bed, pining away for another man while the one who loved her lay helpless in the bed before her.

  Suddenly she felt very weary—tired of inflicting pain on a man who had never been anything but kind and compassionate to her. It was time to let the past go. It was time for her to seek her future. That future, she told herself over and over again, could not include Lindsay.

  9

  The waning sun slipped behind a heavy, gray cloud, casting the salon in shadow and snuffing out the melancholy memories of Anais’s afternoon visit with her mother. It was early evening and supper was to be served as a buffet for the guests that had come to partake of the Christmas festivities with Lord and Lady Weatherby.

  Anais wished to be anywhere but the salon. She would have asked for a tray to be sent to her room, but she could not in all conscience leave Ann alone on Christmas. It was bad enough that her mother had made no attempt to show some Christmas spirit, despite the fact it was obvious their father was not in any danger of succumbing to his wounds. No, Anais could not leave young Ann alone, so she found herself seated on the settee closest to the fire, arranging her hands in her lap, praying she looked tranquil and at ease.

  Nothing was further from the truth. Inside she was a mass of knots and jangled nerves. She told herself that she could do this, she could act composed and as though her heart had not been trampled through. She had done that, during her years as an unnoticed debutante. Certainly she could summon the skill once again.

  Looking down at the borrowed emerald silk gown she wore, Anais allowed her fingers to fidget with the lace ruffle on the flounce of the bell-shaped skirt. Taking what she hoped was a calming breath, she pretended interest in the occupants of the room.

  Lord Weatherby was drunk. But that was nothing out of the o
rdinary. He was playing a hand of whist with Lord Wallingford and Dr. Middleton, as well as Mr. Pratt, the minister from St. Ann’s parish.

  A roar of laughter erupted from Weatherby’s lips and he patted Wallingford’s shoulder before taking a large gulp of port. “A good man, you are, my boy,” he commended Wallingford drunkenly. “Never dreamed you were holding back that ace.”

  “I am a man of secrets,” Wallingford said with a sly smile. Wallingford’s dark gaze found hers over Dr. Middleton’s shoulder and he winked at her.

  Anais liked Wallingford despite knowing he was a rake—and a heartless one—or so she had heard from the numerous ladies he had loved and left. The four of them, Lindsay, Garrett, she and Wallingford, had all grown up in the district, playing together, attending the same social activities and assemblies. But her friendship with Wallingford had not withstood the years that hers with Lindsay had. By the time she turned fourteen, Wallingford had distanced himself from her, never allowing himself to be the sort of friend to her that Lindsay and Garrett were. He was always a bit aloof, but he had never acted the rake with her. She had seen him act the part when he’d been prowling about the ballrooms, but he had been nothing more than the man she had known since childhood when he was in her company.

  “You are looking very lovely, Lady Anais,” Wallingford said as his twilight-blue gaze assessed her. “The firelight becomes you.”

  She blushed at the comment and saw that Weatherby’s eyes suddenly traveled over Wallingford’s broad shoulder and landed on her, sending her own gaze fleeing to the group of women who sat at another table playing lottery tickets. There was something in Lindsay’s father’s scrutiny that disturbed her. It was penetrating, knowing. It was a look that told her he might well know of the secret she was trying desperately to keep.

  Before, she had only seen drunken debauchery shining in those eyes. But tonight she saw something much more frightening in them—clarity.

  “Come and join us, my dear,” Lady Weatherby called gently. “Mrs. Pratt is beating us soundly. Mrs. Middleton and I shall quite be under the hatches if you do not come and save us.”

  “Thank you, no,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips. “I’m afraid the fire has too great a hold of me.”

  “Shall I ring for another blanket? Your shoulders are trembling.”

  In unison, every guest’s attention was directed her way and she felt her face flush crimson. The bodice of the gown was comprised of an off-the-shoulder lace collar that exposed her throat and much of her full décolletage. Anais was certain that the tight bodice hid very little of her flesh that was glowing hot, and most likely red, beneath their inquisitive stares.

  How she wished Lady Weatherby was not quite so observant.

  “Lindsay, darling,” Lady Weatherby called. “Bring a blanket for Anais, won’t you? That window is so terribly drafty. I’m certain she’ll take a chill.”

  Horrified, Anais turned to find that Lindsay had just entered the room and was now pulling a thick cashmere shawl from the back of a winged chair. Her spine stiffened as he started to make his way toward her. It was the first time she had really seen him since the night at the Torrington masquerade. He had been walking toward her that night, too, but looking much different than he now was.

  His face was impassive. She saw that his green eyes, which had always reminded her of rich Irish moss, held a watchfulness about them. They were also glistening with a strange flicker she had never seen before. His hair, which had always been given to curl, was in desperate need of a cut, for it hung to his shoulders in onyx-colored curling locks that made her fingers itch to run through the thick, silken mass. She remembered how it felt to have the silky strands slide through her fingers. She didn’t understand why, but there was something about Lindsay’s wild, unfashionable hair that had her looking at him more intently than she should.

  Finally, her gaze slipped to his lips and she shivered, unable to conceal it when she saw that she had not imagined his chin covered with black whiskers. Anais could not stop her body from remembering the feel of his face, covered with a thick beard, against her thighs and belly. How erotic it had been to feel the abrasive brush of his whiskers paired with the silky feel of his tongue. She had thought it all a fevered erotic dream last night. Looking at him now, knowing it was real made her tremble visibly.

  She could not allow him to know that she remembered every heated moment in his arms nor learn what truly lay in her heart. She must keep to the performance she had written and act the part she had scripted for herself.

  What she needed to do was act as if she did not remember that she had been with him in his bed. Pretend not to care about him or their friendship. She could do it. She had become rather skilled at pretending. So skilled, in fact, that she was able to pretend that she had not given Lindsay her virginity in a stable, or that the past ten months of heartache had never really existed.

  She had washed all the hurt away in an emotionless void that felt cold and lonely and empty. She was blank inside. A hollowed-out shell of herself. But preservation would do that to a person. It left a person cold.

  “A shawl.” He came to a stop before her. Instead of handing it to her, he dropped to his knees and wrapped the paisley cashmere around her shoulders. His gaze met hers, and he unabashedly stared at her despite the fact his parents’ guests were there to lay witness to it.

  But then, as far as the guests were concerned, they were the very best of friends. No one outside of Lindsay and Garrett knew that she had given her innocence to Lindsay. No one knew that they were no longer friends because she’d caught him in an indecent act with someone she thought was her friend.

  What the guests saw was a man and woman—childhood friends—sharing a moment of privacy after a long absence from each other.

  “Better?” he asked, rubbing his large palms up and down her shoulders. Gathering the shawl in her fingers, she brought it tighter around her arms so that it covered her bosom.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “They tell me you’ve been ill,” he said quietly.

  She let her gaze flit away when she saw there was more than curiosity shining in his eyes. “I am on the mend now.”

  “You’re as pale as a ghost. You do not look yourself. I’ve been told your heart is failing.”

  “I’m well on the way to being recovered.”

  “Was it a broken heart?” he asked in what could only be described as a whisper. Anais could not help but look at him. She saw pain in his expression and she wanted to spare him the thought that his actions had anything to do with her ailment. For he had nothing to do with it. It was the result of her own folly.

  “I contracted an illness while I was in Paris. It affected my heart.”

  His eyes scoured hers and she shrunk back, bringing the shawl tighter around her, pretending that she could hide everything from him. “This is a very lovely wrap,” she murmured as her fingers wound around the braided fringe.

  “It’s Persian. I purchased it for Mother at the covered market in Constantinople.”

  Looking down at the pale green-and-rose pattern, Anais steadfastly avoided his eyes and the questions she knew were burning in his brain. “It’s lovely.”

  “Not as lovely as you.”

  She was not that lovely, else he would not have turned so eagerly to Rebecca.

  “How did you like Constantinople? I believe you’ve always had a desire to see it.”

  He stood abruptly and peered down at her. “The city was everything I expected it to be. It is vibrant and rich, full of culture and exotic tales. I did not, however, enjoy the circumstances that brought me there.”

  She refused to look up. He was baiting her. She was not to engage him in a war of words. The past was the past, nothing about it could be changed. Neutral ground was what she needed to find with Lindsay.

  “You must have taken great interest in the culture, for you look very much like one of those Eastern despots I’ve seen in my books. Sort of like th
e count in Dumas’s book.” Anais attempted a jovial tone as she indicated his attire, but her voice sounded jaded and she winced when she saw his eyes narrow.

  “A despot?” he inquired. “Or am I the Count of Monte Cristo? I believe the count found himself betrayed by his lover and his friend, is that not right?”

  Her gaze slid away from his face and landed on his shoulders. His long, black, velvet coat was opened all the way down the front, revealing his silk waistcoat that was the color of a rich claret. Gold embroidery edged the cuffs of the evening jacket and the unusual collar was folded down in the style reminiscent of the Mandarins. It was a strange style of jacket, but she admitted that the cut suited his long body and broad shoulders. The color especially was starkly vivid against his dark hair and tanned skin. There was certainly an Eastern wildness about him. His untamed hair and sun-kissed skin, not to mention the beard—something no self-respecting gentleman would grow, let alone wear before women—all smacked of untamed Eastern decadence. But if any Englishman could carry off looking like a seductive sultan, it was Lindsay.

  The tenseness about his eyes seemed to lessen and he grinned, a slow, sensual smile that began to churn her insides. “Does the beard offend you? Mother was aghast when she first saw me. I was reminded of how very unfashionable and ungentlemanly it is to wear facial hair in the presence of a lady. But then, I’ve never been that good at playing the gentleman, have I?”

  Swallowing hard, Anais steadfastly refused to tilt her head to look at him. Instead, she studied the hearth that was decked with evergreen swags and bunches of holly and laurel. She watched the orange flames in the hearth leap and dance, crackling in shooting sparks as the Yule log burned bright and hot. She feigned interest in the hearth so that she would not have to answer that leading question. She would not allow him to draw her into a conversation that was best left unspoken.

  She sat as such, wondering when, or if, he would tire of her silence and move on to other more talkative guests. In the end, he stepped to the right and took the cushion next to her on the settee.