Cheryl Holt (9 page)

“Older gentlemen like youthful wives. They find them more biddable. More easily trained.”

“For pity’s sake, Margaret!” Abigail snarled. “You talk about Caroline as if she’s a pet dog.” A waiter strolled by offering wine, and anxious for something to do with her fingers lest she wrap them around Margaret’s throat, Abigail grabbed a glass.

Undeterred by Abigail’s sharp tone, Margaret said, “Girls have many wifely duties to learn, and someone as . . .”—she paused, seeking the appropriate word, and Abigail tensed, waiting—“as
vivacious
as Caroline could definitely benefit from the firmer hand a more mature husband would provide.”

“Caroline will secure an excellent husband. Don’t fret over her.” But she made a mental note to speak with Jerald as soon as she had the chance. Although it was out of his character and terribly modern, she had gotten him to acquiesce that Caroline would be consulted over any proposal, and that she could turn down those suitors who didn’t interest her. With the kind of determination only a seventeen-year-old girl can exhibit, Caroline had taken his assurance to heart and was determined to wed only for love.

Jerald’s decision had never set well with Margaret. Her opinion was that Caroline should marry whomever she was told to marry, with no complaints, and Abigail’s greatest fear was that Margaret would convince Jerald to renege on the promise he’d given. If Jerald changed his mind at this late date, it would be an unqualified disaster.

Hoping to placate her overbearing sister-in-law, she
smiled. “Let’s not fuss about it now. We’ve only just begun our search. We have plenty of evenings to decide who might be best for her.”

“Yes, indeed,” Margaret concluded. “You know, if the earl doesn’t fancy Caroline, you might throw your cap for him yourself.”

“What?” she gasped. As if she could marry James Stevens’s father! The concept was preposterous! Her ragged mood was motivating her to fervently deny the possibility, so she forced herself to appear nonchalant. “You’re joking.”

“Why do you say so? What are your intentions? You’re twenty-five years old. Caroline is raised. Your obligation to the family is finished. Do you mean to simply return to the country and live out your days as a spinster? Surely you want more for yourself than that.”

Abigail glanced around the salon. The gentlemen had finished their cigars and port and were trickling in, and she tried to picture herself wedded to one of them, but it was not a view she could bring into clear focus.

After discovering the truth about a wife’s intimate commitments, she doubted she could ever walk down the aisle. Not with any of the men of her acquaintance. For love, she might risk it. But only for love. Her husband would have to be someone dashing and spirited. Someone who stirred and captivated her.

He would have to be someone like
. . .
someone like Stevens
, she thought, her already-hot cheeks blushing a darker pink.

“I don’t know what my plans are,” she contended. “At present, I’m concentrating on this Season and Caroline’s future. After we’re finished with hers, I’ll start plotting my own.”

“Well, good. I’m glad you’ve resolved to be sensible.” Margaret patted her arm. “Jerald did you a gigantic disservice by not obliging you to wed after . . .” Her voice trailed off as a new group of guests entered, and she rose to greet them, but not before whispering, “I noticed that your lips
are terribly chapped. I have a nice balm that might help. Ask me later.”

Margaret departed, and Abigail slipped her hands under her skirts, sitting on them so she wouldn’t distractedly massage her mouth. She hadn’t realized how incessantly she’d been licking and rubbing with her fingertips as she’d ruminated on kissing Mr. Stevens.

Irrationally, she suffered a wave of anger at Margaret for raising the subject of marriage when Mr. Stevens was still overwhelming her senses. She didn’t want to think about men, marriage, or marital behaviors. She just wanted to think about Mr. Stevens and what his appearance portended, and she didn’t care to have Margaret upsetting her peaceful reveries.

Over the years, she’d had copious discussions with Jerald and Margaret as to whether or not she should become engaged again. Margaret claimed that it was unnatural for Abigail to be single, and the arguments went around and around, but Abigail had always won. Rearing Caroline had kept her plenty busy, so the potential for her own husband and family had never blossomed.

Now Caroline was grown, and Abigail conceded that Margaret was correct. What was she to do? She could hardly putter about Jerald’s country estate, Marbleton, with no duties and no responsibilities to oversee.

Marriage was the only option for a woman in her position. But in light of her recently acquired knowledge, she didn’t see how she could ever choose a husband. Any decision would be impossible. Compared to Mr. Stevens, every other gentleman she’d ever encountered seemed positively tame—and therefore completely unacceptable as spousal material.

In a mere matter of hours, her tastes had changed. Apparently, she now liked her men ribald and totally unrestrained. None of her staid, stodgy acquaintances would suffice. She desired spice and heat and the type of intense longing she suffered whenever she recalled Mr. Stevens. How she was supposed to stumble upon such a marvelous
fellow among this limp crowd was a mystery she’d mull another day.

Caroline flitted to her side, a lovely vision in white satin and pink lace. Full of good cheer, she queried, “What do you think?”

“Supper was excellent,” Abigail fibbed again, “and the party is fabulous.”

“Not the party, silly,” Caroline said. “What about the boys who’ve come to call?”

“Oh, pardon me.” Abigail smiled. “You must intend to analyze the
really
important aspects of the evening.”

“Exactly,” Caroline responded, smiling as well.

“Let’s see . . .” Abigail surreptitiously glanced to where a quartet of elegant, strapping lads was huddled. Theirs was a small world, and the suitors always knew each other. Usually they were friends who had attended school together. All came from aristocratic families of impeccable wealth and breeding; all would eventually hold titles, so any of them would be an appropriate husband for Caroline.

After a thorough perusal, Abigail declared, “I suppose I’m rather partial to the dark-haired boy.”

“He is darling, isn’t he?” she acknowledged. “His name is Charles.”

Caroline sighed with such sweet affection that Abigail could barely hide her envious delight. How wonderful to have such romantic adventures lying ahead. “He’s charming,” she agreed.

“He’s asked me to go riding tomorrow afternoon. Actually, they’ve all asked me to go one place and another. May I?”

“Certainly,” Abigail consented. “With the way the requests will be rolling in, I suspect we’ll need to begin a calendar to chart your myriad invitations.”

“That’s a grand idea. I’ll start on it first thing in the morning.”

“And I think you should accept as many as possible.”

“I’ll try hard to garner all I can.” Caroline laughed amiably, her blue eyes twinkling.

They’d discussed the courtship rituals on hundreds—perhaps thousands—of occasions, and Abigail was resolute that Caroline not set her sights on any one admirer too early. After meeting Caroline, none of her admirers would be able to resist her, and she would receive many offers, so Abigail insisted Caroline get to know all the candidates as thoroughly as was viable, thus providing herself with the opportunity to make the very best decision.

“What a dreary chore it must be,” Abigail mentioned facetiously, “having to decide how to fill your days with one handsome boy after the next.”

“ ’Tis a desperate burden,” her sister replied, “but I’m up to the challenge.”

More guests arrived, two young men among them, and Abigail nodded toward the group. “Your cadre of swains has just increased.”

“Ooh, the blond one is quite adorable.”

“Off you go.” Abigail chuckled as she helped Caroline to her feet. “Be dazzling!”

“I shall!”

She swirled away, majestic as any princess, and as Abigail watched her, she experienced a rush of sadness. Had she ever been that innocent? That gay and carefree?

Her own come-out was a nebulous recollection of dances, gowns, and parties, but she saw it all through a hazy filter, watered down by the passing of the years. She’d endured the same anticipation and high hopes for the future, but none of it had become reality, and she was just recognizing that she’d ended up settling for so little. With no family or home of her own, she was existing rather than living, forced to vicariously enjoy Caroline’s successful journey to matrimony, rather than making the trip herself.

How had it happened that she found herself in this predicament?

She seemed ancient and worn out, a tedious, uninteresting woman for whom discontentment prevailed. Though she was only twenty-five, she felt herself to be a
hundred
and twenty-five, and as she stared down the road, the view
was terribly depressing. What destiny awaited?

What was to become of her once Caroline was wed?

Her outlook was so disheartening that she couldn’t bear further personal evaluation, so she abandoned her safe haven in the corner and floated through the throng of callers, hoping activity would keep her disturbing reflections at bay, but try as she might to ease her disquiet, nothing worked. Gradually, she migrated down the hall, to the more private family rooms at the back of the house, and she slipped into Jerald’s library, welcoming the solitude. But as the heavy door clicked shut, she realized she wasn’t alone. An unknown male was standing in the shadows behind the desk, and he whirled to face her.

James!
she nearly called, but she just managed to swallow the name, and she was so glad she had, for the gentleman
was
James Stevens—as he would appear in another twenty or thirty years.

From the remarkable resemblance, he could only be James’s father, the notorious Earl of Spencer, Edward Stevens. He had the same tall, lithe grace, ravishing face, and piercing eyes, though his were brown instead of blue. The dark hair matched, too, except his was peppered with gray. A striking older man, he was the type who grew more attractive with the passage of time.

“If you would be so kind,” he said in a voice that was the exact duplicate of his illegitimate son’s, “would you open the door? And please be quick about it.”

The request was politely made but definitely an order, and she hastily complied. “My apologies.” She pulled the door back as far as the hinges would permit. “I hadn’t noticed this room was occupied.”

“Really?”

“Yes,
really.”
She was piqued by his blatant disbelief. “Why would I intentionally want to close myself off with . . .” Then, she remembered her brief conversation with Margaret, and awareness dawned. Any number of unmarried females were now scheming to meet him privately,
and he couldn’t allow himself to be caught with any of them or untold scandal would result.

“Truly, Lord Spencer,” she said earnestly. “I hadn’t expected anyone to be about.”

“You know me?”

“I know
of
you.”

After a cautious assessment, he asserted, “I see that you grasp my predicament.”

“I was merely trying to escape the swarm of visitors.”

“As was I. With each Season, I have less tolerance for such folderol.”

“I feel the same.”

“Ah . . . a kindred spirit.”

She smiled and, when he smiled in return, her heart melted. With those dimples in his cheeks, and that air of mischief in his eyes—so much like his son’s—what woman could have remained unmoved? It seemed they shared a precious secret, making them intimates and confidantes, instead of two strangers.

“If you detest these affairs so much,” she asked, “why are you here?”

“I hadn’t intended to come, but my son insisted.”

“Your son?” She panicked, and she was powerless to prevent herself from glancing around as though James Stevens-might step out from behind the drapes.

“Yes, my only boy, Charles, wanted an introduction to Lady Caroline.”

Oh, that son!
Her pulse slowed to its normal rate.

His legitimate son, Charles, was an invited guest, and Abigail understood why the earl would claim him as his
only
son, but she couldn’t forestall the instant swell of sorrow that had her cursing their Polite Society.

What must it be like for the earl to be the father of a magnificent man such as James, yet forced to deny his existence at every turn? What must it be like for James to be the offspring of this vibrant, astute aristocrat, but to continually have their blood connection discounted? What could their relationship possibly be like?

Habit kept her smile firmly in place as she inquired, “How did your Charles convince you?”

“He dragged me out of the house.”

“Kicking and screaming?”

“Well, mumbling and grumbling anyway,” he admitted. “I refused to show up for supper, but he was adamant that we attend the gala afterward.” He moved to the sideboard, poured a brandy and a glass of sherry, then he walked closer and handed her the wine. “Have we met?”

“Not officially. I am Lady Caroline’s older sister, Abigail.”

“So you are.” He studied her curiously. “You wouldn’t remember, I don’t suppose, but I spent a week at Marbleton when you were just a girl of eight or ten. My . . . how time flies.”

“Yes, it certainly does.” She’d just reached the same dreadful conclusion, which was precisely the reason she’d sought refuge in the library. She needed to regroup before facing the guests again. The earl’s son—his
illegitimate
son—had stirred too many disturbing insights.

“I have not seen you about. . . .”

“No, I stayed in the country after Mother died. What with overseeing Jerald’s staff and acting as a companion to Caroline, I haven’t made it to Town.”

“And you haven’t missed it a whit, I’ll wager.”

“Not a whit.”

He sighed miserably. “I simply can’t abide going back to the party just now.” Astonishing her, he asked, “Would you sit while we enjoy our beverages?”