Cheryl Holt Read online

  His father, the king of all bounders, the epitome of all cads, was the catalyst behind his raging. The esteemed nobleman had been a thorn throughout Michael’s life, jabbing and poking at his unstable existence at the most inopportune moments.

  As a lad, Michael had loved Edward, had worshiped him with a godlike awe, but Edward was only a mortal man, comprised of human vice and bad behavior. When Michael was just three, his father had deserted their small family, had abandoned Michael’s mother, Angela, and her two young boys in order to do his duty to his earldom by marrying a girl of the ton.

  Angela had never recovered from his callous, contemptible act. James and Michael had suffered, as well, as they’d struggled to overcome the inexplicable loss of their father. They’d grown up to be undisciplined, impetuous boys, had matured into brutal, dispassionate men who did not trust or love, who never formed emotional connections, who never allowed anyone close.

  Michael had neither forgotten nor forgiven those ancient sins that had been so casually and remorselessly committed. When his newly widowed father had dared to show himself in their peaceful, happy home—the one they’d created with no assistance from his illustrious self—and had lorded it over them by playing on Angela’s interminable affections and seducing her anew, the resulting scene had been horrid.

  Michael had felt betrayed. By his beloved mother. By his incorrigible, obstinate father. By his brother, James, who had placidly watched the debacle unfold but who hadn’t done anything to stop what was occurring.

  Edward had mistreated Angela for over three decades, yet she still loved the aging roué. There was no accounting for it, no understanding to be had for the affairs of the heart that propelled people to such insane attachment.

  He’d fled London that day and, shortly after, Edward and Angela had eloped, tying the knot as they’d insisted they should have when they were young and foolish and less circumspect. Their marriage had completely numbed him, and he simply couldn’t locate the fortitude he needed to carry on as though nothing had changed—when, in fact, everything familiar had been destroyed.

  In response, he could only manage to wander, to gamble, to fuck and denigrate the immoral women who came to him, but deep down, he recognized that he could never vent the wrath he harbored for Edward. There were not enough hours in the day to totally unleash his malice, so why keep on? Why did he persevere?

  Unbidden, an image of Sarah popped into his head, and he shuddered with disgust at himself. What he wouldn’t give to laze in her virtue, to frolic in her untainted company. He felt unclean and impure, and his spirit begged for deliverance from the burdens that prodded him to comport himself so imprudently.

  Earlier in the afternoon, when he’d glanced down into the yard from one of the upstairs windows, he’d been shocked to find her still in attendance. He’d been so positive that she would heed his frightening advice and go home. Then, when he’d seen that libertine George Wilson about to touch her inappropriately, outrage had compelled him to intervene. Against his will, she’d awakened his protective instincts and caused his forsaken chivalry to rear its ugly head. Like a magnet, she tugged at his resistant impulses to safeguard and cherish.

  She was so original, so unsullied, and he couldn’t abide the idea of her being tarnished in any fashion. In his current state, among these vile people, she seemed to represent the only good thing still thriving in his universe, and he shook away his thoughts of her. In such a foul atmosphere, it was wrong to contemplate her.

  Scratching across his stomach, he could smell himself and the woman’s cloying perfume. He reeked. The sticky residue from his seed had dried on his phallus. He was sickened by his degeneracy, and he desperately craved a bath to wash away the evidence of his degradation.

  Initially, he’d told Pamela that he’d have carnal relations with two other women before the night was over. Usually, he accommodated her whims and caprices, but his desire to oblige her had waned, and he couldn’t go through with it.

  He blew out the candles and walked out to the secret stairwell, destined for his bedchamber. In the shadowed hall, a vision of Sarah flashed through his mind again, and he flinched.

  What would she think if she ever discovered the depth of his depravity?

  Chapter Six

  Pamela Blair reclined on her sofa, her negligee loosely tied and widely parted to reveal bare cleavage and a smooth, waxed leg. Across her sitting room, Michael Stevens brooded and stewed and, as usual when he was near, he took up too much space. Such a virile, vital person, he was so different from the diverse gentlemen of her acquaintance who were watered-down versions of the male animal.

  He exhibited none of the fluff or posturing, none of the pretension or swaggering, that the others practiced ad nauseum, but then, he didn’t need to preen or pose. With that invincible combination of attitude, demeanor, and temperament, rivals could only jealously envy him. And he was so bloody good-looking. An amazing body, coupled with a comely face and those mesmerizing sapphire eyes, ensured that he cut a swath wherever he went. Heads turned, women coveted, men begrudged. It almost wasn’t fair to the members of his sex that he possessed so much, while the rest of them had been graced with so little.

  His dynamism came from his mother, she knew. Angela Ford, the flamboyant actress, had set society on its ear thirty years earlier through her notorious affair with the Earl of Spencer. She was now in her mid-fifties but remained a stunning, enchanting beauty, acclaimed for her keen wit, outlandish dress, and direct manner.

  While his father, Edward Stevens, was a handsome, intelligent, and vibrant man, Angela’s allure was responsible for Michael’s constitution. He had inherited her fabulous traits, yet he incessantly carried himself as though he had no idea of his staggering impact.

  She’d known him for over a decade, and had initially become friends through his older brother, James, who was Michael’s duplicate in sexy dispensation and bold demeanor. They had just returned to London after living in Paris for fifteen years. Angela had raised them there, out of the hurtful glare of the Quality’s lofty snobbery. But once the boys were grown, she’d brought them to London, and Pamela chuckled whenever she recalled how introduction of the two Stevens sons had stirred the staid lives of so many.

  What a commotion they had caused!

  Wealthy, elegant, disreputable in their appetites, they had been rash, careless, out of control, eager to embrace any untoward behavior. Mothers had swooned at the very mention of their names. Fathers had wrung their hands over the potential disasters they might instigate. Girls had chased after them in a heedless rush.

  Pamela, herself, had considered dabbling with one or both—how could a woman resist?—but as her dear husband had been alive at the time, she wouldn’t have risked jeopardizing her cordial relationship with him, not even for a tumble with a luscious partner like Michael Stevens. Although that’s not to say that she hadn’t sampled his delectable charms on numerous occasions after her spouse had passed on.

  He stood before her now, showing her his back. Restless, jaded, potent, he’d matured, and thus calmed some of his excessive conduct, but he wasn’t averse to sporadically participating in periodic extravagant immoderation.

  Sipping a glass of the strong Scots whisky he favored, he was ignoring her and gazing out into the yard, and as she studied him, she couldn’t help wondering what had plagued him the past few months. Ordinarily, she had no problem ferreting out lurid details, but despite all her inquiries, she hadn’t been able to uncover what had driven him from the city. And Michael assuredly wasn’t providing any clues. He could be as tight-lipped as a jar of sealed preserves when the situation called for it.

  Some disturbing circumstance had sent him into a bizarre downward spiral that was distinctly out of character. Instead of administering his duties at the famous gentlemen’s club he owned with James, he’d been attending country parties, one after the next. He couldn’t abide rubbing elbows with the exalted slackers and louts who also visited, frequently expla
ining that he was forced to put up with them at his establishment, but not in his private hours.

  So . . . what was he doing at her house?

  Gambling impulsively, for incredibly high stakes, he no longer appeared to care how much he won or lost. Nor was he concerned over who was damaged in the process, even though he invariably harbored a reputation as deliberate in his games of chance. He’d witnessed too much of the havoc produced by wagering, so he seldom indulged more than the smallest bets, yet now, he was bent on destruction.

  While she wouldn’t have been surprised by such outrageous behavior from his brother, Michael had perpetually been the more reticent of the two, and more likely to refrain from excess.

  His sport with the female guests was typical of the recent changes. While he wasn’t averse to partaking in lewd entertainment, he wasn’t usually the first in line to volunteer, either. Yet when she’d suggested her latest visual amusement, which allowed her to take full advantage of the manor’s less savory attributes, he’d promptly agreed.

  The lady party-goers were begging to couple with him, and the news that he was present and available had them scurrying from London. Though her fetes were constantly well attended, his appearance had made the gathering an absolute priority for many. She hadn’t managed to generate such enthusiasm since the time his brother, James, had done much the same.

  The silly ninnies of the ton were scared of Michael Stevens, and they weren’t sure how to interpret his commanding personality. With his curt comments and fuck-meor-don’t attitude, the women were lining up in droves, greedy to experience his rough brand of illicit sexual intercourse and, though none of them would admit it, each slyly yearned to be the unique paramour who cracked through his hard shell.

  Plus, he was just so damned pretty. There wasn’t a woman in the kingdom who had the fortitude to deny herself such pleasure when it was freely offered.

  “Let’s engage in some loveplay,” she stated baldly, wishing he’d acquiesce but figuring he wouldn’t. She’d invited him upstairs for a tryst, but he’d yet to indicate any interest.

  Further opening the lapels of her robe, she granted him an abundant view of her rounded breasts—if he’d ever deign to look in her direction—then she stroked with her hand and squeezed the nipple, effortlessly arousing herself as she thought about how agile he was with that wicked tongue of his.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You cad!” she grumbled, though she was smiling. They’d not been lovers for an eternity, and she missed him, enough so that she’d lured him into her private salon in the middle of the day. He was a man with whom she could flagrantly trifle and not worry about an unwanted pregnancy. Michael was extremely careful and would never provoke a conclusion that might lead to disaster. “Don’t you dare say you’re not in the mood!”

  “I won’t” he concurred, and she was fairly confident he was smiling, too.

  “I’ve undressed and everything!”

  “Sorry.”

  “You can be positively lethal to a woman’s pride!”

  “I try my best.”

  “You bounder. Now that you’ve been so cruel, I don’t think I’ll share the dreadful news I’ve received from London.” She playfully pouted, suspecting that her reference to the city would pique his curiosity, and she was correct. He glanced at her over his shoulder.

  “I don’t care to be apprised of anything that is occurring in town.”

  “Aren’t you a fine friend! You won’t fornicate with me, and you won’t listen to my woes, either.”

  “I loathe your gossip.”

  “Men!” she chided. “Why do I keep any of you around?”

  He sighed, trying to sound put-upon but failing. “What is it?”

  “My stepson, Harold”—she exaggerated the appellation of her late husband’s son, an ass who was ten years her junior, a boor whom she despised—“has resolved to marry. I’m about to become a dowager!”

  The tidbit had the desired effect. He chuckled. “You? A dowager?”

  “Yes, can you believe it!”

  Mischievously, he regarded her scantily covered torso, inspecting the swell of her bosom. “Well,” he mused casually, “you are starting to sag a tad here and there.”

  “Oh! You horrid wretch!” She laughed and grabbed a pillow, flinging it at him. “If the term dowager ever springs from your lips, I’ll wring your neck!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he avowed sternly, pretending to be thoroughly chastised. “Is he busy having the dower house cleaned and equipped so he can hide you away?”

  “I’d kill the little worm if he tried.”

  “Yes,” he asserted, “I suppose you would.”

  Her feud with the callow boy was protracted and had begun the day his elderly father had selected a youthful bride. “I’m fortunate my dear, departed Charles provided for me so well.” If he hadn’t, she’d have very likely found herself out on the streets about now, beseeching old friends for food and shelter. Early on, she’d learned how to survive; she was proficient at chasing after what she wanted—and retaining it once she had it.

  “You’ll be all right?” he prompted.

  “Absolutely. My financial affairs are suitably arranged; he can’t touch any of my properties or my money.”

  “You’ll advise me if you need assistance? Because Harold owes me a fortune. I could fend him off quite easily.”

  His overture was typical. While he customarily displayed an inflexible front, the handful of people who knew him intimately recognized the soft heart that beat beneath the steel exterior. “I’d come to you and James, straightaway.”

  “I should hope so.”

  He poured himself another whisky, and the silence lingered as she indulged herself by assessing his marvelous anatomy. She couldn’t wait to gauge his reaction to the next, so she delayed until he was completely comfortable once again. “I have other tidings from town—”

  “And I told you that I’ve no desire to listen to—”

  “James wrote to me.” He seemed to cringe slightly as if hearing of James was rather like receiving a physical blow, but the impression passed so quickly that she was certain she must have imagined it.

  He shrugged. “So?”

  “He inquires as to whether you’re here with me.”

  “You may inform him that I am.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Why would I?”

  “You tell me.” She raised a brow. “Are you two fighting?”

  “Hardly. I don’t fight with my brother.”

  That wasn’t true, but she let it slide. “He writes that he hasn’t received any correspondence from your parents, so he assumes that they’re well and enjoying their honeymoon in Italy.”

  Michael was so unaffected by her pronouncement that she felt as if she’d mumbled in a foreign language. Two months after it had ensued, the hasty, unanticipated elopement of his parents was still the hottest topic of discussion in London. Michael hadn’t uttered a word about it, but the incident had to be the reason he was raging and alone.

  After a while, he remarked, “Bully for them.”

  “There’s more.”

  “What?” He couldn’t prevent the question from slipping out, for try as he might to pretend he didn’t care, he did. Too much.

  “James himself has married.”

  In light of the dramatic and shocking nature of her disclosure, she wasn’t entirely positive what she’d expected, but not this overwhelming, imposing quiet. She rose and stepped to her desk, retrieving the letter and tendering it to him, but he didn’t reach for it, so she dropped it to her side.

  “To whom?” he ultimately inquired.

  “Lady Abigail Weston.”

  “Of course . . .” he murmured.

  “She’s the Earl of Marbleton’s sister.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that fact.”

  Pamela was perplexed that the information invoked no rejoinder. James had already suffered through one horrid marriage to a t
on princess, and taking into account Michael’s entrenched dislike of the aristocracy, she had predicted a biting response. She—as well as everyone else in London—was dying to discover how James had involved himself with the beautiful, reclusive spinster.

  “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” she inevitably blurted out. “Aren’t you curious about any of this?”

  “Not really.”

  She rested a consoling hand on his shoulder. “What is it, Michael? You can confide in me. Your secrets will never leave this room. I swear it.” He merely stared at her with those glacial, detached blue eyes that gave nothing away. More gently, she added, “I detest seeing you like this.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Liar.” He shrugged again, and she stifled the urge to shake him. “He wants you to come home.”

  “Not likely.” Especially now resonated clearly, though he didn’t speak the sentiment aloud.

  “He’s been searching everywhere for you; he was anxious to locate you before the wedding so you could be his best man.”

  “Well . . . that’s one affair I’m glad I missed.”

  “He’s worried about you, darling. What may I divulge to him?”

  “Whatever tickles your fancy. It matters not to me.”

  Abruptly, he stood, momentarily towering over her, the masculine closeness of his body and the appealing scent of his skin making her light-headed. He slipped his fingers inside her robe, affording her breast a naughty caress, then he moved to the window, displaying his back once more.

  “You’re impossible.” She sulked, retiring to the sofa and lounging as he gulped the last of his whisky and persisted in contemplating whatever was keeping him so fascinated down on the lawns. “I hate it when you don’t pay attention to me. If you’re not careful, you’ll destroy my self-confidence.”

  “I doubt that,” he muttered, laughing softly. Eventually, he queried, “Who is the fetching woman who’s visiting? She has the most striking auburn hair. Her name is Sarah.”