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He watched her move towards the door, but before she could leave he called out to her, “Cherry!”
She turned and cocked her pretty head, and he felt an intake of breath. She was so very beautiful. She had him bewitched was his first clear thought. What was he going to do? She was right. It would be unforgivable of him to take her from the twins. It would be outrageous of him to use her in their home as his mistress—unthinkable. Hell and fire! What was he going to do? A ready answer escaped him. “Nothing … go on then, go to your room if that is what you wish.”
She inclined her head and left him to his thoughts. He waited until she had gone out of sight and hearing, and then he went to the fireplace, threw down the remaining contents of his brandy snifter, and put a fist to his forehead.
* * *
Cherry rushed the stairs and smiled to herself. She had seen something more than lust on his face, something that gave her hope. At the same time, she was in a terrible state of affairs. She was here under false pretenses. Her name was not Cherry Parker, and she did not have to work to make her way in life.
How at this stage was she going to explain herself and her actions? As she readied for bed, she presented herself with several methods of coming clean, and none of them worked for her. He would send her off, angrily, and she would never see the twins or Freddy ever again, and she couldn’t bear that. She had already become attached—so attached to them.
What was she to do?
She loved him, and that love was all-consuming. Was she destined to lose him? How could she bear it? Her future at the moment looked bleak. And then she thought of her stepmother. By now, Polly would have written her and eased her mind, but what Cherry had done wasn’t fair to her. She had to do something soon—very soon.
* * *
Later, Sky tossed in his large bed. He beat his pillow and slammed his head into it, but sleep would not come. He got up and took a turn about his room, stood by the window, and looked up at the star-filled sky and the crescent moon. However, it only served as a backdrop for the vision of her aqua blue eyes. She was full of such spirit, and that spirit always sparkled in those beautiful eyes.
She had been a virgin … no other had touched her, and it excited him to know. His hard-on raged with the memory of their night together. How could he go on without more of her?
There was something in the way she moved … and those full breasts made his mouth water …
He wanted her, he needed her, and by damn, he was going to find a way to have her for his own.
“You are about to get engaged … are in fact, very nearly engaged, if the Elton chit ever gets well … so what are you doing, Sky—just what the hell are you doing?” he asked his empty room.
He didn’t know the answer to that, and for a moment wondered again just how to go about the business of retracting his offer for the Elton woman. Could he cite Miss Elton’s prolonged illness? He could, couldn’t he? He had to give this some thought.
Something else nagged at him, had been nagging at him from the day he had met Cherry Parker. She didn’t seem to be the person she pretended to be. Her speech was too refined. Her mannerisms displayed extensive grooming. She had the sophistication a young woman could only acquire after a few London seasons—the kind that came from traveling with the beau monde. Who really was this Cherry Parker? For he was certain that the name Sarah Cheryl Parker was not hers.
What he needed to do was leave for London, get matters under control, and do a little digging.
Having made his decision did not, however, bring him any immediate sleep, and he did not doze off until the early hours. When he awoke, it was with a start. He rushed through his morning coffee in his room, bathed, dressed, and hurried directly to the stables. He didn’t want to see Cherry. What he needed was some distance to get things into perspective, and he was going to find out more about her—because he was damn sure she wasn’t who she said she was!
~ Seventeen ~
POLLY CORBETT (MORE recently Polly Adams) heard the sound of a horse’s hooves on pebbles and moved to her lead-paned kitchen window. “Now who can that be?” she asked her husband, who was sitting at the kitchen table enjoying a cup of tea.
He smiled indulgently and sipped his tea with a mild shrug of his shoulders as he continued to peruse his morning Chronicle.
“Mercy, if it isn’t Lord Dartford,” Polly exclaimed. “Harry … love … ’tis James. Oh no, what shall I do?” She was already adjusting her mobcap on her gray curls, rushing her hands over her full white apron, and turning in place.
“Come to see you, has he?” was her husband’s indulgent response to her panic. “Very nice, very nice indeed.”
“Yes, but he must be here about Cherry … I know it … I just know it,” she said, wringing her hands and pacing.
“Ah, then ’tis time,” her husband returned reasonably.
“No, it isn’t time, my love. I promised her … I can’t break a promise,” Polly wailed.
A knock sounded at the kitchen door, and Polly hurried to open it wide, smiled, and dropped a curtsey. “My lord,” she began formally.
“My lord, be hanged!” James responded jovially as he threw his arms around her and planted a kiss upon her cheek.
She blushed and pulled away, indicating her husband, who sat and watched with keen interest. Introductions were made, and James took a seat as Polly poured him some tea and pushed a biscuit at him.
“Zounds, woman, you were wont to call me scamp, brat, and whippersnapper. We can’t stand on ceremony now.”
