My True Love Page 3

ment, but she'd believed herself to be madly in love, and she'd naively assumed Adam would grow to love her in return.

  During those marvelous months of their engagement she'd been deliriously ecstatic, certain she had made the grandest match in history, reveling in the envy of others, flaunting her good luck wherever she went.

  But to her mortification, Adam cried off at the last moment, deciding instead to commit the unspeakable act of marrying his mistress. Just a week before what would have been the most splendid wedding ever held in London, she'd been jilted.

  Although her father had spread the appropriate stories, saying Penny had decided they didn't suit, everyone knew the truth: Adam preferred someone else, and Penny's life had never been the same since. For months she hid in her rooms, refusing to venture out, unwilling to suffer the stares, finger-pointing, and crude remarks made just on the edge of her hearing, remarks that never failed to cut like the sharpest sword.

  Then her father had come up with an excellent solution. Another man was willing to have her despite the embarrassment of what had happened with Adam. The candidate was a viscount who would become an earl someday, and he was close to her own age. Penny had been exhilarated, convinced that a good marriage would end her ongoing humiliation. Her husband-to-be lived and worked on his family's properties in Jamaica, and Penny decided that if nothing else, she could return to Jamaica with him and remove herself from the taunting, hateful eyes of Polite Society.

  However, her second union was not to be either. Her swain was supposedly killed in an accident before he could make it to England for the nuptials. Her parents insisted that his carriage had overturned on a slick road, but after the furor had died down, she began to hear shocking stories about him. That he had been a gambler, a drunkard, a womanizer and wastrel, sent abroad by his London relatives because they couldn't abide his behavior. He had not been killed in an accident at all but had

  24 Cheryl Holt

  met his death while dueling over a woman—another man's wife.

  While she'd never confessed as much to a single soul, she was relieved to have narrowly escaped being joined to the ne'er-do-well. She refused to accept her mother's type of existence, one of painfully whiling away the years in silent torment and pretending not to notice or care that her husband dallied with every lightskirted woman who caught his eye. Penny would rather be dead than suffer such a circumstance.

  Finally, for the third attempt, her father had chosen Edward Simpson. He had just turned sixty-three the previous month. A widower three times over, he was bald and obese but also a wealthy and powerful earl, his fortune said to be equal to that of her father. At a more innocent time in her life, and despite his advanced age, she might have been excited and impressed by the prospect of becoming his countess. No longer.

  Now she simply wanted to run away in order to avoid the coming calamity. After her second engagement had fallen through, she had begged the duke to secure another with someone who could quell the whispers and gossip, but she never imagined Edward would be the kind of man her father would select. On one melancholic occasion she had dared ask why, and he had answered honestly and brutally, as was his usual style.

  No one else would have her.

  The duke insisted that she wed a man of sufficient rank and prosperity, but in any given year there were not many marriageable men who met his exacting standards. Of those who were available, who were younger and would make her an appropriate husband, none was interested. For an unattached noble son seeking matrimony, there was a large assemblage of acceptable, unencumbered females from which to choose a bride, and Penny was no longer part of that group.

  For the past three years she couldn't help but hear what people were saying about her: that she was jinxed, that she was bad luck, that she was a pompous, demanding shrew who was

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  only getting what she deserved. Some even whispered that she'd been compromised, and that's why the duke couldn't find her a husband. The very idea made her laugh aloud, as she sometimes wondered if she wasn't perhaps the oldest living virgin in England. Gads, she was almost twenty-one, and she'd never even been properly kissed.

  The wind rustled the trees, sending a blast of frigid air swirling through the garden, and she looked up at the sky, fearing the rain that had threatened all day would finally fall. How she hoped not! Foul weather would force her inside—to where Edward would be waiting. If she ran into him, she'd have to plead a headache and make an attempt for her room, but her mother would never allow her to escape the small party. The gathering was for the two of them, a signal to family and friends that the prenuptial festivities were about to officially begin.

  Just then a shadow came down the path, and she hesitated, a bit unnerved. Who else might be out in the yard? When the form took shape, to her great dismay, she saw Edward approaching.

  From the time she was still in the nursery, she had been acquainted with him as a colleague of her father's, though she'd not really known much about him. But with the engagement, he had been spending time in their home, and she was disheartened to discover that he was a drunkard, a glutton, a man of strong opinions and short temper who seemed to be always undressing her with his eyes and muttering sexual comments under his breath. On the few occasions he'd managed to get her alone, he'd taken physical advantage, attempting to kiss and paw at her. Just the thought of his touch started her shivering anew.

  Had her father understood the kind of man Edward was when he arranged the marriage? Had he known of the drinking, the lewd language, the bouts of temperament? Had he known and, having no regard for Penny, gone ahead anyway? She wanted to hope that the duke was just learning, as she was, what her fiancé was truly like. After passing three hours at the supper

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  table with Edward, she wanted the duke to be as miserable as she, but she was only fooling herself. Her father was perfectly content to have the entire affair proceed as planned.

  The previous month, when she'd first been informed of her father's decision, no amount of pleading or arguing could change his mind. She'd stoically accepted Edward's proposal, sitting silent and graceful through the whole nightmare, letting Edward kiss her briefly on the mouth after she'd said yes, trying to smile while drinking sherry with the family to celebrate the news.

  Edward had stood next to her through the ordeal, holding her hand or touching her shoulder, back, or waist, as though their arrangement had immediately given him special authority over her person. The afternoon had dragged on for an eternity, and once he'd departed, she'd run to her room, vomited again and again into the chamber pot, cried for hours, then remained in bed for two days, until the duke appeared and threatened to beat her if she didn't rise and carry on.

  After all the scheming her father had instigated, after all the orders he'd forced her to obey, after all the paths he'd led her down while she'd blindly followed, here came her final reward: This man with the foul breath, body stench, lack of hair, and rotund figure, this elderly, obnoxious gentleman, was her father's idea of a suitable husband. And as Penny watched him approach, a drink in hand, the odor of alcohol lingering strongly, she couldn't help wondering if perhaps her father hated her. If perhaps he always had. If perhaps he'd never cared for her one whit.

  "There you are, my little ducky," Edward said, slurring his words, stumbling and staggering. "I asked about you, but no one seemed to know where you'd gone."

  "I needed some fresh air," she said, meaning it.

  “You should have asked me to join you. I would have been more than happy to accompany you out of doors."

  "Thank you," she murmured. "Next time I'll remember to invite you."

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  She wasn't certain how to deal with him. Although she'd never heard any whispers about him being abusive with his previous wives, she suspected that his temper could be formidable. He scared her, and she always felt the need to be on guard.

  In his presence she never knew what to say or ho
w to act. He constantly turned the conversation to physical topics, about her looks or size or some such. The manner in which he regarded her made her queasy, as though he were evaluating her for their wedding night, wishing he could find the opportunity to hurry things along.

  “You misunderstand,'' he said, suddenly seeming more menacing. “I'll not have you walking about in the dark by yourself. Even on your father's property."

  "All right," she said, thinking it best to agree. "I'll not do it again."

  "That's my girl," he chided, his hulking figure blocking out the lights from the house. Her sense of unease grew in direct proportion to his nearness. "I like a child who knows how to do as she's told. Do you know how to do as you're told, my darling little Penny?"

  "Of course," she said, smiling hesitantly.

  She took a step back, and he moved with her. They were at the far end of the garden. Behind her there was a large expanse of high brick wall. The mansion was too distant for anyone to hear if she called out, and the only avenue for evasion was to slip by Edward and run in the direction from which he'd come.

  "You'll be a fast learner, won't you, Penelope?" he asked.

  His question sounded mean and frightening, and she couldn't help remembering how much he'd drunk during supper, how long the men had been at their port after the women had left the dining room. He had to be deep in his cups.

  Feigning a chill, she pulled her cloak tighter. "It's getting rather cool, isn't it? Would you escort me back to the party?"

  He laughed low in his throat, then reached out and twirled one of her ringlets around his finger, winding it tighter to the point where it started to hurt. Using it as leverage, he drew her

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  close, until the flare of her skirt tangled around his thighs. "I don't want us to go just yet."

  "I do," she insisted, feeling outright afraid.

  "I think I'll steal a little kiss while we're here. You don't mind, do you, dearie? I've had so few opportunities to get you by yourself, and I've been eager to sample a little taste of what I'm buying."

  The crudeness of his comment set her temper flaring, and she shook off her trepidation and tried to shove past, but he grabbed her arm.' 'Good night, Edward,'' she said in her fiercest tone, the one that always set others to trembling, but it had no effect on him.

  "I'm not ready for you to leave," he said, his eyes glittering with a sickening carnal desire.

  "You're drunk," was her reply.

  "Not as drunk as I intend to be," he snickered.

  "And you're being rude. Good night," she repeated more forcefully, trying to jerk away, but he only strengthened his grip, his fingers digging in hard. "Let go of me!" she demanded. "You're hurting my arm."

  "Then do as I say," he ordered, "and I won't have to hold you so tightly." Instantly she relaxed, and his grasp lessened too. "See? You're learning already."

  She bolted, but for an intoxicated man he reacted swiftly. There was a bench next to them, and he wrestled her onto it, forcing her down, then stretching out on top of her. Their bodies were on the smooth stone, their legs off on the grass. Before she realized what he intended, his mourn descended on hers, and she was invaded by his tongue working back and forth in a vulgar rhythm. He tasted like rancid tobacco, stale liquor, and unclean teeth, and by the time he pulled his lips away and began painfully biting and sucking against her neck, she was gagging and choking with disgust.

  "Help me," she cried. "Please ... someone ..." But his large, fleshy hand covered her mouth, and she was silenced. Between her legs he was rocking his hips, and she could feel

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  the hard ridge in his trousers that her French maid, Colette, was always yammering on about.

  "What a wildcat you are." He breathed heavily, the putrid smell of his breath wafting over her face with each exhale. "We shall have many lovely hours of bed play between us. I can hardly wait."

  The man was revolting! To think he dared treat her this way! He imagined he could steal a bit of her virtue on a garden bench as if she were some lowborn serving girl!

  Completely outraged, she struggled in earnest but made little headway. He was too heavy to dislodge. She kicked with her legs and turned her head back and forth, finally managing to bite his hand. He angrily yanked it away, and she was able to call out. "Help! Someone!"

  Suddenly Edward vanished. One moment he was there, the next he wasn't. Shakily she rose onto her elbow, only to behold another man picking him up by the lapels of his jacket. The force of it popped the fine stitching along the seams.

  "What the bloody hell ..." Edward muttered just as a fist connected with his stomach. The blow doubled him over, and the unknown attacker struck again, a severe right to the chin that sent Edward flying into the shrubbery.

  The stranger was dressed all in black, from shirt to trousers to knee-high boots. His long hair looked black as well and was tied back with a black ribbon. His eyes were two dark pools gleaming with outrage and threat. With his high forehead, strong cheekbones, and aristocratic nose, he was very likely the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

  Tall and broad-shouldered, his muscles thoroughly defined, he towered over Edward, protecting her and shielding her from further harm. Although he didn't know her or anything about her, and had absolutely no reason to intervene on her behalf, there he stood—her protector and savior. He was a magnificent specimen of potent male fury, shaking slightly, poised on the balls of his feet, and ready to pounce again at any second.

  "Are you all right, miss?" he asked in an accented voice,

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  probably American. It was a deep, rich baritone that floated on the night air and skidded across her frazzled nerve endings in a soothing way.

  "Yes ... no ..." She shook her head, unable to assemble a coherent thought. "I mean, he didn't have time to hurt me. I was just frightened . . . very frightened. ..." Holding her terror at bay, she shuddered violently. "If you hadn't come along, I don't know what might have happened."

  He turned his attention back to Edward, who was still cowering in the bushes. Crisp with affront, he kicked out with the toe of his boot, landing a hard thump against Edward's side, causing the other man to wince and recoil further.

  "Wait! Stop!" Edward complained, holding up both hands in surrender. "It was just a bit of love play ... I didn't mean any harm by it...."

  The foreigner reached down, grabbed him by the center of his shirt, and with one hand lifted him up until they were eye to eye.

  "Apologize to the lady," he commanded in a manner that brooked no refusal.

  Edward swallowed firmly, glanced her way, then mumbled, "I apologize."

  The stranger lowered him until his feet touched the ground. "Bloody, drunken sot," he growled. "Get back to the house."

  Edward tried to bluster, tugging at the bottom of his vest, patting at his thin, mussed hair. "How dare you lay a hand on me! Don't you know who I am?"

  "No," the American said between clenched teeth, "and I don't give a rat's ass." He tipped his head slightly in Penny's direction. "Begging your pardon, miss."

  "I say," Edward whined, "you can't just come up to me and do whatever you please!"

  "I just did," the foreigner said dangerously, "and I'll not be responsible for my future actions if you don't immediately depart. I'm sickened by the sight of you."

  Edward hesitated, glaring at her as if his comeuppance were

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  all her fault. The malice in his stare caused her to shift back as though he'd slapped her. He made a move toward her, but the stranger stepped in front of him, blocking his view and his advance.

  "This is your last warning," the interloper asserted. "If I see your face again this night, you're a dead man!"

  Apparently Edward believed the warning, for he started backing down the path, keeping a wary eye on his tormentor. The American hurried him along by giving him a shove that sent him floundering, but he regained his balance and l
umbered away, finally realizing he would be greatly out of his league in trying to do battle with a sober, much younger man.

  Lucas watched him go, every muscle primed and ready for a fight, every sense prepared and alert for the possibility that the coward might return, but apparently the windbag was tough only when roughing up young women. He scurried toward the grand domicile, slinking away like a whipped dog.

  Once Lucas ascertained that the other man posed no further threat, he turned his attention to the victim. She remained sitting, shivering, a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and fearful.

  "Are you all right?" he asked again more softly. He took a step closer, not wanting to frighten her any more than she already had been, and when she didn't shy away, he seated himself next to her.

  "Yes, just terribly shaken," she admitted, unable to meet his gaze, as though she had somehow been to blame for what had happened.

  Although he knew he should make good his escape from Harold Westmoreland, he couldn't abandon her until he was absolutely convinced that she was unharmed. He'd always been a pushover for damsels in distress, having made a fool of himself on numerous occasions for various women who found themselves in dire straits. This instance seemed no different. Cursing himself for the idiot he appeared to be, he stayed despite every instinct telling him to flee.

  For the time being he felt secure enough. As far as he could

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  surmise, after his dramatic exit Westmoreland had not raised the alarm, so he had a few moments to spare. Refuge was a mere leap away, his route to safety carefully planned and ready to be executed. At the first sign of threat, he'd be over the wall and swallowed up by the night.

  He wondered about the fetching girl he'd chanced upon. From her clothing, jewelry, and demeanor, she was obviously from a wealthy family. Her fur cloak alone was probably worth more than he'd earn in his entire life. Very likely she was a supper guest of the Westmorelands. But who was she?