The Whisper Of Wings (24 page)

"Please. Go back upstairs. I don't want you to hear another word."

Although she felt a bit rejected, Michaela did as he asked and hurried away without uttering a word. He was sending her away as though she was a child. She knew it was only for her protection, but she felt it like a blow to the heart nonetheless.

It wasn't until she was back upstairs, safe in her room, that Portia's evil words came back with full force. Feeling like a fool for thinking she could fit in to such high-society standards, she lowered herself down onto her bed and gave in to a bout of weeping. For a short time she had allowed her fantasies of being Christopher's lover, perhaps even ... his wife, to run away with her. But now it all seemed so hopeless. Ridiculous. Just the musings of a silly child. How could she ever hope to have a man like him? He was too far beyond her reach.

She should leave this place. She should leave it now, while everyone slept. But she couldn't. Where would she go? And what would become of her without him in her life? Without Christopher? She couldn't even imagine it.

Upstairs, Christopher paused outside Michaela's door, his fingers just brushing the oak panels that separated them. For a moment, he thought he heard a sound, like a sob, softly filtering through the door. But now it was gone.

He frowned and shook his head. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Maybe his ears were playing tricks on him.

Still, he couldn't seem to make his feet move away just yet. He stared hard at the door. Should he go inside and inquire after her welfare? Dare he?

Portia's words came back with grating clarity, striking a chord deep inside. She had known. As hard as he tried to mask it, she had seen. Was it so obvious that he regarded Michaela with deep affection? Did others see something he wasn't yet willing to admit to himself?

Damn and blast, he hadn't the will to stay away from her. But he must. No matter how much she might need reassurance at the moment.

He deliberately turned away and forced himself to move on down the hall to his room. He should have gone in, should have spoken to her about Portia's spiteful remarks, should have apologized again. But he simply wasn't strong enough to fight the temptation anymore. His desire for her was getting far too intense, and he was growing weaker by the day.

He must stay away from her. For Gerald's sake.

Bloody hell, why had that become so difficult for him to keep in perspective?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

When Michaela descended the stairs the next morning to share breakfast with the family and their guests, she was surprised to find Mason Telford standing in the foyer, his hat, gloves, and walking stick in his hand. Christopher stood a few feet away, presumably preparing to see his old friend off.

Mason looked up, saw her poised there at the bottom of the stairs, and stepped forward to take both her hands in his. "My dear, I regret that I have been called away on business. It was such a pleasure to meet you, and I do hope to have the opportunity to share your company again, perhaps on my next visit."

His gaze slid to Christopher, and there was something altogether devilish in the way he smiled at his friend. Christopher made a little clearing sound in his throat and stepped forward to twine Michaela's hand into the crook of his arm. She was a little startled by the familiar gesture, but pleased all the same. It made her feel like she belonged.

She didn't know quite what to say. She wasn't at all certain if she ever
would
see Mr. Telford again. But then, he couldn't possibly know that. "I enjoyed meeting you as well, and I do hope to see you again."

He smiled and gave her something that could have passed for a conspiratorial wink.

"Gerald is already waiting in the breakfast room. Why don't you join him? I'll be in presently," Christopher told her.

She nodded and left the two men, Christopher's amused voice following her softly down the hall as he spoke to Mason Telford. Despite her desire to eavesdrop, she made an effort to tune them out and stepped into the breakfast room. Her heart immediately sank when Portia turned her dagger-like eyes on her. She had hoped that Portia and James would be leaving with their father, but she could see now how vain that hope had been.

Gerald greeted her with a sunny smile and rose to seat her, as he always did. In order to mask her misgivings, she tried to be just as sunny, but she feared that she failed miserably. She knew Portia would be less likely to hide her resentment now that her father was leaving.

Thankfully, Gerald kept the conversation going, all but tuning Portia and her brother out. James seemed to feel no real obligation to communicate at all, which was just fine with Michaela. If only he'd stop watching her so intently.

As it turned out, Christopher did join them for breakfast, but he took his meal with much more haste than was usual for him. He seemed preoccupied and a little tense, as if he were in a hurry to attend to something particularly pressing, even a bit distasteful.

When he finished his breakfast, he asked Gerald to accompany him to his office, leaving Michaela somewhat frightfully alone with the Telford pair. The moment Gerald and his father were gone, she murmured a hasty excuse and left the room. She didn't care if they thought it rude of her. She simply couldn't bring herself to sit there under their scrutiny for any longer than was necessary.

Christopher was frowning when he closed the door behind his son, and Gerald contemplated him with some concern. His father seemed unusually preoccupied, almost morbidly so.

"Is something wrong?"

Christopher glanced up, his brows pulled into a troubled frown, and shook his head. "I have a flight this morning—business—and I'm concerned about Michaela, what with the guests and all. I won't be gone longer than necessary, but she's still fragile. I'll worry about her. I want you to make certain she'll be all right while I'm gone."

"You know I will," Gerald replied.

"Portia is being a bit of a tigress. Try and keep the peace until I return."

Gerald nodded.

"The arrangements have already been made, so there is no need for you to see me to the airport." Christopher was speaking in his business voice now, his mind already on his mission as he turned to the desk and put a few items into the open briefcase there. "I'd rather you stay with Michaela, anyway. I don't know how she will take this. A change in her usual routine might be a setback."

Gerald hid a smile. Michaela had become so absorbed into the family that even his father spoke of her as if she was a distinct part of the Standeven household, as if she had always been. There wasn't even a trace of anything to suggest that she had ever been anything else.

Christopher paused and turned back to look at his son, his expression almost grave now. "You'll see to telling her about my departure."

"Of course." Gerald gave his father a puzzled look. He almost never discussed his father's business, but he was too curious now not to. His father seemed so worried about this particular trip. "Is it...serious?"

Christopher had returned his attention to the packing of his briefcase, but he looked up now to study his son again. "Rather."

Gerald wanted to ask more, but his father's face had become impassive again, and he knew he would get nothing from him.

Christopher gave him one last quick perusal, then returned his attention to his briefcase again, with an almost inaudible, "Thank you."

As Gerald left the office and walked back down the hall, he couldn't help feeling curious. He was accustomed to his father taking business trips, but they were usually a bit more planned. This one seemed hasty, and it was obvious his father didn't want to discuss it. It was damn odd. His father generally did give some explanation, however sketchy. But this time was different, cloaked in secrecy.

When Gerald found her in her room several minutes later, Michaela was shocked to learn that Christopher had begged off on some important errand.

"I fear he may not be back for a few days," Gerald explained. "Though he didn't exactly say."

Michaela was crushed that Christopher hadn't told her himself—perhaps she wasn't so important to him after all—and she struggled to hide her feelings from Gerald. She couldn't let on that she felt anything for his father but respect.

After Gerald had gone, Michaela went to her bedroom window and watched as Christopher's car pulled out of the driveway. For a split second, she could have sworn she saw Christopher's face at the window of the vehicle, looking up toward the bedroom window where she stood. She raised a hand to wave down at him, but then left off to only touch the pane with her fingertips, certain that she'd been wrong, certain that she would look foolish if she waved. She felt an odd, crushing sense of abandonment and deliberately turned away, determined not to give it another thought.

Just moments after Christopher's departure, she was required to go downstairs and meet yet more visitors. Three acquaintances of the Telford's. Gerald had warned her of their imminent arrival, but she had secretly hoped to avoid them. She'd planned to sneak off and go riding, using it as an excuse for not meeting them. But she soon realized that the new guests fully intended to monopolize the stables for the entire day. There was nowhere for her to disappear to except for her bedroom, and Gerald was quick to dissuade her from that notion. Indeed, Michaela would have stayed in her room for the remainder of the day, if for no other reason than to avoid Portia, were it not for Gerald's insistence that she join their outing.

"You mustn't disappoint me, Michaela. You can't possibly think to leave me alone with the vipress of Brazil," he teased, then just as quickly grimaced. "I've known her for too many years, and I can't say that I've ever really enjoyed her company. Or her brother's, for that matter. Promise not to tell."

"Never," she agreed.

Gerald shook his head as he contemplated Portia from afar. "Mason is a true gentleman. Sometimes it's hard for me to imagine how he came by such an ungrateful brood."

Hoping her reticence didn't show, Michaela followed him down to the stables. Although she was reluctant to spend her day with Portia's brood, she didn't want the guests to know and blame Gerald for her rudeness.

She was pensive as she rode alongside Gerald. She'd been foolish to ever hope that she could belong here. While her family wasn't exactly poor, though the cotton industry had shifted somewhat, she would never attain the lofty class of the Standevens and their tight social circle, the haute monde that Portia represented.

A jaunt that she would have ordinarily enjoyed became a tedious event in Portia's presence. Her two female friends—one a haughty redhead, the other a petite, porcelain doll—were just as overdone and snooty as the biting princess was. They regarded Michaela with open criticism, despite the fact that Gerald showed her nothing but respect. They were so snobbish that she wondered why she bothered to be polite to them. Only the tall blond man, who turned out to be the haughty queen's brother, was halfway kind to her. And only then, she feared, because he had some sort of designs on her. Throughout the ride, he sneaked glances in her direction, crowned by a few smiles. Once or twice, he even tried his hand at conversation. Michaela was grateful for his efforts, but she stayed close to Gerald, still a bit wary of strangers, especially one who was a friend of Portia's.

Michaela was even more uncomfortable when the group stopped alongside the lake to eat the picnic food Mrs. Avery had packed for them. Gerald insisted she share his blanket, while Portia and her two friends shared one a few yards away under a tree. James and the blond man sat on a log by the water, both watching her more than she cared for.

"She calls him Mr. Standeven," Portia's voice floated to them as she hatefully confided to her friends.

Michaela paled. Portia wasn't even attempting to keep her voice down. In fact, she seemed to want Michaela to hear.

"Imagine that?
Mister
Standeven. She's playing them both for fools, playing at the helpless waif. What a tired old game," she seethed, her eyes narrowed in disapproval. "I'd expect Gerald to fall for it—he's so wrapped up in his ridiculous humanities of life, the innate goodness of mankind. But Christopher.... It amazes me that he has fallen for it, too."

Michaela stared hard at the pattern on the blanket beneath her, mortified that she was in such an awful position as to be overhearing something so vile. It hurt her that anyone could say such nasty things about her. These people didn't even know her. How could they judge her?

"It's obvious what she's really after. She's just trying to get her claws into a wealthy man. I dare say, she'd settle for either Standeven, but of course Christopher would be the best catch." Portia gave a little snort of disgust. "Both of them are behaving like besotted asses."

Gerald had been getting a basket from one of the packs on his horse and hadn't heard the remark. When he returned, Michaela had trouble pretending that nothing was wrong. She wished she could jump on her horse and ride away from the hate in Portia's voice. For Gerald's sake she stayed rooted to the spot, determined never to let him know what she'd heard. It would be too embarrassing for all of them. Actually, she was glad he hadn't overheard. She would just die if he were ever to think that Portia's opinion had any truth to it. She may have lied to them a little, but she wasn't using the Standevens for their money.

Michaela had always prided herself on never hating another human being, but Portia made it difficult not to dislike her. She was lazy. She sat around all day flipping through magazines, constantly checking her perfectly manicured fingernails, her coif, or retouching her already flawless makeup. If Christopher wasn't in the same room, she acted bored, almost a completely different person. But when he was anywhere nearby, she metamorphosed into a bright, sensitive woman, cooing and gushing over him as if she'd been born to serve him. Michaela wasn't fooled. It was Portia who wanted the wealthy man. She wanted Christopher, and she would do anything to get him, even pretend to be something she was not.

The most reprehensible crime of all was the way she treated Gerald. She gave him no more regard than she would a bothersome pet. Dear, sweet, Gerald, who only had the utmost respect for humanity. He would never hurt anyone. Yet, he commanded no more respect from Portia than anyone else who got in her way. The haughty Brazilian beauty should at least pretend to be kind to him, considering he was the son of the man she wanted to marry. Michaela shuddered to think what it would be like for Gerald if Portia ever did become his stepmother.

She sighed and tried to pretend interest in the plate of food Gerald had prepared for her. It wasn't easy. Just the thought of a beautiful man like Christopher Standeven married to an icy bitch like Portia was sad. There was always the possibility that Portia would succeed in her mission. Michaela wasn't fool enough to believe that she herself could ever be a real part of the Standeven family, but she would still hate to see Christopher consign himself to a life of misery just for a beautiful face, or because of a business partnership. It brought back too many haunting memories for her.

When Gerald suddenly reached out and took her hand, she glanced up in surprise. There was understanding in his eyes, as if he knew she was uncomfortable with the group, and for that she gave him a smile of gratitude.

In a conspiratorial fashion, he leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "I promise I'll never do this to you again. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. But thanks all the same."

She gave a little laugh. Gerald always knew how to make her feel better.

Not far away, Portia glared. Michaela ignored her. Gerald's friendship was far too strong for Portia to be a bother anymore today. She would make more effort to put the incident out of her mind. What was it Gerald had told her once: a person can only hurt you if you allow them to? Well, she simply wouldn't give Portia that power.