My Scoundrel

by Cheryl Holt

  “Emeline says there are plenty of fish, that you won’t miss them if we take a few.”

  “No, I won’t miss them. You can have as many as you want. I’ll notify Mr. Mason.”

  “Thank you,” Nell solemnly said. “It will ease Emeline’s mind. She’s been terribly vexed over it.”

  He stood, and he rested his palm on the top of Nan’s head, then Nell’s.

  “Where is the stream?” he asked. “I need to speak with her.”

  They pointed to the woods, and he marched off in the direction they’d indicated, but not before slipping a shiny penny into both their hands. As he stepped into the trees, he glanced back.

  They were huddled together and closely studying the pennies as if they’d never previously seen a coin. Perhaps they hadn’t. How long had they been in such dire straits? If the fish in the river all swam away and Miss Wilson couldn’t pilfer anymore of them, would her sisters starve?

  Oddly, he was furious with her. He felt as if he’d been tricked, as if Miss Wilson had been lying to him. He wanted to shake her; he wanted to paddle her shapely behind.

  Visions assailed him, of future visits to the cottage. Suddenly, he was desperate to improve their lot. Whenever he called on them, he’d bring treats for the twins: ribbons and bonnets and dolls and frilly dresses and . . . and . . .

  He pulled himself to a stop, and as abruptly as the peculiar urgings had swept over him, they drifted away.

  He didn’t know Nan and Nell Wilson, and what he knew of their sister, Emeline, he didn’t like. Their difficult situation was not his to rectify, and he had no interest in immersing himself in their troubles.

  He was their new lord, and he planned to leave first thing in the morning. He’d traveled to Stafford, he’d seen the manor house and the tenants and the farm, and he’d had his fill. The place and people were just as dreary as he’d imagined they’d be.

  Only Miss Wilson had brightened his stay. He would scold her for her folly. He would explain a few facts of life, then he’d go away and never come back.

  “Are you stealing from me, Miss Wilson?”

  Nicholas stood on the bank of the river, fists on hips, trying to appear stern, but failing. Though he didn’t like her sassy attitude, he couldn’t deny that she was very pretty, and it pleased him to look at her.

  She was out in the stream, the water up to her knees, the bottom of her skirt sodden and heavy. She wore a man’s hat—her father’s?—the brim torn, the fabric faded. Her beautiful golden hair was stuffed haphazardly into it, but the tresses couldn’t be constrained and various ones drooped down her back.

  She hadn’t heard him approaching, and at his severe query, she squealed with alarm and whipped around.

  Her fishing pole was a paltry stick, a piece of string tied to the end, and he couldn’t imagine what she was using for hook or bait.

  From the condition of her cottage, her sisters, and her fishing gear, it was obvious she hadn’t a clue how to fend for herself. She was a walking disaster. Previously, he’d wondered why she wasn’t married, with a husband to protect her, and the question was becoming ever more relevant.

  She had a sharp tongue and quick wit, but she had no practical qualities. She couldn’t care for herself or her sisters—she probably couldn’t even cook or clean—and he’d never stumbled on a woman who was more in need of male guidance and support.

  For the briefest instant, he almost wished he was staying at Stafford so he could provide what she required. Almost.

  It was amusing to think about an extended acquaintance, but he would never pursue one. She was exhausting. She’d slay him with her foolishness and constant speechifying. In a week, he’d be dead from exasperation.

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  “You’re fishing. Are you stealing from me?”

  “I wasn’t fishing.” Surreptitiously, she dropped her rod, and it floated away.

  She peered up at him, her gaze firm and unwavering, and he laughed.

  “You, Miss Wilson, are a bald-faced liar.”

  “I am not. Do I seem like the sort of person who would know how to . . . fish?”

  “No, you don’t, but your sisters spilled the beans.”

  Panic flashed in her eyes. “What have they told you?”

  “That you regularly dine off the bounty from this river—despite Mr. Mason’s specific prohibition that you not.”

  “They’re just girls,” she gamely retorted. “They’re easily confused.”

  “A suggestion, if I may?”

  “No, you may not,” she snapped, but he offered it anyway.

  “You don’t have to do it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “You can fish from the bank. You don’t have to wade in and dampen your gown. Simply tie a longer string onto your pole.”

  “If I was fishing—which I wasn’t—I would take your method under advisement.”

  She started toward him, but her skirt tangled around her legs, and she pitched one way, then the other, and she tumbled to the side. She was about to suffer a complete dunking—could the madwoman even swim?—but she merely fell to her knees, wetting herself to her waist.

  She struggled in the current, and he couldn’t bear to watch her flail. It was like seeing a turtle on its back. He marched into the water, soaking his boots in the process. Without asking her opinion, he picked her up and hauled her out.

  “Don’t touch me!” she fumed.

  “Should I have let you drown?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your sisters would miss you if you perished.”

  “They’d be the only ones.”

  “Perhaps I’d miss you too.”

  “You’re too selfish. You’d never notice I was gone.”

  “I stand corrected: If you vanished, I wouldn’t be concerned in the least.”

  “I’m sick of you manhandling me.”

  “Mind your manners and thank me for saving you.”

  “As if I’d thank you for anything,” she complained as he set her on her feet. “You’re a menace. I wish I’d never begged you to come here.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re delighted to see me.”

  “You’re so vain that I’m surprised your head can fit through a door.”

  He released her, but not too swiftly. He liked buxom, fleshy, dark-haired trollops, so he’d deemed her too blond, too thin, and not his type, but there was no mistaking the shapely breast that had just been pressed to his chest. Rogue that he was, he reveled in the naughty contact.

  An image flared, of her stretched out on his bed at his London house. He hadn’t thought the fleeting moment had registered, but apparently, his body remembered the prurient interlude. To his amazement, his cock stirred.

  Was he physically attracted to her? How hilarious! But then, he was enticed by any female in a dress. He wasn’t fussy, and Miss Wilson’s irritating traits hadn’t yet grown so irksome that they’d overwhelmed his salacious urges.

  She had scrambled up the bank and stomped off. He’d expected her to stop and insult him again, but she kept going. On realizing that she’d had enough of him and was leaving, he was extremely annoyed.

  She was correct that he possessed great vanity. He was the center of his universe; he was heeded and flattered. He barked out commands, and underlings jumped to execute them.

  They didn’t storm off in a huff. It wasn’t allowed. The entire world was aware of this fact—except her.

  “Miss Wilson!” he bellowed, infuriated to find himself chasing after her, his drenched boots squishing with every step.

  She whirled around. “What now?”

  “I’m not finished speaking with you.”

  “Well, I am finished speaking with you.”

  “You may not depart until I give you permission.”


  “Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “Just go away!”

  She started off again, and he trailed after her like a spurned suitor. In a few strides, they were walking side by side.

  “Why doesn’t Mr. Mason let you fish?”

  “Why would you think?”

  “I haven’t any idea.”

  “He’s a cruel bully. I told you he was.”

  “You don’t like him, but that doesn’t mean he’s—”

  “People are hungry and crops have failed three years in a row, but we can’t hunt or fish in the park. Mr. Mason claims it was your decision.”

  “I never issued any such order.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “So . . . am I overrun with poachers?”

  “Yes, and I’ve tattled about it, so what will you do? Will you have everyone at Stafford arrested? Will you throw the last remaining families out on the road? Then you and your awful brother can have the place all to yourselves.”

  She’d hurled so many slurs that he couldn’t figure out where to begin with countering them. He didn’t care about poaching or Mason or any of the rest, and in answer to her accusations, he chose the only topic that interested him.

  “My brother isn’t awful.”

  “You couldn’t prove it by me.”

  “He’s actually quite noble. If you had a chance to become better acquainted, you’d like him more than me.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. I’d like any man in the kingdom more than you. I’d like a criminal more than you. I’d like a heretic more than you. I’d like a . . . dog more than you.”

  She humored him beyond measure, and he laughed again, but his merriment left her even more aggrieved.

  “I hate you,” she seethed.

  “I have that effect on women.”

  “You’re a cur, an unrepentant, unremorseful cur.”

  “That’s the best denigration I’ve heard in ages.”

  She halted and spun to face him, an angry finger poking his chest. “This is a game to you, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “This estate and these people. You’ve strutted in here and tossed around your bags of seed. You’ve demonstrated that you can humiliate me in front of my neighbors. Job well done, Lord Stafford.”

  “It wasn’t difficult to humiliate you. Not when you act like such a fool.”

  “I assume you’ll be leaving shortly. What will happen then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not stupid,” she said. “Why are you behaving like this? Why are you pretending you can’t see the reality?” She studied him, her astute gaze digging deep. “You don’t care about anything, do you?”

  Her barb aggravated him. He cared about things: his brother, his regiment, his sudden infusion of cash so he never had to worry about feeding himself.

  But he didn’t care about Stafford, and she couldn’t make him feel guilty.

  He loomed in, hoping to intimidate her, but she didn’t retreat. They were next to a tree, and he pushed her back against it.

  His torso was crushed to hers—breasts, bellies, thighs forged fast. At the contact, his body came alive. There was an energy flowing from him to her, and he was practically dizzy with elation, as if he’d arrived right where he’d always belonged.

  She sensed it too, and her consternation was obvious. Dismayed, she shoved at his shoulders, but he wouldn’t move until he was good and ready.

  “You don’t know anything about me,” he charged.

  “I know enough.”

  “You waltz into my home and my life, and you fling allegations as if I’m a monster. I can’t save the world for you. I wouldn’t presume to try.”

  “You don’t have to save the whole world. You can just focus on this little corner of it.”

  She was so livid, so upset and so lovely. When she stared at him, she seemed to see someone else, the honorable fellow he might have been had circumstances carried him down a different, easier path.

  Oddly, he wished he could be the man she envisioned, that he could vanquish her demons and fix what was wrong, but he never would.

  He was an untrustworthy scapegrace. Early on, he’d learned that there was no benefit to standing on principle or seeking the high ground. He’d scrapped and fought to eke out a spot where he was safe, where he could survive and protect his brother. In the process, he’d discovered that he was capable of any notorious conduct.

  Words bubbled up inside him. He wanted to tell her how it had been when he was small. He wanted to describe the horrid forces that had shaped him into such a despicable lout, but he never talked about those dark days.

  Yet he couldn’t pull himself away. The strange power surging between them was like a magnet holding them together. Though he knew he shouldn’t, though it was mad and ridiculous, he couldn’t stop himself from bending down and kissing her.

  With his bold advance, he’d shocked her into submission. She inhaled a sharp breath and collapsed against him. He took advantage of her confusion to grasp her waist and draw her even closer. Her silly, floppy hat was in his way, and he pitched it off and slid his tongue into her mouth.

  She was soft and yielding, and very quickly, he was in over his head. He recognized that he was, but he couldn’t desist. He craved boons from her that she would never relinquish, that he could never have, and he might have tarried forever, but she was wiser than he, and she wiggled away.

  “Are you insane?” she hissed.

  She wiped a hand across her lips as if to rid herself of his taste. The rude gesture severed any fond feelings, and his haughty attitude returned with a vengeance.

  “You enjoyed it in London, and you enjoyed it now. Don’t deny it.”

  “I enjoyed it? You grope and maul me—against my will, I might add—and you think I’m happy about it?”

  “Any woman in the kingdom would give her right arm to be kissed by me.”

  “Not this woman. You’re obnoxious, and I detest you.”

  “Consider yourself lucky that I took the time.”

  She scoffed with disgust. “Since I met you, I’ve suffered nothing but trouble. Go to London and leave me be. If I never see you again, it will be too soon!”

  She stamped off, and he hollered after her, “I’m sending you a basket of food.”

  She hollered back, “We don’t need your charity.”

  “I’m sending the basket anyway. Deal with it.”

  She continued on in one direction, while he stormed away in the other. His horse was still grazing in the clearing at her cottage, but he’d have somebody from the stables come and fetch it.

  She was an ungrateful shrew, and he wouldn’t risk walking into her yard, where she might appear and accost him anew.

  He kept on toward the manor, cursing his stupidity every step of the way.

  “We had services this morning.”

  “What for? It’s Wednesday.”

  Stephen Price gaped at the vicar, Oscar Blair, but couldn’t manage any cordiality. Blair was age forty, fat, pompous, and pious, and Stephen wondered why he’d been granted the living. The old countess had been extremely devout, so perhaps she’d had the temperament to put up with the arrogant buffoon, but Stephen certainly didn’t.

  “We have services every morning at nine,” the vicar intoned like a threat. “The earl didn’t attend.”

  “No, he wouldn’t have.”

  Nicholas hated Stafford and wouldn’t pay any social calls. Nor would he condescend to chat with someone he didn’t like. Stephen at least tried to be affable and make the required overtures, but Nicholas didn’t possess the character trait that imbued tact and civility. He’d never waste his time on such a sanctimonious boor.

  “He’s not a church-goer? Well!” The vicar huffed indignantly. “I’ll have to sp
eak with him about his absence.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

  “But he must set an example for the community.”

  “You shouldn’t count on it.”

  Stephen rose, indicating that their conversation was over.

  “Must you go?” Blair inquired. “I’d like to give you a tour of the church and grounds.”

  Stephen would rather be tortured on the rack. “Sorry. I have several other appointments.”

  “I understand.”

  Blair escorted him to the door, and as they entered the vestibule, a woman hurried in. She tugged off her cloak and hung it on a hook.

  She was twenty-five or so, thin and pretty, with big brown eyes and luxurious brunette hair that was pulled into a neat chignon. It was a cool, windy afternoon, and the cold temperature had reddened her cheeks with a healthy glow.

  As far as Stephen was aware, Blair was a bachelor, so who was she? Blair was an ass and didn’t deserve her company.

  “You’ve finally arrived,” Vicar Blair snapped with impatience.

  “I apologize, Oscar.” She smiled, but it was a tired smile. “I was delayed in the village. I couldn’t get away.

  “This is Lt. Price,” the vicar haughtily informed her, “the earl’s brother.”

  “Hello, Lt. Price.”

  She extended her hands in welcome. Stephen clasped them and bowed.

  “You were not here to greet him,” the vicar complained. “I had to entertain him myself. You are my hostess, but what good are you if you can’t perform simple tasks?”

  It was a horrid comment, and an awkward moment might have ensued, but she politely smoothed it over.

  “I heard that you and the earl were at the manor,” she said to Stephen. “It’s lovely that you were able to visit the estate. Everyone will be so pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Lt. Price,” Blair said, “may I present my sister, Mrs. Josephine Merrick?”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Merrick?”

  “She’s a widow,” Blair continued. “For how many years now, Josephine?”

  “Almost three, Oscar.”

  “Her husband’s relatives sent her back to me after his death,” Blair started to explain, but Mrs. Merrick interrupted him.