by Cheryl Holt
Fatigue washed over her. She swayed to one side, then the other, and nearly collapsed. In a trice, like the hero he was reputed to be, he swept her into his arms. Suddenly, she was cradled to his chest, but as swiftly as he’d picked her up, he deposited her in a chair.
He stood over her, frowning, his consternation clear.
“You don’t seem the swooning type to me,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“Yet if I hadn’t caught you, you’d be an unconscious heap on my rug.”
She gazed at the floor and studied his boots. “I’m just a bit hungry.”
“Hungry . . .”
“Yes.”
A tense silence ensued, his anger wafting over her.
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“Let me guess. You had food, from the basket I sent you, but you gave it to your sisters.”
The basket he’d promised hadn’t been received. If he’d told Mr. Mason to have it delivered, Mason would never have followed through. She could have explained what occurred, but why bother? He refused to accept the truth about Mason, and he would simply discount her version of events.
“Yes,” she murmured, “I gave them the last of the food.”
“Do you ever put yourself first? Or can you only see that others need help but not you? If you become ill from self-neglect, who will care for Nan and Nell?”
“I can’t bear for them to suffer because of me. It breaks my heart.”
Tears surged and splashed down her cheeks, and she swiped at them with her hands. A deluge was coming on, and she felt as if she might weep for a week. She wanted to mourn what had been forfeit, her dead parents and lost home and lost life. There wasn’t enough water in the world to supply the flood of grief pounding in her.
“Are you crying?” He was aghast.
“Yes,” she admitted, too sad to claim otherwise.
“For pity’s sake, you can’t . . . cry. Stop it.”
“We’re not all as tough as you. I can’t always control myself.”
“But how are we to carry on a rational discussion when you’re so emotional?”
“You’re a smart fellow. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“Emeline,” he started, prepared to launch into another tirade.
“If you can’t stand my upset, go away. I’ll pull myself together in a few minutes, then you can shout at me again.”
She kept staring at the floor, and she watched his feet as he dawdled, shifting his weight back and forth. She could sense his exasperation.
He was used to issuing orders and having them obeyed. He supposed he could command her to ignore her despair, like turning off a faucet, but he didn’t realize the depth of her woe. She wasn’t about to feign false cheer merely to accommodate him, not when her eviction had been commenced at his direction. If she wanted to cry, she would, and he couldn’t prevent her.
He pondered and fumed, then growled with frustration. To her surprise, he lifted her up and scooted underneath her onto the chair. He settled her on his lap, her hip on his hard thigh, her face pressed to his nape. Her tears wet his shirt.
“You’d drive me to drink,” he muttered, “if I didn’t already imbibe.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Be silent, or I’ll remember how much you annoy me.”
Instantly, she forgot that she hated him, that he’d been the cause of her difficulties. He was offering comfort, and she was desperate to receive it.
“I’ve been alone and so afraid,” she mumbled.
“I know.”
“I haven’t had anyone to advise or assist me. I haven’t had anyone to take my side.”
“Hush.” He stroked her hair and back. “It will be all right now.”
She didn’t believe it could be all right ever again, but she was willing to pretend, willing to soak in the caress of his gentle hand, the whisper of his supportive words.
She might have sat there forever, wallowing in his solace, but she heard the door open. Someone hovered in the threshold, but didn’t enter. Lord Stafford made a shooing motion, and as the door was quietly shut, Emeline was forced to recollect that the earth was still spinning outside his library.
Who had peeked in? What would that person have thought? With reality quickly sinking in, embarrassment swept over her.
“It was my brother,” he said as if he could read her mind. “Don’t worry about him.”
She drew away so she could peer into his blue eyes. She was so close to him, just inches apart, and her pulse pounded.
Though they were fully clothed and naught of import had occurred, she felt naked and exposed. He’d observed her at her weakest, at her most vulnerable, but she’d witnessed something of him too. He had a capacity for empathy she was certain he’d later wish he hadn’t revealed.
“I must look a fright.” She chuckled, hoping to lighten the tension.
“Yes,” he teasingly agreed, “you’re a veritable drab. I’ve never seen such a hideous sight.”
“Oh, you.”
He produced a kerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her cheeks. As he dropped it, she assumed he would release her, but he didn’t.
The most incredible moment developed, and her pulse raced at an even faster clip. She was perched on the edge of a miracle, as if any glorious deed could transpire.
He eased her nearer and touched his lips to hers. He was tentative, as if asking permission.
His advance rattled her, and she should have refused it, but she couldn’t move beyond the fact that he was continuing to comfort her, and she hadn’t yet had enough. She was an empty vessel of sorrow and remorse, and he could fill her to overflowing. She didn’t have to do anything to make it happen. She merely had to accept what he was eager to give.
The kiss was chaste and dear, as if he was a young boy with his first sweetheart, as if she was a treasure he cherished. They both sighed, contentment surging between them.
They were such different people, with very different backgrounds, but they were so attuned. Almost as if . . . as if . . . their relationship was meant to be.
The notion was preposterous, but blatantly apparent all the same. What could it portend? Had Fate brought them together? If so, to what end? Where would it lead?
“What should I do with you, Miss Wilson?” he asked as he pulled away.
“Please don’t kick us out on the road.”
“As if I could. You seem to have the opinion that I’m an ogre.”
“Well . . .”
“I’m trying to be kind and turn over a new leaf.” He scowled ferociously. “I’d like to accomplish it without suffering any of your harangue.”
“I wasn’t going to harangue.”
He snorted. “Don’t ever lie to me. You’re awfully bad at it.”
He snuggled her down again, and she breathed slowly, inhaling his clean, masculine scents of leather and horses. He was contemplating, considering her future, and she held herself very still, not wanting to interrupt his musings.
Ultimately, he said, “When we’re alone, I’m calling you Emeline.”
She laughed and sat up. “You’ve been thinking and thinking, and that’s all you could devise?”
“Yes. And you’re to call me Nicholas.”
“I never could.”
“Why not?”
“It would indicate a heightened familiarity.”
“Why would I care about that?”
“You’re an earl. You’re supposed to care.”
“Let me clue you in on a little secret.”
“What is it?”
“I hate being an earl, and I’m not concerned over how you address me.”
“You should be concerned.”
“I’m not, so Eme
line and Nicholas it’s to be from this point on. I’m afraid I have to insist.”
He gripped her by the waist and set her on her feet. He stood too.
“Come,” he ordered.
“To where?”
“Why does a simple command always elicit a question from you? Why can’t you just follow me without hesitating?”
“Because I don’t trust you, and I naturally presume you’re up to no good.”
“Which is very wise. You should never trust me. But come with me anyway.”
He clasped her wrist and dragged her toward the door.
Obviously, he’d reached a decision about her. What would it be? If he threw her out, this was the last time she’d ever see him. A day or two prior, she’d have been glad. Now the prospect had her unaccountably sad.
“Where are we going?” she tried again.
“You need some breakfast, so we’ll get you fed.”
“Then what?”
“Then . . . you should wash up. You’re a mess.”
She glowered at him. “Would you be serious?”
“Yes, I will be. I’m instructing the housekeeper to prepare a suite of rooms for the three of you. I want you here in the manor, where you’re safe, while I make some plans for you.”
“What sort of plans?”
“If I already knew, I wouldn’t have to make them, now would I?”
“So . . . you’re not kicking us out?”
“Gad, no.”
“You mean it?”
“Emeline!” He frowned; she was trying his patience.
She flew into his arms and hugged him so tightly that she was surprised he could breathe.
“Thank you, thank you,” she murmured over and over.
“You’re welcome.”
His voice was gruff, as if he was embarrassed by her gratitude. He kissed her hair, her temple, her neck, then eased her away and opened the door.
“She’s gone?”
“Yes.”
“Her cottage leveled?”
“Yes. Finally.”
“I thought we’d never be shed of her.”
Benedict Mason leaned across Vicar Blair’s desk. They clinked their brandy glasses, toasting their success at ridding themselves of Emeline Wilson. Though it was mid-afternoon, and they shouldn’t have been drinking, they had ample cause for celebration. And when good liquor was involved, Blair was always eager to participate.
Early on in his tenure at Stafford, Benedict had learned that Oscar Blair might preach fire and brimstone, but he wasn’t averse to privately partaking of alcohol. With Miss Wilson’s downfall, a hearty tipple was definitely warranted.
In Benedict’s world, people were either friends or enemies. Blair was an ally, their connection necessary so they could both get what they desired from the community. Blair demanded absolute spiritual authority, and Benedict demanded absolute fiscal authority. They understood their spheres of influence and didn’t attempt to usurp the other’s power. Their devious alliance was extremely rewarding, and Benedict worked to keep it functioning smoothly.
He liked Blair to be off guard, liked him to believe they were closer than they actually were. Whenever Benedict visited, he brought a gift, usually a pilfered bottle of the earl’s best brandy. That way, Benedict had excellent liquor to swill when they congratulated themselves on some especially pernicious act.
Their latest project had been orchestrating the fate of Emeline Wilson. Benedict loathed her for refusing his courtship. Blair loathed her simply for being a female, and he abhorred all women.
Benedict wouldn’t allow her to remain in the area, both because she’d spurned him, but also because she’d been pestering Nicholas Price with her ridiculous ideas of equity and fairness.
Benedict enjoyed enormous autonomy. Often, he felt that Stafford belonged to him, rather than Nicholas Price, and he couldn’t have Miss Wilson luring the earl to the estate. He’d wanted Emeline Wilson to go away, and he wanted the earl back with his army regiment so Benedict could carry on without interference.
“Are you aware of her plans?” Benedict asked.
“My sister mentioned that she was in the pauper’s line at the market. There was a man from London offering to take our beggars to the city and beyond.”
“Let’s pray she went.”
“Yes, let’s do.”
They clinked their glasses again, then Benedict finished his drink and departed. He mounted his horse—well, the earl’s horse, but why quibble?—and headed to the manor. It was a beautiful spring day, the road busy with crowds coming to the market.
Those who recognized him glanced away, their fear obvious and gratifying. He couldn’t foster a reputation for compassion or mercy. He had too many distasteful tasks to accomplish, and people needed to be wary so they wouldn’t argue when he appeared on their stoops.
Only Emeline Wilson had been foolish enough to stand up to him, but look where her bravado had left her.
Ha! Out on her ear, with no friends, and nowhere to go. Her plight would be a warning to others: Think twice before crossing him.
He trotted down the lane to the mansion, and he’d meant to ride past the main house and proceed to his own residence, but there were two horses tethered in the drive. He frowned, positive they were the animals the Price brothers had selected for their trip to town.
Benedict dismounted and bounded up the front stairs. As he rushed into the foyer, he nearly fainted as he saw the earl marching down the hall.
The knave was supposed to be gone! Why wasn’t he?
Benedict gave an obsequious nod, and he smiled in welcome, concealing his exasperation and dislike.
“Lord Stafford, I thought you’d be halfway to the city by now.”
“We’ve had a predicament arise.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“No, I just had to take care of a few minor details.”
They were the worst words Benedict could ever hear.
“What were they? Was it a chore I could have handled for you? I hate to have you bothered by trifles.”
“I stumbled on Emeline Wilson and her sisters at the market.”
Benedict recognized a bog when he entered it, and he stepped cautiously.
“Oh . . . ?”
“I didn’t realize her cottage was on the list to be demolished.”
Benedict studied Price, trying to glean his attitude, but Price was renowned as a great and unscrupulous card player. No emotion was visible.
“Yes,” Benedict coolly admitted, “it has been scheduled for several months. The entire clearing has been leveled, and we’re to plant wheat there instead.”
“I’m vexed by her troubles. When I’d urged you to implement your suggestions toward solvency, I didn’t understand that we would be uprooting her or that her ouster would be achieved in such a dastardly fashion.”
“Miss Wilson’s circumstance certainly engenders sympathy, but she exemplifies the problems here at the estate. She wasn’t contributing, and you can’t be expected to support her forever.”
“I’m not sure my choices were the best ones.”
“How so?”
“For the time being, I don’t want any further evictions. Not until we’ve fully reviewed the matter.”
“A wise idea. A man should be confident of the direction he’s traveling.”
“Miss Wilson and her sisters have been given rooms in the west wing.”
“My, what an interesting turn of events!” he smoothly lied. “How long will they be with us?”
“I don’t know yet, but I need you to instruct the staff to show them every courtesy.”
“I will.”
“And I’d like to meet with you. In my library at four.”
Price approached until they were toe to toe. He was a very
intimidating fellow, larger than Benedict, taller and broader and definitely more handsome.
There were amazing stories about his conduct in battle, about his shrewd ability to lead men in perilous situations. He was a brawler who won the fights he started.
Benedict loathed him.
“May I inquire,” Benedict politely said, “as to what we will be discussing? I should like to have the appropriate paperwork ready for you.”
“We’re going to discuss the estate,” Price dangerously replied, rattling Benedict. “We’ll be making some changes.”
“In what area?”
“In every area.”
Benedict bowed his head. “As always, I’m at your service.”
Price walked on, and as Benedict breathed a sigh of relief, Price spun around.
“I’ll be staying on for a few weeks,” Price announced as if it was a threat. “I’m not leaving for London as I had planned.”
“Marvelous,” Benedict claimed.
“My brother is staying on too.”
“I look forward to a closer acquaintance with both of you.”
“I’ll see you at four.”
Price continued on, and as soon as he vanished from view, Benedict plopped down on a nearby chair.
The earl! With his nosy, perceptive brother! Not leaving! Staying on!
Gad, what next!
Josephine Merrick watched the dancers moving through their steps. Their feet pounded down the grass in the center of the square. People were smiling and laughing. A trio of musicians stood on a dais, the fiddler playing a lively tune.
She tapped her foot, yearning to join in, but she never would. Her brother frowned on dancing, viewing it as the Devil’s mischief, but despite his admonitions, there were some enjoyments he couldn’t halt.
It was after ten in the evening, market day drawing to a close. A whiskey keg had been opened, so the event had taken a more festive turn, and she couldn’t stay any longer. Her presence would dampen spirits, with revelers afraid she might tattle to Oscar, and she didn’t want to ruin the gaiety.
She’d been raising funds for the church, hawking pies and cakes, but the last item had been purchased, so there was no reason to linger. She said goodbye to her companions, and as she walked away, she could sense their whispering.
