My Scoundrel

by Cheryl Holt

  No one had ever mentioned it to her face, but she was aware that her brother was disliked. When he was such an ass, she couldn’t not know he was detested.

  Did they feel sorry for her? Did they deem her a fool for putting up with him?

  She never let on that she was unhappy, and she never fretted over their opinions. Unless she married again—which she would never consider—she couldn’t change her situation. Once had been more than enough, thank you very much.

  She was twenty-five, but she lived like a nun and always had. Her father had been a vicar too, and he’d been just as grim and stern as her brother. While growing up, there’d been no light-hearted moments or cheery encounters. It had all been prayer and sin and penance.

  Her husband hadn’t been quite so severe in his habits. She’d been allowed to shop and have friends and dress in clothes that weren’t black. It was only in the bedroom that she’d been chastised. Yet often, she caught herself wishing she could return to those dreary days, days where she could sew a strip of lace on her collar without being called a harlot.

  That’s how pathetic her life had become! She occasionally missed her deceased husband simply because her world had been less bleak than it currently was.

  Sometimes, she felt as if she was suffocating, as if she might start screaming and never stop. She ached to dance and carouse and sing without pausing to worry over how she might be punished later on. A desire burned in her, a hunger to possess more than she’d been given, to have things she couldn’t name, and she constantly fought the potent urges.

  Bonfires blazed at both ends of the square, fanning the flames of her cravings, and she hastened on. She reached the edge of the grass, ready to head down the street to the vicarage, and she took a final glance at the gathering.

  As she did, the crowd split, and on the other side of the square, standing alone and gazing back at her was the earl’s brother, Stephen Price. She hadn’t realized he’d attended, and he certainly hadn’t danced, or she’d have noticed.

  Had he been looking for her? At the thought that he might have been, her pulse pounded with excitement.

  In their odd meeting in the church, they’d shared secrets and sat in the pew holding hands. Nothing improper had occurred, but it had been very shocking and probably the most illicit deed she’d ever attempted.

  She stared at him, mesmerized by how intently he was focused on her, and though it was strange, it seemed that Time had ceased its ticking. The party faded away, and there was just him and her and no one else in the universe.

  Then the horde closed in and she lost sight of him. In that wild instant, she suffered a frantic impulse to push into the throng in a frenzied bid to locate him, but she didn’t.

  What was wrong with her?

  She blamed it on the full moon, on her advanced age and lengthy widowhood. An attractive man had merely smiled at her, and she was all aflutter!

  She whipped away and rushed on, and the sounds of the merriment quickly waned. The village grew very quiet. To her dismay, she heard footsteps on the opposite side of the street, and she slowed and peeked over.

  Stephen Price was there! He was shadowing her every stride! When she lagged, he lagged. When she hurried, he hurried too.

  What was he doing? What could he want?

  A voice in her mind shouted warnings. She was overcome by the worst feeling that an amazing, terrible collision was about to transpire, and once it did, she would never be the same.

  He took a step toward her, then another and another, and she almost ran in panic. What would happen when he arrived?

  He approached until they were toe to toe, and he slipped his hand into hers and led her down an alley. She made a feeble effort to drag her feet, but she swiftly relented and eagerly went along. Apparently, whatever he was planning, she couldn’t wait.

  He halted at a small barn and entered, pulling her in after him. She nearly spoke, but he pressed a finger to her lips, urging silence. He searched for vagrants or a stable boy, and finding none, he proceeded to the rear and tumbled down into a mound of straw. He tugged her down with him.

  For the briefest second, she resisted, but a moonbeam drifted in the window, shining on his raven black hair, his muscular physique, and she ceded the battle.

  She rolled onto her back, as he stretched out atop her, and embarrassing as it was to admit, she bit down a purr of delight. He was large and heavy, and she welcomed his weight though she understood that she dare not show her enjoyment.

  The sole part of her marriage that had been tolerable was the connubial acts her husband perpetrated in their marital bed. From the moment he’d first undressed her on their wedding night, she’d reveled in the decadency. But he’d been revolted by her wantonness.

  Rapidly, she’d learned to be passive and still as he thrust away, but it had been so frustrating! She’d felt there should be more to it, and her body had agreed. Years had crawled by with her being raw and on edge. Her only respite had been the sporadic, furtive waves of pleasure that shot through her after their more vigorous couplings.

  If her husband had ever discovered the peculiar episodes, his reprimands would have been even more harsh—perhaps even violent.

  Surely Lt. Price wouldn’t be so cruel. During their short acquaintance, she’d deemed him to be kind and sympathetic. With a brother like Nicholas Price, he’d have to be!

  If she exhibited an awkward physical thrill, he wouldn’t be appalled. She couldn’t bear it if he was.

  He began kissing her and kissing her, and it was so stimulating, like nothing she’d encountered previously with her angry, tepid spouse. She couldn’t decide what to make of it.

  Did people actually carry on like this? Was such conduct common? She had no idea.

  The way her pious brother told it, this was how the whole world behaved, but Jo had never seen any evidence. She’d always considered it a depraved myth, the sort school boys spewed to impress one another, yet Lt. Price was no fable. He was very, very real, and he was definitely adept at inciting a woman’s passions.

  His hands were in her hair, his tongue in her mouth, while down below, his loins were crushed to hers and flexing in a steady rhythm. His hard rod was positioned at the vee of her thighs, and she was stunned that he was so blatant in allowing her to feel it.

  She was exhilarated too. Imagine! She—plain, ordinary Jo Merrick—had aroused such an experienced, sophisticated fellow! While she wanted to respond, she didn’t know how.

  His busy fingers had moved to her breasts. He was massaging them, pinching and twisting the nipples, and she started to shake. Her entire torso was quivering with restraint.

  What to do? What to do? The question raced in her head. She couldn’t hide her titillation, but if she let go, how would he react?

  He must have perceived her distress, for he drew away and frowned.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

  To her horror, tears welled into her eyes.

  “I’m ashamed,” she admitted.

  “Of what? Of being here with me?”

  “No.”

  “Then what is it? Don’t tell me you buy into that twaddle your brother spouts about the wages of sin and fornication.”

  “It’s not that. I’m just . . . just . . .”

  She’d had many frank sexual discussions in her life. Always with her husband and always with her being criticized for her failings. So it wasn’t that she couldn’t talk about the topic. She simply hadn’t a clue how to explain her predicament.

  “You desire me as much as I desire you.” He appeared furious. “I didn’t misread the signal you sent yesterday at the church.”

  “No, you didn’t misread it.”

  “Since then, I’ve thought about you every second.”

  “You couldn’t have.”

  “I did, so don’t play the sh
y maiden. I’ve had several glasses of whiskey, and my circumspection has fled. Let’s keep on, or let’s go. Shall we leave? Shall I walk you to the vicarage? Is that what you want?”

  “No!” she said more stridently.

  He studied her, his gaze narrowing. He had a way of looking at a person, as if he could peer through her heart and straight to her soul. She squirmed with dismay, for apparently, he saw what she’d meant to conceal. His demeanor softened.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked again. “You can confide in me, remember? Do you loathe carnal activity? Is that it?”

  “No, no, I . . . love it,” she blurted out.

  He grinned. “That’s my girl.”

  “But you overwhelm me with your caresses. I don’t know how to lie still.”

  “Why would you lie still?”

  His perplexed expression confused her. Weren’t women supposed to be submissive? If she’d heard it once, she’d heard it a thousand times: Sexual congress was for procreation and no other reason. A female shouldn’t revel in it.

  “My husband,” she tentatively ventured, “informed me that I shouldn’t . . . ah . . .”

  “We’ve already established that he was an ass.”

  “Yes, yes, he was.”

  “Why would you believe what he told you?”

  “I don’t necessarily believe it. I would just hate for you to think I’m . . . loose.”

  His grin widened. “Listen. If you want to be a tad loose, that’s fine with me. In fact, I’d prefer it.”

  “You would?”

  “Yes, so when we’re alone like this, you’re free to shout or scream or scratch or bite.”

  “You won’t mind?”

  “Why would I? Your squealing with pleasure is half the fun.” He took her hands and placed them directly on his backside. “If you don’t participate, I can’t predict what I’ll do.”

  It was all the permission she needed. They started in again and, letting him be her guide, she did whatever he did. If he stroked her arms, she stroked his. If he riffled her hair, she riffled his. She hugged and petted and licked and tasted.

  Their ardor rose to a fevered pitch, and she didn’t try to hide her enthusiasm. She couldn’t hide it. She was writhing beneath him, struggling to get closer and closer, but never getting near enough.

  He opened the front of her dress and pushed at the fabric, baring her bosom. Then—to her astonished surprise—he dipped to her breast and sucked on her nipple.

  She’d never felt so wicked, and she moaned and hissed, bucking with her hips, fighting to throw him off. She was mumbling under her breath, begging him to stop, begging him not to stop, but he ignored her pleas.

  He yanked her skirt up her legs, then his fingers were in her drawers and sliding into her sheath. The instant he touched her, she exploded and cried out. Her voice was deep and low and needy—like that of an injured animal.

  He merely chuckled and laid a palm over her mouth. His lips at her ear, he whispered, “You vixen! I said you could scream and shout, but I didn’t mean you should wake the whole bloody neighborhood.”

  “Desist!” she whimpered. “I can’t bear it.”

  “If you continue to raise a ruckus,” he teased, “people will think we’re . . . fornicating in here.”

  Somehow, without her noticing, he’d unbuttoned his trousers, and as he uttered the word fornicating, he rammed himself inside.

  At feeling how big he was, how thoroughly he filled her, she was swept away by another wave of ecstasy. She wailed with relief, with a twisted combination of glee and shame, and he kissed her to swallow the clamor of her release.

  “You’re going to be the death of me,” he said, laughing.

  “Why?” she asked when she could speak again.

  “Because you’re wanton as hell, but you try so hard not to be.”

  He was braced on his elbows, working himself into her, and she was delighted that he would talk during the event. With her husband, it had always proceeded in an angry, tormented silence.

  “How do you do that to me?” she inquired. “You make me so . . . so . . .”

  “I’m a sorcerer.”

  “I believe it.”

  “Let me show you some other magic I know how to perform.”

  He began sucking on her nipple again, and she exulted in it, amazed and astounded, as he kept on and on and on. Just when she assumed she could take no more, that he couldn’t possibly hold back, he withdrew and spilled himself on her stomach.

  Though flattered by his caution, he needn’t have bothered. She’d had seven long years to conceive, and she’d accepted that she was barren. She wore her condition like a yoke of disgrace.

  His hips ground to a halt, and with a grunt of satisfaction, he rolled off her. They stared at the roof, and he started to quietly chortle. She joined in, just as softly, but just as heartily.

  The silliness of what they’d done, the . . . wildness of it, was thrilling. What had come over them?

  They were practically strangers. They’d been strolling down a dark street, then they’d peered at one another, and voila!, they’d raced into a barn and had rutted like animals.

  “Gad,” he mumbled, “I must be drunker than I thought.”

  “I’ve never had a drink in my life,” she pointed out, “so what’s my excuse?”

  “You have none, you minx.”

  “I’m telling myself that I succumbed to your wily seduction.”

  “You loved every minute of it.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  He grabbed a handful of straw and swabbed his seed from her belly. Then he lowered her skirt and straightened her clothes. She watched him, mute and contemplative, as questions careened in her mind.

  What would happen now? At any other time, with any other man, there would have been a hasty proposal as well as a promise to confer with her brother in the morning. But the words weren’t voiced, and she didn’t expect them to be.

  He was worldly and sophisticated, had traveled everywhere and seen everything. He was a soldier in the army! He probably tumbled trollops in barns every night. Their dalliance had been a whim for him, and if she alluded to any sort of extended bond, he’d likely scoff at her provincial notions.

  Out in the alley, a pair of drunks staggered by. They were singing, their speech slurred. Lt. Price pulled her close, not breathing, until they’d passed on.

  On hearing their noisy carousing, reality crashed down with a vengeance.

  How long had she dawdled? What time was it? What if Oscar was awake when she entered the house? There’d be no way to conceal her transgression. Her hair was down, her cheeks reddened from the rub of Lt. Price’s whiskers, and—she was certain—she’d be glowing.

  Oscar wouldn’t have to guess at her behavior. It would be obvious.

  “I’d better go,” she murmured.

  “Will your brother be waiting up for you?”

  “No, he went to bed ages ago.”

  She prayed it was true.

  “Still, you’d best be careful.”

  “I will be.”

  His cool remark dashed any lingering hopes she might have had as to whether terms like courtship or connection would be mentioned. Their encounter had been an impetuous, immoral romp but naught more.

  He rose and tugged her to her feet, then he crept to the door and peeked out. Seeing no one, he urged her through.

  He was extremely composed, as if nothing extraordinary had occurred, so she tried to match his aplomb, which was difficult. Her life had been turned upside down. She was reeling with elation, with worries over the present and the future, but then, she was a female, and she understood that men were rarely bothered by such concerns.

  She scooted by him, and he clasped her wrist.

  “We have to do this again,” he vehemently whis
pered.

  “You’re mad. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’ll only be at Stafford for six weeks. I’m not about to avoid you.”

  “I wouldn’t want that.”

  “And if I bump into you, I know what will transpire.” He pointed to the pile of straw where they’d frolicked. “I’ll have to have you. We enjoy a strong attraction, and I’m not about to fight it.”

  “It would be impossible.”

  “We’ll be discreet,” he insisted. “We’ll find a way to be together.”

  “Yes, we will,” she agreed, even though it was insane. The village was too small, the chances for discovery too great. Yet at the moment, she didn’t, didn’t, didn’t care. She yearned to twirl in circles and proclaim her happiness to the world.

  He kissed her a final time, hard and fast, then—with a hand on her rear—he pushed her out.

  She tarried, gazing at him, anxious to speak but aware that she couldn’t. She wanted to . . . thank him for choosing her, for singling her out, for showing her how it felt to truly be a woman. But she was quite sure he wouldn’t wish to hear her gushing.

  Boldly, she stepped to him and initiated a final kiss of her own, then she hurried away. She liked to imagine that he followed her to the vicarage, watching so she arrived safely, but she didn’t glance around to check.

  She slipped into the vestibule and tiptoed to her room with no one being the wiser as to what she’d done.

  Emeline walked down the hall to the earl’s library. It was very late, and everyone was abed—except for herself and, hopefully, Lord Stafford. She had to speak with him, and until she did, she’d never be able to sleep. Her thoughts were too scattered, her anxiety too extreme.

  Since he’d brought her home earlier that morning, she hadn’t seen him. He was supposedly still on the premises, but he’d been noticeably absent.

  She was so insignificant that it would be easy for him to forget about her. If he departed for London before her situation was resolved, she couldn’t predict what would happen. She would be at the mercy of Benedict Mason again, and the prospect was terrifying.