My Scoundrel

by Cheryl Holt

  The earl had said he would make plans for her, but what kind? The answer was becoming more urgent.

  She’d applied for numerous teaching positions in other areas of the country, but with scant success. Another rejection letter had arrived that afternoon, so there remained only two employers who hadn’t replied. She wasn’t optimistic.

  Why not continue the school at Stafford? It was the obvious solution to her finding a job. She was determined to plead her case to Nicholas Price. She had a knack for persuading him. Could she work her magic once more?

  She hurried to the library and peeked inside, but he wasn’t there, so she returned to the stairs and climbed. On the landing, when she would have headed in one direction, she stared the other way. At the end of the long hall, a door was open, and a candle had been left burning. Should she blow it out?

  It wasn’t the earl’s suite—that was up on the top floor—so she couldn’t guess who would be there, and she didn’t imagine anybody was. There were no other guests in the house.

  She crept toward it, listening for sounds, but not hearing any. Suddenly, a glass shattered, and she jumped with alarm.

  “Emeline?” a familiar male voice barked. When she didn’t respond, he growled, “Miss Wilson! I’m talking to you. Get your ass in here.”

  She sidled over and peered in. “How did you know it was me?”

  “I’d know that snotty stride anywhere.”

  He was in a sitting room, the bedchamber behind him, and slouched in a chair over by the hearth. A robe covered his shoulders, but the lapels drooped, his naked chest visible. He had on a pair of trousers, but they were made from a flowing fabric that draped across his thighs, the sort of garment a sultan might wear when entertaining his harem.

  His feet were bare, his thick hair loose around his nape. He hadn’t shaved, so his cheeks were darkened with stubble. He looked decadent and dangerous, and on seeing him, butterflies swarmed in her stomach.

  He’d been drinking. There was a decanter of liquor on a table next to him. For some reason, he’d flung his glass at the fireplace. It had splintered, creating a mess that a servant would have to clean up. He was horridly spoiled; she couldn’t envision him doing it himself.

  “What is wrong with you?” she asked him.

  “Close the door,” was his reply.

  “No.”

  “Close it!”

  “No!”

  She went over and picked up the larger chunks of broken glass, tossing them into the flames so the idiot wouldn’t cut his feet when he stumbled drunkenly to bed.

  “Stop that,” he ordered.

  “Stop what?”

  “You’re not a maid, and you’re not my wife. You don’t have to tidy up after me.”

  “Why are you imbibing all alone and smashing the crystal?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  He reached for the decanter, and she snatched it away and set it on the mantle.

  “Give me that,” he fumed.

  “You’ve had enough.”

  “You’re not my mother either. Don’t lecture me.”

  “You’re acting like a barbarian.”

  “I’m not acting. I am a barbarian.”

  “I believe you.”

  She stood in front of him, dithering over how to proceed. She didn’t suppose she should leave him to his own devices, but she wasn’t keen to dawdle while he grumbled and grouched.

  “Don’t scowl at me like that,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re a cranky governess about to rap my knuckles.”

  “Somebody should tell you how to behave.”

  “Well, it’s not going to be you, so don’t try.”

  “You haven’t answered my question,” she reminded him.

  “What was it?”

  “Why are you in here? Why aren’t you up in the earl’s suite?”

  “I let my brother have it.”

  “Why?”

  “He enjoys the pomp and circumstance of this place, and I wish to hell he’d been born first. Then I wouldn’t have to bother with any of this nonsense.”

  She studied him, curious as to why he always seemed so unhappy. He’d grown up in an orphanage, but now, he was incredibly wealthy. Any sane man would celebrate such a turn of fortune, but not him.

  “I see what’s happening,” she scolded. “You pity yourself.”

  “Why would I pity myself?”

  “Because you’re rich and powerful, and you don’t think you deserve to have had so much affluence showered on you. You feel guilty.”

  “I didn’t deserve it, but I don’t feel guilty. This whole burden got dumped on me. I didn’t ask for it. It just . . . is.”

  “Quit moping. It’s unbecoming.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “Was there something you needed?”

  “Yes, actually. A favor.”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t hear what it is.”

  “I don’t care what it is. My answer is still no.”

  She ignored him and forged ahead. “If you would—”

  “Emeline, I said no.”

  “You’re being rude and ridiculous.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I have a great idea,” she insisted, “and we’ll both benefit.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  She threw up her arms in exasperation. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

  “I don’t need to know. Since you’re excited about it, I’m sure it will be absurd.”

  She pulled up a chair and seated herself. “I want you to start the school again, and I want you to hire me as the teacher.”

  “Do you ever stop?”

  “No. This is the perfect plan. You wouldn’t even have to pay me. You could remunerate me simply by letting me have another cottage.”

  “You’d toil away for no salary? Just for your lodging?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wouldn’t have any funds. How would you buy food for your sisters?”

  “I’ll find a way. I can take in laundry or raise chickens. I’m a hard worker.”

  “I’ve seen how you managed previously. You’re completely incompetent.”

  “But I’m so good at teaching! I realize you hated the school, but—”

  “I’ve never been asked about it.”

  She frowned. “Mr. Mason told me that you specifically ordered it shut down.”

  “I’ve never discussed it with him.”

  Emeline was puzzled. Mr. Mason had been very clear. He’d mentioned the subject to the earl, and the earl had said absolutely not. Yet now, the earl was claiming he and Mason had never conferred over it.

  They were both liars, so who was she to believe?

  She pressed on. “Let me tell you why it’s important.”

  “No. Have you any clue as to how much money you’ve already cost me?”

  She gaped at him. Was he grousing over the meals she and her sisters had eaten? Was he angry that they were sleeping in his beds and the sheets would have to be washed?

  “How have I cost you anything?”

  “I’ve halted the evictions.”

  “You have? Really?”

  “Yes, but just for the time being. I may resume them in the future—after I’ve had more opportunity to reflect. Any losses I incur are all your fault.”

  “My fault?”

  “You nagged until I couldn’t bear your rants. I did it merely to silence you.”

  “I don’t care what the reason. I’m just so glad.”

  “Mr. Mason is livid.”

  “I’ll bet he is.”

  “He says you’re a menace, and I shouldn’t listen to you.”

  “Aren’t you in charge?”<
br />
  “Nominally.”

  “I’m proud of you. You did what was right for your tenants.”

  She was delighted to have goaded him to benevolence. What other boons might she be able to garner?

  “So . . . about the school,” she started again.

  “Enough about your stupid school! Close the door.”

  He waved at it, expecting her to leap up and obey.

  “I’m not about to be sequestered with you. People will talk.”

  “What people? In case you haven’t noticed, everyone is asleep but us. We can do whatever we want.”

  He stood, suddenly seeming much more sober than she’d assumed. Before she grasped his intent, he marched over and shut the door himself. He leaned against the wood, arms crossed over his chest, blocking any egress.

  “Open it!” she demanded. “At once.”

  “No.”

  She stomped over until they were toe to toe, and she shivered, but not with dread. A part of her—a very small part—was thrilled by his autocratic manner. She knew what it was like to be held by him, to be kissed by him, and she’d enjoy having either occur. Just so long as she kept her wits about her and didn’t get carried away, which was definitely a problem.

  Where he was concerned, it was entirely possible that she might misbehave.

  “Mr. Mason informs me,” he told her, “that your father was much too lenient in how he reared you.”

  “Mr. Mason hates me, and he has a few issues with the truth.”

  “He advises that you were educated far beyond what was required, and it’s made you overly vain. If you ask me, a conceited female is an insufferable female.”

  “I didn’t ask you.”

  “I cite your extensive learning so you can understand why this mission of yours, to revive the school, means naught to me.” His lazy gaze meandered down her torso. “You have only one thing to offer that’s of any value whatsoever.”

  “What would that be?”

  Nervously, she bit her bottom lip, capturing his hot attention.

  “I’m trapped at Stafford,” he complained, “because of you.”

  “Because of me?”

  “Yes, you’ve pestered me until I can’t escape.”

  “You’re not . . . trapped. You should welcome the chance to spend some time here.”

  “No, I’m trapped, and I can’t predict when I’ll be able to flee.” He took a step toward her, and she took a step back. “I get bored easily, so I’ll need to be entertained. You’re responsible for my confinement, so I’ve decided that you will do the entertaining.”

  “What sort of entertaining did you have in mind?”

  “You know what sort.”

  His focus dropped to her breasts and remained there, and though she was fully clothed, she felt naked and much too exposed.

  “You’re being absurd.”

  “No, I’m being perfectly rational.”

  “You must have . . . women for that type of endeavor.”

  “Not here.”

  “Find some. Import some.”

  “No, it has to be you, I’m afraid.”

  “I refuse.”

  “It’s not up to you. It’s up to me, and if you please me, Emeline, perhaps I’ll reconsider your school.”

  “You liar. You never would. I’d sacrifice myself on the altar of your lust, and I’d have nothing to show for it but my total ruination.”

  “The altar of my lust?”

  He laughed and laughed, and she couldn’t help but note how handsome he was when he relaxed. He was always good looking, but in a stark, severe way. Merriment lightened his eyes and smoothed the worry lines around his mouth. He appeared younger, friendly, contented.

  “You humor me beyond measure,” he said.

  “I’m glad to be of assistance.”

  “But I’m tired of this game I let you play.”

  “I haven’t been playing any games.”

  “Yes, you have been, and you’ve distracted me so thoroughly, I forgot that I get to set the rules.”

  “What rules? How can you—”

  “Emeline?”

  “Yes?”

  “You talk too much.”

  As if she were a bag of flour, he clasped her waist, tossed her over his shoulder, and marched to the bedchamber.

  Nicholas wasn’t sure what he was doing.

  Emeline was hissing and kicking, her fists pounding his back, and the bed was approaching.

  He threw her onto the mattress and fell on her before she could scramble away. Was he about to ravish her? Was that his plan?

  He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t stop himself from careening down that road.

  From the moment she’d stormed into his life, she’d been an enormous headache. If he wasn’t fighting with her, he was dealing with the catastrophes she’d stirred. If they weren’t bickering over his failings, he was putting out the rebellions she’d ignited.

  He brooded over her constantly, as if she was a gnat lodged in his brain, or maybe a fatal disease that would eventually kill him. He ceaselessly obsessed: Where was she? What was she up to? What calamity would she next wreak?

  She had an unlimited capacity for mischief, so she couldn’t be left to flounder on her own. She needed watching, and he was disturbed to discover that he wanted to be the man who did the watching.

  He’d had too much to drink, so it was likely that he was making bad decisions, but she was the cause of his inebriation.

  By her flogging him with her penury, she’d harassed him until he was conflicted over his actions at Stafford. He didn’t walk around second-guessing himself. He chose a course and moved forward. Yet what if he’d been wrong? What if he’d relied on Mason’s advice when he shouldn’t have?

  When he thought of that quiet interlude in his library, as she’d wept on his shoulder . . .

  He pushed the poignant vision out of his mind.

  If he wanted anything from Emeline Wilson, it was what he wanted from all women: carnal relations. He didn’t want to understand her or feel sorry for her or create a bond.

  He was keen to have sex with her, but she was a maiden, living under his protection and control. Despite his low reputation, he wasn’t such a brute that he would force her into an affair.

  There was no benefit for her to participate. The estate was a small, close-knit community, where marriage was the remedy for illicit conduct, but he would never wed her. Gad, he couldn’t wed her. He was engaged to Lady Veronica, a union he would pursue at all costs.

  So what was his intent?

  He was too muddled to figure it out. He would dally and let what happened happen.

  It was the cad’s way out, but he didn’t care. If he acted horridly, he’d get over it. He was always able to justify his reprehensible gaffes, and vaguely, he recalled telling her she should never trust him.

  She’d been a fool to search him out in the middle of the night. If she started a fire and was burned by the flames, why was that his fault?

  “Lord Stafford,” she said, already complaining. Did the blasted woman ever cease?

  “Nicholas, remember?”

  “Would you release me?”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “No.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  He frowned. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “At your advanced age, why would you have to ask?”

  “Advanced!” she huffed, insulted.

  “Haven’t you ever been tumbled before? Or are you so prim and forbidding that no man has dared?”

  “I’m not prim and forbidding.”

  Her face was scrunched up like a prudish prune, and he laughed again.

  He’d never met a female
like her. She was such a rare creature—bright and beautiful and belligerent—and he was absolutely fascinated.

  “Would you for once,” he said, “be quiet and enjoy yourself?”

  “I can’t enjoy myself. I’m terrified over what you’re about to do.”

  “What I’m about to do is what some fellow should have done years ago.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You need a man in your bed like nobody’s business. We’ll work off some of that piss and vinegar that has you all bottled up.”

  He gazed at her, and their connection sparked. It had flared previously, so he recognized that they shared a physical attraction, but this seemed to be something more, something profound and deep that scared the hell out of him.

  He didn’t form attachments with women, and he most certainly didn’t succumb to romantic inclinations. Was that what was blossoming? A romantic affection?

  The notion didn’t bear contemplating.

  He had to focus on what mattered. Bed play was where he was most comfortable, where he knew how to behave and what to expect.

  He leaned down and kissed her. For the briefest instant, she stiffened in protest, then she relaxed and let him proceed.

  His loins were pressed to hers and flexing in a slow rhythm, and very quickly, he’d traveled far past any safe point. He unbuttoned her gown and tugged at the fabric, exposing her to the waist, but she was so absorbed that she wasn’t aware of what he’d done.

  Though she didn’t realize it, she had a very sexual nature, so it was easy to distract her. It was only as he caressed her bosom, bare skin to bare skin, that she gasped with surprise and tried to squirm away.

  Her breasts were pert and round, the tips pink and inviting. He’d thought he preferred large-busted females, but apparently not. Her slim perfection aroused him in incalculable ways.

  “You can’t remove my clothes,” she insisted.

  “If I don’t undress you, how will we have any fun?”

  “Kissing I can do. Kissing I understand. Not the . . . other.” She waved a hand over her torso, not possessing the vocabulary for salacious discussion.

  She was yanking at her bodice, anxious to shield herself, but he wouldn’t allow her to hide.

  “Why are you always attired in gray and black?” he asked.

  “Because I’m poor, you oaf, so I can’t afford anything else. Besides, why would I need fancier garments? All I do is putter about the estate, trying to feed my sisters. That sort of existence doesn’t exactly require frippery.”