My Scoundrel

by Cheryl Holt

  “The earl saved us!” they exclaimed in unison.

  “He rode into the market,” Nan told her, “and when he learned what had happened, he put us right up on his horse and fetched us home.”

  Nell added, “He was so angry with Mr. Mason.”

  “The earl was angry? You must be joking.”

  “It’s true, it’s true,” they crowed as if Nicholas’s kindness was too extraordinary to be believed.

  “I’m so glad,” Mrs. Merrick said. “I was very angry myself.”

  Stephen imagined many derogatory comments about his brother might follow, so he made his presence known. Briskly, he stepped toward them as if he’d been marching down the hall all along.

  “Mrs. Merrick, welcome.”

  At his greeting, she beamed with pleasure.

  “Lt. Price, how lovely to see you again.”

  He supposed she actually had come to inquire as to Miss Wilson and her sisters, but he was vain enough to suppose that she’d come to visit him too. He was impressed by her daring.

  The entire morning, he’d struggled to devise a reason to stop by the vicarage, but he couldn’t without calling on the vicar too, so he hadn’t gone.

  “I was hoping to speak with Emeline,” she mentioned.

  “I don’t have any idea where she is,” Stephen replied, and he looked at the girls. “Do you know?”

  “She went to the village to run some errands for the housekeeper,” Nan said.

  “Oh, drat,” Mrs. Merrick responded, “I was just there. I must have missed her.”

  “She’s trying to be useful, so the earl doesn’t change his mind and decide we’re a burden.”

  “You’re not a burden,” Stephen insisted.

  “Of course they’re not,” Mrs. Merrick agreed.

  “Would you like to wait for her?” Stephen offered.

  “I probably shouldn’t. Oscar is expecting me by noon.”

  But she didn’t leave.

  “How about if I walk you?” he suggested. “It’s beautiful weather outside, and I’ve been cooped up with the account ledgers.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  She said goodbye to the girls, and they hurried off, which gave him the opportunity he’d been seeking. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her down the deserted corridor to an empty salon at the end.

  The drapes were shut and the furniture covered with sheets. There was no fire, so it was cold as ice, but they would generate their own heat.

  He pushed her against the wood of the door, and he fell on her like a ravenous beast. This had to be why she’d come to the manor, but if it wasn’t, he cared not. He couldn’t see her and not desire her.

  His tongue was in her mouth, his hands on her hips, her breasts. As he pinched her nipples, she moaned in delicious agony. He clasped her thighs and wrapped her legs around his waist.

  In a matter of seconds, his loins were crushed to hers, the fabric of trousers and drawers all that kept them from coupling.

  “What are we doing?” she asked, gasping for air.

  “We’re racing down the road to perdition. How do you like the view?”

  He fumbled with his trousers and impaled himself, filling her in one, smooth thrust. She wailed—loudly—and he slapped a palm across her lips to stifle the sound.

  She straddled his hips, with him standing, so they were off balance and giggling like halfwits. The naughtiness of their actions, the recklessness, was incomprehensible.

  He flexed once, twice, and they both came in a fiery rush. He was too disordered to remember to pull out, and he spilled himself into her womb. His knees were quaking, his face buried at her nape as his pulse slowed.

  Finally, he drew away, and she slid down his torso until her feet touched the floor.

  “My, my!” She was patting her hair, straightening her clothes. “Do all adults behave like this?”

  “Only the ones who are mad.”

  “I was perfectly sane before you arrived at Stafford.”

  “So was I.”

  “In a few short days, you’ve turned me into a lunatic.”

  She snorted with mirth, smothering her hilarity against his shirt. He nestled her close, liking how her smaller body fit his much larger frame.

  “What is happening to me?” she asked.

  “You’ve missed having a man in your bed, and I’m happy to oblige.”

  “You are going to get me in so much trouble.” She clutched the lapels of his coat and shook him. “And I’m not even worried about it.”

  “Neither am I.”

  She rose on tiptoe and kissed him.

  “Thank you for helping Emeline,” she said. “She’s needed a lucky break.”

  “I had nothing to do with it. It was all my brother’s idea.”

  “There have been too many horror stories about him, so I won’t give him the credit.” She took a deep breath and let it out. Composing herself, she was once again the vicar’s quiet, unassuming sister.

  “I really must be off,” she told him. “Oscar won’t sit down to his meal without me. If I’m late, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “I could pound him bloody for you. Would you like me to?”

  “Don’t tempt me.” She held her wrist to her nose and sniffed. “Ah, I can smell you on my skin! How will I endure a boring dinner with my brother? I can’t pretend everything is the same.”

  “Don’t ponder sin or fornication or how much you enjoy the size of my—”

  She wagged a scolding finger. “You! Be silent.”

  “I can’t. Not when I’m around you.”

  “Try a bit harder, would you?”

  She opened the door a crack and peeked out. The hall was empty, and she hurried out. He followed.

  “I’m walking you home,” he said.

  “Only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself.” She frowned. “And you can’t keep looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you want to eat me alive.”

  “I do want to eat you alive.”

  She gazed upward and murmured, “Lord, give me the strength to control myself.”

  “I don’t think He intervenes in this sort of thing.”

  “It can’t hurt to try.”

  Oscar was in his study, staring out the window as the clock rang with a single chime, indicating that it was one o’clock.

  Josephine was an hour late.

  In the mornings, she made charity calls for him so he didn’t have to bother. He hated visiting the sick, the poor, or the dying. People brought on their own troubles, and he had no sympathy for them, but she oozed compassion.

  Until he was wed—a future event he viewed with extreme distaste—she would serve as his hostess, so it was her duty to minister to his flock, much as it would be his wife’s after he chose a bride. But she was aware of the requirements when she left the house.

  She had to be back by noon so she could freshen up. Then they would dine promptly at twelve-thirty. He was a fastidious man, and he liked his routines. When his schedule was interrupted, it soured the remainder of his day.

  Her tardiness was disrespectful, but then, she had always been much too independent. She presumed she could act in any brazen fashion and there would be no consequences.

  Their father’s strict rules had not tamed her. Her husband’s severe criticisms—criticisms leveled for her own good—had not tamed her. Oscar’s firm guidance and moral instruction had not tamed her.

  She would blithely make note of his concerns, then carry on however she pleased.

  None of them had ever taken a belt to her, but maybe it was time. If she could be taught to fear the lash, she might temper her defiance.

  Down the lane, he observed her sauntering along, and as she neared, he reali
zed she wasn’t alone. The earl’s brother was with her. They weren’t behaving improperly, but still, Josephine was grinning at him like a flirtatious trollop.

  They stopped at the gate, and Lt. Price bowed courteously. She uttered a remark that had him laughing, and he continued on.

  Oscar’s fury simmered to a boil. While he’d grown hungry and his meal cold, she’d been throwing herself at the earl’s brother! Had she no shame? No sense of status or class? How could she humiliate herself over the likes of Stephen Price?

  Lt. Price was an ungodly heathen who, with the elevation of his impious brother, had been raised up above everyone. He could now pick any woman in the world to be his bride, so he’d deem a female of Josephine’s humble position to be a trifle, a plaything for his manly lusts. Didn’t Josephine know any better?

  Or perhaps she welcomed his attention. Her husband had never discussed the sordid details of their marriage, but he’d often hinted at her having disgusting tendencies. Was Stephen Price drawing his sister’s base inclinations to the fore?

  Oscar would kill her before he’d let it happen.

  He shifted away from the window, and he waited silently, listening, as she entered the house, as she hung her cloak and apologized to the maid for being late.

  He poked his head into the hall, his face blank.

  “Josephine, would you come here? I must speak with you.”

  “Yes, Oscar, certainly.” Hustling toward him, she smiled and stepped into the room. “I’m sorry I was delayed. There appears to be an influenza circulating the neighborhood. I couldn’t finish as quickly as I’d hoped.”

  He closed the door, and as he spun the key in the lock, he hissed, “Where have you been?”

  “What? I went visiting.”

  “Don’t lie to me!”

  “I’m not lying!”

  “You were with that blackguard, Stephen Price.”

  “Lt. Price? Yes, I ran into him on the way home. He accompanied me. There was no harm done.”

  He loomed up over her, liking how she shrank away, as if afraid he would strike her, and he had to admit the notion was tempting. However, the maid and cook were on the premises, so he couldn’t administer the punishment she deserved.

  “So long as you are living under my roof,” he snarled, “you will not prostitute yourself.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Am I? I saw him looking at you.”

  “You’re mad. He was being friendly.”

  “I saw you looking back.” He grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, and he squeezed tight, shaking her as if she were a bad dog.

  “Get down on your knees! Get down and beg the Lord for forgiveness.”

  Mute and aggrieved, she gaped at him, but didn’t move, so he forced her down. Recalcitrant whore that she was, she resisted with all her might, so he pushed and pushed until he had her on the floor. He held her there, as she cried and prayed, and he kept on and on until his back and arms ached, and he grew too weary to persist.

  He tossed her away, and she stumbled to the side.

  “Go to your room,” he spat, “and reflect on your sins. And if I catch you talking to Lt. Price again, I will beat you within an inch of your life.”

  She scurried out and scrambled to the vestibule on her hands and knees. As she reached the stairs, she used the banister to pull herself up. Then she climbed to her bedchamber and shut herself in to repent in private where he wouldn’t have to watch.

  “You’re to do what?”

  “Measure you.”

  “Why?”

  Emeline scowled at Widow Brookhurst. Though most wives did their own sewing, she was the premier seamstress in the area. People sought her out for special garments like wedding dresses or baptismal gowns. They were in her shop in the village, where Emeline had stopped to pick up supplies for the housekeeper at Stafford Manor.

  “My instructions,” the widow explained, “were from the earl’s brother. The earl is buying you clothes.”

  “The earl is buying me . . . clothes?”

  “Yes. Your sisters too. Bring them by tomorrow so I can check how tall they are.”

  “When were you informed of this?”

  “Earlier this morning. Lt. Price came by personally.” The woman raised a brow. “You’re to have whatever you need. I’m to spare no expense.”

  Emeline shook her head. “There must be some mistake.”

  “I received an order,” the widow huffed, “and I intend to fill it. It’s worth a fortune to me—both now and in the future.”

  “But why would the earl buy me clothes? I don’t understand.”

  “I’m supposing it’s because he let Mr. Mason burn your house down—with all your possessions inside.”

  “Mr. Mason has burned many houses. The earl hasn’t replaced anyone else’s belongings.”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  Mrs. Brookhurst studied Emeline, and a warning bell began to chime. The widow was obviously speculating that Nicholas Price wouldn’t purchase expensive gifts for Emeline unless she’d done something to deserve them. What was he thinking by encouraging such gossip? Didn’t he realize the stories that would spread?

  “I’d better return to the estate,” Emeline said. “I have to ask what this is about.”

  “Oh, I know what it’s about,” Mrs. Brookhurst baldly retorted.

  “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “You’re very pretty, Emeline, and he’s a rich, handsome bachelor. You watch yourself.”

  “Mrs. Brookhurst! Honestly! I hardly require a lecture on morals.”

  “Well, someone should speak up. Your mother isn’t around to counsel you. A girl could easily get herself into trouble with a fellow like him.”

  Dazed, Emeline had spun to go when Mrs. Brookhurst called, “Wait! I have a package for you.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “I had a few items that I’d prepared for other customers, but they’ll fit you. The earl insists you have them. I’ll send on the other pieces once they arrive.”

  “What pieces?”

  “He had me write to a shop in London where they have a selection of ready-made garments. He wants you fancied up faster than I can accomplish it.”

  “That is ridiculous.”

  “It’s interesting, how fond he’s grown. And so quickly too.”

  “He’s not . . . fond,” Emeline seethed. “He’s insane.”

  “What about these?” Mrs. Brookhurst held up a neatly-wrapped parcel. “If you’d rather not fuss with them, I can carry them to the manor for you.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “They’re paid for.” The widow shrugged. “You might as well have them.”

  Her temper spiking, Emeline whipped away and stomped out.

  If the entire neighborhood didn’t yet know about the gift, they’d soon learn of it.

  What a disaster! Nicholas—yes, Nicholas was how she now thought of him; he was no longer the earl—had left her in a dangerous position.

  The previous night, she’d lain in his bed and had gleefully allowed him to do delicious, amazing things to her. Pathetically, she was keen to misbehave again, the moment a clandestine tryst could be arranged.

  She’d told Mrs. Brookhurst that he was insane, but Emeline was the one who was mad.

  When they’d been snuggled together, he’d mentioned buying her a dress, but she hadn’t imagined he was serious. She’d naively deemed their encounter to be a spontaneous episode of mutual passion, but he seemed to have had a different opinion.

  Apparently, he presumed her favors could be purchased, and she was to be paid for her participation. If the price was high enough, what else might he expect her to try?

  Offended and furious, she marched on when another notion occurred to her.

 
He was a male, and an especially obtuse one at that. Perhaps he’d intended no insult. Perhaps he simply hadn’t been informed that a man of his station couldn’t give a gift to a woman of hers, that the gesture would be misconstrued.

  While she was aware that she constantly imbued him with traits he didn’t possess, she was eager to have the second possibility—that he was a clueless idiot—be the actual fact.

  The mansion came into view, and she entered the house and proceeded to the kitchen to deliver the provisions she’d retrieved in the village. She lingered, eavesdropping on the servants. She was anxious to ask where Nicholas was, but she couldn’t pose a question without generating unwanted attention.

  Eventually, she found out he was in the small dining salon, awaiting his breakfast. It was twelve-thirty in the afternoon, and the cook and her helpers were scurrying around, cracking eggs and slicing bread.

  She slipped out, wondering if she dared barge in on his meal without invitation, but she swiftly persuaded herself that she could. For goodness sake, she’d completely disgraced herself with him, and he’d touched her in her most private places. If that didn’t confer some sort of status, she didn’t know what did.

  She approached the doorway and peeked in. He was alone, his head in his hands, and he cut such a solitary figure that her heart ached. He looked so forlorn and dejected, his typical proud bearing tucked away.

  What must it be like to be him? She’d heard the most tragic stories about his childhood, yet he’d built a life for himself in the army where he was reputed to be a man of great courage and fidelity.

  He’d overcome so many obstacles. Who could blame him for being arrogant? After starting at the lowest point, he’d been elevated to one of the highest spots in the land. Wasn’t he entitled to his conceit?

  He appeared to have just staggered out of bed. He hadn’t washed or shaved. His hair was down and uncombed, the tangled strands brushing his shoulders. He’d put on a coat and trousers, but he hadn’t donned a shirt so his chest was bare.

  With what had transpired between them, how would they interact? Would he be flirtatious and fawning? Or would he be his usual abrupt self?

  If she’d been hoping for a tender welcome, he quashed any foolishness.