by Cheryl Holt
“Emeline,” he snapped without glancing up, “stop lurking and get your ass in here.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“I told you last night. I’d recognize that snotty stride anywhere.”
“I can’t begin to guess what that means.”
“It means you walk like a scolding shrew. When I hear you coming, I brace myself for a reprimand.”
She pulled out a chair, and as she seated herself, he frowned and winced.
“Would you close the curtains?”
“No. It’s almost one o’clock. It’s about time you roused yourself.”
“My head is pounding like there’s an anvil inside it. The sunlight only makes it worse.”
“You’ll survive.”
“You’re too cruel, Miss Wilson. Why do I tolerate you?”
“I force you to behave. You secretly enjoy it.”
Suddenly, her sisters raced by out in the hall. They were shrieking like wild monkeys swinging through the trees.
“Ah!” he groaned, rubbing his temples. “What’s that noise?”
She laughed. “It’s the sound of children playing.”
“Children? In this house?”
“My sisters are here, remember?”
“Oh . . .”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize they were raising such a ruckus. I’ll tell them to pipe down.”
She started to rise, but he reached over and furtively squeezed her hand.
“No, don’t. They can be as loud as they like. I don’t mind.”
The butler traipsed in, two footmen trailing after him, carrying trays laden with food.
It had been over a year since they’d served their master, so they’d made a huge fuss. Platter after platter was arranged before him, eggs and toast and fruit and ham. The choices went on and on until it became embarrassing. It was enough for an army, but he scarcely noticed.
The butler hovered, waiting for a word, a command, but Nicholas remained slumped in his chair.
“Shall I prepare a plate for you, my Lord Stafford?” the butler said.
“I can do it myself.”
“How about Miss Wilson? We weren’t aware she was joining you.”
Nicholas glared at her, mutely asking if she was hungry, and she smiled at the butler. “I don’t need anything, Mr. Jenkins. I rose at a normal hour and ate at a normal hour. Unlike some people I could name.”
“Has she always been this sassy?” Nicholas inquired of Mr. Jenkins.
“Ah . . . ah . . .” The elderly gentleman was too polite to answer honestly.
“Should I have her whipped for insubordination? Or should I simply dunk her in the horse trough until she cools off?”
The butler’s eyes were round as saucers, and the footmen gaped with alarm.
“Quit being obnoxious,” she admonished. “They assume you’re serious.”
“I am serious.”
“He is not,” she scoffed to the three men.
“If you keep jabbering so I can’t eat, you’ll discover how serious I am.” He waved the servants away, and as they hurried out, he called to Mr. Jenkins, “If she continues to pester me, I’ll have you bring me a whip.”
The poor fellow stiffened with affront, but trudged on.
“You are horrid,” she said as their strides faded. “They’ll spread tales that you’re a brute.”
“I am a brute, now be silent and let me dine in peace.”
He filled his plate to overflowing and wolfed it down. He filled it again and wolfed it too. She poured his tea, watching as he ate and ate and ate.
Finally, he shoved the food away, and he slouched, scowling.
“All right.” He sighed. “I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“What have I done this time? You only seek me out to chastise me.”
“I do not.”
“You do too. I feel as if I’ve hired a nanny. What crisis has arisen? Let’s see if I can fix it.”
He gazed at her, his hot attention sending shivers down her spine. He was dangerous and delectable, and she yearned to reach out and touch him. It was so difficult to pretend they were barely acquainted.
“You bought me clothes.”
“That’s your problem?”
“Yes. I didn’t ask for them.”
“No, you didn’t, but you need a new dress more than any woman I’ve ever met.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“What is it? Would you please get to it? I’ve slept late, and I have a thousand chores to finish.”
“People will talk.”
“I don’t care.”
“They’ll think that I . . . earned them in an indecent way.”
“You did earn them in an indecent way.” She sucked in a shocked breath, and he squeezed her hand again. “I’m joking, Em.”
“My neighbors won’t know that. I have to live here after you go back to London. I can’t have my reputation ruined.”
“I had Mr. Mason burn all your possessions. I owe you.”
“I still have a gown or two. I stuffed a pillowcase with the last of my things. I’m fine.”
“I can’t stand to have you walking around like a frump. You’re too pretty.”
“Thank you for the lovely compliment”—she blushed to high heaven—“but I can’t accept any gifts.”
“Not even for your sisters? You’d rather have them attired in rags?”
He studied her, his focus warm and inviting, then he jumped up and went to the door. He opened it and hollered as he yanked and yanked on the bell pull.
“Mr. Jenkins, I need you!”
The beleaguered man thundered up the stairs, obviously worried there was a calamity brewing.
“Yes, yes, milord, what is it?”
“I had Miss Wilson’s cottage destroyed.”
“I am aware of that fact, sir.”
“She and her sisters have nothing left—because of me.”
Jenkins made a feeble gesture, and he peered over at Emeline for assistance. She shrugged.
“In order to redeem myself,” Nicholas said, “I have bought them some clothes. I realize it’s odd for me to lavish her with such an extravagance, but I’m very sorry for my behavior. It’s my penance.”
Jenkins gawked at Emeline, then Nicholas, then Emeline, and he nodded. “Very good, sir.”
“While I’m in residence, she’ll be busy attending me.”
“I see.”
“There should be no concern over it.”
“I’m certain there won’t be, milord.”
“I’ve hired her as my . . . my . . . secretary.”
“Your . . . secretary?”
Emeline gasped. Women didn’t serve as secretaries. It was unheard of. Only men were deemed intelligent enough to handle such complicated tasks.
“Mr. Mason has informed me,” Nicholas kept on, “that she was overly educated by her father.”
“Too true, sir.”
“I decided to put all that schooling to work for me.”
“A wise idea, I’m sure.”
“This is another reason she needs clothes. She can’t be employed by me in such an important capacity while looking like a pauper.”
“Definitely not.”
“Tell everyone what I’ve told you,” he said. “I’ll have no disrespectful gossip about her. She’s living in the manor because of her job. She has to have a wardrobe commensurate with her position. Anyone who spreads rumors will answer to me.”
“Yes, my Lord Stafford.”
Nicholas eased him out. “That will be all. You’re excused.”
He shut the door in Jenkins’s stunned face, and he paused, listening until the man’s steps faded, then he turned to
her. He was grinning like an idiot.
“You are crazy,” she fumed.
“Crazy like a fox.” He tapped a finger on his temple. “Now I can spend as much time with you as I like, and it won’t be considered unusual. And if I want to buy you a new dress, I damn well will, and I won’t have to hear you complain.”
“Would you open the door?”
“No. You’re my secretary. I can be in a closed room with you. No one will think twice about it.”
“I will think twice.”
“You don’t get to have an opinion.”
He came back to his chair and seated himself. He clasped hold of her hand and traced circles on her wrist. When he stared at her as he was, her thoughts became jumbled. He seemed to want something from her that she couldn’t give. Or perhaps he didn’t know what he sought, and he hoped she’d enlighten him.
Around him, she felt special, as if he valued her above all women, which was ridiculous in the extreme. But she couldn’t stop the race of pleasure she suffered when she wondered if she might be beginning to matter to him.
How could he peer at her so ardently without there being a deeper meaning attached?
“You sneaked out of my bed,” he said. “I awoke and you weren’t there.”
“You assumed I’d stay the night?”
“Yes.”
“You’re insane. I can’t figure out why I visited you in the first place.”
“I missed you,” he absurdly declared.
“You did not.”
“I did. Isn’t that bizarre?”
Without warning, he grabbed her and dragged her to him. Her bottom was balanced on his thigh, her breasts crushed to his chest.
He kissed her slowly and mercilessly, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers roaming over her torso. Her muscles relaxed, her bones relaxed, her pores relaxed until she worried she might melt into a puddle on the rug.
She hadn’t the fortitude to deflect his delicious onslaught. She wished she could confess her predicament to an older, more experienced woman who could counsel her on how to resist him. Because what female would want to resist him?
It seemed as if she was perched on the edge of a cliff, that she’d jumped off and was falling and falling and falling. Where would she be when she landed?
“Good morning,” he said as he drew away.
“Good morning. How is your hangover?”
“I’m feeling better by the moment.”
“Do you drink excessive amounts so you have an excuse for your bad behavior?”
“No, I drink because I like it. And I misbehave because I’m a rogue and a scapegrace.”
“I don’t believe that about you.”
“What don’t you believe?”
“You enjoy acting the scoundrel, and you like pretending that you’re a lout, but you’re not. Not deep down.”
“You’re wrong. I’m as awful as everyone claims. You shouldn’t forget it.”
“Why have people thinking the worst of you? Under all the bluster, you’re actually a fine person.”
“My little champion,” he murmured, and he kissed her again.
This time, as he pulled away, she extricated herself and moved to put the table between them as a barrier. If he touched her, she couldn’t concentrate, and she definitely needed to focus.
She was tumbling down a slippery slope. He insisted on being kind to her, but she misconstrued his generosity, imbuing it with a significance she was positive he didn’t intend.
In her mind, she’d built up fantasies where he was helping her because he was smitten, which had to be nonsense. He wasn’t the type to bond in any abiding way, and she wasn’t worldly enough to separate their physical attraction from the emotional one she was developing for him.
“Why are you bothering with me?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t be alone with you for two seconds without you making advances.”
“Are you complaining?”
“No, I’m just puzzled. I don’t understand why you’d involve yourself.”
“You amuse me. You’re so entertaining.”
“That’s it?”
“If you consider how easily I’m bored, I’d say it’s quite a lot.”
“You don’t envision anything . . . more happening, do you?”
“What more could there be?”
“Do you fancy me?” she humiliated herself by asking.
“Yes.”
His torrid gaze took a leisurely trip down her body, stopping at all the pertinent spots.
“But . . . it’s not me precisely, is it?” she pressed. “You could dally with me or it could be any woman.”
He snorted. “I’m a bit choosey. I wouldn’t take up with any old shrew.”
“I see.” Feeling like a fool, she started for the door.
“Where are you going?” he inquired.
“I can’t continue on with you. I don’t know how.”
“What’s to know?”
“How long are you planning to be here?”
He shrugged. “A week? Maybe two?”
“You’d never make . . . a . . . commitment to me, would you?”
“No.”
He said it gently, but still, it hurt.
“We’d flirt and play, and then, you’d leave for London without looking back?”
“You’ve pretty much covered it.”
“Will you ever visit Stafford again?”
“Not if I don’t have to.”
She reached for the knob.
“It’s just kissing, Em.”
“It’s more than that, and you know it.”
“I agree.” He grinned his devil’s grin. “It’s a tad more than that.”
“You’re very experienced at amour, aren’t you?”
“Not at amour. At lust. You shouldn’t confuse the two. Lust is what’s flaring between us, and I’m very adept at satisfying it.”
“I’m not experienced, and I don’t care to be.”
“I’ve told you not to lie to me. You’re so bad at it. You like what we do together. You’re simply too prim to admit it.”
“You’re correct. I’m much too prim, and you’re much too sophisticated.”
She walked out, and he snarled, “Emeline!”
“What?”
He was irked that she’d depart, and she wasn’t surprised by his spurt of temper. He liked having his own way too much.
“Were you expecting something else from me?” he asked.
Yes, yes! “No. I merely like to be clear so I remember my place.”
“I don’t grow fond of women. I don’t bond with them. Not even when it’s one whose company I enjoy. I don’t have that type of stable character.”
“I understand.” She nodded. “You mentioned to Mr. Jenkins that you’d hired me as your secretary.”
He made a waffling motion with his hand. “I don’t need a secretary. I have an office full of clerks in London to chase after my paperwork.”
“I’m happy to help you. I’m skilled at writing and factoring.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Otherwise, I won’t be able to attend you anymore.”
“There are plenty of single females in the area. I’m sure I can find someone to divert me for the remainder of my stay.”
Turning to the pot of tea, he poured a cup, then heaped another pile of food on his plate. He began eating. He ignored her completely, as if he’d forgotten she existed, as if she’d become invisible.
She panicked. Did she really intend to not see him again? It was too sad to imagine.
Frantically, stupidly, she was ready to rush back in, to snuggle herself on his lap and tell him she hadn’t meant any of it. But she couldn’t. By
its very nature, an illicit liaison was a recipe for disaster, and she hadn’t the detachment required to pull it off.
She would hope for his continued kindness and compassion. She would pray that she hadn’t misjudged him and that he would assist her in the end, but she couldn’t seek more.
She trudged down the hall, all the while wishing that he would call to her, that they might have a different conclusion, but silence dogged her every step.
Benedict Mason rode up the lane toward the manor. After meeting with Nicholas Price the previous afternoon, he’d been in a foul mood so he’d fled for a few hours. He couldn’t have gossip spreading that he was no longer in charge or that his prior actions were being reversed, but he wasn’t certain how to regain his advantage.
Emeline Wilson and her sisters had been moved into the mansion. Evictions and other cost-saving measures were on hold. Nicholas and Stephen Price hadn’t left.
It was annoying, having them underfoot and undermining his decisions. And he was most especially unnerved by their examining the account ledgers. Not that he thought either brother was particularly literate. They’d been raised in an orphanage, so he doubted they could add and subtract.
Yet it couldn’t hurt to be cautious, and Benedict was nothing if not wary.
Up ahead, he saw Widow Brookhurst. She was carrying a large package. He approached, hailed her, and reined in.
“Good day, Mrs. Brookhurst,” he said.
“Mr. Mason.”
“What have you there? Is it a parcel for the housekeeper? I’m happy to take it the rest of the way for you.”
Benedict had assumed it was mended tablecloths or some such, so he was stunned when she replied, “It’s not for the housekeeper. It’s for Emeline Wilson.”
Miss Wilson was destitute. How had she bought anything?
“Really? What has she purchased?”
“She hasn’t. It’s a gift from the earl.”
“What did you say?”
“He sent his brother to my shop early this morning with an order for a wardrobe of clothes.” She hefted the bundle. “This is the first installment.”
“An entire wardrobe?”
“Yes.”
“What have you provided?”
“Three dresses and some undergarments.”
“Undergarments!”
“There’s more coming from London too. For her and her sisters.”
