My Scoundrel

by Cheryl Holt

  “Are you sure we should end it?”

  “Yes. The chance of discovery is simply too great and the ramifications would be too dire.”

  “What about me? What about what I want?”

  “What about you?” she gently replied. “You’ll be here for a few weeks, then you’re leaving. When you go, I can’t have my world in tatters.”

  “I would never hurt you.”

  “I realize that, but if we were found out—which we eventually would be—catastrophe would rain down on me whether you intended it or not.”

  They stood together, silent, miserable, and she held her breath in anticipation. If he really desired her, they were at the spot where he could fix their predicament. The remedy for carnal activity was matrimony. It was the usual solution. It was the perfect and quick answer to their sizzling attraction.

  He wasn’t a fool. He was aware of how to rectify their situation, and while she’d resolved to never wed again, she wouldn’t mind wedding him. Oscar would never consent to a match, but if Stephen was willing to support her, Oscar’s opinion was irrelevant.

  She was an adult. Stephen could propose, and she could accept. They could obtain a Special License, and in a few days, they could be legitimately snuggled in his bed as husband and wife. They could stay there forever if he wished.

  But apparently, he didn’t wish it. Or perhaps, he wasn’t in the mood to be shackled. Why would he be? As he kept pointing out, he was an earl’s brother. He could pick any rich girl in the kingdom for his bride. He dabbled with women of Jo’s class for a different sort of role entirely.

  Plus, she always conveniently forgot that she was barren, and a man of Stephen’s status would want a dozen children. Even if he’d consider choosing a common wife, he would never choose her.

  “Well, then”—he stepped away from her—“I guess this is goodbye.”

  “I guess it is.”

  “I’m glad I met you,” he said.

  “I’m glad too.”

  “If you ever need anything, let me know. I’ll assist you if I can.”

  “You’re a decent man, Stephen Price.”

  “I try to be. I have to work doubly hard to make up for my brother’s failings.”

  Without another word, he yanked away. He jumped on his horse and trotted off.

  Jo tarried, her heart breaking, until he was swallowed up by the trees.

  She nearly screamed for him to come back, but she didn’t. It was wrong to lust after him. She’d been chasing a dream. A pretty dream, but a dangerous one all the same.

  She headed for home, her legs weak, her bones rubbery, and there was a ringing in her ears, as if she’d been struck deaf. In a fog, she moved through the village, mumbling greetings to people she passed, but not recognizing any of them.

  Finally, she staggered to the vicarage. There was a horse tethered out front, so they had a guest, but she couldn’t bear the notion of serving tea and playing hostess. She almost spun and ran, but if Oscar was watching out the window, she didn’t dare. Where could she hide anyway?

  She went inside and hung her cloak on the hook. Very quietly, she tiptoed by the parlor, praying she was invisible and could scurry past without being summoned. But her luck was all bad.

  “Josephine,” her brother said, “there you are. Please join us.”

  She forced herself to enter the room. “Hello, Oscar.”

  “Mr. Mason has paid us a visit.”

  Jo turned to the man she loathed so deeply, the man who had caused so much misery for so many.

  He and Oscar were fast friends, always huddling behind closed doors, but Jo was furious whenever Oscar let him in the house. It was a slap in the face to all those who Mason had harmed.

  “Hello, Mr. Mason.” She seated herself in the chair across. “How kind of you to stop by.”

  “Mrs. Merrick, I insist you call me Benedict.”

  Unnerved, she glanced at her brother.

  “I have great news,” Oscar gushed.

  “What is it?”

  “Mr. Mason and I have discussed the possibility of his courting you, and I’ve given my permission.”

  “Court me?”

  “Yes.”

  She felt as if she’d fallen into an abandoned mine pit, that she was tumbling down and down, and when she landed at the bottom, she would be crushed to death.

  Courted by Benedict Mason? Was Oscar mad? Why hadn’t he asked her opinion before springing the decision on her? How was she to respond? No, thank you?

  Both men were grinning, and Mason was puffed up like a rooster, so she had to maneuver very, very carefully.

  “I’m honored,” she murmured.

  “I knew you would be,” Oscar said. “That’s why I spoke to him about you.”

  “I appreciate you thinking of me.”

  “He’ll come by on Sunday and escort you to church. The two of you can sit together. Afterward, he’s accepted my invitation to Sunday dinner.”

  “How . . . lovely.”

  “Now then”—Oscar pointed to the tea tray—“would you pour for us?”

  Jo managed to stand, but she was off balance and dizzy, and she clasped her chair to steady herself.

  “Actually, Oscar,” she said, “I’m not feeling very well. Would you mind terribly if I retired?”

  Oscar scowled. “It’s nothing dire, I hope.”

  “No. I just have the worst headache. I need to lie down.”

  Oscar might have refused, but Mason intervened. “Certainly, we excuse you.”

  Jo nodded. “I’m grateful.”

  She started out as he added, “I’ll see you Sunday morning.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  She climbed the stairs to her room, as a wave of nausea swept over her. She grabbed the chamber pot under the bed and vomited up the contents of her stomach.

  Nicholas stood by the window, staring out at the park. The moon was up, so he had a good view of his property that stretched to the horizon, but the sight brought him no satisfaction. He could have been gazing at any piece of land.

  It was very late, the house silent, and he might have been the last man on earth.

  He’d spent his life, caring for Stephen, but now, Stephen was pulling away. He would forge a new path that didn’t include Nicholas. Stephen had always been the driving force that kept Nicholas focused on his goals. If he didn’t have to worry about his younger brother, where did that leave him?

  Would he stay in the army? For how long? To what end? Would he fight senseless wars until he was crippled or killed?

  In a few months, he’d be married to Veronica, and he tried to picture how matrimony would alter him, but he couldn’t see what differences it would render. He didn’t plan to live with Veronica, and they’d never discussed domestic issues—they’d hardly ever spoken—so he wasn’t sure what she was expecting.

  She was a spoiled, rich girl who thrived on clothes and parties, so he doubted matrimony would change her either.

  He wanted to fill his nursery with a dozen boys, but only so he’d have plenty of heirs to prevent his relatives from ever inheriting. For that reason alone, he should have been anticipating his wedding night, but he couldn’t generate any enthusiasm for the event. Veronica was very beautiful, but in an icy manner that didn’t ignite his masculine passions.

  Why are you marrying her? a voice shouted in his head. Why go through with it?

  The question occasionally plagued him, usually on quiet evenings when he was being maudlin, but he ignored it.

  “You know why you’re doing it,” he muttered to himself.

  He was doing it to show the ton that he could. He was doing it to enrage the people who’d shunned his parents. There were several lofty pricks who would never get over the infamy, and the notion always made him smile.

 
A noise sounded out in the hall, and he braced, hoping it was Emeline, but he swiftly realized it wasn’t her. It was just the old mansion creaking, and disappointment washed over him.

  What was wrong with him? He never moped, but since his arrival at the estate, he was brooding incessantly.

  A decanter of brandy was set on the mantle over the hearth, and he grabbed it and poured himself a drink. He sipped it slowly, but it wasn’t the cure for what ailed him.

  Not counting their brief quarrel out on the lane, he hadn’t talked to Emeline in three days. He’d assumed their flirtation was proceeding in a fine fashion, so he’d been surprised at her abruptly informing him that it was over.

  After she’d enlightened him, he’d presumed he didn’t mind, but his world was incredibly empty without her in it. She’d inserted herself in a flagrant way, and he’d grown used to having her around.

  Apparently, he’d developed a fondness for her, one he didn’t like and wasn’t interested in pursuing, yet he seemed intent on pursuing it anyway.

  She didn’t want to continue their dalliance? Well, to hell with her! Why should her wishes be paramount? It was his damn house, and she resided in it at his pleasure.

  At the moment, his pleasure was that she entertain him.

  He poured another drink, downed it in a quick gulp, then exited his room and went to the stairs.

  Lust and liquor were driving him. It was a deadly combination that often goaded him into trouble, but he couldn’t tamp down his need to be with her. He felt as if a magnet was dragging him to her, and he couldn’t avoid its strong pull.

  He marched to her door and raised a hand to knock, then thought better of it. He wasn’t about to give her a chance to refuse him entrance, so he spun the knob and strolled in.

  The sitting room was dark, the last embers of a fire glowing in the fireplace. In the bedchamber beyond, a candle burned. He could see her bed, but she wasn’t in it.

  “Emeline,” he snapped, “where are you?”

  Bare feet padded across the floor, and she appeared in the doorway. As she espied him, she gasped and lurched back into the bedroom. She raced around the bed, but it was an ineffective shield against him.

  He advanced toward her, delighted to note that she was attired only in a robe, with nothing on underneath. Her hair was down and brushed out, the curly locks falling to her waist, and he could smell warm water and soap as if she’d been bathing.

  She looked fresh-scrubbed, innocent and decadent all at once, and a flood of lust shot through him.

  He desired her as he’d never desired another woman, and he couldn’t figure out why. Perhaps there was no answer. Perhaps it was simply a mystery of the universe that wasn’t meant to be solved.

  “Hold it right there, you bounder.”

  “No.”

  “You can’t just . . . just . . . come in here in the middle of the night.”

  “Why not? It’s my house, and I’m the earl. How many times must I tell you? I can do whatever I like.”

  He reached for her, and she tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. He grabbed her, and together, they tumbled onto the mattress. He hugged her to his side, a leg draped over her thighs.

  “Oh, you are the worst bully,” she fumed.

  “I know.”

  “And you’re not sorry.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  He grinned, but she scowled, and he was determined to wipe it away.

  It was the oddest thing, but when he was with her, he felt so much better. The demons plaguing him vanished, and he wouldn’t remember why he’d been unhappy.

  “Why are you up so late?” she asked.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “So you decided to harass me instead?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned down and kissed her, and he was annoyed to find himself sighing with contentment.

  “I thought we weren’t doing this anymore,” she complained as he drew away.

  “I thought we weren’t either, but you’re being ridiculous.”

  “I am being ridiculous? You’re a cad who is bent on ruining me and destroying my reputation. I’m trying to save myself.”

  “We enjoy a potent attraction. Why ignore it?”

  “Have you a single honorable intention toward me?”

  “No.”

  She huffed out a disgusted breath, and he was irked by her reaction.

  Women adored him. From lowest doxy to highest aristocratic lady, they all assumed they could win, then tame him. They fought to be the one he fancied. Only Emeline Wilson was immune to his charms.

  He’d shown how he could change her world. She was living in his mansion, sleeping in his bed, and eating his food. She didn’t have to worry about anything.

  If ever there was a female who could benefit from an alliance with a rich, powerful male, it was she. But she didn’t understand the advantages, and it aggravated him that he had to point them out.

  “Have you ever stopped to think,” he said, “how you could profit by a liaison with me?”

  “I’m not a harlot, and I won’t accept compensation.”

  “That’s not what I mean. If you would agree to please me while I’m at Stafford, I would—”

  “How long will that be? A few more hours? A day or two?”

  “I might be here a whole ’nother week.”

  “I rest my case. Why should I surrender my virginity merely to satisfy your base urges?”

  “Miss Wilson, you love my base urges. Admit it.”

  “Don’t twist my words. You’re much too sophisticated at these sorts of games, and I refuse to play them with you.”

  He wasn’t playing a game. He was suffering from a terrible attraction, and he wanted to act on it. Her life was all misery and gloom. Wouldn’t a torrid affair be just the ticket to improve her mood?

  “Will you tell me something?” she asked. “Be serious for once.”

  “I’ll be serious as a rabid dog.”

  “Lord Stafford . . .”

  “Call me Nicholas.”

  “No.”

  “Then I won’t listen to your question.”

  She hemmed and hawed, then said, “Nicholas—”

  He laughed and laughed. “You are so easy to manipulate.” He swooped in and stole a kiss. “What is it?”

  “What will happen to me and my sisters? It was very kind of you to move us into the manor, but what are we to do next?”

  He hadn’t considered it. He liked knowing that she was on the premises, that he might round a corner and see her down the hall. He’d even come to like the sound of her sisters careening down the grand staircase.

  Though he had to return to London, he felt trapped in a magical spot where he could split into two pieces. One part of him would continue to dawdle at Stafford with Emeline, while the other part—his real self—would go back to the city, to his marriage and his career in the army.

  What should happen to her? He had no idea.

  “You’ll stay here,” he said.

  “For how long?”

  “For as long as you want.”

  “People would be shocked.”

  “So?”

  “I care what they think of me.”

  “You shouldn’t. I saw how you were treated that day I arrived. They don’t deserve your esteem, and you shouldn’t fret over their opinion. It seems to already be awfully low. I can’t imagine how you could push it any lower.”

  “I’m respected in the community,” she insisted.

  “If you say so.”

  “I am!”

  “Fine. You’re respected.” He shrugged, giving ground. “I noticed you’ve been wearing the dresses I bought you.”

  “Yes, I have been.”

  “Weren’t you adamantly opposed to acce
pting any gifts?”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “What about your lofty principles?”

  “Evidently, I have none whatsoever.”

  “You haven’t said thank you.”

  “I won’t either. You’re too vain by half. Any expression of gratitude would make your head swell even further.”

  He laughed again. He didn’t know why he put up with her or why she humored him so completely. He wouldn’t have tolerated churlishness in another, but with her, he was fascinated by how she viewed him.

  When every other woman loved him, why didn’t she? The more she proclaimed her dislike, the more intent he was on reversing her attitude.

  “You’ve been looking very fetching,” he told her.

  “Don’t you dare compliment me.”

  What female didn’t like flattery? What was her problem? As opposed to some of the praise he’d spewed in his life, with her he actually meant it.

  “Why shouldn’t I compliment you?”

  “Because—when you’re charming—you confuse me. I forget that I hate you.”

  “We’ve been through this. You don’t hate me. You simply need to recollect how good we are together.”

  He was tired of talking to her. If he wasn’t careful, she’d gab all night, and he’d never have the chance to do what he’d come to do.

  He bent down and nuzzled her nape, gratified when goosebumps cascaded down her arms.

  “Of all the clothes I purchased for you,” he said, “guess which item is my favorite.”

  “Which one?”

  “This robe you have on. It’s practically indecent how it hugs your curves.”

  His fingers were busy, loosening the belt so he could nibble a trail to her cleavage. He dipped under the fabric and sucked a nipple into his mouth.

  She hissed and arched up, and he was thrilled by her reaction. She was full of passion, but it was all misdirected. Her energy was never expended on tasks that mattered, on tasks that would bring her pleasure. If she became more selfish and less altruistic, she’d be happier for it; she’d be better off.

  “Nicholas,” she murmured, and on hearing his name, his idiotic pulse galloped with delight.

  “What?”