My Scoundrel

by Cheryl Holt

  He’d even applied for a Special License. It was sitting on his desk down in the library—unused and unnecessary.

  Ha! Stephen hooted with glee whenever he thought of how Emeline had rejected his brother. The supreme marital catch in England, the consummate lady’s man, the notorious lover and exploiter of women, had met his match.

  Emeline Wilson didn’t want him, and Nicholas was in a state of shock. It was such a rich, hilarious ending that Stephen couldn’t stop laughing, and he liked Emeline more and more because of it.

  She was tough. She had grit. She had pride and sense. Eventually, she’d relent—Nicholas was a master at cunning and he’d wear her down—and Stephen would be delighted to have her as his sister-in-law.

  He approached his door, and he paused to wonder where Jo’s room was located. He needed to ask her some questions, but events had been too hectic, and they hadn’t had a chance to speak about what she’d done.

  She’d traipsed off to Belgium, pretending she had the authority to fetch Annie to England. Her plan had been devised in secret and carried out with no assistance. How had she mustered the courage? It contradicted everything he knew about her, and he didn’t understand her behavior.

  He wanted to thank her for bringing Annie to Stafford. If left to his own devices, he might never have accomplished the deed. Though his intentions had been honorable, he’d always found reasons to delay.

  Jo had taken matters into her own hands, had forged ahead where Stephen hadn’t dared. Annie was home, where she belonged. Because of Jo. Not because of Stephen. Stephen had proved himself a great talker, a great dreamer, but Jo had turned out to be the great doer.

  With her incredible adventure completed, she was sending him a message, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He was dying to inquire, but not in the middle of the night when he was drained and feeling a tad low. He was still physically attracted to her, and in his current condition, any contact might conclude in a manner best avoided.

  He spun the knob and entered his room, expecting the place to be dark, but to his surprise, there was a cheery fire in the hearth. A small table was in front of it, pillows scattered about for lounging and staring into the flames. There was a bottle of wine, a decanter of brandy, and two glasses on the floor. Someone had been drinking the wine.

  “What the devil . . . ?” he muttered.

  He went to the bedchamber, seeing a brace of candles, another warm fire. In the dressing room beyond, there were more candles, yet another fire.

  In the air, he could smell heated water and scented bath salts.

  Was someone taking a bath? At midnight? In his dressing room?

  He glanced around, worried that he’d walked into the wrong suite by mistake, but no, there were his riding boots in the corner, his pistols on a chair, his coat thrown across the foot of the bed.

  Unsettled to the point of alarm, he crept over and peeked in the dressing room. The sight that greeted him was so astounding that he had to blink and blink to clear his vision.

  “Mrs. Merrick?” he said.

  “It’s Jo to you, and don’t argue about it.”

  She was reclined in his bathing tub. Naked. Her glorious brunette hair was piled on her head, damp tendrils curling on her shoulders. She was wet and delectable, and though he hadn’t meant to react, his cock was hard as stone.

  She noticed instantly and flashed a sultry smile. Then she stood, water sluicing down her curvaceous body as she stepped out and grabbed a towel.

  As if they’d shared the suite forever, as if they were an old married couple, she dried herself as he watched. He was flabbergasted by her audacity, aroused by her nudity, and perplexed in the extreme.

  What had happened to her?

  The last time they’d spoken, she’d been a quivering, apologetic rabbit who was frightened of her own shadow. Now she was . . . was . . .

  He didn’t know what she was, but the trip to Belgium had changed her. This Josephine Merrick was bold and blunt and shameless, and he was too stunned to comment for he had no idea what to say.

  “Is Annie asleep?” she asked.

  “Yes, finally.”

  “That girl can talk! After the excitement over our arrival, I doubted she’d ever be able to rest.”

  “I didn’t think she would either.”

  “She’ll calm down once she’s been at Stafford awhile, once she accepts that she won’t have to ever leave. She was so nervous about seeing you again.”

  “She needn’t have been.”

  “I told her that, but she’s a child. Telling her and having you prove it are two different animals.”

  She expounded as if she was an expert on parenting, as if she was a nanny or governess or had birthed a dozen babies herself. She was a mystery beyond his comprehension.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  “In your room do you mean?”

  “Yes—here in my bedchamber. Why are you?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  Galvanizing his attention, she ran the towel round and round her breasts, then tossed it away. She marched over to a hook on the wall, pulled down his robe, and put it on. The sleeves were too long, so she rolled them up, but she didn’t cinch the belt, so the center of her lush torso was on display.

  She sauntered toward him, the hem of the garment wafting behind her. He had a perfect view of bosom, belly, mons, and thighs, and he shouldn’t have stared, but he couldn’t help it. When desire sizzled so fiercely between them, it was impossible not to want her.

  She snuggled herself to him. On the way over, she’d grabbed a glass off the dresser—whiskey from the smell of it—and she downed the contents in a single swallow.

  “You’re drinking . . . liquor?” he stammered.

  “I’ve discovered that I enjoy it. It relaxes me.”

  “Who are you?” he teased. “Have we met?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “I could swear you’re Josephine Merrick, the vicar’s widowed sister.”

  “Didn’t you hear? Vicar Blair killed Josephine. Someone came back in her place and is hiding in her body.”

  “Who came back?”

  “A new sort of woman, one who will engage in any wild behavior, one who is madly, passionately in love with you.”

  “What?” He shook his head. “I don’t understand you at all.”

  “What’s to understand? I suddenly find myself eager to wed a sexy, hardened soldier.”

  “That would be me?”

  “Yes, that would be you.”

  “What about your brother?”

  “I don’t care about Oscar. Lord Stafford can do whatever he wants to him.”

  “And Annie?”

  “I love her, and I will be her mother. You’re not marrying anyone else. You’re not letting anyone else raise her.”

  “But people might gossip. People might complain about her being here, that she’s my natural daughter.”

  “Then they’ll have to deal with me.”

  He studied her ferocious gaze, her firm expression. Josephine Merrick had gone to Belgium, and yes, someone else had definitely returned.

  “You want to marry me?” he said.

  “Yes, and you haven’t proposed. I suggest you get on with it—before I change my mind.” She kissed him slowly, seductively, her tongue in his mouth, her hands on his ass. “There are two things you should probably know first.”

  “Uh-oh. What are they?”

  “For my wedding gift, I need you to give me some money.”

  “What for?”

  “I stole the collection money from Oscar—to fund my trip to Belgium.”

  “You stole it?”

  “Yes.”

  He laughed and laughed. “Your brother was almost hanged over it. We thought
he was lying, besmirching your deceased memory.”

  “No, it was me, but I can’t start our life together on such a wicked note. I promised the Lord I’d pay it back. So . . . will you help me?”

  “Of course I will. What is the second thing?”

  “You and I, Lt. Price, are going to have a baby.”

  His breath hitched in his lungs. “We’re . . . what?”

  “We’re having a baby.” She shrugged out of his robe, and it slid to the floor. “It seems I’m not barren after all. Now let’s go to bed. I’m exhausted.”

  She clasped his wrist and led him over to it. He followed like a puppet on a string.

  “No peeking.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “I’m serious. Don’t look until we tell you.”

  “I won’t, I won’t!”

  Emeline kept her eyes tightly closed. Nan and Nell were guiding her. Annie Price, their best friend in the entire world, tagged along behind. Emeline had to trust that, between the three of them, they wouldn’t let her trip over a stump or fall in a hole.

  They had coaxed her into the village, claiming Lt. Price had given them pennies to buy ribbons for their hair. Yet once they’d arrived, another plan had presented itself.

  They were escorting her somewhere, and Emeline was glad to have their secret revealed. For some time, it had been obvious they had a scheme brewing. There’d been giggles and whispers and conversations that halted when she entered a room.

  Whatever mischief they’d hatched, she hoped it wasn’t awful, that she could smile through the unveiling.

  “Are your eyes still closed?” Nan inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “No peeking!” she warned again.

  “I’m not.”

  They were next to a building, and inside, Emeline could hear people frantically murmuring, “She’s here! She’s here! Ssh!”

  It wasn’t her birthday, so what could it be?

  A door creaked, and Emeline was pulled across the threshold. Nell and Nan cried, “Open up. Look!”

  Emeline obeyed and was stunned to find herself in a schoolhouse. It was newly constructed, with desks, slates, books, and maps on the walls. If she had sat down and drawn a picture of the ideal spot for teaching, this was the exact scene she would have imagined.

  At the front, a crowd was gathered around the teacher’s desk: Stephen and Jo Price, hastily wed and with a babe on the way. The vicar, Ted Smith. Mr. Templeton, Mrs. Brookhurst, and other neighbors who had been friends of her parents, who had watched her grow up in Stafford.

  Off to the side, there were several carpenters, wounded veterans from London who had served with the Price brothers. One was missing a foot. Another a leg. Another an ear. They were a rag-tag collection of lost souls brought to Stafford by the earl.

  In the middle of the group, the earl, himself, Captain Nicholas Price, beamed fondly at her. He appeared regal, confident, larger than life, and on seeing him, she could barely keep from running over and falling into his arms.

  He’d rescued her from Benedict Mason, had banished Vicar Blair to an unnamed location—supposedly to the penal colonies with Mason—then he’d left and had been gone for weeks. She hadn’t known where he was or if he was coming back, and she hadn’t asked. She wasn’t in any position to inquire about him and had studiously avoided any gossip.

  For some odd reason, he’d proposed to her before he departed, and she couldn’t figure out why he had. She’d spent many sleepless nights mulling that peculiar encounter, recalling his shock at being rebuffed.

  In light of how he’d tricked and deceived her, had he really thought she’d shame herself again? The notion had enraged her, and she’d kept herself centered and sane by envisioning him in London, chasing after every beautiful, rich debutante in the city.

  Now he’d resurfaced as abruptly as he’d vanished. What did it portend?

  “Surprise!” they shouted in unison.

  “What is this?” she tentatively asked.

  “It’s a school,” Nan explained. “Lord Stafford had it built—just for you.”

  Nell added, “All the children in the village will be required to attend. He’s ordering them to learn to read and write, so you’ll be happy.”

  “Oh.”

  “Isn’t it grand?” Nan asked.

  “Yes, very grand.”

  The three girls skipped away, and they rushed to Lord Stafford and hugged him, grinning as if he walked on water.

  “You wore me down, Em,” he said. “You nagged and nagged over your blasted school, and now you have it.”

  In case she hadn’t noticed his largesse, he gestured around. It was a magnanimous, kingly motion that vividly reminded her of all that she had once loved and hated about him. He could be the kindest, most generous man in the world. But he could also be the most calculating and cruel.

  She didn’t want him at Stafford. She was still recuperating from her ordeal, and she couldn’t abide the prospect of seeing him constantly and remembering how terribly he’d wounded her.

  Suddenly, she realized the room was very quiet. Everyone was gaping, waiting for her to comment. They were in a festive mood and had expected her to be too. The earl had presented her with her life’s dream, practically on a silver platter.

  Why wasn’t she celebrating? Why wasn’t she spinning in joyous circles?

  “Do you like it, Emeline?” Nell nervously broached.

  It was too much for Emeline to absorb. The school and the earl and her memories.

  Feeling unaccountably distraught, she mumbled, “Excuse me,” and she staggered out. Blindly, she raced down the street, out of the village and into the woods. She slowed to a stop and sat against a tree.

  What was happening to her? All she did anymore was weep and regret. She was overly emotional, prone to melancholy and maudlin reflection.

  She wallowed in self-pity and couldn’t move beyond what had transpired. Why not? She wasn’t the only female in history who’d ever been duped by a scoundrel. Why couldn’t she forgive and forget as was the Christian way?

  To her eternal disgust, much of her misery was due to Jo’s happiness.

  Jo was increasing with the baby she’d presumed she could never have. She had a husband she adored and a daughter she cherished. She was rid of her horrid brother forever and living in a beautiful house, Mason’s old residence behind the manor.

  Jo was brimming with elation, while Emeline was more dejected than ever.

  Gad, she was pathetic! She couldn’t be glad for her friend, couldn’t wish her well.

  Every time she gazed at Jo, she was overcome by envy and resentment. She and Jo had both dallied with the Price brothers, but at the conclusion of their illicit affairs, Jo had been blessed with every boon, while Emeline was where she’d always been. Alone. Poor. No husband. No home. No change on the horizon.

  Long before she saw him, his boots crunched toward her on the gravel. She could have predicted he’d chase after her. He’d given her a wonderful gift, but she hadn’t been sufficiently grateful, so he’d harangue at her until she responded in a fashion more to his liking.

  At the prospect of quarreling with him, she was frozen in place, too weary to flee or fight.

  He rounded the bend and kept coming until he was directly in front of her, until he was so close that the tips of his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt. With her seated and him standing, he seemed inordinately tall. The sky was so blue, the clouds floating by over his head, and the sight made her dizzy.

  He was too handsome, too virile, too . . . too . . . everything.

  “For months, all I heard from you”—he was in a temper, his color high, his eyes flashing daggers—“was I want a school, I want a school. So I build you a damned school, and when I give it to you, with the whole town watching, you have a tantrum
and run off. What is wrong with you?”

  “Go away.”

  “Not until you answer my question. What is wrong with you?”

  He plopped down beside her, a lazy elbow balanced on his knee.

  “Don’t you have to be somewhere?” she rudely snapped.

  “Like where?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. How about with your regiment in the army? Weren’t you recalled to duty?”

  “I retired from the army. That’s why I was away for so long.”

  “You what?”

  “I resigned. I missed Stafford too much.”

  “You liar.”

  “I’m not lying. You insisted the property would grow on me, and you were correct. This spot is my home. It’s in my blood, and I’m never leaving it again.”

  He was staring at her strangely, making her extremely uncomfortable. They were playing a game of cat and mouse, with him the cat and her the mouse. He was toying with her, leading her down a road she was sure she shouldn’t travel.

  “How about your fiancée?” she asked. “Why aren’t you in London with her?”

  “I told you I jilted her.”

  “What a gentleman,” she snidely retorted.

  “I did it for you. You should be thanking me.”

  “Thanking you!”

  “I never should have proposed to her. My brother warned me, but I wouldn’t listen.”

  “You seemed fairly happy that day she was here at the estate.”

  “I was just pretending. I’m relieved to be shed of her, although when I met with her father to work out the details of the split, I really got an earful. If you’d been there while he was shouting at me, you’d have enjoyed it.”

  “I’ll bet I would have.”

  “I haven’t had anybody yell at me like that since I was a fourteen-year-old private.” He gave a mock shudder. “Do you feel sorry for me?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not engaged anymore. What do you think about that?”

  “I don’t think anything about it.”

  “I’m free to wed whoever I choose. You for instance. I could marry you if I decided it suited my purposes.”

  “I already told you: never in a thousand years.”