Nicholas

by Cheryl Holt

  Lord Stafford was arrogantly appraising her. He appeared to expect an indication of surrender, but she wouldn’t be cowed, wouldn’t grovel. She wouldn’t let him to see how terribly his behavior had wounded her.

  “Will that be all, Miss Wilson?” he snidely asked.

  “Yes, Lord Stafford, that will be all.”

  “Your neighbors aren’t quite as concerned as you imagined them to be.”

  “No, they’re not.”

  “I presume I won’t have to hear any complaints from you in the future.”

  “No, you won’t have to.”

  “Don’t pester me. Don’t knock on my door. Don’t ever again harass me with your frivolous grievances.”

  She wanted to say, they’re not frivolous, but what would be the point?

  “I won’t, milord. I apologize for bothering you.” At having to beg his pardon, she nearly choked.

  Having sufficiently demonstrated his authority, he gave an imperious, benevolent nod. “Why don’t you help yourself to the seed and the ale before it’s gone?”

  If he’d slapped her, he couldn’t have been any more insulting.

  Anger washed through her, and she wished she had the temerity to march up the steps and shake him till his teeth rattled. But as swiftly as her fury had flared, it fizzled out, replaced by a desolate sense of betrayal.

  Her burdens pressed down on her, so heavy that she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She was just a woman—with no skills or abilities worth mentioning.

  The life she’d known, the life she’d wanted for Nan and Nell, had vanished, and she had no idea how to get it back. Was he aware that they were about to be tossed out on the road? Did he care?

  She was sure he didn’t.

  Because he’d kissed her, because he’d gazed at her with lust in his heart, she’d imbued him with honorable traits he didn’t possess.

  He wasn’t the man she’d believed him to be, and the despair she was suffering over her mistake was all out of proportion to the facts of the situation. He was a brute, not a champion. Why had she anticipated a different result?

  She was awfully close to crying, and she could barely keep from falling to the ground in a bereft heap.

  Mute and defiant, she peered up at him, refusing to be the first to glance away. For a short, fraught interval, he met her stare, and apparently, he was capable of some shame.

  He whipped away and went into the house. His brother and Mr. Mason tagged after him. As they departed, Mason glared down at her, his threat and menace clear.

  What would happen now? In light of how easily her protest had been quashed, her trivial stand was pathetic. She had no power or influence to wield, so there’d be no stopping any further calamity.

  From out by the barn, she could hear laughter and camaraderie, the ale jugs uncorked. There would be hours of merriment, then reality would sink in. She might have joined them, but at that moment, she didn’t want to see any of them ever again.

  And when Mr. Mason evicted the next family, when people were outraged and they came knocking…well…

  She turned the other way, toward the woods and the cottage that would be hers for a few more days, and started the long walk home.

  “She always was a troublemaker,” Benedict Mason was blathering.

  “Was she?” Nicholas asked, not really listening.

  “Just like her father. He complained constantly.”

  “Good thing he’s deceased then.” Nicholas was being sarcastic, but Mason didn’t recognize his mockery for what it was.

  “Yes, his death was a blessing in disguise for us,” Mason rudely said. “He never should have taught her to read and write. It’s made her feel superior.”

  Stephen chimed in, “There’s naught worse than an educated woman.”

  “No, there isn’t,” Mason concurred.

  It was only the second occasion that Nicholas had spent any time around Mason, and he had a brusque, curt personality that was grating. Nicholas had quickly figured out why his tenants were so upset. It was bad enough for an employee to be let go, but when the words were delivered in such a harsh fashion, by such a gruff, unpleasant individual, it had to be doubly hard to accept the consequences.

  They were strolling down the hall, headed for Nicholas’s library, when he passed a window and could see down into the drive. Miss Wilson was still there. What was wrong with her? Why hadn’t she left? He yanked away, not anxious to view the dismal picture she painted.

  He hated to admit it, but he’d been extremely proud of how she’d dared to confront him. She was so passionate, so devoted to her cause. It was rare to witness such blind, potent determination.

  He’d known that he could crush her revolt in its infancy. But he was sorry for how he’d embarrassed her, and he was incensed at how she’d been deserted by her cowardly allies.

  What kind of men were they? What kind of neighbors? They’d pushed her to be their leader, but at the first hint of conflict, they’d abandoned her.

  He was glad none of the spineless oafs served in his regiment. He wouldn’t want any of them guarding his back.

  In the library, he sat at the ostentatious desk, struggling to focus as Mason spewed numbers about crops and harvest and austerity measures, but he couldn’t concentrate. Miss Wilson kept distracting him. There at the end, she’d been so forlorn. For a wild instant, he’d thought she might burst into tears, but she hadn’t, and he was very relieved.

  If she’d begun to weep, he’d have felt as if he were kicking a puppy.

  “Where does Miss Wilson live?” he asked, interrupting one of Mason’s speeches.

  “Miss Wilson?” Mason appeared confused, as if she—having been vanquished—was so far from his mind that he didn’t remember who she was.

  “Is she still residing on the estate?”

  “Yes, but not in the house her father occupied. I’ve supplied them with other quarters away from the main buildings.”

  “Them?” Nicholas inquired. “She has family?”

  “Her twin sisters, Nan and Nell.”

  “How old are they?”

  “They’re girls—ten or so.”

  Nicholas let the subject drop, and he wasted another hour pretending he was paying attention. Thankfully, Stephen was interested in Mason’s accounting, and he asked the questions Nicholas should have.

  Eventually, the butler announced the noon meal, and Nicholas was able to slip away. Pleading fatigue, he proceeded to his suite, but once he was out of sight, he sneaked down the servants’ stairs and went to the stable to saddle his horse.

  It was easy to obtain directions to Miss Wilson’s cottage. She was notorious, and the stable boys knew where to locate her.

  Though it was insane, he had to find out if she was all right. Strangely, he wanted to explain himself to her, wanted her to understand why he’d behaved as he had. Gad, he practically wanted to apologize. For hurting her. For shaming her.

  Except that he never apologized, and he wasn’t about to start. Yet he couldn’t get beyond the impression that she could benefit from some wise advice and that he should be the one to give it to her.

  She was too optimistic, and she needed to toughen up, to be more shrewd and cunning. She had to stop being so damned trusting and gullible. He was a renowned scapegrace. Why had she assumed he’d help her?

  She was mad to have thought he would, and he felt compelled to set her straight.

  He rode out of the woods and into a clearing, and he could see her cottage. It was tiny and decrepit, with boarded-up windows and a sagging roof that probably leaked like a sieve when it rained. Behind it, there were foundations of several other ramshackle structures that had been torn down, the aged lumber piled in stacks to be burned.

  It was a sorry, dismal spot, and he couldn’t imagine how she managed.

  She and her sisters were extremely isolated, miles from the village and from the manor. There was no sign of a horse or carriage. How did they get around? How did she feed her si
sters? How did she support them?

  The concerns flew at him, demanding solutions, and he shoved them away. There were many, many poor women in England, and he wasn’t anybody’s savior.

  He dismounted and walked to the door as it was opened from the inside. Two pretty girls emerged, younger versions of Miss Wilson, with the same blond hair and big green eyes. They were wearing identical dresses that had been mended too many times and were too small.

  He was overcome by the worst impulse to purchase new ones for them, but he never would. Any gifts would be foolish and inappropriate and most likely tossed in his face by Miss Wilson.

  “Hello. I am Lord Stafford.”

  Their brows rose with surprise, but they knew their manners and they curtsied.

  “I am Nan.”

  “I am Nell.”

  “I’m delighted to meet you.” He gave a theatrical bow that made them giggle. “Is you sister home?”

  “No,” they replied in unison but provided no more.

  “Where is she?” he asked, and a visual exchange passed between them.

  “We oughtn’t to say,” Nan hesitantly responded.

  “Why not?”

  “We wouldn’t want you to be angry,” Nan mumbled as Nell added, “More angry than you’ve already been.”

  He huffed with fake indignation. “Emeline said I was angry? I was not. She shouldn’t fib like that.”

  “So…you’re not mad?” Nell cautiously ventured.

  “No. She’s being ridiculous.”

  “She told us you shouted at her.”

  “I have never shouted at a woman in my entire life. Shame on her for claiming I did.” There’d never been a female who could resist him. He squatted down and flashed his most charming smile. “Where is she?”

  They hemmed and hawed, then Nan admitted, “She’s fishing.”

  It was the last answer he’d expected. “Fishing?”

  “For supper. But she’s not very good at it, so you don’t need to worry. She doesn’t ever catch very many.”

  Nell asked, “You’re not upset, are you?”

  “No.”

  “You won’t tell Mr. Mason?”

  “Why would I tell Mr. Mason?”

  “We’re not supposed to fish. It’s against the rules.”

  At his confused frown, Nan clarified, “The fish in the river belong to you. We’re not allowed to have any of them.”

  “Oh…”

  “Sometimes, though, we don’t have any other food, and we get very hungry. We don’t know what else to do.”

  “Well…” he murmured. His heart turned over in his chest.

  “Emeline says there are plenty of fish, that you won’t miss them if we take a few.”

  “No, I won’t miss them. You can have as many as you want. I’ll notify Mr. Mason.”

  “Thank you,” Nell solemnly said. “It will ease Emeline’s mind. She’s been terribly vexed over it.”

  He stood, and he rested his palm on the top of Nan’s head, then Nell’s.

  “Where is the stream?” he coaxed. “I need to speak with her.”

  They pointed the woods, and he marched off in the direction they’d indicated, but not before slipping a shiny penny into both their hands. As he stepped into the trees, he glanced back.

  They were huddled together and closely studying the pennies as if they’d never previously seen a coin. Perhaps they hadn’t. How long had they been in such dire straits? If the fish in the river all swam away and Miss Wilson couldn’t pilfer any more of them, would her sisters starve?

  Oddly, he was furious with her. He felt as if he’d been tricked, as if Miss Wilson had been lying to him. He wanted to shake her; he wanted to paddle her shapely behind.

  Visions assailed him, of future visits to the cottage. Suddenly, he was desperate to improve their lot. Whenever he called on them, he’d bring treats for the twins: ribbons and bonnets and dolls and frilly dresses and…and…

  He pulled himself to a stop, and as abruptly as the peculiar urgings had swept over him, they drifted away.

  He didn’t know Nan and Nell Wilson, and what he knew of their sister, Emeline, he didn’t like. Their difficult situation was not his to rectify, and he had no interest in immersing himself in their troubles.

  He was their new lord, and he planned to leave first thing in the morning. He’d traveled to Stafford, he’d seen the manor house and the tenants and the farm, and he’d had his fill. The place and people were just as dreary as he’d imagined they’d be.

  Only Miss Wilson had brightened his stay. He would scold her for her folly. He would explain a few facts of life, then he’d go away and never come back.

  Chapter Four

  “Are you stealing from me, Miss Wilson?”

  Nicholas stood on the bank of the river, fists on hips, trying to appear stern but failing. Though he didn’t like her sassy attitude, he couldn’t deny that she was very pretty, and it pleased him to look at her.

  She was out in the stream, the water up to her knees, the bottom of her skirt sodden and heavy. She wore a man’s hat—her father’s?—the brim torn, the fabric faded. Her beautiful golden hair was stuffed haphazardly into it, but the tresses couldn’t be constrained and various ones drooped down her back.

  She hadn’t heard him approaching, and at his severe query, she squealed with alarm and whipped around.

  Her fishing pole was a paltry stick, a piece of string tied to the end, and he couldn’t imagine what she was using for hook or bait.

  From the condition of her cottage, her sisters, and her fishing gear, it was obvious she hadn’t a clue how to fend for herself. She was a walking disaster. Previously, he’d wondered why she wasn’t married, with a husband to protect her, and the question was becoming ever more relevant.

  She had a sharp tongue and quick wit, but she had no practical qualities. She couldn’t care for herself or her sisters—she probably couldn’t even cook or clean—and he’d never stumbled on a woman who was more in need of male guidance and support.

  For the briefest instant, he almost wished he was staying at Stafford so he could provide what she required. Almost.

  It was amusing to think about an extended acquaintance, he would never pursue one. She was exhausting. She’d slay him with her foolishness and constant speechifying. In a week, he’d be dead from exasperation.

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  “You’re fishing. Are you stealing from me?”

  “I wasn’t fishing.” Surreptitiously, she dropped her rod, and it floated away.

  She peered up at him, her gaze firm and unwavering, and he laughed.

  “You, Miss Wilson, are a bald-faced liar.”

  “I am not. Do I seem like the sort of person who would know how to…fish?”

  “No, you don’t, but your sisters spilled the beans.”

  Panic flashed in her eyes. “What have they told you?”

  “That you regularly dine off the bounty from this river—despite Mr. Mason’s specific prohibition that you not.”

  “They’re just girls,” she gamely retorted. “They’re easily confused.”

  “A suggestion, if I may?”

  “No, you may not,” she snapped, but he offered it anyway.

  “You don’t have to do it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “You can fish from the bank. You don’t have to wade in and dampen your gown. Simply tie a longer string onto your pole.”

  “If I was fishing—which I wasn’t—I would take your method under advisement.”

  She started toward him, but her skirt tangled around her legs, and she pitched one way, then the other, and she tumbled to the side. She was about to suffer a complete dunking—could the madwoman even swim?—but she merely fell to her knees, wetting herself to her waist.

  She struggled in the current, and he couldn’t bear to watch her flail. It was like seeing a turtle on its back. He marched into the water, soaking his boots in the process. Withou
t asking her opinion, he picked her up and hauled her out.

  “Don’t touch me!” she fumed.

  “Should I have let you drown?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your sisters would miss you if you perished.”

  “They’d be the only ones.”

  “Perhaps I’d miss you, too.”

  “You’re too selfish. You’d never notice I was gone.”

  “I stand corrected: If you vanished, I wouldn’t be concerned in the least.”

  “I’m sick of you manhandling me.”

  “Mind your manners and thank me for saving you.”

  “As if I’d thank you for anything,” she complained as he set her on her feet. “You’re a menace. I wish I’d never begged you to come here.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re delighted to see me.”

  “You’re so vain that I’m surprised your head can fit through a door.”

  He released her, but not too swiftly. He liked buxom, fleshy, dark-haired trollops, so he’d deemed her too blond, too thin, and not his type, but there was no mistaking the shapely breast that had just been pressed to his chest. Rogue that he was, he reveled in the naughty contact.

  An image flared, of her stretched out on his bed at his London house. He hadn’t thought the fleeting moment had registered, but apparently, his body remembered the prurient interlude. To his amazement, his cock stirred.

  Was he physically attracted to her? How hilarious! But then, he was enticed by any female in a dress. He wasn’t fussy, and Miss Wilson’s irritating traits hadn’t yet grown so irksome that they’d overwhelmed his salacious urges.

  She had scrambled up the bank and stomped off. He’d expected her to stop and insult him again, but she kept going. On realizing that she’d had enough of him and was leaving, he was extremely annoyed.

  She was correct that he possessed great vanity. He was the center of his universe; he was heeded and flattered. He barked out commands, and underlings jumped to execute them.