by Cheryl Holt
“You need some breakfast. We’ll get you fed.”
“Then what?”
“Then…you should wash up. You’re a mess.”
She glowered at him. “Would you be serious?”
“Yes, I will be. I’m instructing the housekeeper to prepare a suite of rooms for the three of you. I want you here in the manor, where you’re safe, while I make some plans for you.”
“What sort of plans?”
“If I already knew, I wouldn’t have to make them, now would I?”
“So…you’re not kicking us out?”
“Gad, no.”
“You mean it?”
“Emeline!” He frowned; she was trying his patience.
She flew into his arms and hugged him so tightly that she was surprised he could breathe.
“Thank you, thank you,” she murmured over and over.
“You’re welcome.”
His voice was gruff, as if he was embarrassed by her gratitude. He kissed her hair, her temple, her neck, then eased her away and opened the door.
“She’s gone?”
“Yes.”
“Her cottage leveled?”
“Yes. Finally.
“I thought we’d never be shed of her.”
Benedict Mason leaned across Vicar Blair’s desk. They clinked their brandy glasses, toasting their success at ridding themselves of Emeline Wilson. Though it was midafternoon, and they shouldn’t have been drinking, they had ample cause for celebration. And when good liquor was involved, Blair was always eager to participate.
Early on in his tenure at Stafford, Benedict had learned that Oscar Blair might preach fire and brimstone, but he wasn’t adverse to privately partaking of alcohol. With Miss Wilson’s downfall, a hearty tipple was definitely warranted.
In Benedict’s world, people were either friends or enemies. Blair was an ally, their connection necessary so they could both get what they desired from the community. Blair demanded absolute spiritual authority, and Benedict demanded absolute fiscal authority. They understood their spheres of influence and didn’t attempt to usurp the other’s power. Their devious alliance was extremely rewarding, and Benedict worked to keep it functioning smoothly.
He liked Blair to be off guard, liked him to believe they were closer than they actually were. Whenever Benedict visited, he brought a gift, usually a pilfered bottle of the earl’s best brandy. That way, Benedict had excellent liquor to swill when they congratulated themselves on some especially pernicious act.
Their latest project had been orchestrating the fate of Emeline Wilson. Benedict loathed her for refusing his courtship. Blair loathed her simply for being a female, and he abhorred all women.
Benedict wouldn’t allow her to remain in the area, both because she’d spurned him, but also because she’d been pestering Nicholas Price with her ridiculous ideas of equity and fairness.
Benedict enjoyed enormous autonomy. Often, he felt that Stafford belonged to him, rather than Nicholas Price, and he couldn’t have Miss Wilson luring the earl to the estate. He’d wanted Emeline Wilson to go away, and he wanted the earl back with his army regiment so Benedict could carry on without interference.
“Are you aware of her plans?” Benedict asked.
“My sister mentioned that she was in the pauper’s line at the market. There was a man from London offering to take our beggars to the city and beyond.”
“Let’s pray she went.”
“Yes, let’s do.”
They clinked their glasses again, then Benedict finished his drink and departed. He mounted his horse—well, the earl’s horse, but why quibble?—and headed to the manor. It was a beautiful spring day, the road busy with crowds coming to the market.
Those who recognized him glanced away, their fear obvious and gratifying. He couldn’t foster a reputation for compassion or mercy. He had too many distasteful tasks to accomplish, and people needed to be wary so they wouldn’t argue when he appeared on their stoops.
Only Emeline Wilson had been foolish enough to stand up to him, but look where her bravado had left her.
Ha! Out on her ear, with no friends and nowhere to go. Her plight would be a warning to others: Think twice before crossing him.
He trotted down the lane to the mansion, and he’d meant to ride past the main house and proceed to his own residence, but there were two horses tethered in the drive. He frowned, positive they were the animals the Price brothers had selected for their trip to town.
Benedict dismounted and bounded up the front stairs. As he rushed into the foyer, he nearly fainted as he saw the earl marching down the hall.
The knave was supposed to be gone! Why wasn’t he?
Benedict gave an obsequious nod, and he smiled in welcome, concealing his exasperation and dislike.
“Lord Stafford, I thought you’d be halfway to the city by now.”
“We’ve had a predicament arise.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“No, I just had to take care of a few minor details.”
They were the worst words Benedict could ever hear.
“What were they? Was it a chore I could have handled for you? I hate to have you bothered by trifles.”
“I stumbled on Emeline Wilson and her sisters at the market.”
Benedict recognized a bog when he entered it, and he stepped cautiously.
“Oh…?”
“I didn’t realize her cottage was on the list to be demolished.”
Benedict studied Price, trying to glean his attitude, but Price was renowned as a great and unscrupulous card player. No emotion was visible.
“Yes,” Benedict coolly admitted, “it has been scheduled for several months. The entire clearing has been leveled, and we’re to plant wheat there instead.”
“I’m vexed by her troubles. When I’d urged you to implement your suggestions toward solvency, I didn’t understand that we would be uprooting her or that her ouster would be achieved in such a dastardly fashion.”
“Miss Wilson’s circumstance certainly engenders sympathy, but she exemplifies the problems here at the estate. She wasn’t contributing, and you can’t be expected to support her forever.”
“I’m not sure my choices were the best ones.”
“How so?”
“For the time being, I don’t want any further evictions. Not until we’ve fully reviewed the matter.”
“A wise idea. A man should be confident of the direction he’s traveling.”
“Miss Wilson and her sisters have been given rooms in the west wing.”
“My, what an interesting turn of events!” he smoothly lied. “How long will they be with us?”
“I don’t know yet, but I need you to instruct the staff to show them every courtesy.”
“I will.”
“And I’d like to meet with you. In my library at four.”
Price approached until they were toe to toe. He was a very intimidating fellow, larger than Benedict, taller and broader and definitely more handsome.
There were amazing stories about his conduct in battle, about his shrewd ability to lead men in perilous situations. He was a brawler who won the fights he started.
Benedict loathed him.
“May I inquire,” Benedict politely said, “as to what we will be discussing? I should like to have the appropriate paperwork ready for you.”
“We’re going to discuss the estate,” Price dangerously replied, rattling Benedict. “We’ll be making some changes.”
“In what area?”
“In every area.”
Benedict bowed his head. “As always, I’m at your service.”
Price walked on, and as Benedict breathed a sigh of relief, Price spun around.
“I’ll be staying on for a few weeks,” Price announced as if it was a threat. “I’m not leaving for London as I had planned.”
“Marvelous,” Benedict claimed.
“My brother is staying on, too.”
“I look forward
to a closer acquaintance with both of you.”
“I’ll see you at four.”
Price continued on, and as soon as he vanished from view, Benedict plopped down on a nearby chair.
The earl! With his nosy, perceptive brother! Not leaving! Staying on!
Gad, what next!
Chapter Seven
Josephine Merrick watched the dancers moving through their steps. Their feet pounded down the grass in the center of the square. People were smiling and laughing. A trio of musicians stood on a dais, the fiddler playing a lively tune.
She tapped her foot, yearning to join in, but she never would. Her brother frowned on dancing, viewing it as the devil’s mischief, but despite his admonitions, there were some enjoyments he couldn’t halt.
It was after ten in the evening, market day drawing to a close. A whiskey keg had been opened, so the event had taken a more festive turn, and she couldn’t stay any longer. Her presence would dampen spirits, with revelers afraid she might tattle to Oscar, and she didn’t want to ruin the gaiety.
She’d been raising funds for the church, hawking pies and cakes, but the last item had been purchased, so there was no reason to linger. She said goodbye to her companions, and as she walked away, she could sense their whispering.
No one had ever mentioned it to her face, but she was aware that her brother was disliked. When he was such an ass, she couldn’t not know he was detested.
Did they feel sorry for her? Did they deem her a fool for putting up with him?
She never let on that she was unhappy, and she never fretted over their opinions. Unless she married again—which she would never consider—she couldn’t change her situation. Once had been more than enough, thank you very much.
She was twenty-five, but she lived like a nun and always had. Her father had been a vicar, too, and he’d been just a grim and stern as her brother. While growing up, there’d been no lighthearted moments or cheery encounters. It had all been prayer and sin and penance.
Her husband hadn’t been quite so severe in his habits. She’d been allowed to shop and have friends and dress in clothes that weren’t black. It was only in the bedroom that she’d been chastised. Yet often, she caught herself wishing she could return to those dreary days, days where she could sew a strip of lace on her collar without being called a harlot.
That’s how pathetic her life had become! She occasionally missed her deceased husband simply because her world had been less bleak than it currently was.
Sometimes, she felt as if she was suffocating, as if she might start screaming and never stop. She ached to dance and carouse and sing without pausing to worry over how she might be punished later on. A desire burned in her, a hunger to possess more than she’d been given, to have things she couldn’t name, and she constantly fought the potent urges.
Bonfires blazed at both the ends of the square, fanning the flames of her cravings, and she hastened on. She reached the edge of the grass, ready to head down the street to the vicarage, and she took a final glance at the gathering.
As she did, the crowd split, and on the other side of the square, standing alone and gazing back at her was the earl’s brother, Stephen Price. She hadn’t realized he’d attended, and he certainly hadn’t danced, or she’d have noticed.
Had he been looking for her? At the thought that he might have been, her pulse pounded with excitement.
In their odd meeting in the church, they’d shared secrets and sat in the pew holding hands. Nothing improper had occurred, but it had been very shocking and probably the most illicit deed she’d ever attempted.
She stared at him, mesmerized by how intently he was focused on her, and though it was strange, it seemed that time had ceased its ticking. The party faded away, and there was just him and her and no one else in the universe.
Then the horde closed in and she lost sight of him. In that wild instant, she suffered a frantic impulse to push into the throng in a frenzied bid to locate him, but she didn’t.
What was wrong with her?
She blamed it on the full moon, on her advanced age and lengthy widowhood. An attractive man had merely smiled at her, and she was all aflutter!
She whipped away and rushed on, and the sounds of the merriment quickly waned. The village grew very quiet. To her dismay, she heard footsteps on the opposite side of the street, and she slowed and peeked over.
Stephen Price was there! He was shadowing her every stride! When she lagged, he lagged. When she hurried, he hurried, too.
What was he doing? What could he want?
A voice in her mind shouted warnings. She was overcome by the worst feeling that an amazing, terrible collision was about to transpire, and once it did, she would never be the same.
He took a step toward her, then another and another, and she almost ran in panic. What would happen when he arrived?
He approached until they were toe to toe, and he slipped his hand into hers and led her down an alley. She made a feeble effort to drag her feet, but she swiftly relented and eagerly went along. Apparently, whatever he was planning, she couldn’t wait.
He halted at a small barn and entered, pulling her in after him. She nearly spoke, but he pressed a finger to her lips, urging silence. He searched for vagrants or a stable boy, and finding none, he proceeded to the rear and tumbled down into a mound of straw. He tugged her down with him.
For the briefest second, she resisted, but a moonbeam drifted in the window, shining on his raven-black hair, his muscular physique, and she ceded the battle.
She rolled onto her back, as he stretched out atop her, and embarrassing as it was to admit, she bit down a purr of delight. He was large and heavy, and she welcomed his weight, though she understood that she dare not show her enjoyment.
The sole part of her marriage that had been tolerable was the connubial acts her husband perpetrated in their marital bed. From the moment he’d first undressed her on their wedding night, she’d reveled in the decadency. But he’d been revolted by her wantonness.
Rapidly, she’d learned to be passive and still as he thrust away, but it had been so frustrating! She’d felt there should be more to it, and her body had agreed. Years had crawled by with her being raw and on edge. Her only respite had been the sporadic, furtive waves of pleasure that shot through her after their more vigorous couplings.
If her husband had ever discovered the peculiar episodes, his reprimands would have been even more harsh—perhaps even violent.
Surely, Mr. Price wouldn’t be so cruel? During their short acquaintance, she’d deemed him to be kind and sympathetic. With a brother like Nicholas Price, he’d have to be!
If she exhibited an awkward physical thrill, he wouldn’t be appalled. She couldn’t bear it if he was.
He began kissing her and kissing, and it was so stimulating, like nothing she’d encountered previously with her angry, tepid spouse. She couldn’t decide what to make of it.
Did people actually carry on like this? Was such conduct common? She had no idea.
The way her pious brother told it, this was how the whole world behaved, but Jo had never seen any evidence. She’d always considered it a depraved myth, the sort schoolboys spewed to impress one another, yet Mr. Price was no fable. He was very, very real, and he was definitely adept at inciting a woman’s passions.
His hands were in her hair, his tongue in her mouth, while down below, his loins were crushed to hers and flexing in a steady rhythm. His hard rod was positioned at the vee of her thighs, and she was stunned that he was so blatant in allowing her to feel it.
She was exhilarated, too. Imagine! She—plain, ordinary Jo Merrick—had aroused such an experienced, sophisticated fellow! While she wanted to respond, she didn’t know how.
His busy fingers had moved to her breasts. He was massaging them, pinching and twisting the nipples, and she started to shake. Her entire torso was quivering with restraint.
What to do? What to do? The question raced in her head. She couldn’t hide her
titillation, but if she let go, how would he react?
He must have perceived her distress, for he drew away and frowned.
“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
To her horror, tears welled into her eyes.
“I’m ashamed,” she admitted.
“Of what? Of being here with me?”
“No.”
“Then what is it? Don’t tell me you buy into that twaddle your brother spouts about the wages of sin and fornication.”
“It’s not that. I’m just…just…”
She’d had many frank sexual discussions in her life. Always with her husband and always with her being criticized for her failings. So it wasn’t that she couldn’t talk about the topic. She simply hadn’t a clue how to explain her predicament.
“You desire me as much as I desire you.” He appeared furious. “I didn’t misread the signal you sent yesterday at the church.”
“No, you didn’t misread it.”
“Since then, I’ve thought about you every second.”
“You couldn’t have.”
“I did, so don’t play the shy maiden. I’ve had several glasses of whiskey, and my circumspection has fled. Let’s keep on, or let’s go. Shall we leave? Shall I walk you to the vicarage? Is that what you want?”
“No!” she said more stridently.
He studied her, his gaze narrowing. He had a way of looking at a person, as if he could peer through her heart and straight to her soul. She squirmed with dismay, for apparently, he saw what she’d meant to conceal. His demeanor softened.
“What’s wrong?” he asked again. “You can confide me, remember? Do you loathe carnal activity? Is that it?”
“No, no, I…love it,” she blurted out.
He grinned. “That’s my girl.”
“But you overwhelm me with your caresses. I don’t know how to lie still.”
“Why would you lie still?”
His perplexed expression confused her. Weren’t women supposed to be submissive? If she’d heard it once, she’d heard it a thousand times: Sexual congress was for procreation and no other reason. A female shouldn’t revel in it.
“My husband,” she tentatively ventured, “informed me that I shouldn’t…ah…”
