by Cheryl Holt
“Just…go? How scandalous.”
She and Portia were in her father’s most luxurious coach, out for an afternoon of shopping. Her wedding wasn’t until the end of August, but she was filling her trousseau with the calculated strategy of a war general. There were so many boxes and bags, they scarcely had any space to sit on the seats.
Nicholas hadn’t yet told her the spot he’d chosen for their honeymoon, but she demanded that it be Italy. If he selected anywhere else, she’d just die!
Portia had loaned her a novel where the heroine had been kidnapped and held hostage by the hero in a villa overlooking the Mediterranean. It had been the most romantic tale ever, and Veronica wouldn’t settle for any other locale, for she was convinced that Italy would render the conclusion she sought. While they were there, Nicholas would fall madly in love with her.
“We’re scheduled to attend the Fitzroys’ house party,” Portia was saying.
“So?”
“On the way, we’ll pass within twenty miles of Stafford Manor. Why not take a detour and call on your betrothed?”
Veronica’s pulse pounded with excitement. “I could, couldn’t I?”
“It’s not as if he can complain. You’re about to be his countess. It’s only natural that you’d want to see your new home.”
“Stafford will never be my home.”
Veronica gave a mock shudder, and Portia laughed.
Veronica’s father had kept her imprisoned in the country until she was sixteen. After he’d finally allowed her to escape to town, she’d been able to breathe for the first time ever. She thrived on the social whirl in the city, and she wouldn’t ever again wilt away in some quaint, rustic village.
“Will you have his townhouse open year ’round?” Portia asked.
“Yes, except for two weeks in the fall. He has to host an annual hunt at Stafford.”
“With the best guest list, of course.”
“Oh, of course.” She intended to become the ton’s premiere hostess. “I may agree to Christmas, too, but I haven’t decided. We have to distribute gifts to the staff, but the housekeeper could do it for us. We wouldn’t have to actually be there in person.”
“The servants ought to be glad you notice them at all. They can hardly blame you if you don’t wish to travel in the winter.”
Veronica’s mind was awhirl with possibilities, and she frowned at Portia.
“If we stop at Stafford, we’ll add a day onto the trip. How would I explain it?”
“Honestly, Veronica, how did you ever manage without me? You simply tell your father you’re leaving on Monday and arriving at Fitzroys’ on Wednesday. Then you write to Mrs. Fitzroy and tell her you’ll be there on Thursday. She doesn’t correspond with your father. He’ll never know you were late.”
“And if I’m caught?”
“You lie to the duke and claim you spent a few hours having an innocent tour. Where’s the harm?”
“It could work,” Veronica mused.
“Yes, it could. Stick with me, Veronica, and I’ll get you where you need to go.”
Veronica snorted at that.
She was desperate to see Stafford, but it wasn’t due to any interest in the estate. It was because of Nicholas and the terrible rumors that were circulating.
From the instant news had spread about Nicholas inheriting his title, every girl in the kingdom had set her sights on him. He was reputed to be handsome and brave and mysterious, and in their vivid imaginations, no other man could compare.
With her white-blond hair, blue eyes, and plump figure, she was the prettiest, richest debutante to come out in ages. She hadn’t been surprised when Nicholas had met her at a ball, then spoke to her father the next morning.
The duke had had qualms about Nicholas’s low antecedents, but in light of the property he’d bring to the family, her father had gotten over his reservations quickly enough. He’d asked Veronica her opinion, and she hadn’t hesitated to accept Nicholas’s proposal.
Except that her engagement wasn’t turning out as she’d anticipated. It had her speculating over what her life would be like once she married him. She wouldn’t let him ignore her as he’d been doing.
Since their betrothal, he hadn’t danced attendance on her a single time, so she hadn’t had a chance to flaunt him at any high-profile occasions. Everyone noted his absences, and awful stories had been disseminated as to why he was so busy. Veronica was anxious to learn if they were true or not.
The gossips maintained that he’d fled to the country with his mistress in tow, that he’d deliberately insulted Veronica by taking his harlot to the estate. Supposedly, his doxy would be his hostess when Veronica wasn’t in residence.
Veronica couldn’t help but be concerned.
Hadn’t she ought to check? Was it wrong to ease her mind? If word filtered to London that she’d called on him, it would quell the hideous reports. After all, Nicholas wouldn’t permit a visit if his mistress was ensconced on the premises.
Still, she couldn’t keep from asking, “What if she’s really there? What shall I do?”
“First of all, if she’s there—and I think we agree that it’s a big if—you’ll never see her. Lord Stafford will shuttle her out the back so fast her head will be spinning.”
“She’ll be gone; that’s what I want.”
“She won’t dare to return, either.”
“No, she won’t.”
“And with your brazen appearance, he’ll understand that he can’t trifle with your affections.”
“He’s behaved horridly to me.”
“Yes, he has, but we’ll bring him up to snuff.”
The two friends grinned, complicit and positive they’d have the matter resolved in a thrice.
Stephen started down the hall when the unexpected sound of girlish laughter had him stumbling to a halt. The mansion was so large and so empty of human habitation that it was odd to hear children’s voices.
He neared the foyer and peeked around the corner to find Miss Wilson’s sisters playing on the stairs. They were involved in a complicated game, and though he spied on them for several minutes, he couldn’t figure out the rules.
It was a heartening sign that they’d adapted so swiftly to new circumstances. Once Annie was at Stafford, he hoped she would acclimate just as rapidly. The twins were Annie’s same age. Perhaps they could be her companions.
He’d done his best by his daughter, and he intended to make up for his failings by building a life with her at Stafford. His plan was all mapped out.
Nicholas had so much land, and he didn’t care about any of it. He could be persuaded to grant some to Stephen, then instantly, Stephen would become a marvelous catch.
He’d marry a mature, sensible woman, which would provide Annie with the mother she’d never had. Then he’d have more children. He would farm and watch over his family, and he would grow old with a smile on his face.
Nicholas could waste away in the army, could wed his snotty, adolescent bride, could live in misery and gloom. Stephen was determined to be happy.
Someone knocked on the door, and he’d moved to answer it when the twins beat him to it.
He huddled in the shadows, praying it wasn’t the vicar seeking an audience with Nicholas. His brother was still in bed and extremely hungover. Stephen didn’t relish the notion of explaining to the rude minister why the earl was unavailable—and always would be!
He was delighted to discover instead that it was Josephine Merrick. Elation pounded through him, but an enormous amount of lust pounded, too.
She was pretty as ever, vibrant and vigorous, and she aroused him beyond his limits. Their tryst had been stunning. He’d never participated in anything similar, and he was eager to do it again and already calculating how he could get her alone.
“Mrs. Merrick!” the twins cried together, and they leapt forward to hug her.
“There you are! I was in village, and I heard you were here. I had to check for myself.”
; “The earl saved us!” they exclaimed in unison.
“He rode into the market,” Nan told her, “and when he learned what had happened, he put us right up on his horse and fetched us home.”
Nell added, “He was so angry with Mr. Mason.”
“The earl was angry? You must be joking.”
“It’s true, it’s true,” they crowed as if Nicholas’s kindness was too extraordinary to be believed.
“I’m so glad,” Mrs. Merrick said. “I was very angry myself.”
Stephen imagined many derogatory comments about his brother might follow, so he made his presence known. Briskly, he stepped toward them as if he’d been marching down the hall all along.
“Mrs. Merrick, welcome.”
At his greeting, she beamed with pleasure.
“Mr. Price, how lovely to see you again.”
He supposed she actually had come to inquire as to Miss Wilson and her sisters, but he was vain enough to suppose that she’d come to visit him, too. He was impressed by her daring.
The entire morning, he’d struggled to devise a reason to stop by the vicarage, but he couldn’t without calling on the vicar, too, so he hadn’t gone.
“I was hoping to speak with Emeline,” she mentioned.
“I don’t have any idea where she is,” Stephen replied, and he looked at the girls. “Do you know?”
“She went to the village to run some errands for the housekeeper,” Nan said.
“Oh, drat,” Mrs. Merrick responded, “I was just there. I must have missed her.”
“She’s trying to be useful, so the earl doesn’t change his mind and decide we’re a burden.”
“You’re not a burden,” Stephen insisted.
“Of course, they’re not,” Mrs. Merrick agreed.
“Would you like to wait for her?” Stephen offered.
“I probably shouldn’t. Oscar is expecting me by noon.”
But she didn’t leave.
“How about if I walk you?” he suggested. “It’s beautiful weather outside, and I’ve been cooped up with the account ledgers.”
“That would be wonderful.”
She said goodbye to the girls, and they hurried off, which gave him the opportunity he’d been seeking. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her down the deserted corridor to an empty salon at the end.
The drapes were shut and the furniture covered with sheets. There was no fire, so it was cold as ice, but they would generate their own heat.
He pushed her against the wood of the door, and he fell on her like a ravenous beast. This had to be why she’d come to the manor, but if it wasn’t, he cared not. He couldn’t see her and not desire her.
His tongue was in her mouth, his hands on her hips, her breasts. As he pinched her nipples, she moaned in delicious agony. He clasped her thighs and wrapped her legs around his waist.
In a matter of seconds, his loins were crushed to hers, the fabric of trousers and drawers all that kept them from coupling.
“What are we doing?” she asked, gasping for air.
“We’re racing down the road to perdition. How do you like the view?”
He fumbled with his trousers and impaled himself, filling her in one, smooth thrust. She wailed—loudly—and he slapped a palm across her lips to stifle the sound.
She straddled his hips, with him standing, so they were off balance and giggling like halfwits. The naughtiness of their actions, the recklessness, was incomprehensible.
He flexed once, twice, and they both came in a fiery rush. He was too disordered to remember to pull out, and he spilled himself into her womb. His knees were quaking, his face buried at her nape as his pulse slowed.
Finally, he drew away, and she slid down his torso until her feet touched the floor.
“My, my!” She was patting her hair, straightening her clothes. “Do all adults behave like this?”
“Only the ones who are mad.”
“I was perfectly sane before you arrived at Stafford.”
“So was I.”
“In a few short days, you’ve turned me into a lunatic.”
She snorted with mirth, smothering her hilarity against his shirt. He nestled her close, liking how her smaller body fit his much larger frame.
“What is happening to me?” she queried.
“You’ve missed having a man in your bed, and I’m happy to oblige.”
“You are going to get me in so much trouble.” She clutched the lapels of his coat and shook him. “And I’m not even worried about it.”
“Neither am I.”
She rose on tiptoe and kissed him.
“Thank you for helping Emeline,” she said. “She’s needed a lucky break.”
“I had nothing to do with it. It was all my brother’s idea.”
“There have been too many horror stories about him, so I won’t give him the credit.” She took a deep breath and let it out. Composing herself, she was once again the vicar’s quiet, unassuming sister.
“I really must be off,” she told him. “Oscar won’t sit down to his meal without me. If I’m late, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“I could pound him bloody for you. Would you like me to?”
“Don’t tempt me.” She held her wrist to her nose and sniffed. “Ah, I can smell you on my skin! How will I endure a boring dinner with my brother? I can’t pretend everything is the same.”
“Don’t ponder sin or fornication or how much you enjoy the size of my—”
She wagged a scolding finger. “You! Be silent.”
“I can’t. Not when I’m around you.”
“Try a bit harder, would you?”
She opened the door a crack and peeked out. The hall was empty, and she hurried out. He followed.
“I’m walking you home,” he said.
“Only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself.” She frowned. “And you can’t keep looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to eat me alive.”
“I do want to eat you alive.”
She gazed upward and murmured, “Lord, give me the strength to control myself.”
“I don’t think He intervenes in this sort of thing.”
“It can’t hurt to try.”
Oscar was in his study, staring out the window as the clock rang with a single chime, indicating that it was one o’clock.
Josephine was an hour late.
In the mornings, she made charity calls for him so that he didn’t have to bother. He hated visiting the sick, the poor, or the dying. People brought on their own troubles, and he had no sympathy for them, but she oozed compassion.
Until he was wed—a future event he viewed with extreme distaste—she would serve as his hostess, so it was her duty to minister to his flock, much as it would be his wife’s after he chose a bride. But she was aware of the requirements when she left the house.
She had to be back by noon so she could freshen up. Then they would dine promptly at twelve-thirty. He was a fastidious man, and he liked his routines. When his schedule was interrupted, it soured the remainder of his day.
Her tardiness was disrespectful, but then, she had always been much too independent. She presumed she could act in any brazen fashion and there would be no consequences.
Their father’s strict rules had not tamed her. Her husband’s severe criticisms—criticisms leveled for her own good—had not tamed her. Oscar’s firm guidance and moral instruction had not tamed her.
She would blithely make note of his concerns, then carry on however she pleased.
None of them had ever taken a belt to her, but maybe it was time. If she could be taught to fear the lash, she might temper her defiance.
Down the lane, he observed her sauntering along, and as she neared, he realized she wasn’t alone. The earl’s brother was with her. They weren’t behaving improperly, but still, Josephine was grinning at him like a flirtatious trollop.
They stopped at the gate, and Mr. Price bowed cour
teously. She uttered a remark that had him laughing, and he continued on.
Oscar’s fury simmered to a boil. While he’d grown hungry and his meal cold, she’d been throwing herself at the earl’s brother! Had she no shame? No sense of status or class? How could she humiliate herself over the likes of Stephen Price?
Mr. Price was an ungodly heathen who, with the elevation of his impious brother, had been raised up above everyone. He could now pick any woman in the world to be his bride, so he’d deem a female of Josephine’s humble position to be a trifle, a plaything for his manly lusts. Didn’t Josephine know any better?
Or perhaps she welcomed his attention. Her husband had never discussed the sordid details of their marriage, but he’d often hinted at her having disgusting tendencies. Was Stephen Price drawing his sister’s base inclinations to the fore?
Oscar would kill her before he’d let it happen.
He shifted away from the window, and he waited silently, listening as she entered the house, as she hung her cloak and apologized to the maid for being late.
He poked his head into the hall, his face blank.
“Josephine, would you come here? I must speak with you.”
“Yes, Oscar, certainly.” Hustling toward him, she smiled and stepped into the room. “I’m sorry I was delayed. There appears to be an influenza circulating the neighborhood. I couldn’t finish as quickly as I’d hoped.”
He closed the door, and as he spun the key in the lock, as he hissed, “Where have you been?”
“What? I went visiting.”
“Don’t lie to me!”
“I’m not lying!”
“You were with that blackguard, Stephen Price.”
“Mr. Price? Yes, I ran into him on the way home. He accompanied me. There was no harm done.”
He loomed up over her, liking how she shrank away, as if afraid he would strike her, and he had to admit the notion was tempting. However, the maid and cook were on the premises, so he couldn’t administer the punishment she deserved.
“So long as you are living under my roof,” he snarled, “you will not prostitute yourself.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I? I saw him looking at you.”
