by Cheryl Holt
She scurried away, and Oscar watched—aghast—as Lord Stafford arrived to pick her up. His vehicle was built for two, with just the narrow seat where they would sit very close together. It was scandalous!
“Emeline,” he called, “what are you thinking?”
“I told you, I’m working for the earl. I’m giving him a tour of the area.”
“A tour? You and the earl—alone?”
“We’ll be visiting some people in the neighborhood who are struggling.”
Oscar wondered if he might faint. He’d practically begged for a meeting with Nicholas Price, but couldn’t wrangle one. Yet apparently, every miscreant in a five-mile radius would be blessed with an appointment.
Emeline rubbed salt in his wound by saying, “I thought it might paint a better picture of what’s been happening.”
It was so inappropriate for her to inject herself into men’s business. Why couldn’t she understand? As a female, she wasn’t intelligent enough to comprehend issues of significance, but she insinuated herself anyway.
“I’ve counseled you and counseled you, Emeline, not to involve yourself in matters that don’t concern you.”
“How can conditions at the estate not concern me? If the earl hadn’t taken pity on me, I’d be living in a ditch.”
“His patronage has swelled your pride. For shame, Emeline! For shame!”
“Sorry.” She shrugged as if the damage to her reputation—and eventually her soul—was of no import.
Without so much as a wave of acknowledgment to Oscar, the earl jumped down to help Emeline climb in his gig.
Oscar’s outrage increased. Emeline appeared to be bosom buddies with the earl, while he—Oscar—hadn’t met the man. Oscar had once been the old countess’s favorite, but now, he was being treated no differently than the lowest beggar.
He stomped down the stairs and approached the couple.
“Lord Stafford”—he extended his hand in welcome—“I am Vicar Blair.”
It was extremely improper for Oscar to introduce himself, but what else could he do?
“Hello, Blair.”
The earl didn’t shake his outstretched hand. It dangled between them, and finally, Oscar dropped it.
“You missed Sunday services,” Oscar complained.
“You shouldn’t count on my attendance.”
“But you must set an example for the community.”
“I’m not interested in being an example.” The earl looked at the church, and he smirked. “Besides, if I walked through the doors, I might get struck by lightning.”
He spun away, and Oscar bristled with indignation. He wouldn’t be dismissed as if he were of no consequence.
“Lord Stafford!” he said more sharply than he’d intended.
The earl whipped around. “What?”
“I must know when you’ll come by the vicarage. We need to discuss the congregation and my future plans for it.”
“I don’t care about your plans. Whatever you choose is fine with me. Just stop being such a sanctimonious busybody.”
Oscar’s cheeks flamed red. His fury sparked. “I’m an expert at guiding my flock to the ways of the Lord. The old countess never had a word of criticism in how I conducted myself.”
“Well, she’s no longer here, is she? I’m in charge, and I can’t abide your religious posturing.”
“Lord Stafford,” Emeline interrupted, “if you were to—”
“Emeline!” Oscar barked. “How many times must I remind you? You are a woman, and thus, you have no place in this conversation. Be silent.”
The earl turned to her. “You were saying, Miss Wilson?”
“We’re keeping the vicar from his Sunday dinner. Perhaps we should be going.”
“Yes, perhaps we should.”
Oscar was so angry, he was trembling.
He glared, mute and aggrieved, as the earl lifted her into the gig. He released her, then whirled to face Oscar, and Oscar humiliated himself by asking, “When will you be available for an appointment?”
“I won’t ever be.” The earl leaned nearer and whispered, “Miss Wilson is an employee of mine. I don’t take kindly to her being disrespected. Not by anyone.”
“Emeline requires regular male guidance. I shall render it whenever necessary.”
“Insult her again, and I’ll pound you into the ground.”
“You would threaten a man of the cloth?”
“Push me, and I’ll do more than threaten. Don’t forget: You serve at my pleasure. How much do you value your job? Don’t annoy me or you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
The arrogant brute sauntered away, went ’round the carriage, and climbed in. As if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if he hadn’t just offended a minister of the Church, he clicked the reins and they were off.
Oscar understood that he possessed a sizeable temper, so he strove to present a calm front to others. Yet at that moment, if he’d been holding a gun, he’d have shot Nicholas Price right between his swiftly retreating shoulder blades.
He tugged on his robe, patted his burning cheeks, then headed for the vicarage and the hot meal that awaited.
Stephen dawdled in the cemetery, watching as Sunday services ended. He was eager to waylay Josephine so they could sneak away and talk.
He thought she would agree to a rendezvous. She had to be as miserable as he was over their separation, and he was determined to convince her to reverse her course.
Initially, when she’d broken off their affair, he hadn’t been bothered by her decision. While he enjoyed their physical attraction, he’d never been at a loss for sexual partners, particularly now with his brother’s prominence.
Women chased after him, just as they chased after Nicholas, and he’d assumed he would select a bride from the crop of aristocratic girls as Nicholas had.
Then it had dawned on him—why should he?
He’d met plenty of the daughters of the ton, and nary a one was mature enough to marry, let alone take on the chore of raising Annie. For that important task, he needed a person who was sensible and pragmatic, who could ignore Annie’s illegitimate status and love her anyway.
Why not ask Jo to be his bride?
She was pretty, friendly, and compassionate, and she had the character of a saint. She was living in the worst of circumstances, yet she always had a smile on her face, and if she could put up with her priggish brother, she could put up with anything.
He smugly supposed that she’d be flattered by a proposal. He would rescue her from dire straits, would give her her own home, but this time, with a husband who cherished her.
She’d have a daughter right away, and if they were lucky, they’d have more children. She claimed she was barren, and it was accepted fact that—when a marriage produced no offspring—it was the woman’s fault. But he’d seen several instances where barren women had become pregnant with new spouses after their husbands had died.
He was an optimist and believed that they’d have more children. And if they didn’t? He’d be happy with Jo and Annie.
The church doors opened, and he was almost giddy with anticipation. Vicar Blair emerged, and he stood on the steps, chatting with his parishioners as they exited.
Very quickly, the crowd emptied out, until Emeline Wilson was the last to appear. The vicar had some sharp words for her, and she stoically endured her scolding, then she sidled away. She waved toward the lane, and Stephen peered over to see his brother approaching in a carriage. Nicholas leapt down and was helping Miss Wilson into the vehicle, when the vicar accosted him.
Stephen considered leaving his hiding spot among the tombstones in order to save the poor minister, but before he could, Nicholas said something that made the vicar blanch with dismay. Had Nicholas fired the pious dunce? Had he cursed at him? Had he blasphemed?
With Nicholas, there was no telling.
Nicholas spun away and climbed into the gig. He grabbed the reins, and as he did, he flashed a look at Miss Wilson that had Stephen w
incing with alarm. If he hadn’t been observing so closely, he’d have missed it.
He knew that look. He’d witnessed it dozens, if not hundreds of times in his life. Gad, his brother was seducing Emeline Wilson! Was he insane?
Nicholas had mentioned that he’d put Miss Wilson to work, but obviously, Stephen hadn’t comprehended the exact sort of job his brother had in mind.
This wasn’t the city where Nicholas could act however he pleased. This was a rural village, in conservative, traditional England. A man didn’t trifle with a maiden unless matrimony was his objective, and for Nicholas, it certainly wasn’t.
He was betrothed! Even if he wasn’t, he’d never pick Miss Wilson as his bride. She was about to end up ruined and disgraced, and what would happen to her then?
She’d be expecting a different conclusion, but Nicholas would never ride to her rescue. Even if he promised her a commitment, he wouldn’t keep it.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Stephen grumbled. “What next?”
He foresaw a lengthy line of trouble, of scandal and recrimination and debts that would have to be paid, but he didn’t want any of it to flare up. Nor did he want to be the one forced to deal with the situation, and Stephen always had to sweep up Nicholas’s messes.
His brother needed a stern talking to. He had to remember who he was and who Miss Wilson was, and Stephen was the only person who could make him listen.
He had to return to the manor with all due haste, and he’d mounted his horse when Jo strolled out of the church with Benedict Mason. She was holding his arm, grinning as if he was humorous and witty. For his part, Mason seemed completely altered from the man he actually was.
The gruff, stern land agent had become the doting swain.
Were they courting? They had to be. How long had they been attached? How deep was Jo’s affection?
She’d never mentioned the relationship. Why not? What kind of woman was she? If she could tumble into a barn with Stephen while being wooed by another, she had to have no integrity, at all.
A surge of fury rushed through him. He kicked his horse into a gallop and raced from the cemetery. He flew by the cooing couple, his horse’s hooves spraying them with rocks and dirt, but he didn’t care and he didn’t glance back.
“We need to talk.”
Nicholas stared down the hall to where his brother was standing in the doorway to the library. Obviously, Stephen was peeved over some budding disaster, but Nicholas was in no mood to hear about it.
He started off, prepared to ignore his brother’s summons, and Stephen added, “Now, Nicholas.”
“Later. I’m busy at the moment.”
He’d spent a near-perfect afternoon with Emeline, chatting with tenants who’d fallen on hard times. Her view of the estate had given him an entirely new perspective, and he wasn’t ready for the encounter to end.
It had been a delicious torment, sitting with her, pretending no heightened acquaintance, and he was weary of the distance she’d imposed.
She’d gone to her room, to wash and rest before tea, and he planned to join her there for a bit of naughty dallying. His brother could wait.
“Get your ass in here,” Stephen snapped, “or I will grab you and drag you in.”
“Have you finally decided you’re man enough?”
It was an old taunt, frequently hurled.
He and Stephen had often quarreled in their lives, but they rarely engaged in fisticuffs because Stephen knew better than to brawl. Nicholas was the elder brother but also the tougher, stronger brother. He fought dirty. He delivered low blows. Stephen was too honorable, and he could never win against such an unprincipled opponent.
Yet to Nicholas’s surprise, Stephen loomed toward him, as if he was eager to give it another shot. Nicholas couldn’t fathom what was needling him, and he raised his hands in mock surrender.
“All right, all right. Have it your way.”
Stephen returned to the library, and Nicholas followed. He was crossing the foyer when the front door opened. Benedict Mason entered.
Nicholas nodded in greeting and said, “I need to speak with you in the morning.”
“As always, Lord Stafford, I am at your service. May I ask the topic?”
“I’m lifting the restrictions as to hunting and fishing in the park.”
“I don’t believe that’s wise, milord.”
“I’m not concerned as to whether it’s wise, Mr. Mason. It’s what I want.”
“People will come to expect such a benefit. They’ll grow accustomed. If circumstances change in the future, you’ll never be able to rescind it.”
“Why would I ever rescind it? I have more than enough. I can share; it won’t kill me.” Mason looked as if he might argue, and Nicholas decreed, “Spread the word. Make sure everyone knows.”
“If I may, milord, I should like to review the financial ramifications, so I can present a more complete case for my position at our morning meeting.”
“No.”
Nicholas walked on, and though he caught a glimpse of Mason’s dour expression, he wasn’t worried by Mason’s reluctance.
Mason might disagree with Nicholas’s decision, but he’d implement it. He was aware of who paid his salary, who provided him with his fine house behind the manor, and he wouldn’t jeopardize it over an issue as silly as fishing.
Over the prior year, Nicholas had let Mason convince him that harsh austerity measures were warranted. But Emeline had persuaded him to try a different path.
He didn’t have to be cruel or ruthless. Prosperity could be achieved as quickly with mercy and compassion as it could be with spite and malice.
Just that easily, Mason was forgotten. Nicholas burst into the library and kicked the door shut with his boot. It banged hard enough to rattle the windows. He stomped to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey. Then, fortified for battle, he seated himself at the large oak desk.
He hated the ostentatious room, with its expensive chandeliers, soft carpets, and bookshelves that rose to the ceiling. It stoked a pretentiousness he didn’t feel, as if the space was grander than he was and he didn’t fit in it.
He swiveled and gazed out at the park. From his vantage point, he could see the gate at the end of the driveway. On that horrid long-ago day, when he and Stephen had stood there like beggars, had the old earl sat in the same chair, callously observing as they’d been turned away?
Disturbed by the image, he whipped around to face his brother.
“What is it?” he demanded. “Please get on with it. I’m in a hurry.”
Stephen poured his own whiskey, then plopped into the chair opposite.
“What has you so preoccupied?” Stephen asked.
“None of your business.”
“I saw you this morning with Miss Wilson.”
“So?”
Nicholas glared, and Stephen glared back, the seconds ticking by. The silence stretched to infinity. Stephen acted as Nicholas’s conscience, and Nicholas usually heeded him, but not always. Not when he desperately craved what he wasn’t supposed to have.
“You might as well confess,” Stephen ultimately said, “and don’t lie to me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Nicholas sarcastically replied.
“What have you done?”
“I’ve started an affair.”
Stephen nodded, as if Nicholas had confirmed his every low opinion.
“Have you deflowered her, you wretch?”
“A gentleman should never kiss and tell.”
“A gentleman shouldn’t, so you don’t qualify.” Nicholas raised an arrogant brow, and Stephen bellowed, “Have you forged ahead?”
“Not yet.”
“But you plan on it?”
Nicholas shrugged.
He wasn’t sure what he wanted. He was roiling with lust, but couldn’t seem to alleviate it. For some idiotic reason, he’d decided to behave honorably toward her, but he couldn’t figure out how to accomplish chivalry while naked.
Stephen slapped a hand on the desk, a loud crack echoing off the high ceiling.
“Do you plan to ruin her?”
“Perhaps.”
“What will become of her after you’re through?”
“Why would anything happen? We’ve been extremely discreet.”
“This is a very small place. Everyone will eventually learn of it.”
“They will not,” he declared with an annoying confidence.
“What if she winds up pregnant?”
“She won’t.”
“Are you God now?” Stephen taunted. “Can you commence and halt procreation?”
“Shut up.”
“When your liaison is discovered—as it will be—how will you proceed? Will you marry her?”
“You know I can’t.”
“So what is your option? Will you leave her at the mercy of Oscar Blair? Would you like me to predict how he’ll deal her?”
“She’ll be fine; you’re making too much of this.”
“She was never taught about men like you,” Stephen said. “She doesn’t realize the cold heart that beats in your chest. She believes your affection is genuine and that you have matrimony in mind.”
“She’s wrong.”
“Have you told her about Veronica?”
At the question, Nicholas’s pulse fluttered. He hadn’t mentioned his engagement and didn’t see why he should. London seemed far away, Veronica a figment of his imagination.
“No, I haven’t told her. Why would I? She’d be crushed.”
“Oh Nick…” Stephen sighed with disgust. He downed his drink, then went over and poured a second. He downed that, too. “Here is what you’re going to do.”
“You’re issuing ultimatums? To me?”
“No, I’m saving that girl’s life. She’s endured plenty, and I won’t let you wreck what little remains for her.”
“Maybe it’s not up to you,” Nicholas snidely goaded. “Maybe for once, I’ll act however the hell I want, your fussy morals be damned.”
Stephen shocked them both by pitching his glass at the fireplace. It shattered into dozens of pieces, shards flying everywhere.
“Are you insane?” Nicholas seethed as Stephen marched to the desk. He leaned over, his palms braced on the polished wood.
