by Cheryl Holt
Cautiously, she approached the next door that led into a washing room. There was a bathing tub full of water. Bars of soap and a scrub brush were stacked on a stool.
She was about to sneak in, but before she could, she was horrified to note that there was a man inside. Was it Lord Stafford?
He was a few feet away, his back to her, which she could clearly see because he wasn’t dressed. With just a towel wrapped around his waist, he was naked as the day he’d been born, and much too eagerly, she took stock of his attributes: broad shoulders, lean hips, long, long legs.
His skin was bronzed from the sun, his hair dark as a raven’s and in need of a trim, his arms muscled from strenuous endeavor. He had a perfectly-formed anatomy, the type of flawless shape a sculptor might copy when chipping away at a block of marble.
She studied him, transfixed and confused by the sight.
Her neighbors at Stafford had gossiped about him so frequently and in such derogatory terms that she’d developed an image of him that corresponded with their disparaging remarks. Though she knew he was thirty years old, in her mind, she’d painted him as aged, fat, and ugly, but the reality didn’t match the fantasy.
He was strong and youthful, vigorous and fit. His blatant personality oozed outward, his arrogant confidence wafting over her.
She hovered behind him, too terrified to move. Her heart thudded against her ribs, urging her to do something, but what? She couldn’t return the way she’d come and she couldn’t proceed.
He reached for a decanter of liquor, pulled the cork, and swallowed down the amber liquid—swigging directly out of the bottle. The ease with which he gulped it proved that he was well acquainted with intoxication. He was drinking and he was naked, and she was tempting fate.
Any bad thing could happen to her, and unless she found an escape, it probably would.
Why, oh, why had she sent Mr. Templeton away? Why had she visited on her own? Would it have killed her to bring a companion?
He set the liquor on a nearby dresser, then—stunning her—he bent over the bathing tub, palms braced on the rim, and dunked his head under the water. For several seconds, he was submerged, then he stood.
Like a wet dog, he shook himself, droplets cascading everywhere. Rivulets glistened on his shoulders, streaming down to disappear under the towel.
His hair was drenched, and he pushed it off his forehead then, without warning, he spun and grinned at her. It was an evil, wicked grin, informing her that she hadn’t been furtive in the slightest. He knew she’d been lurking just outside; he knew she’d been spying.
She was mortified and wanted to run, but she was held in place by the mesmerizing indigo of his eyes.
He was incredibly handsome. He had a face that brooked no argument, that would have women swooning and men happy to follow wherever he led.
For an eternity, they stared and stared, and they might have tarried forever, but he shattered the interlude by speaking. His voice was a rich, soothing baritone, that made her knees weak, that made her keen to do whatever he asked.
”I am Captain Nicholas Price, Lord Stafford.”
She blanched with dismay.
This wasn’t the appointment she’d envisioned at all. She’d pictured a stuffy library, uncomfortable chairs, stilted conversation, tea on a tray. How would they engage in a rational debate about the crops at Stafford when she’d seen him without his trousers?
She gave him the fleetest curtsy in the world. “Hello, Lord Stafford. I am Emel—”
He cut her off. “I don’t need to know your name.”
“Well!”
He grinned another wicked grin. “Are you impressed by me?”
“Not particularly.”
“I hate your outfit. It’s too dowdy.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’re not arousing me in the least.”
“Arousing you!”
“Take off your cloak. Let me see what you’re hiding underneath.”
“Absolutely not! What a rude request!”
“How will you entice me with such a dour attitude?”
“I’m not . . . dour. My attitude is quite pleasant—when I’m in pleasant company.”
He laughed. “Don’t you know the rules? You’re supposed to fawn over me. You’re supposed to feign excitement and tell me I’m the manliest man you’ve ever met.”
He was the manliest man she’d ever met, but she wouldn’t admit it in a thousand years.
“I’ve never been much of a one for fawning.”
“Good. I can’t say I enjoy it much myself. Have you looked your fill?” He gestured down his body, as if he’d been deliberately displaying it for her. “Would you like to continue admiring me? Or shall we get down to business?”
“Yes . . . ah . . . business would be fine.” She waved at all that bare skin. “Would you put on some clothes?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“I can’t imagine discussing any topic of significance when you’re undressed.”
“I’m not interested in discussion. At the moment, I have more important things on my mind. Such as how quickly we can get the dirty deed accomplished.”
“I can’t possibly proceed when you’re in this condition.”
He raised a curious brow. “You are the strangest whore ever in the entire history of whores.”
“The strangest . . . what?”
He lunged for her, and she shrieked and raced into the bedchamber, but she tripped on a pillow. As she hastened to right herself, he was on her.
He scooped her into his arms and sauntered to the bed, and though she kicked and complained, she couldn’t stop him. He dropped her onto the mattress, and he fell on top of her, her wrists pinned over her head, his torso stretched out the length of hers.
While she’d planned to keep fighting, she was astonished by the intimate positioning. She could feel him and smell him, and even though she was fully clothed, it didn’t seem as if she was. She yearned to be closer to him in a very naughty fashion.
Her interactions with men had been few and fleeting. She’d never been courted, had never had a beau, so she had no experiences by which to measure what was happening. She should have been incensed—and she was—but she also should have been petrified, and she wasn’t.
Though he was obviously a rake, she sensed no overt menace. Her virtue was certainly in peril, though what would have to transpire in order for her to lose it, she couldn’t say. She was clueless as to the physical conduct between men and women.
Still, she perceived details about him that she had no reason to know. He wouldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t do anything she didn’t wish him to do—the trick being to snag his arrogant attention long enough to make him listen.
“Let me go,” she demanded.
“No.”
“I mean it. Let me go!”
“No.”
“If you don’t, you’ll be sorry.”
“I doubt it. I’ve never been sorry my whole life.”
“I’m sure that’s true.”
He untied her cloak and pushed it off so he could glance down her body.
“That is the ugliest dress I’ve ever seen,” he said.
“I guess I don’t rise to your incredibly high standards,” she sarcastically retorted.
“Are you new at this? You don’t have any flair. Couldn’t you have borrowed a fancier gown from one of the other girls?”
“Honestly, you are a vulgar, annoying cur.”
“Yes, I am,” he agreed, seeming proud of the fact.
“And I am not a—”
Her tirade was cut off by his leaning down and kissing her. The same instant, his roving hand shifted to her breast and rested there. The illicit touch made her nipple harden into a taut nub. It nudged against his palm, as if begging to be petted.
The outrageous contact was so unexpected—and so thrilling—that for a delicious second, she forgot to protest. Then she remembered herself, her mission, her place, and she yelped and shoved with all her might.
She managed to slide out from under him and scurry across the mattress. Clutching at her cloak, she scrambled to the floor.
“What the devil?” he muttered, his confusion plain. “What kind of whore are you?”
“I am not a whore!” she fumed.
He narrowed his gaze and focused on her so intently that she understood how the soldiers under his command had to feel when they’d committed an infraction. She wondered if she was about to be flogged.
“If you’re not a whore,” he asked, “what the hell are you?”
“I am Miss Emeline Wilson.”
He cocked his head; he scowled. “Why do I know that name?”
“Perhaps because I’ve written you four times, requesting an audience. We have an appointment today at two.”
“We do not.”
“We do.”
“About what?”
“About the condition of the tenants at your estate. If you’d ever deigned to visit Stafford, you would have discovered that—”
In a fluid move, he leapt from the bed, the towel gripped at his waist. Murder in his eye, he stormed over, grabbed her and dragged her to the door.
When they reached it, it was still locked, and he was so angry that he was flummoxed as to why it would be or how he was to open it.
He hammered on the wood, shouting, “Stephen! Stephen! Get your ass in here!”
She hissed and wrestled, trying to free herself, as he continued to bang and bellow. Eventually, footsteps winged toward them. A key was jammed and turned. The door was flung wide. The man who’d initially seized her—the one with features she now recognized as looking very similar to Lord Stafford’s—was standing there.
She recalled that he had a brother, Lieutenant Stephen Price, who was two years younger. Stephen Price was also in the army. They served together.
“What is it?” Lt. Price snapped. “What did she do? I warned her that she wouldn’t be paid if she caused any trouble.”
Lord Stafford hurled her at his brother, and Lt. Price caught her.
“She’s not a whore,” Lord Stafford explained.
“She’s not?” Lt. Price frowned. “Who is she then?”
“She’s that fussy scold from Stafford.”
“Emeline Wilson?”
“Yes. Why is she in my house?”
“She walked in—bold as brass.”
“Well, get her the hell out! It’s bad enough that I have to put up with her nonsense through the mail. I shouldn’t have to tolerate it in my own home. Is this my castle or isn’t it?”
“May I say something?” Emeline interrupted.
“No, you may not,” Lord Stafford barked.
He gave a curt nod to his brother. Lt. Price spun on his heel and marched down the hall, Emeline’s arm tight in his fist.
She struggled with him, but she was too small and too easily manhandled to have any effect.
“But . . . but . . .” Emeline mumbled, “I haven’t said what I came to say.”
“Believe me,” Lt. Price replied, “you’ve said plenty.”
He stomped down the stairs, as Emeline staggered after him. In a trice, they were across the vestibule, and she was tossed out onto the stoop.
With a firm slam, the door was shut and locked behind her.
“What were you thinking?” Nicholas demanded of his brother, Stephen.
“I thought she was the whore Mrs. Bainbridge sent over from the brothel.”
“Did you see what she was wearing?” Nicholas asked.
“I couldn’t miss it, could I?”
“Then why would you presume she was a prostitute? She was dressed like a scullery maid.”
“I assumed she was naked under her cloak. Or that she’d stripped down to corset and drawers.”
“You didn’t check?”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “I’m not about to fumble around under the cloaks of the doxies who service you. If you don’t like the caliber of girls I let in the door, you can answer it yourself when they knock.”
They were in the earl’s library, with Nicholas seated behind the massive oak desk and Stephen in the chair across. They were both drinking, and to emphasize his testy remark, Stephen slammed his glass down on the desktop. The loud thud made Nicholas’s head throb. He flinched and massaged his temples.
After two weeks of parties that had included too much debauchery and intoxication but very little rest, he was hung over, tired, hungry, and grouchy. He wanted breakfast and a hot bath and a shave. He wanted the mess from the prior evening’s festivities removed. He wanted clean sheets on his bed so he could crawl back under them and sleep until the next morning.
Generally, he wasn’t so slothful. At age thirty, he’d spent the past sixteen years in the army, so he was used to discipline and restraint. But it was the first time he’d been in England since he’d been installed as Earl of Stafford. To his surprise, the visit was extremely stressful, and tension had him acting in unusual ways.
He was no longer an ordinary citizen. People sought boons from him that he wasn’t inclined to give. He was fawned over and lied to. Strangers were anxious to be chums.
When the lofty title had been dumped on him, he’d been stunned—he hadn’t even realized he was the heir—and the elevated status was like a dream. Or maybe a nightmare. He hated Stafford and had no interest in the riches it had bestowed, so he’d never even traveled there. He didn’t care about it, and no one could make him care.
His lawyers had nagged him to return to London, to handle pressing business, and it had taken a pleading letter from them to his commanding officer before he’d been ordered home on a two-month furlough.
He’d never previously had a holiday. As a lowly soldier, he couldn’t have afforded a vacation, but as an aristocrat, he actually had money to waste on frivolities. He was doing his utmost to enjoy himself, but he was exhausted by the constant revelry.
He owned one of the grandest houses in the city, but there were no servants to attend him. They hadn’t been paid in an eternity, so they’d quit and left. He’d considered hiring a staff for the short eight weeks he was scheduled to be in town, but it seemed silly to go to so much trouble.
There were dreadful stories circulating—that he was an uncivilized barbarian—but they weren’t true. He knew how to behave; he just didn’t want to.
His father had been a cousin of the Earl of Stafford, but he’d fallen in love with an actress and had had the audacity to run off and marry her. It was a transgression for which he’d been promptly disowned and disinherited.
Until the very sad afternoon he and his wife had died in a carriage accident—Nicholas had been six and Stephen four—the poor man had never been forgiven by his judgmental kin or their arrogant friends. In a misguided tribute to his deceased father, Nicholas relished the chance to rudely insinuate himself among his new peers. They loathed him, and the feeling was mutual.
Despite his title of earl, he didn’t and never would belong in the ton. The snooty members anticipated base conduct from him, and he was happy to live down to their expectations.
Wondering what time it was, he made the mistake of gazing over at the window, and he winced in agony.
“Would you pull the drapes?” he asked. “I have a terminal hangover. I can’t bear all that merry sunshine.”
“You really should clean yourself up.”
“If I decide I’d like you to be my butler or valet, I’ll let you know.�
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“This place is disgusting.”
“Your opinion has been noted.”
“What if Lady Veronica stops by?”
Lady Veronica Stewart was a duke’s daughter, the quintessential debutante, a flawless example of groomed womanhood. And Nicholas was engaged to her.
As with so much of his life, it didn’t seem possible that he was betrothed, especially to such a beautiful, conceited, very rich eighteen-year-old girl. She was young and immature, and they had nothing in common, but he had purposely picked her.
In another misguided effort, this one an attempt to avenge his father, he was determined to wed as high as he was able, to throw his low birth status in the faces of those who had been awful to his parents. His marriage to Veronica, scheduled for the end of August, was the perfect solution.
The snobs of the ton would forever fume over his having absconded with their little darling. He had climbed over the walls and taken what shouldn’t have been his.
“Don’t worry about Veronica,” he insisted. “She’d never come here. She knows better than to visit a bachelor’s quarters—even if we are engaged.”
“What if she got a wild hair? What if she grew a spine and showed up unannounced? What if she did?”
“She won’t,” he snapped, “now close the damned drapes.”
Stephen stomped over and was tugging at the heavy fabric when a sight outside made him halt and curse.
“Oh, for bloody sake,” he grumbled.
“What is it?” Nicholas asked.
“It’s Miss Wilson. She’s pacing out in the drive.”
“I could have sworn you tossed her out.”
“She didn’t leave!”
“What is wrong with her?” Nicholas asked.
“Do you think she’s crazy? Literally. Could she be insane?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps she’s the village lunatic.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Might she be dangerous?”
“Ha!” Nicholas scoffed. “She’s too small to be dangerous.”
He rose and went over to join his brother. Together, they stared at the petite virago. She spun toward them, and she couldn’t help but notice them watching her.