by Cheryl Holt
“How about wearing bright colors merely to look pretty?”
“Oh, yes,” she sarcastically retorted, “personal grooming is my biggest worry.”
“I think I’ll buy you a new gown, just to see how fetching you can be. It might improve your mood.”
“You’re being ridiculous, and I wish you wouldn’t—”
He bent down and sucked on her nipple.
“My goodness,” she breathed.
“Hasn’t any man ever touched you like this?”
“No, when would anyone have?”
“I’m the first?”
“Of course you’re the first.”
“Let me show you something.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Let me show you anyway.”
Working her skirt up her leg, his fingers were at her thigh, her hip, and he slipped them into her drawers. As he slid them into her sheath, he was delighted to find her wet and ready.
He smirked. The prospect of staying at Stafford was dreadful, but he’d stumbled on the ideal way to amuse himself. Emeline would provide hours of raucous, ribald diversion.
He stroked back and forth, back and forth, and she fought the deluge that was coming.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“You don’t know?”
“No, you lout! I don’t know.”
“Almost there,” he coaxed.
He flicked with his thumb, as he laved her nipple, and immediately, she was pitched into a potent orgasm. She shrieked with astonishment, making such a ruckus that he had to kiss her to swallow the sound. He held her as she spiraled up, then down, and as her ecstasy waned, he was on the verge of ravishment.
Typically, his base impulses were effortlessly controlled, yet with her, he was so titillated that he was about to violently take her against her will. He refused to hurt or scare her. She had to be eased into the notion of surrendering her virginity, so they could spend weeks satisfying their mutual passion.
If he acted like a bully, he would wreck their affair before it began.
Drawing away, he covered her with a blanket so he couldn’t view what was driving him wild.
He rolled over and stared at the ceiling, struggling to calm the lust pounding through his veins. He had to get a grip on his riotous ardor, on his urge to have her at any cost. Then he would start in again.
“What was that?” she inquired.
“What was what?”
“What you did to me . . .” She looked very young, very innocent. “What was that?”
“It was sexual pleasure.”
“Am I all right?”
“You’re more than all right. In fact, you’re magnificent.”
“Am I still a . . . a . . . virgin?”
“Yes.”
“Am I . . . with child now?”
Her naïveté was humorous, and he nearly chided her for it, but at realizing how inexperienced she was, he felt like the worst libertine. Why was he taking advantage of her?
He’d never lain with a female who was so clueless about carnal matters. He dabbled with whores and doxies who knew what he wanted and how to accomplish it without any fuss. He’d forgotten that there were women like Emeline, women who were chaste and virtuous and uncorrupted.
The poor thing! Having to endure his callous seduction! He was a ruthless, unprincipled bounder, and she’d rue the day they’d crossed paths.
He shifted onto his side, and she shifted too, so they were facing each other. She peered at him, wide-eyed with shock.
“No, you’re not with child,” he said.
“How does it happen?”
“It begins with what we just did, but there’s quite a bit more to it. Perhaps I’ll show you some time”—he grinned—“if you’re very, very nice to me.”
“As if I’d let you do that to me again!”
“You liked it. Don’t deny it.”
“You overwhelm my better sense. If I’m not careful, there’s no telling what I might allow.”
“Lucky me,” he murmured, and a wave of tenderness swept over him. His heart made the oddest flip-flopping motion, as if it had grown too large and didn’t fit under his ribs.
“I should leave,” she said.
“In a minute.”
He pulled her to him, his arm holding her close, her cheek pressed to his chest.
He was comforted by the scent of her, by the warmth of her skin nestled to his. Before he knew it, inebriation took its toll, and he dozed.
When he woke, it was morning, and she was gone, with not so much as a hint in the room that she’d been there at all.
“I have a letter from your father.”
“Really?”
Annie Price jumped up and down and clapped her hands, then she remembered herself. They were seated in Mother Superior’s office, a small room where the elderly nun conducted business. It wasn’t the sort of spot to encourage displays of enthusiasm.
The convent was a very quiet place, and the Sisters of Mercy a very quiet group. None had taken a vow of silence, but they didn’t laugh with joy or shout with anger.
Annie was never scolded for her outbursts, but her emotions often flared in ways that startled everyone.
She struggled to contain her excitement. “A letter! How wonderful.”
“He and your uncle have traveled to Stafford.”
“Finally!”
She and the nun smiled. Her father had regaled her with stories of her Uncle Nicholas’s good fortune. It was like a fairytale: the poor orphan boy picked from the crowd and raised up to live with kings.
Annie and the nuns had avidly followed the proceedings as if they were part of it, and they were—after a fashion. As her father grew richer, he would pay more money for Annie’s expenses, so the Stafford earldom represented a huge benefit for all concerned.
Her father kept insisting that he was about to send for her, so they could be together, but that day never arrived. When he’d first suggested it, she’d assumed he meant immediately, but as month had turned to year, she’d realized a hard truth. The chances were great that it would never transpire.
Now, whenever he talked about how he was making plans, she would nod and reply with all the appropriate remarks, but she no longer expected any changes.
At age ten, she wasn’t a little girl anymore, and she didn’t believe in happy endings. If she ultimately wound up with her father, she would be glad, but she wouldn’t pin any hopes on him.
“Does he describe the estate?” she asked.
“He says it’s very beautiful and even more grand than he’d envisioned it would be.”
“And my uncle, since he’s gone to Stafford, is he pleased with it?”
“Your father doesn’t reveal the earl’s opinion, but I’m sure he’s delighted. Who wouldn’t be?”
Annie smiled again. Her father claimed she’d known her uncle when she was a baby, that she’d briefly resided with both men after her mother had died, but Annie didn’t recollect. She’d been too tiny. Her father came to Belgium twice a year for a short visit, but her uncle never accompanied him. In the sheltered world of the convent, he didn’t seem like a real person.
“What about me?” she tentatively ventured. “Has Father mentioned my joining him at Stafford?”
“Of course.”
“What does he say?”
“A very interesting comment, I think. He’s investigating the neighbors at Stafford. He’s searching for a family that would be willing to take you in until he can muster out of the army.”
“You’re joking.”
“No. He informs me that someone will come from London, before the summer is through, to escort you to England.”
Annie had been standing, and at the amazing news, she eased down into the chair
behind her.
“Do you suppose he means it?”
“He’s your father, Annie, and he loves you. I’m certain he always means it.”
“But this time . . .”
Mother Superior was aware of how frequently Annie’s dreams had been dashed by her father, and she always soothed Annie’s disappointment over his failed promises. She leaned across her desk and patted Annie’s hand.
“I’m very confident,” Mother Superior said. “Your father has established himself at Stafford, so there’s no reason why you can’t be brought to live there.”
“By August, would you imagine? Could it happen that soon?”
“Perhaps even sooner. Maybe you’ll be leaving us by July.”
“July,” Annie murmured, as if the word were magic.
The nun held out the letter. “Go ahead. Take it and read it for yourself.”
Annie grabbed it and bowed out. She climbed the stairs to her room in the attic. Though her father was wealthy, she received no special treatment, so it was simply furnished.
She flopped onto her bed, and she studied her father’s message over and over until she’d memorized it. At the bottom of the page, she traced her finger over the last sentence: I will be sending someone to fetch you to England.
Giggling with glee, she pressed the paper to her chest, directly over her heart. She gazed at her meager belongings, wondering if she should begin packing.
When her escort appeared, she wanted to depart without delay.
“I have the most wicked idea.”
Lady Veronica Stewart glanced over at her best friend, Portia.
“Tell me,” Veronica insisted.
“If you’re so worried about Lord Stafford, why don’t you pay him a surprise visit?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why couldn’t you?”
“What would my father say?”
“What the duke doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Don’t ask his permission; just go.”
“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 Fitzroy’s 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 town house 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 Fitzroy’s 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’d been 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 trice.
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 hung over. 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 the village, and I heard you were here. I had to check for myself.”