by Cheryl Holt
A young woman poked her head out the window. She waved and called, “Nicholas! Nicholas! Surprise!”
The earl was very formal. He stood straight and nodded. “Hello, Veronica.”
“I’ll bet you didn’t expect to see me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“We were passing by, on our way to Fitzroy’s house party. Portia—you remember my friend, Portia, don’t you?”
“No.”
“You met her at my father’s supper? Anyway, she mentioned that we were in the neighborhood, and I decided we simply had to stop.”
“Welcome to Stafford.”
Covetously, she assessed the mansion. “It’s lovely. I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable here.”
“I’m sure you will be too,” he agreed.
A footman opened the door and lowered the step. The earl extended his hand, and the woman, Veronica, took it and climbed out. With her white-blond hair, big blue eyes, and Cupid’s mouth, she was the most beautiful, exotic creature Emeline had ever seen.
She was petite, but voluptuous, with a slender waist, impressive bosom, and numerous curves in all the right spots. From the extravagant cut of her expensive gown and the sparkling jewels on her neck, wrists, and shoes, it was obvious she was very rich.
Though she appeared to be seventeen or eighteen, she exuded a sophistication and aplomb that Emeline could never have matched. The earl was charmed, his attention fully riveted, and Emeline felt ill with alarm.
She glanced up at Lt. Price and nervously asked, “Who is she?”
“She is Lady Veronica Stewart. She is my brother’s fiancée.”
Lt. Price—bless him—had very quick reflexes. He caught Emeline around the waist so she didn’t embarrass herself by falling to the ground in a stunned heap.
“Steady, Miss Wilson, steady,” Stephen whispered, her entire weight balanced on his arm. If he hadn’t reacted, she’d have been unconscious at his feet.
“Let me go,” she begged.
“Just a moment more,” he advised, “then it will all be over.”
“Please?” she begged again.
“Veronica has the instincts of a shark. Don’t encourage her to turn them on you. You’ll always regret it.”
The warning centered her, and she pulled herself together as much as she could. Her legs gained strength, and she was able to stand on her own, but she was weaving, as if the slightest breeze would knock her down.
Nicholas was being the perfect gentleman for Veronica, pretending naught was amiss, and Stephen had to give him credit. What man would know how to behave when confronted by his fiancée while saying an emotional goodbye to his latest paramour?
The episode might have been humorous—if it wasn’t so thoroughly distasteful. Miss Wilson was crushed, which was why Stephen had demanded Nicholas leave for London. Too bad they’d been delayed by five minutes.
Veronica flashed a flirtatious grin at Nicholas, and she tipped her cheek toward him. He grinned too, like the besotted swain he definitely wasn’t. He bent down and supplied the kiss that Veronica was seeking.
Beside him, Miss Wilson began to quake quite visibly.
“How long have they been engaged?” she murmured.
“A few months.”
“Have they set the wedding date?”
“The end of August. It’s to be the highlight of the London Season and the grandest fete in decades. Royalty from all over Europe are invited.” Brutally, he added, “Her father’s a duke. She’s his only daughter.”
Miss Wilson sucked in a shocked breath, her legs giving out a second time, and he slipped a supportive arm around her waist again.
He was being deliberately cruel, but she should have no illusions about Nicholas. She couldn’t be allowed to harbor any insane fantasies that she could change him or mold him into a better man.
He was the person she was viewing that very instant, a person of no morals or scruples, who was lacking in loyalty and fidelity. He never made commitments, and he was incapable of forming bonds or keeping promises.
Their childhood experiences had warped him, had left him too tough, too ready to do whatever was necessary to protect himself. He had no conscience. He would always choose the route that suited his own purposes, and he’d destroy anyone who got in his way.
Veronica grabbed Nicholas’s arm in a proprietary manner. They approached, Portia trailing behind.
“Hello, Lt. Price,” Veronica simpered.
“Hello, milady.” Nicholas had told Stephen that he could call her Veronica, but Stephen couldn’t abide her and had no desire to be on familiar terms.
“You’ve met Portia.” Veronica didn’t glance back at her companion.
“I have.” Stephen bowed to her friend.
“Who is this?” She glared at Miss Wilson, studying her simple dress in a derogatory fashion. “Is she a servant? Could she take my bags up to my room?”
“She’s a guest,” Nicholas managed to choke out.
“A guest!” Veronica tsked. “You’re a bachelor, Nicholas. How very odd. She’s been crying. Why? Have you awful men hurt her feelings?”
“I’m Emeline Wilson,” Miss Wilson had the backbone to say, when neither Stephen nor Nicholas was courteous enough to introduce her.
“How nice.” Veronica rudely turned away so Miss Wilson would understand that Veronica couldn’t care less, that she deemed Miss Wilson to be of no consequence. She smiled at Nicholas. “Let’s go inside. I’m dying to explore the house. Give me a tour. I especially wish to see the countess’s suite.”
Nicholas hesitated, the moment awkward, but there was no reason not to show her.
They would have to play the part of polite hosts, but with any luck, the encounter wouldn’t last long. Veronica was spoiled and easily bored. She appeared to have brought only her friend and her maid, so she couldn’t spend the night. Hopefully, she’d snoop for a bit, then travel on.
“Yes, Nick,” Stephen urged, “show her the house.”
Stephen was desperate to get Veronica out of sight before poor Miss Wilson collapsed.
“Come,” Nicholas said to Veronica, but he paused again.
He stared at Miss Wilson, yearning to offer a pertinent remark, but what could it possibly be? He sighed, then spun away and guided Veronica up the stairs. Portia trotted after them.
Stephen and Miss Wilson tarried until they vanished, then he led her off in the opposite direction. She was in a state of shock, so she put up no resistance.
He went in the rear of the manor, to an area Veronica would never visit. He escorted her into a deserted parlor and closed the door. He steered her over to a chair and sat her down.
There was a sideboard along the wall. He walked over and poured her a brandy. He held it out, but she didn’t reach for it. She seemed paralyzed, so he lifted the glass to her lips.
“Take a drink,” he commanded. She shook her head, but he pressed, “Drink up. You’ll feel better.”
With a trembling hand, she clasped it and downed a hefty swallow. The potent liquor had her eyes watering, and she coughed once, but she was made of stern stuff. She gulped another swallow, then another and another, until the glass was empty.
“Thank you,” she said as she set it on a nearby table.
“You’re welcome.”
“I wasn’t aware that he was betrothed.”
“I realize that.”
“I thought he was . . .” She broke off. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter what I thought.”
“Do you know very much about my brother, Miss Wilson?”
“I assumed I did, but I’m now sure I know nothing about him at all.”
“He never told you about our parents?”
“No, and really, Lt. Price, why would he have? We’re just acquaintances. I’m hardly a confidante.”
Whatever the situation, Stephen would let her pretend there had been no affair, but he wouldn’t let her wallow in some mental folly where she believed she might have meant something to Nicholas.
She would be hurt by Stephen’s bluntness, and he hated to wound her, but there was no other way to proceed.
“My father grew up at this estate,” he informed her.
“I had heard that.”
“He was raised as if he was the earl’s son, with all the wealth and trappings that could be bestowed on such a fortunate fellow.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I need you to comprehend why my brother behaves as he does. I need you to understand what he’s truly like and why the two of you could never have ended up together.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” she said. “Such a preposterous conclusion has never occurred to me.”
“Hasn’t it?”
“No.” She peered down at the rug, unable to meet his gaze.
“One year, when my father was in London, he fell in love with the most flamboyant—but very common—actress. He wed her shortly after. For this monumental affront to the Price family, he was disowned and disavowed.”
“What has that to do with me or your brother?”
“I’m getting to that. My parents were killed in a carriage accident when Nicholas was six and I was four. We were orphans, but our relatives viewed us as the sinful stain of our parents’ illicit affiliation.”
“It wasn’t illicit. They were married!”
“Quite so, Miss Wilson. A minister from my father’s church wrote to the old earl, notifying him that he was bringing us back to Stafford.”
Suddenly, Stephen was having trouble continuing. When the trip to Stafford had transpired, he’d been so young. He had one tiny memory of that vile day, but it still had the power to cripple him with unwanted emotion.
Anxious to compose himself, he whirled away and went to the sideboard to pour his own brandy. As he sipped it, Miss Wilson asked, “What happened when you arrived at the estate?”
“The earl had men at the gate with orders to prevent us from entering. We were turned away—two little boys with nowhere to go.”
“My goodness. I wasn’t aware . . .”
“Few people are.” He pushed down the well of grief that always bubbled up when he recounted the experience. “Over the ensuing months, the minister contacted other of our kin—cousins and aunts and the like—but no one would help us. So . . . we were raised in an orphanage, the lost children of this incredibly wealthy, aristocratic family.”
“And your brother?”
“Vowed vengeance against all of them. He intends to wed as high as he can to rub their noses in his rise to eminence. He wants to show them that they can’t keep him out, that he can waltz into their midst and behave however he wishes.”
“I see.”
“Once he was installed as earl, his first act was to find the prettiest, richest girl of the ton and propose to her.”
“Lady Veronica.”
“Yes.” He fussed over his brandy, letting the silence play out, letting reality sink in. “He’ll marry her no matter what. While he’s been here at Stafford, he’s never for a single second considered doing anything else—and he never will.”
“Well, of course he won’t.” She tried for a smile, but failed. “Lady Veronica is very beautiful. What man wouldn’t want her for a bride?”
“What man indeed?”
They were quiet for an eternity, with Miss Wilson studying the floor and Stephen studying her.
“I should go,” she finally said, but she didn’t move.
“I’ve known my brother a long time, Miss Wilson.”
“I know you have.”
“He can be very charming—when he chooses to be. An unsuspecting female might be taken off guard. An unsuspecting female might involve herself in ways she hadn’t planned.”
“That woman would be very, very foolish.”
“Yes, she would be, because my brother will always do what will benefit him the most. He will never care who he harms in the process.”
Pensive and morose, she nodded. “Why would you suppose he didn’t mention that he was betrothed?”
“He wouldn’t think it was any of your business.”
She sighed with regret. “He was leaving today without a goodbye.”
“I ordered him away, Miss Wilson. It had come to my attention that he might have been inappropriately dallying with someone. I insisted he depart before he caused any trouble for her.”
“He wanted to go? He was amenable?”
“He never voiced a word of argument,” he lied, “for he recognized that there was no reason for him to stay. Was there?”
“No, no reason occurs to me. Has he ever divulged what is to happen to me and my sisters? We’ve been living at the manor, but it’s time we left. I’ve asked him what we are to do, but he’s never had an answer.”
“For now, you’re to settle in the village. There is a room for rent above the blacksmith’s barn. But eventually, you must select a new location far away from Stafford. I’ll help you with accommodations.”
“In a different town?”
“Yes. There’s nothing for you here.”
“Is this what your brother requested of me?”
“Yes,” he lied again.
She fiddled with her skirt, dawdling, prolonging the moment, then she pushed herself to her feet. “You’ve been very kind. I appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry to have been so blunt.”
“It’s all right. I was wondering if I could impose on you for a few hours.”
“I’ll assist you in any way I can.”
“I was to have a picnic with my sisters, but I’m feeling a bit low. I’d like to rest until I’m more myself.”
“I’d be happy to entertain them for you.”
“You don’t need to. If you could escort them into the village, Mrs. Merrick would watch them.”
At hearing Jo’s name, he covered a wince. “I’ll take them to her.”
She went to the door and opened it, and as she stepped into the hall, she glanced back. She was a tragic figure, so lovely, so forlorn, and Stephen could see why his brother had been smitten.
“I never meant to hurt anyone,” she said. “I wasn’t told about Lady Veronica or I would never have—”
“I know.” He interrupted her so she wouldn’t have to embarrass herself with a humiliating admission. “Nicholas never means to hurt anyone either. It’s just his habit to be callous.”
She walked on, her strides fading, and he slid into the chair she’d vacated.
It was another mess Nicholas had made, another calamity Stephen had had to fix for him, and Stephen was so weary. He was sick at heart, furious with himself, with his brother, with Miss Wilson for being so trusting and gullible.
He staggered off to find his brother, hopefully to extinguish any other fires before Nicholas could fan the flames.
A knock sounded on Emeline’s door, but she didn’t rise to answer it. She couldn’t. She was too numb and unable to move.
She felt old and worn out, a woman past her prime who had no one to help her, no one upon whom she could rely. Every endeavor she’d attempted had failed. Every dream had been dashed.
The knock rapped again. The knob turned, and a housemaid poked her nose in.
“Miss Wilson?”
“Yes?”
“A letter came for you.”
When Emeline simply stared, unspeaking, the
girl walked over and handed it to her. Emeline didn’t reach for it, and the girl glanced about and laid it on a table.
“Are you ill, Miss Wilson? May I bring you something?”
“I’m a bit under the weather, but I don’t need anything. Thank you for asking.”
“Perhaps a pot of tea? Cook has a blended remedy that would settle your stomach.”
“My stomach’s fine. I’m just weary.”
The girl left, and Emeline was cynical enough to wonder if she’d been fishing for gossip. Was she, at that very moment, racing down to the kitchen to tattle over Emeline’s reduced condition?
Emeline had thought herself so smart, so furtive in her affair with the earl, but if Lt. Price had been aware of it, the entire staff had probably known. There was no more vicious group than servants who’d had a colleague raised above them.
Had they all been informed of the earl’s engagement—with Emeline the sole person who hadn’t been apprised? Had they watched her make a fool of herself, while gleefully waiting for her folly to crash down around her?
Emeline glared at the letter. She couldn’t imagine who had written, and she couldn’t bear to pick it up. It would only contain more bad news.
Finally, she rose, and she trudged over to see that it was from a school in Cornwall. It was the last one to which she’d applied, and she’d been expecting to hear that she was too inexperienced or too old or that they’d hired somebody else.
She tugged at the flap and was stunned to find that it was the exact opposite of what she’d anticipated.
They wanted her! The position started at the end of the summer, and the major benefit was a two-room cottage. They were hoping she could come right away so she could acclimate before classes commenced. If she replied in the affirmative, they would send coach fare.
She pressed the letter over her heart and held it there, as if the words could imbue her with the vigor she needed to accept. Leave Stafford forever. Travel across the country with her sisters in tow. Build a life for herself among strangers. Yet what other option was there?
Lord Stafford was tossing her out of the manor, and he had suggested temporary lodging over the blacksmith’s barn. Lt. Price would move her there, but she would soon be relocated to another village.