My Scoundrel

by Cheryl Holt

  Considering what she’d given to the earl, the proposed resolution was paltry compensation and much less than what she deserved, but who was she to argue?

  She had no one to blame but herself for her current predicament, and she ought to be grateful that the earl had tendered any reparation at all. He could have just had the maids pack her bags and put them out on the road.

  What reason was there to stay at Stafford? Aside from Josephine with whom she was only casually acquainted, she had no real friends. Her neighbors feigned cordiality, but when push had come to shove, they’d abandoned her in the earl’s driveway for a bag of seed and a jug of ale.

  Why would she remain?

  She wouldn’t, but her decision had naught to do with her neighbors or their opinions.

  In the future, Lord Stafford would occasionally visit the estate. He’d bring his bride. Emeline might bump into him as he rode by on the lane. She might have to observe as he lorded himself over a crowd during the harvest festival.

  She couldn’t abide the notion of seeing him with his simpering wife on his arm. According to his brother, the earl wanted the whole world to take note of his winning Lady Veronica.

  Well, the world could notice and laud him, but Emeline didn’t have to. She—who had convinced herself that he was perfect—knew his true character. She recognized the cruel monster behind the handsome façade.

  As she pondered his despicable treatment, she grew angry.

  Why was she being such a meek lamb? She’d never been timid or shy, and she’d done nothing wrong—except fall in love with a libertine who didn’t reciprocate her intense sentiment.

  Was she to suffer his awful behavior without complaint? Was she to slither out the rear door as if she was ashamed?

  She wasn’t ashamed! And she wouldn’t hang her head and mope as if she was the miscreant in the sordid affair. Lord Stafford was a scoundrel, and Emeline wouldn’t pretend any differently.

  She had many comments to share with the exalted Earl of Stafford, and he was going to listen to every one of them. She had no brother or father to stand up for her, so she had to stand up for herself.

  After he left for London, she’d have no chance to speak with him ever again. If she didn’t tell him what she thought, she’d regret it forever.

  She hurried to her writing desk and penned a reply to the school in Cornwall. She accepted the post and agreed to travel upon receipt of the coach fare. Then she stormed into the hall, eager to hunt down the earl.

  There were few servants about, and those she encountered didn’t know where he was. She started searching floor by floor.

  Wherever he’d gone, she’d find him, and when she was finished, his ears would be on fire!

  She walked for ages, checking various places, and gradually, her rage began to wane. It was difficult to sustain such virulent fury, and with each stride, she reassessed.

  Why chastise him? Why scold? What was the point? She didn’t matter to him in the slightest. Why waste the energy? He’d simply scoff at her criticism.

  She slowed, her livid promenade lagging, then halting. To her dismay, she’d ended up outside his bedchamber, the smaller one he’d picked for himself upon his arrival.

  The door was open, and she peered in like a beggar on the street.

  She remembered the special evening she’d spent in his bed. They had talked and dallied and shared, and the memory pressed down on her like a heavy weight under which she couldn’t keep her balance.

  Sadness swept over her. She didn’t hate him. She loved him, and she always would. It was killing her to know that she’d been so insignificant.

  Suddenly, she heard his voice. He was in the dressing room behind his bedchamber.

  Her stupid pulse raced with grief, but with joy too. He was exiting his suite, coming toward her. Perhaps if they could have a moment to chat, he would explain why he’d used her so horridly. If he could just make her understand, she wouldn’t be quite so bereft.

  He stepped into view, and Emeline was about to call out his name when she realized that Lady Veronica was still with him. The exquisite blond girl rose on tiptoe, and the earl kissed her full on the mouth. The embrace was chaste and quick, but it was an embrace nonetheless.

  Emeline felt as if all the blood had been drained from her body, all the air sucked from the sky, and she was suffocating. She gasped with shock.

  He spun, smiling, until he saw who was loitering and gaping. For a long, torturous interval, his gaze locked with hers, then she whirled away and ran.

  In her frenzied retreat, she thought he shouted, “Em!”, but she was sure it was her fevered imagination.

  “It’s a beautiful house, Nicholas.”

  “I’m glad you approve.”

  Veronica looked up at him.

  An hour earlier, she’d managed to lose Portia. Her friend had been hungry, and she’d wandered into a dining room where a buffet had been laid out. Veronica had left her there and sneaked off with her fiancé. It was the first time they’d ever been alone.

  During the three months of their engagement, they’d rarely interacted, so she’d forgotten how manly he was. At being so vividly reminded, she was thrilled.

  With him so tall and dark, and her so shapely and fair, they would cast a dashing shadow across the social world of aristocratic London. She would have the most handsome husband in the kingdom, and heads would turn wherever they went. Every female of her acquaintance would be green with envy.

  “Mother requires your presence in town,” she advised him, “for some wedding preparations.”

  “I don’t need to come,” he said. “Whatever you decide is fine with me.”

  “But you and your brother must visit our tailor. I’ve chosen the fabric for your wedding clothes, and they’re eager to get sewing. The date is approaching so rapidly.”

  “My brother and I will wear our uniforms. You don’t have to make a fuss.”

  “I don’t wish you to wear your uniforms. I wish you to wear what I have selected.” To lessen the sting of her remark, she flashed a flirtatious grin. “I’m afraid I have to insist.”

  He didn’t reply, and she frowned, trying to interpret what his silence indicated. Was he amenable? Would he come to London as she’d demanded? Or was he merely being courteous when he had no intention of doing as she’d asked?

  She wasn’t accustomed to being ignored, and she refused to have her plans thwarted. Her wedding would be fabulous, and he couldn’t be permitted to spoil it.

  They trudged along, not speaking, and she was growing irked by his mulish contemplation.

  She’d finally escaped her chaperones, but he hardly seemed to care. She was a chatterbox, but he was barely listening. He kept peeking out the windows, as if worried over what was occurring outside.

  Apparently, every detail about the estate was more important than her.

  “You’ll allow me to remodel the manor, won’t you?” she inquired.

  “Remodel? Why would you? This mansion is the gaudiest place I’ve ever seen. The furniture is in excellent shape, and it’s of the highest quality. It would be a waste of money.”

  “It would make me happy—buying things for my new home. You want to make me happy, don’t you?”

  She had a very clear image of herself trotting about London to the merchants from whom she’d purchase the latest styles and colors. She could envision just how she’d dress for her appointments, just how she’d barter and haggle and shop. He couldn’t ruin her fun, couldn’t prevent her from doing what all brides did after their weddings.

  He was quiet again, and she wondered if he’d agreed or not, but she couldn’t figure out how to press him for answers.

  For the prior three years, she’d been courted and wooed, but her suitors had all been near her own age. They were malleable and easily coerced. Nicholas was nothing like any
of those boys. He wasn’t concerned over how she viewed him, and he’d expended no effort to learn what she wanted or to ensure that she received it.

  “Where is our honeymoon to be?” she asked. “I’m dying to know, and you haven’t breathed a word.”

  He scowled. “I’m coming to London for the wedding, then I’m returning immediately to my post.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’re not. I think we should go to Italy. Wouldn’t it be exciting to rent a villa on the Mediterranean? How long could we stay? Would six months be all right?”

  If she couldn’t finish off her glorious wedding with a glorious wedding trip, what was the use of getting married?

  He halted at a door and gestured inside.

  “You asked to see where I sleep,” he said. “This is it.”

  She glanced into a very plain salon, one that was no different from a dozen others he’d shown her. He’d given the earl’s grand quarters to his brother, and he, Nicholas, had taken lesser lodgings. What sort of man would relinquish the earl’s suite for this paltry set of rooms?

  “I want to look.” She grabbed his arm, hoping to pull him in after her, but he wouldn’t budge.

  “Your father wouldn’t like you to be alone with me in my bedchamber.”

  “My father isn’t here, is he? What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  She marched in, leaving him to skulk in the hall like an imbecile.

  There was very little evidence of him in the sitting room, no trinkets tossed on a table, no coat thrown over a chair, so she brazenly proceeded to the bedroom and the dressing room beyond.

  In it, she found the type of items for which she’d been searching: his razor and shaving cup, a pair of muddy riding boots in the corner, and—scandalously—a bath robe hanging from a hook.

  She imagined herself wed to him, having the right to simply waltz in whenever she chose. Several of her friends had already married, and they whispered shocking tales of their husbands prancing about naked, of frightening physical acts carried out in the dark of night. She was anxious to learn what they were, but no one would explain.

  She tried to picture him without his clothes, and she supposed he’d resemble a Greek statue, all smooth skin and sculpted muscle. The very idea made her cheeks heat, and she could barely keep from picking up a towel and fanning herself.

  She spun around, and he was dawdling in the doorway, leaned against the frame. He appeared bored, and she was aggravated in the extreme. When he gazed at her, he ought to be overcome by desire.

  Sauntering over, she approached until her skirt brushed his legs. She was being very forward, but what else was she to do? So far, he’d been tediously polite, and she was determined to elicit a reaction.

  She was skilled at flirting, and she could drive a man wild with passion. He didn’t stand a chance at resisting her.

  She toyed with a button on his shirt, tracing her finger round and round in circles. He didn’t move away, but he didn’t move any nearer either. He simply stared, evincing no heightened interest and no curiosity as to her advance.

  “I’ve heard the worst stories about you,” she said.

  “Have you?”

  “Yes. That’s why I came to Stafford. I had to find out if they were true.”

  He didn’t remark on her brash statement, didn’t probe as to what the stories might be or if they had altered her opinion of his character.

  “Would you like me to tell you what some of them are?”

  “Not really.”

  “Everyone in London swears you have a mistress, that she’s living here openly with you. Is she?”

  He stepped away. “Let’s get you downstairs. You need to be going or you’ll never make Fitzroy’s by nightfall.”

  “I’m staying at Stafford tonight, and you haven’t answered my question. Is your mistress in residence? If she is, I insist on being introduced to her so I may punch her in the nose.”

  She cocked her head and grinned, a playful pose that was very fetching. She constantly practiced it in front of the mirror. He’d wonder if she was jesting or serious. After all, what gently-bred young lady would mention such a disgraceful person?

  She hadn’t seen any indication of a woman’s touch in the house, and the only female she’d run across was the odious Miss Wilson who’d been weeping down in the driveway. Miss Wilson was pretty enough, but she’d been attired in an unadorned day dress, her hair tied with a ribbon, so she was much too plain to be the doxy Veronica was seeking.

  Or was she?

  Having never previously met a trollop, Veronica had no idea what to look for.

  “You’re not spending the night,” he said.

  “Why can’t I? No one knows I’m here, and I won’t tell anyone I visited.”

  “If no one knows you’re here, then it’s all the more reason you should go. These sorts of juvenile antics have a way of leaking out.”

  “Juvenile!” she huffed.

  “If word of your jaunt drifted back to your father, I’d have to explain why I allowed you to behave so outrageously. It’s not a conversation I ever intend to have.”

  He walked off, which irked her beyond her limit.

  “Nicholas!” She stomped her foot to get his attention.

  “What?” He whipped around. “Before you say anything, I should like to inform you that you have prevailed on my hospitality, delayed me in the implementation of my own journey, and insulted my character. I’m a tad exasperated.”

  “You’ve been an absolute grouch from the second I arrived. You could at least pretend to be glad to see me.”

  “I don’t care for theatrics, and I must ask that you not engage in them, or you will soon learn that my patience is short and my temper hot.”

  He was glaring as if he didn’t . . . like her, and the notion that he might not was unnerving. Had she been too bold? He was so worldly; she’d assumed he would be thrilled to discover that she was no simpering miss.

  What if she’d wrecked everything? Gad, what if he decided she was loose and called off their betrothal?

  In a panic, she smiled and sashayed over, offering him a good view of her shapely, swaying hips. He definitely noticed, and she gained some satisfaction from proving that he wasn’t made of stone.

  She peered up at him, getting lost in the blue of his eyes.

  “Don’t be such a grump.”

  “I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my mind today.”

  “Do you know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think we’re very much alone, and you haven’t tried to kiss me. Not a single time.”

  His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there. She held her breath, certain he would proceed.

  But instead, he said, “It’s not wise for us to travel down that road.”

  “Admit it,” she taunted. “You dream about kissing me.”

  “You’re awfully set on yourself.”

  He spun away and strolled off. In a few steps, he’d be out of the bedchamber. A few steps after that, they’d be in the hall.

  How could she steal a kiss in the hall?

  She started after him, fighting the urge the stamp her foot again, and as she hurried out, she happened to glance in the mirror. The angle was just right for her to see Miss Wilson lurking in the outer doorway and debating whether to enter the suite. She looked forlorn and miserable.

  Why would the woman seek out Nicholas? In his private chamber no less! There was no proper purpose. She had to be the strumpet over whom Veronica had been relentlessly mocked.

  Her temper boiled over.

  “Nicholas!” Her tone was coaxing.

  He hadn’t observed Miss Wilson yet, and he turned back to Veronica.

  “What now?”

  “I came all this way, and I only wanted one thing. Y
ou haven’t given it to me.”

  “What is it?”

  “I already told you.”

  She marched over and snuggled herself to him, being intimate and familiar as if she was in the habit of hugging him.

  Before he had a clue of what she planned, she rose on tiptoe, and she kissed him. For the briefest second, he permitted the embrace then, as if he was a fond cousin rather than her fiancé, he eased her away.

  As he did, Miss Wilson gasped. He whirled to ascertain who was watching, and Veronica’s worst fears were confirmed. He appeared to have been punched in the stomach.

  Miss Wilson slapped a hand over her mouth, then she ran off, vanishing in an instant.

  “Dammit!” he muttered, and he shouted, “Em!”

  But she continued on. He might have chased after her, but Veronica slipped her arm into his, halting any escape.

  “What do you suppose she wanted?” Veronica asked, all innocence.

  “I . . . I . . . don’t know,” he stammered, his distress obvious.

  “Would you escort me downstairs? You mentioned I should probably get going, and I must find Portia so we can be off.”

  “I need to . . . to . . .”

  He was extremely befuddled—the first time she’d ever seen him at a loss—and she seized the advantage. She led him to the hall and walked in the direction opposite from Miss Wilson.

  “This house is so big,” she said. “I’ll never locate the front foyer on my own.”

  Her expression demanded his assistance, and there was no reason for him not to accompany her.

  “It’s this way,” he mumbled, Miss Wilson forgotten entirely in his desire to placate his dearest betrothed.

  Josephine hid in the shadows, the wet evening grass soaking her shoes. She was behind Stafford Manor, lurking underneath the balustrade and hoping Stephen would come outside.

  Earlier in the morning, he’d brought the twins to the vicarage. He’d been kind to the two girls and courteous to her brother, but he’d been extremely rude to Jo.

  She’d thought she wanted to end their affair. She’d thought she was strong enough to never see him again, but she’d been wrong. As he’d sauntered into her front parlor, she’d nearly fainted with surprise. The pleasure had been that intense.