by Cheryl Holt
Chapter One
London, May, 1814…
“Are you sure about this?”
“Very sure.”
Emeline Wilson forced a smile as she leaned across the wagon seat and patted Mr. Templeton’s hand.
He was an older gentleman, an acquaintance from her rural village of Stafford. He’d offered to drive her to London as he brought a load of hides to the tanner. Since she hadn’t had the money to travel any other way, she’d accepted.
The trip had been bumpy and lengthy and fraught with uncertainties. She was worried over whether she should proceed with her plan, and still hadn’t convinced herself that she was doing the right thing.
Nervously, Mr. Templeton pointed to the ostentatious mansion that towered over them. It belonged to Nicholas Price, the new Lord Stafford, a mysterious personage who’d been earl for a year and who no one at the Stafford estate had ever seen or met.
“The house is awfully grand, isn’t it?” he said.
“Not as grand as Stafford Manor.”
“How will you gain entrance?”
“I’ll simply knock on the door.”
“Do you think his staff will admit you?”
“Why wouldn’t they?” she firmly replied.
Two days earlier, when they’d left home, she’d been brimming with indignation, aggrieved on her neighbors’ behalves, and prepared to slay any dragon as she sought a paltry crumb of justice for them.
But now, with their having arrived, her confidence was flagging.
Why had she assumed she could make a difference? Why was she always so eager to carry the burdens of others? Perhaps she should have stayed in the country and kept her mouth shut.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t her nature to be silent or submissive. She was forever arguing when she shouldn’t, fighting unwinnable battles, and cheering on the less fortunate. Usually to no avail. There were few rewards to be gleaned by heroics, but she couldn’t stop herself.
Life was so unfair, catastrophe so random and typically heaped on those least able to withstand the onslaught. If she didn’t comment on inequity, who would?
Her dear, departed father—the village school teacher and best man she’d ever known—had educated her beyond her needs. She saw problems and the obvious solutions too clearly, and she couldn’t comprehend why the easiest remedies were the hardest to attain. Especially from someone as rich and powerful as Lord Stafford.
His tenants were suffering egregiously. Crops had failed and conditions were desperate, yet he couldn’t care less. He’d never bothered to visit Stafford. Instead, he’d installed Mr. Mason as his land agent. Mason was a bully and fiend who had been given free rein and unfettered control.
His sole objective was to put the estate on a sound financial footing, by any means necessary. He implemented his draconian measures without regard to the human cost. Families had been thrown out on the road. Acreage had been confiscated.
No one was safe from his harsh edicts, not even Emeline. Despite her father’s three decades of loyal service, she—and her two sisters, ten-year-old twins, Nan and Nell—were about to be evicted.
Mr. Mason had already forced them to relinquish their comfortable house, located next to the manor, in which Emeline had been raised. They’d been relegated to a dilapidated cottage in the woods, and they had to start paying rent or leave, her dilemma being that she had no way of paying the rent and nowhere to live if she didn’t.
“Should I wait for you?” Mr. Templeton asked, yanking her out of her furious reverie.
“There’s no need,” Emeline said. “Go make your deliveries, then pick me up at four o’clock as we planned.”
“It doesn’t seem as if anyone is at home.”
Emeline studied the mansion. The curtains were drawn. No stable boy had rushed out to greet them. No butler had appeared.
“Someone will be here,” she asserted. “I have an appointment, remember?”
It was a small lie, but she told it anyway. She’d written to the earl three times, requesting an audience, but hadn’t received a reply. Finally, in exasperation, she’d written a fourth time to inform him that she was coming to London—whether he liked it or not.
She couldn’t abide snobbery or conceit, and considering Lord Stafford’s antecedents, why would he exhibit any?
Twelve months ago, he’d simply been a captain in the army. When the old earl had died without any children, it had been a huge shock to learn that title would pass to Nicholas Price. In an instant, he’d gone from being a common soldier to a peer of the realm. What reason had he to act superior?
“You asked for an appointment,” Mr. Templeton counseled, “but that doesn’t mean the earl will keep it. His kind doesn’t have to be courteous.”
“Maybe he should recall that he’s not all that far above us.”
“Oh, Missy, be careful with your disparaging talk. If you’re not here at four o’clock, I’ll likely be searching for you at the local jail.”
“Don’t be silly. He wouldn’t have me…jailed merely for speaking out.”
“He’s dined at the palace with the king. That sort of experience tends to alter a fellow. He might do anything to you.”
“He won’t. He’s an officer in the army. He wouldn’t harm an innocent woman.”
“You just never know,” he ominously warned.
“I’ll be fine,” she insisted as a shiver of dread slithered down her spine.
Afraid that her courage might fail her, she leapt to the ground before she could change her mind.
“Good luck,” he said.
“I don’t need any luck,” she boldly retorted. “I have right on my side, and right will always prevail over injustice.”
She marched off, and he clicked the reins, his horses plodding away. As he departed, she felt terribly alone, as if she’d lost her last friend.
She gave in to a moment of weakness, to a moment of doubt, then she straightened with resolve.
“You can do this, you can do this,” she muttered over and over.
There had been a neighborhood meeting, and in a unanimous vote, she’d been elected to present their grievances to Lord Stafford, to seek some relief from Mr. Mason’s oppressive decrees. She would not return to Stafford without garnering concessions from the earl.
She climbed the steps and was about to knock, when suddenly, the door was jerked open.
“It’s about bloody time you arrived,” a man barked. He grabbed her and yanked her inside.
“What?” Emeline stammered, taken off guard by the peculiar welcome.
“You were supposed to be here two hours ago.”
“I was?”
“He’s probably not sober enough to entertain you now. If he’s foxed to the level of incoherence, don’t expect to be paid.”
“Paid for what?” she asked, but he didn’t answer. He stormed off, her wrist clasped tightly in his hand, and she stumbled along behind him.
After being out in the bright sunshine, the vestibule was very dark, and she blinked and blinked, trying to adjust her vision. Before she could get her bearings, she was across the floor and being dragged up the stairs. To slow their progress, she dug in her heels, but the brute who’d accosted her was very large and very irked. She was only five foot five, and she weighed a hundred-twenty pounds. She’d have had more success, attempting to stop a charging bull.
They reached a fancy hallway and started down it. There was a bit more light, and she caught glimpses of a red coat, a dangling lapel, gold buttons. He was wearing a soldier’s uniform, so he had to be one of Lord Stafford’s cohorts.
The earl had inherited the earldom, but he hadn’t resigned his commission in the army, and Emeline hadn’t heard that he intended to.
Evidently, his position in the milita
ry was so glamorous that he’d rather continue at it than worry about his responsibilities to the people at Stafford.
The notion made Emeline’s blood boil. Her life, her sisters’ lives, the lives everyone she knew, were hanging by a thread, but Lord Stafford was totally unconcerned.
“Excuse me.” She fought the man’s strong grip but couldn’t pry herself loose.
“Excuse me!” she said more sternly, tugging hard and lurching free.
The man halted abruptly, and he appeared the type who might commit violence. She took a hesitant step back.
“What is it?” he snarled.
“I’m…I’m…here to see Lord Stafford.”
“Well, of course you are. Why else would you be here?” He frowned, scrutinizing her tattered hat, her worn traveling cloak. “We’ve waited all this time, and this is how you’ve dressed yourself? You could be a fussy governess.”
“What’s wrong with being a governess? I’m not hoping to impress with my attire.”
“You’re not? For pity’s sake, don’t you know anything about men and what they like?”
At his insults, her temper sizzled. She couldn’t help it if she was poor, if she was a week away from being tossed out on the road by Mr. Mason. Through no fault of her own, she was in dire financial straits, and she wouldn’t grovel or apologize for her reduced condition. “Of all the rude, uncivil, offensive—”
He blew out an aggravated breath. “What kind of girls is Mrs. Bainbridge hiring these days? She’s aware of his preferences; he won’t like you.”
“Why not?” she sneered.
“Because you’re a frump—”
“A frump!” she huffed.
“—and you’re too skinny. And you’re blond. He hates blonds. Mrs. Bainbridge has been apprised that he does. Why she would send you is beyond me.”
“Who is Mrs. Bainbridge?” she inquired, but he snagged her wrist again and took off.
Quickly, and despite her best efforts to pull away, they were at the double doors at the end of the corridor.
“Can you at least try to look pretty?” he implored. “Pinch your cheeks. Let your hair down.”
“I don’t wish to look…pretty,” she claimed, oddly incensed that he didn’t think she was. “I wish to be listened to and…and…heeded.”
“Oh, Lord, spare me. Just what I need—a philosopher!”
He spun the knob and pushed her over the threshold. As she passed, he made a hasty grab at the combs keeping her neat chignon balanced on the back of her neck. Her tresses tumbled down in a golden wave.
“Are you insane?” she seethed, twirling to confront him.
“I’d better not hear any complaint from him,” he snapped in reply. “Now get on with it and get out of here.”
He slammed the door in her face and turned the key in the lock, trapping her.
What sort of asylum had she entered?
She jangled the knob, then pounded on the wood, hissing, “Release me! At once!”
But she received no answer.
Bending down, she peeked through the keyhole, and she could see him retreating. She threw up her hands in exasperation, then whipped around to survey the space where she’d been imprisoned.
Immediate escape was necessary, and she had to either maneuver the lock or find another exit. Since she had no mechanical inclinations, locating an exit was her only option.
She was sequestered in the sitting room of a grand suite, complete with several inner rooms. Hopefully, there would be servants’ stairs at the rear, and she could flee down them.
She tiptoed over to the bedchamber, and it was empty. Breathing a sigh of relief, she hurried into it, but she shielded her eyes so she wouldn’t glimpse the enormous bed in the middle. It was large and ornate, designed for a king. The blankets were on the floor, the pillows strewn about, so the maids hadn’t been in yet, or perhaps there were no maids.
What self-respecting female would work in such a madhouse?
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.