Nicholas

by Cheryl Holt

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.

  His lips were warm and soft, and she inhaled a shocked breath, and it only encouraged him. He slipped his tongue into her mouth, and he stroked it in and out as he massaged her breast.

  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, Mr. Stephen Price, who was two years younger. Stephen Price was also in the army. They served together.

  “What is it?” Mr. 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 Mr. Price caught her.

  “She’s not a whore,” Lord Stafford explained.

  “She’s not?” Mr. 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. Mr. 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,” Mr. Price replied, “you’ve said plenty.”

  He stomped down the stairs, as Emeline staggered after him. In a thrice, 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.

  Chapter Two

  “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 hungover, 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’s 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.”

  “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 is 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 groused.

  “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.

  An awkward moment ensued, with Nicholas trying to intimidate but having no effect. Though she was a tiny sprite, her disdain made him feel petty and pathetic.

  She had the biggest, prettiest green eyes, and they bored into him, delving straight to the center of his cold, black heart. Under her intense scrutiny, he lurched away.

  She was the first and only tenant he’d met from Stafford. What did she want? More importantly, what stories would she tell when she returned to the country?

  While he detested the estate, he had his pride. In London, he was working hard to offend, but—oddly—he was incensed at the notion of having his character sullied at rural, provincial Stafford.

  He whipped around and stormed outside. Wrath wafted off him like a cloud, yet she was unfazed and unafraid. On noting her fearlessness, he became even more angry.

  Didn’t she understand how powerful he was? Didn’t she realize how he could crush her? How he could ruin her family? With the stroke of a pen, he could beggar her, could have her jailed or hanged or transported.

  He never would, but still!

  “Miss Wilson,” he growled as he approached, “why are you loitering in my driveway?”

  “We had an appointment at two o’clock.” She flashed what—if he’d been a more superstitious fellow—appeared to be the evil eye. “It’s almost three. You’re late.”

  “We do not have an appointment.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “In order to have an appointment, both parties must agree to the meeting. I’ve been abundantly clear that I have absolutely no desire to speak with you.”

  “You have not been ‘abundantly clear’. You’ve been rude and juvenile. I’ve written you four times, and you never replied.”

  “Has it occurred to you that there is a reason I didn’t reply?”

  “Well, of course it has. You’re a discourteous boor, but you’re behaving like a child. You’re Lord Stafford now”—she pronounced the word Lord as if it were an epithet—“and you can’t shirk your responsibilities. There are too many people counting on you.”

  A muscle ticked in his cheek.

  She was very short. Her head came up to the middle of his chest, and she was so thin, a stiff wind would blow her over. But there was an aura about her—of righteousness and rectitude—that made her seem much larger than she was.

  She was a veritable ball of umbrage, rippling with indignation over his conduct—and she didn’t even know him. If they ever had the misfortune to be better acquainted, she’d never survive the affronts she’d suffer at his behest.

  After his parents’ deaths, he’d had to care for his brother, so he’d grown up very fast. He’d bluffed and blundered his way to adulthood, and even before being named earl, he’d been spoiled and impossible.

  He never did what he didn’t wish to do, and he never took advice or listened to complaints—particularly complaints from women.

  He endured their company for one thing and one thing only, that being sexual congress. He loved their shapely mouths, but he felt they should be used for a deed other than talking.

  Out on the street, an open barouche rattled by. It was filled with young ladies going for a ride in the park. They saw him and waved, calling out flirtatious hellos.

  He supposed he was a peculiar sight, dawdling as he was and arguing with the diminutive shrew. He didn’t like the image it created: of himself being chastised and not in control of the conversation.

  He yanked his furious gaze to Miss Wilson.

  “You!” He pointed a condemning finger. “Inside. Now.”

  “With how you’ve treated me,” she snottily said, “I don’t know if I should—”

  “Miss Wilson, you’ve demanded a meeting, and you’re about to get it.” He bowed mockingly and gestured to the door. “After you.”

  She studied him, then relented—as he could have predicted she would. He was a master at issuing commands and having them obeyed. Her pert nose thrust up in the air, she marched by him. She smirked with triumph, but he’d drum it out of her soon enough.

  He herded her to his library and indicated the chair where she was to sit. Then he went around to his seat behind the desk.

  Stephen was lurking over by the window, having watched their pitiful escapade in the driveway. He raised a curious brow, as if to ask if Nicholas was insane, and Nicholas de
cided he probably was. A brief hour in the irritating woman’s presence and he was stark raving mad.

  “Miss Wilson”—he tossed a thumb toward Stephen—“may I introduce my brother, Mr. Stephen Price.”

  “I’ve already had the displeasure of making his acquaintance.”

  Ignoring the barb, Stephen was overly polite. “Hello, Miss Wilson.”

  “She is here,” Nicholas said, “to…to…”

  He stopped, having no idea what she wanted. He’d never bothered to read her letters.

  “Why precisely are you here?” he inquired.

  “I’ve come on behalf of the tenants and villagers who have been affected by the deteriorating conditions at Stafford.”

  “Stafford is fine.”

  “You’ve never been there. How would you know?”

  He actually had been there once. Shortly after his parents’ funeral, a kindly minister had tracked down his relatives, had written to them to request assistance, but he’d never received an answer. He’d then paid for coach fare, had accompanied Nicholas and Stephen to Stafford, wrongly presuming that the family would relent and welcome two orphaned boys.

  To Nicholas’s undying mortification, they’d been detained at the gate and denied entrance, as if they were beggars pleading for scraps.

  He’d never forgotten how he’d felt that day, had never forgotten the shame and embarrassment of being disavowed. As they’d trudged back to London, he’d sworn he would make something of himself, that they’d be sorry for how they’d shunned him.

  Finally, he’d been elevated above them all, just as he’d often envisioned, but to his consternation, he garnered no satisfaction from the outcome.

  He’d never returned to Stafford, and he never would.

  “I don’t need to visit Stafford,” he informed Miss Wilson. “I have hired Mr. Mason to manage the property for me. He’s had extensive experience, and he sends me regular reports.”

  “If he’s telling you all is well, then he’s lying.”

  “Miss Wilson”—Nicholas struggled to control his temper—“I realize that you have some bee in your bonnet, and it’s left you cantankerous, but—”

  “Don’t you dare belittle me or my complaint.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he sarcastically said, because of course he was.