by Cheryl Holt
“I certainly thought so, and of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that his cousin had just come of age and she was very rich.”
“Oh, of course not,” he sarcastically agreed. “I’m liking him less and less by the minute.”
“He had the grace to perish before the divorce was finalized.”
“Thank heaven.”
“After he passed away, I hadn’t the funds to stay in London. He wasn’t wealthy, and what little there was to inherit, his mother seized.” She sighed. “I didn’t have anywhere to go.”
“It must have been hard for you to move in with your brother.”
“Very hard,” she admitted. “He’s always blamed me for the debacle. The ‘sins of Eve’ and all that. He says if I’d been a dutiful wife, God would have blessed me with many babies. It’s a constant harangue.”
The words rushed out of her as if it was a confession she’d been yearning to make. Her shoulders drooped, and she’d appeared smaller, as if she’d been deflated by it.
“My dearest Josephine,” he murmured, improperly using her Christian name. “I’m so very sorry.”
Tears flooded her eyes, and he dawdled like an idiot, knowing he should comment but perplexed as to what his remark should be. He couldn’t stand to see a woman abused. Should he offer to pound her brother into the ground? To whip him? To have him fired? And then what?
Stephen wasn’t inclined to support her financially, and he wasn’t about to marry her himself, so he was worthless as a defender. Oscar Blair was her elderly male family member, and he had full authority over her. He could beat her or lock her in a closet or starve her, and Stephen couldn’t intervene.
“I can’t believe I told you so much about myself,” she said.
“I’m glad you did.”
“I’m usually so reticent. How could you have pulled it out of me?”
“I inspire confidences.”
“Then I’m in trouble, for there’s very much I’d like you not to discover.”
He walked over and sat down beside her, and he clasped her hand in his, linking their fingers. Her skin was warm and soft, and though it seemed harmless and friendly, it seemed wicked and dangerous, too.
For an eternity, they tarried, not speaking. He stared at the altar while she stared at the floor. Ultimately, she straightened and turned toward him. She studied his mouth, and he was overcome by the strangest notion that she was thinking about kissing him. She didn’t, though.
He could have leaned in and done it for her, but he was terribly afraid that he might have mistaken her intent. They remained transfixed, frozen in place.
“I’d better go,” she eventually said. “Oscar will be wondering where I am.”
She stood and went to the door by which she’d originally entered. As she stepped through, her gaze locked on his. To his astonishment, he didn’t have to struggle to decipher her meaning.
Her look was filled with such hot, searing desire that he felt it to the tips of his toes. His balls clenched, his cock stirred, and the holy church nearly sizzled with their untapped passion.
She raised a brow in invitation, but as he rose to chase after her, her burst of bravado fled. In an instant, she vanished like smoke.
Chapter Five
“Remember what I told you,” Emeline said to her sisters.
“We’re to be very brave,” Nan answered.
“And very polite,” Nell added.
“Yes. No matter what, we mustn’t let him see that we’re upset.”
Nan and Nell were such good girls, and it broke Emeline’s heart to watch as they were reduced by the slings and arrows life had shot at them.
With each step down society’s ladder, they’d had their world torn into tinier pieces, but they’d weathered the descent better than Emeline. She supposed—as children—they adapted more swiftly. Or perhaps it was because she was older than they were. As an adult, she’d built a larger store of memories and was suffering more over her losses.
When she’d first realized her father’s health was failing, she hadn’t grasped the extent of the calamity that was approaching. They had both assumed the school would continue after his death, that Emeline would teach in his stead. The school had operated at the estate for thirty years, and she’d never imagined that Nicholas Price would refuse to keep it open.
She’d staggered to the end, which had finally and fully arrived. She would face it down boldly, unwavering in her defense of her sisters and unafraid of the future and what it might bring.
Horses’ hooves clopped out on the dirt track leading to their cottage. They glanced over to observe Mr. Mason riding up on one of the earl’s mares. There were men behind him in a wagon, their axes at the ready, a torch ablaze so the fire could be quickly ignited after their home was demolished.
Mason halted in front of Emeline, and as he dismounted, she studied him. At age forty, he wasn’t unattractive, but there was a cruel gleam in his eye. When she stared at him, she always had to fight off a shudder.
The smartest thing she’d ever done was decline his courtship, but it was the stupidest thing, too. After she’d spurned him, he’d put her on his vengeance list, and once a person was on it, he or she could never get off.
“Miss Wilson,” he said, “why are you still here? You were to vacate the premises by eight o’clock.”
“I’m asking one last time—for my sisters. Have mercy on them, Mr. Mason. We have nowhere to go. Please let us stay.”
“I spoke to the earl about you,” he replied. “In light of your recent rebellion, you won’t be surprised to learn that he’s declined to intervene in your case. He advises that I proceed with the eviction. He won’t support a rabble-rouser.”
Emeline shouldn’t have been hurt, but she was. She’d convinced herself that Nicholas Price would show some compassion, that he wouldn’t throw three vulnerable females out on the road. She had to stop imbuing him with traits he didn’t possess. He didn’t care about the estate. He’d admitted it, so why would she expect any sympathy?
Yet she couldn’t keep herself from sneering, “The earl said that? Really?”
“Yes, sorry.”
He didn’t look sorry. He looked arrogantly satisfied with what he’d wrought.
“I don’t believe you,” Nan suddenly blurted out. “We met the earl. He was kind.”
“He wouldn’t make us leave,” Nell declared.
“Hush,” Emeline counseled, terrified as to how Mr. Mason might react.
“I want to talk to the earl myself,” Nan demanded.
“What would you say to such an important man?” Mason snidely asked her. “Would you beg and plead like the common child you are?”
“Mr. Mason,” Emeline scolded, “there’s no need to be spiteful.”
“No, there’s not,” he agreed. “My apology. Besides, the earl went back to London.”
“He’s gone?” Emeline foolishly pined. Apparently, a silly part of her feminine brain was living in a fantasy where he might canter up and rescue her.
“As he was getting on his horse,” Mr. Mason said, “I explained your situation. He was unmoved. So you see, Missy”—he glared at Nan—“even if you had the courage to speak with him, you couldn’t.”
“Thank you for letting us know,” Emeline tightly responded. “It’s better to hear the truth than to hold out hope.”
“Yes, it is.”
The wagon had lumbered up, the men stoic but prepared to commence. They would chop down Emeline’s house, then burn the rotted lumber, and she couldn’t bear to watch. She urged the girls down the road.
They’d taken what they could carry, packing three pillowcases and an old satchel. The rest, they’d left behind. Her mother’s embroidery. Her father’s pipe. Their bedding and dishes and utensils. The last of her father’s books.
It was the saddest day in a long string of sad days, and Emeline forced one foot in front of the other, determined that her sisters not realize the depth of her despair.
They reached the end of their narrow lane, and Nell asked, “Where shall we go, Emeline?”
“Let’s try the village,” she said. “It’s market day, so it will be busy. We might stumble on a forgotten acquaintance who’ll offer to assist us.”
“I have the penny the earl gave me,” Nan mentioned. “Maybe it will bring us some good luck.”
“Maybe it will,” Emeline concurred.
She was silent as they walked, listening to her sisters’ chatter.
A farmer came by, and they caught a ride in his cart. He took them all the way to the village square where local craftsmen were doing a brisk trade.
They scrambled down and to Emeline’s dismay, the first person they encountered was Vicar Blair.
In his view, people created their own difficulties, either from sloth or sin. Since her father’s demise, she’d received numerous lectures where he considered her guilty of a combination of both.
“Miss Wilson,” he snapped, cutting off any chance to evade him, “I would have a word with you.”
He bellowed in his too-loud preacher’s voice so that others would hear. To her chagrin, bystanders turned to witness her chastisement.
Behind him, his sister, Jo, ruefully shrugged her shoulders, wishing she could intervene but knowing she couldn’t. During Emeline’s tribulations, Jo had tried to be a friend, but she was allowed limited opportunities for socializing. Emeline couldn’t figure out how such a sweet soul could be related to such a nasty boor.
“Hello, Vicar Blair.”
“Mr. Mason informs me that you were cast out and your hovel razed.”
“Yes, we were, and yes it was.”
“Let this be a lesson to you.”
It was pointless to argue with him, but she did it anyway. “What lesson would that be? That we’re poor and could use some Christian charity?”
“By pestering Lord Stafford, you have meddled in the business affairs of men. I warned you to be humble and circumspect, but your vanity controlled you. As usual.”
When the villagers had persuaded her to go to London, the vicar had vociferously counseled against it. He’d insisted she was on a fool’s errand and shouldn’t get involved. How she hated to admit that he’d been correct!
“I was just trying to help everyone.”
“And look where it’s landed you,” he scornfully admonished.
“The earl should have behaved better toward all of us. I didn’t mind begging him.”
“Of course, you didn’t. You’re a woman. You would do any ridiculous thing.”
“Is there any aid the church could give us?”
“You’re not the only family that is struggling. We have no relief funds in our coffers. They’ve been long spent.”
“With a reference from you, we could find a place to stay. We’re not afraid to work for our bed and board.”
“Who would take you in? You bothered and insulted the new earl. Who would be willing to incur his wrath if he learned they were sheltering you?”
He pushed by them, and Emeline was too beaten down to be angry. He was a pompous blowhard, and his comments had been no more than she’d expected.
Jo came up and hugged Emeline. Furtively, she slipped some coins into Emeline’s hand.
“Talk to the blacksmith,” she whispered. “He might let you sleep next to his forge for a few nights. At least you’d be warm.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“And there’s a penury line forming on the other side of the square.”
It was a spot where the most wretched citizens could wait, hoping for a job or scraps of food. Anyone with any skills already had a position. It was only those with no abilities—or renowned drunkards and lunatics—who embarrassed themselves in such a fashion.
“Are there any employers?”
“Some. There’s a man who claims he’s taking people to London, that he’s sending them on to America for indenture.”
Emeline shuddered. Was that to be their fate? The prospect of death and disease on the long sea voyage? Then auctioned off for a lifetime of servitude?
“There’s always the poorhouse as a last resort,” Jo said. “Don’t be too proud to go there. Not if it means your sisters will have a roof over their heads.”
“Oh, Jo…”
At the thought of winding up in the filthy, rat-infested place, Emeline’s eyes filled with tears. How could this be her conclusion? She’d been so sure she could orchestrate a different ending.
Vicar Blair noticed that Jo wasn’t following him. He spun around and called, “Josephine! Come!”
She hugged Emeline again and murmured, “Be strong.”
“I will.”
Emeline proceeded to the square, to the line for hungry beggars. She was now a beggar herself, so there was no reason not to stand with them. Perhaps she’d finally stumble on the luck that had proved so elusive.
She didn’t dare imagine any other outcome.
“Where have you been?” Nicholas fumed. “I wanted to leave two hours ago.”
“I have something to tell you,” Stephen said.
“What is it?”
“I’m not going back to London with you.”
“You’re not what?”
“I’m not going. I’ll join you in six weeks when our furlough is over.”
Nicholas stared at his brother as if he were babbling in a foreign language.
“You’re staying behind?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I like it here.”
“Here?” Nicholas snorted with disgust, as if they were discussing Hades rather than a wealthy, beautiful estate in the heart of England.
“Yes, here.”
“You’re mad.” Nicholas studied him, wondering if he was ill. “What is wrong with you?”
“There’s nothing wrong. I just don’t care for London; you know that. I hate your filthy house and the drinking and the parties and the women. I hate living like barbarians, and I detest all the miscreants who have glommed on to you merely because you’re an earl.”
“Lady Veronica’s father is holding an engagement supper for us, and I want you there. Don’t force me to socialize with them on my own.”
“I hate Veronica and her father most of all. You’re crazy, betrothing yourself to her.”
“You’re just jealous,” Nicholas charged.
“Oh, spare me.”
“I was able to pick the richest girl in the world to be my wife. You can’t stand it.”
“She’s an immature, bitchy snob. I can’t abide her, and you’ll be sorry forever.”
“I doubt it.” Nicholas whipped away and mounted his horse. “Could you at least accompany me into the village? It’s market day. I told Mason I’d show myself.”
“If you’re never coming back, what’s the point?”
“People need to see that I’m real and not a phantom. They need to see my face and look me in the eye.”
“So you can scare the hell out of them?”
“Yes. If another troublemaker like Miss Wilson steps forward, they have to know with whom they’re dealing. I can’t have them trying to thwart Mason.”
“I suppose I can ride in with you, but it will be to meet the neighbors and merchants. I’m not about to help you frighten anyone.”
“You’re too, too good,” Nicholas sarcastically cooed.
“Shut up.”
Nicholas cooled his heels while Stephen’s horse was saddled. They trotted off together, side by side, down the lane that led from the manor. It was a perfect spring morning, with summer just around the corner, and the estate could have been a fairyland.
If he’d been a more romantic sort of fellow, he might have paused to enjoy the bounty, might have counted his blessings and reveled in the fact that such a magical spot was his. But he wasn’t a romantic fellow, and he refused to take any pleasure in his surroundings.
Let Stephen wallow in the boring, despised splendor. Nicholas was o
ff to London where a rich bachelor could spend his time at more fruitful, satisfying endeavors.
The market was being held in the square, and he skirted the edge, not bothering to dismount. With how his tenants had treated Emeline Wilson, he had no desire to speak with any of them. Stephen could do it after Nicholas had departed. His brother was a much better ambassador.
They reached the rear of the assemblage, and Nicholas noticed that he’d slowed considerably. He and Stephen had rarely been separated, and he couldn’t bear for them to split up. Clearly, he was making their final minutes last a little longer.
He might have uttered some ridiculous, maudlin comment, but the strangest sight caught his attention. He reined in so abruptly that his horse snorted in protest.
Miss Wilson and her sisters were leaned against the wall of a building in the company of what appeared to be a group of criminals and rag pickers. She had stuffed pillowcases setting at her feet, and she carried a tattered satchel that was so packed the buckles were straining.
A man circled her, assessing her as if she were a slave about to be purchased.
Was she selling herself? For what reason? Was the woman insane?
Yes, rang the reply in his head. She was insane. He knew that about her. She had a knack for getting herself into trouble like no other person he’d ever met.
“What in the hell are you up to now?” he blurted without thinking.
Miss Wilson flinched as if he’d struck her, and he leapt down and marched over.
“Did you hear me?” he seethed. “What are you up to?”
“Where did you come from?” she feebly said. “I thought you’d already left.”
“I am asking the questions. Not you. Answer me.”
“I’m…applying for a job.”
“Really? It seems to me that you’re being evaluated like a cow at auction. Exactly what kind of position are you hoping to find?”
The oaf who’d been evaluating her didn’t realize who Nicholas was, and he blustered, “Listen to me, old chap, we were merely—”
Nicholas flashed a glare that could have melted lead. “I’m not old, and I’m not your chap. Get out of here before I rip you in half.”
The man might have piped up again, but Stephen stepped beside Nicholas, and the fellow’s bravado waned. He slithered away.