by Cheryl Holt
“Well, Miss Wilson?” Nicholas snarled. “I’m waiting for your explanation.”
Nan and Nell burst into tears, and Miss Wilson held out her arms. They rushed into them, their cheeks pressed to her dress.
“Now see what you’ve done?” she frostily scolded.
“Me? What did I do?”
“This week has been so accursedly awful,” she said. “Must it conclude with you yelling at me in front of the whole town?”
A large crowd had gathered, and Stephen bent nearer and whispered, “There are too many eavesdroppers. Perhaps we should take this someplace more private.”
They were next to a barn, and Stephen gestured to it.
“Inside, Miss Wilson,” Nicholas commanded, and when she didn’t move, he added, “At once!”
Stephen pulled Nan and Nell away from their sister and escorted them in while Nicholas grabbed Miss Wilson and followed. As he tugged the heavy door closed, he graced her with his most ferocious scowl.
“What on earth is this about?” he demanded.
She didn’t respond, but peered at him, appearing young and lost and so forlorn that it would have broken his heart—if he’d had a heart.
He turned to her sisters instead. “What’s going on? Tell me.”
They frowned at each other, then at Miss Wilson, as if trying to decide who should begin and what their story should be.
He focused over the girl to his right. “You’re Nan?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me!” he repeated in an imposing way she couldn’t ignore.
She fiddled with her skirt, dithering, then admitted, “Today was the day we had to leave.”
“Leave where?”
“Stafford.”
“Why would you have to leave Stafford?”
“Because of the deadline.”
“What deadline?”
“For the rent, silly. We couldn’t pay the rent.”
“Who said you had to go?”
“You did.”
“I did.”
“Yes. Don’t you remember?”
Feeling sick, Nicholas glowered at his brother, and Stephen’s expression was grim. He was sending a silent message. Do something, you idiot!
“There’s been a mistake,” Nicholas asserted. “Let’s get you back to your cottage.”
“We can’t return to the cottage,” Nell chimed in, gaping at him as if he were an imbecile.
“Why not?”
“You had Mr. Mason burn it down.”
“What? When?”
“This morning. He came with some men. They chopped it down with axes and lit it on fire.”
Stephen laid a hand on her shoulder. “How long have you known about this?”
“The past month.”
Nicholas whipped his furious gaze to Miss Wilson. She’d known for a month! Why hadn’t she apprised him? She’d certainly had plenty of chances!
While she’d been nagging and belittling him over his stewardship of Stafford, she’d never once hinted that she was the one in the most immediate jeopardy.
“You couldn’t have told me?” he hissed.
“What would you have done about it?” she hissed back, finally finding her voice.
“I would have stopped it!”
“Why would you have? Mr. Mason was only obeying your orders.”
There had been many occasions in Nicholas’s life when he’d felt like a heel, but he’d never, ever, never felt lower or more despicable than he did at that moment.
He’d been to their cottage. Though decrepit and meager, the paltry abode had been a home, filled with furniture and personal items. Yet among the three of them, they had a few crammed pillowcases and a satchel.
The worst wave of dread swept over him.
“Where are the rest of your belongings?”
“We took what we could carry,” Miss Wilson said. “Everything else was lost in the fire.”
“Everything?” Nicholas gasped.
It was lucky he was tough and strong or his legs might have failed him.
The prior year, he’d set the estate on a course, recommended by Mason, but approved by himself, to get Stafford on a sound financial footing. The people affected hadn’t seemed real, so the consequences that were implemented hadn’t bothered him.
Mason had described a population of malingerers and sloths. He’d claimed the old countess had been too sentimental, that she never fired anyone despite how frivolous or useless.
But Emeline and her sisters weren’t lazy or indolent. They were simply three females who’d desperately needed his help, and he hadn’t given it to them. It was a sobering insight, facing the human cost of his decisions.
What kind of man was he? What kind of lord and master? Who would let such a terrible incident occur? He wouldn’t treat a dog as they’d been treated.
He and Stephen shared another visual exchange, then Nicholas walked to the barn door and yanked it open.
“What are you doing?” Miss Wilson asked.
“I’m going to Stafford Manor, and you’re coming with me.”
“We have no intention of—”
“Don’t argue, Miss Wilson,” he barked. “Don’t complain and don’t protest. For once, just be silent and do as you’re told.”
Chapter Six
“I repeat, What in the hell were you thinking?”
“Don’t curse at me.”
“If I thought you were listening, I’d speak in a respectful manner.”
“I’ll listen when you stop shouting.”
Emeline glared at Lord Stafford, wishing she had his ability to intimidate. They were in his library, her sisters whisked off by Mr. Price to the kitchen for some breakfast.
When they’d still been present, the earl had been terse but courteous. After they’d departed, Emeline had been left to face him on her own, without the girls to serve as a buffer to his temper.
She didn’t know how to deal with his volatile male personality. Her father, whom she’d adored, had been kind, educated, and humorous, of sound judgment and good cheer. There’d been no yelling or slamming of doors, no barked commands or furious verbal exchanges.
It had to be exhausting being Nicholas Price. How did he find the energy to maintain all that rage?
“You haven’t answered my question,” he said.
“That’s because you’ve asked so many, I can’t figure out where to start with replying.”
“How about at the beginning?”
The beginning? Where would that be? On the day thirty years earlier when the old countess had hired her father as the town’s teacher? On the day he married Emeline’s mother? On the day her mother died birthing the twins when Emeline was only fourteen?
Emeline had been thrust into the role of mother, so there had been no opportunity to choose another path.
If she’d wed, as was expected of a young lady, she wouldn’t currently be struggling. She’d have a home of her own, with a husband as breadwinner. She and her sisters would be safe instead of having been cast to the winds of fate by rich, capricious Nicholas Price.
He seemed to realize that she didn’t respond to bellowing. He reined himself in, and she was grateful for his restraint. She was too beaten down for quarreling and in no condition to spar.
“Miss Wilson—Emeline—” he said more gently, “I’m trying to understand why you were selling yourself at the market.”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“But to sell yourself to a stranger!” He shuddered at the prospect. “Have you any notion of the sorts of things that can happen to a woman under those circumstances?”
“Of course, I know. I’m not stupid.”
“No, you’re not, so why didn’t you…you…” He threw up his hands, a man out of ideas. “Why didn’t you go to your neighbors? Why not the church? Surely, the vicar could have provided some assistance.”
“I went to him. There’s no help to be had, and no one has an extra bread crumb or farthing
to spare. I explained the situation to you when I came to London.”
“And I have responded to your allegations.” He shook a finger under her nose to emphasize his point. “Why can’t I get through to you? This property is not a charity, and I can’t afford to support malingerers.”
“Such as me and my sisters? Yes, we’ve been such a drain on your coffers.”
“When I gave the orders to Mason, I didn’t mean people like you.”
“Then who did you mean?”
“I meant people who were…were…” He halted, flummoxed again. “Why am I arguing with you? It’s a waste of breath. You’ll never comprehend my position.”
Despite what he assumed, she comprehended his position all too well.
The estate, and his management of it, was beyond her realm of influence. She’d tried to make a difference but had been unable to affect any change. At the first sign of resistance from him, her neighbors had buckled to his authority. She wasn’t convinced they truly wanted matters to improve. Perhaps they secretly enjoyed their misery, and they were welcome to it.
She had to cease worrying about everybody else and focus on her own troubles, her chief concern being—What now?
Yes, he’d rescued her from the market. Yes, he’d brought her to the manor, but so what? He’d offered to feed them, then…?
Once they were stabilized and walked out his door, they didn’t even have a house to go back to. It was burned to the ground. Were they to live in a ditch out on the lane? Would he smile at them as he rode by on his expensive stallion? As he passed, would he toss them scraps from his dinner so they wouldn’t starve?
Fatigue washed over her. She swayed to one side, then the other, and nearly collapsed. In a thrice, like the hero he was reputed to be, he swept her into his arms. Suddenly, she was cradled to his chest, but as swiftly as he’d picked her up, he deposited her in a chair.
He stood over her, frowning, his consternation clear.
“You don’t seem the swooning type to me,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“Yet if I hadn’t caught you, you’d be an unconscious heap on my rug.”
She gazed at the floor and studied his boots. “I’m just a bit hungry.”
“Hungry…”
“Yes.”
A tense silence ensued, his anger wafting over her.
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“Let me guess, you had food, from the basket I sent you, but you gave it to your sisters.”
The basket he’d promised hadn’t been received. If he’d told Mr. Mason to have it delivered, Mason would never have followed through. She could have explained what occurred, but why bother? He refused to accept the truth about Mason, and he would simply discount her version of events.
“Yes,” she murmured, “I gave them the last of the food.”
“Do you ever put yourself first? Or can you only see that others need help but not you? If you become ill from self-neglect, who will care for Nan and Nell?”
“I can’t bear for them suffer because of me. It breaks my heart.”
Tears surged and splashed down her cheeks, and she swiped at them with her hands. A deluge was coming on, and she felt as if she might weep for a week. She wanted to mourn what had been forfeit, her dead parents and lost home and lost life. There wasn’t enough water in the world to supply the flood of grief pounding in her.
“Are you crying?” He was aghast.
“Yes,” she admitted, too sad to claim otherwise.
“For pity’s sake, you can’t…cry. Stop it.”
“We’re not all as tough as you. I can’t always control myself.”
“But how are we to carry on a rational discussion when you’re so emotional?”
“You’re a smart fellow. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“Emeline,” he started, prepared to launch into another tirade.
“If you can’t stand my upset, go away. I’ll pull myself together in a few minutes, then you can shout at me again.”
She kept staring at the floor, and she watched his feet as he dawdled, shifting his weight back and forth. She could sense his exasperation.
He was used to issuing orders and having them obeyed. He supposed he could command her to ignore her despair, like turning off a faucet, but he didn’t realize the depth of her woe. She wasn’t about to feign false cheer merely to accommodate him, not when her eviction had been commenced at his direction. If she wanted to cry, she would, and he couldn’t prevent her.
He pondered and fumed, then growled with frustration. To her surprise, he lifted her up and scooted underneath her onto the chair. He settled her on his lap, her hip on his hard thigh, her face pressed to his nape. Her tears wet his shirt.
“You’d drive me to drink,” he muttered, “if I didn’t already imbibe.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Be silent, or I’ll remember how much you annoy me.”
Instantly, she forgot that she hated him, that he’d been the cause of her difficulties. He was offering comfort, and she was desperate to receive it.
“I’ve been alone and so afraid,” she mumbled.
“I know.”
“I haven’t had anyone to advise or assist me. I haven’t had anyone to take my side.”
“Hush.” He stroked her hair and back. “It will be all right now.”
She didn’t believe it could be all right ever again, but she was willing to pretend, willing to soak in the caress of his gentle hand, the whisper of his supportive words.
She might have sat there forever, wallowing in his solace, but she heard the door open. Someone hovered in the threshold, but didn’t enter. Lord Stafford made a shooing motion, and as the door was quietly shut, Emeline was forced to recollect that the Earth was still spinning outside his library.
Who had peeked in? What would that person have thought? With reality quickly sinking in, embarrassment swept over her.
“It was my brother,” he said as if he could read her mind. “Don’t worry about him.”
She drew away so she could peer into his blue eyes. She was so close to him, just inches apart, and her pulse pounded.
Though they were fully clothed and naught of import had occurred, she felt naked and exposed. He’d observed her at her weakest, at her most vulnerable, but she’d witnessed something of him, too. He had a capacity for empathy she was certain he’d later wish he hadn’t revealed.
“I must look a fright.” She chuckled, hoping to lighten the tension.
“Yes,” he teasingly agreed, “you’re a veritable drab. I’ve never seen such a hideous sight.”
“Oh, you.”
He produced a kerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her cheeks. As he dropped it, she assumed he would release her, but he didn’t.
The most incredible moment developed, and her pulse raced at an even faster clip. She was perched on the edge of a miracle, as if any glorious deed could transpire.
He eased her nearer and touched his lips to hers. He was tentative, as if asking permission.
His advance rattled her, and she should have refused it, but she couldn’t move beyond the fact that he was continuing to comfort her, and she hadn’t yet had enough. She was an empty vessel of sorrow and remorse, and he could fill her to overflowing. She didn’t have to do anything to make it happen. She merely had to accept what he was eager to give.
The kiss was chaste and dear, as if he were a young boy with his first sweetheart, as if she was a treasure he cherished. They both sighed, contentment surging between them.
They were such different people, with very different backgrounds, but they were so attuned. Almost as if…as if…their relationship was meant to be.
The notion was preposterous but blatantly apparent all the same. What could it portend? Had fate brought them together? If so, to what end? Where would it lead?
“What should I do with you, Miss Wilson?” he asked as he pull
ed away.
“Please don’t kick us out on the road.”
“As if I could. You seem to have the opinion that I’m an ogre.”
“Well…”
“I’m trying to be kind and turn over a new leaf.” He scowled ferociously. “I’d like to accomplish it without suffering any of your harangue.”
“I wasn’t going to harangue.”
He snorted. “Don’t ever lie to me. You’re awfully bad at it.”
He snuggled her down again, and she breathed slowly, inhaling his clean, masculine scents of leather and horses. He was contemplating, considering her future, and she held herself very still, not wanting to interrupt his musings.
Ultimately, he said, “When we’re alone, I’m calling you Emeline.”
She laughed and sat up. “You’ve been thinking and thinking, and that’s all you could devise?”
“Yes. And you’re to call me Nicholas.”
“I never could.”
“Why not?”
“It would indicate a heightened familiarity.”
“Why would I care about that?”
“You’re an earl. You’re supposed to care.”
“Let me clue you in on a little secret.”
“What is it?”
“I hate being an earl, and I’m not concerned over how you address me.”
“You should be concerned.”
“I’m not, so Emeline and Nicholas it’s to be from this point on. I’m afraid I have to insist.”
He gripped her by the waist and set her on her feet. He stood, too.
“Come,” he ordered.
“To where?”
“Why does a simple command always elicit a question from you? Why can’t you just follow me without hesitating?”
“Because I don’t trust you, and I naturally presume you’re up to no good.”
“Which is very wise. You should never trust me. But come with me anyway.”
He clasped her wrist and dragged her toward the door.
Obviously, he’d reached a decision about her. What would it be? If he threw her out, this was last time she’d ever see him. A day or two prior, she’d have been glad. Now, the prospect had her unaccountably sad.
“Where are we going?” she tried again.