Nicholas

by Cheryl Holt

  “We’ve already established that he was an ass.”

  “Yes, yes he was.”

  “Why would you believe what he told you?”

  “I don’t necessarily believe it. I would just hate for you to think I’m…loose.”

  His grin widened. “Listen, if you want to be a tad loose, that’s fine with me. In fact, I’d prefer it.”

  “You would?”

  “Yes, so when we’re alone like this, you’re free to shout or scream or scratch or bite.”

  “You won’t mind?”

  “Why would I? Your squealing with pleasure is half the fun.” He took her hands and placed them directly on his backside. “If you don’t participate, I can’t predict what I’ll do.”

  It was all the permission she needed. They started in again and, letting him be her guide, she did whatever he did. If he stroked her arms, she stroked his. If he riffled her hair, she riffled his. She hugged and petted and licked and tasted.

  Their ardor rose to a fevered pitch, and she didn’t try to hide her enthusiasm. She couldn’t hide it. She was writhing beneath him, struggling to get closer and closer but never getting near enough.

  He opened the front of her dress and pushed at the fabric, baring her bosom. Then—to her astonished surprise—he dipped to her breast and sucked on her nipple.

  She’d never felt so wicked, and she moaned and hissed, bucking with her hips, fighting to throw him off. She was mumbling under her breath, begging him to stop, begging him not to stop, but he ignored her pleas.

  He yanked her skirt up her legs, then his fingers were in her drawers and sliding into her sheath. The instant he touched her, she exploded and cried out. Her voice was deep and low and needy—like that of an injured animal.

  He merely chuckled and laid a palm over her mouth. His lips at her ear, he whispered, “You vixen! I said you could scream and shout, but I didn’t mean you should wake the whole bloody neighborhood.”

  “Desist!” she whimpered from behind his hand. “I can’t bear it.”

  “If you continue to raise a ruckus,” he teased, “people we’re think we’re…fornicating in here.”

  Somehow, without her noticing, he’d unbuttoned his trousers, and as he uttered the word fornicating, he rammed himself inside.

  At feeling how big he was, how thoroughly he filled her, she was swept away by another wave of ecstasy. She wailed with relief, with a twisted combination of glee and shame, and he kissed her to swallow the clamor of her release.

  “You’re going to be the death of me,” he said, laughing.

  “Why?” she asked when she could speak again.

  “Because you’re wanton as hell, but you try so hard not to be.”

  He was braced on his elbows, working himself into her, and she was delighted that he would talk during the event. With her husband, it had always proceeded in an angry, tormented silence.

  “How do you do that to me?” she inquired. “You make me so…so…”

  “I’m a sorcerer.”

  “I believe it.”

  “Let me show you some other magic I know how to perform.”

  He began sucking on her nipple again, and she exulted in it, amazed and astounded as he kept on and on and on. Just when she assumed she could take no more, that he couldn’t possibly hold back, he withdrew and spilled himself on her stomach.

  Though flattered by his caution, he needn’t have bothered. She’d had seven long years to conceive, and she’d accepted that she was barren. She wore her condition like a yoke of disgrace.

  His hips ground to a halt, and with a grunt of satisfaction, he rolled off her. They stared at the roof, and he started to quietly chortle. She joined in, just as softly but just as heartily.

  The silliness of what they’d done, the…wildness of it, was thrilling. What had come over to them?

  They were practically strangers. They’d been strolling down a dark street, then they’d peered at one another, and voila!, they’d raced into a barn and had rutted like animals.

  “Gad,” he mumbled, “I must be drunker than I thought.”

  “I’ve never had a drink in my life,” she pointed out, “so what’s my excuse?”

  “You have none, you minx.”

  “I’m telling myself that I succumbed to your wily seduction.”

  “You loved every minute of it.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  He grabbed a handful of straw and swabbed his seed from her belly. Then he lowered her skirt and straightened her clothes. She watched him, mute and contemplative, as questions careened in her mind.

  What would happen now? At any other time, with any other man, there would have been a hasty proposal, as well as a promise to confer with her brother in the morning. But the words weren’t voiced, and she didn’t expect them to be.

  He was worldly and sophisticated, had traveled everywhere and seen everything. He was a soldier in the army! He probably tumbled trollops in barns every night. Their dalliance had been a whim for him, and if she alluded to any sort of extended bond, he’d likely scoff at her provincial notions.

  Out in the alley, a pair of drunks staggered by. They were singing, their speech slurred. Mr. Price pulled her close, not breathing, until they’d passed on.

  On hearing their noisy carousing, reality crashed down with a vengeance.

  How long had she dawdled? What time was it? What if Oscar was awake when she entered the house? There’d be no way to conceal her transgression. Her hair was down, her cheeks reddened from the rub of Mr. Price’s whiskers, and—she was certain—she’d be glowing.

  Oscar wouldn’t have to guess at her behavior. It would be obvious.

  “I’d better go,” she murmured.

  “Will your brother be waiting up for you?”

  “No, he went to bed ages ago.”

  She prayed it was true.

  “Still, you’d best be careful.”

  “I will be.”

  His cool remark dashed any lingering hopes she might have had as to whether terms like courtship or connection would be mentioned. Their encounter had been an impetuous, immoral romp but naught more.

  He rose and tugged her to her feet, then he crept to the door and peeked out. Seeing no one, he urged her through.

  He was extremely composed, as if nothing extraordinary had occurred, so she tried to match his aplomb, which was difficult. Her life had been turned upside down. She was reeling with elation, with worries over the present and the future, but then, she was a female, and she understood that men were rarely bothered by such concerns.

  She scooted by him, and he clasped her wrist.

  “We have to do this again,” he vehemently whispered.

  “You’re mad. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’ll only be at Stafford for six weeks. I’m not about to avoid you.”

  “I wouldn’t want that.”

  “And if I bump into you, I know what will transpire.” He pointed to the pile of straw where they’d frolicked. “I’ll have to have you. We enjoy a strong attraction, and I’m not about to fight it.”

  “It would be impossible.”

  “We’ll be discreet,” he insisted. “We’ll find a way to be together.”

  “Yes, we will,” she agreed, even though it was insane. The village was too small, the chances for discovery too great. Yet at the moment, she didn’t, didn’t, didn’t care. She yearned to twirl in circles and proclaim her happiness to the world.

  He kissed her a final time, hard and fast then, with a hand on her rear, he pushed her out.

  She tarried, gazing at him, anxious to speak but aware that she couldn’t. She wanted to…thank him for choosing her, for singling her out, for showing her how it felt to truly be a woman. But she was quite sure he wouldn’t wish to hear her gushing.

  Boldly, she stepped to him and initiated a final kiss of her own, then she hurried away. She liked to imagine that he followed her to the vicarage, watching so that she arrived safely, but she didn’t
glance around check.

  She slipped into the vestibule and tiptoed to her room with no one being the wiser as to what she’d done.

  Chapter Eight

  Emeline walked down the hall to the earl’s library. It was very late, and everyone abed—except for herself and, hopefully, Lord Stafford. She had to speak with him, and until she did, she’d never be able to sleep. Her thoughts were too scattered, her anxiety too extreme.

  Since he’d brought her home earlier that morning, she hadn’t seen him. He was supposedly still on the premises, but he’d been noticeably absent.

  She was so insignificant that it would be easy for him to forget about her. If he departed for London before her situation was resolved, she couldn’t predict what would happen. She would be at the mercy of Benedict Mason again, and the prospect was terrifying.

  The earl had said he would make plans for her, but what kind? The answer was becoming more urgent.

  She’d applied for numerous teaching positions in other areas of the country, but with scant success. Another rejection letter had arrived that afternoon, so there remained only two employers who hadn’t replied. She wasn’t optimistic.

  Why not continue the school at Stafford? It was the obvious solution to her finding a job. She was determined to plead her case to Nicholas Price. She had a knack for persuading him. Could she work her magic once more?

  She hurried to the library and peeked inside, but he wasn’t there, so she returned to the stairs and climbed. On the landing, when she would have headed in one direction, she stared the other way. At the end of the long hall, a door was open, and a candle had been left burning. Should she blow it out?

  It wasn’t the earl’s suite—that was up on the top floor—so she couldn’t guess who would be there, and she didn’t imagine anybody was. There were no other guests in the house.

  She crept toward it, listening for sounds, but not hearing any. Suddenly, a glass shattered, and she jumped with alarm.

  “Emeline?” a familiar male voice barked. When she didn’t respond, he growled, “Miss Wilson! I’m talking to you. Get your ass in here.”

  She sidled over and peered in. “How did you know it was me?”

  “I’d know that snotty stride anywhere.”

  He was in a sitting room, the bedchamber behind him, and slouched in a chair over by the hearth. A robe covered his shoulders, but the lapels drooped, his naked chest visible. He had on a pair of trousers, but they were made from a flowing fabric that draped across his thighs, the sort of garment a sultan might wear when entertaining his harem.

  His feet were bare, his thick hair loose around his nape. He hadn’t shaved, so his cheeks were darkened with stubble. He looked decadent and dangerous, and on seeing him, butterflies swarmed in her stomach.

  He’d been drinking. There was a decanter of liquor on a table next to him. For some reason, he’d flung his glass at the fireplace. It had splintered, creating a mess that a servant would have to clean up. He was horridly spoiled; she couldn’t envision him doing it himself.

  “What is wrong with you?” she berated him.

  “Close the door,” was his reply.

  “No.”

  “Close it!”

  “No!”

  She went over and picked up the larger chunks of broken glass, tossing them into the flames so that the idiot wouldn’t cut his feet when he stumbled drunkenly to bed.

  “Stop that,” he ordered.

  “Stop what?”

  “You’re not a maid, and you’re not my wife. You don’t have to tidy up after me.”

  “Why are you imbibing all alone and smashing the crystal?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  He reached for the decanter, and she snatched it away and set it on the mantle.

  “Give me that.”

  “You’ve had enough.”

  “You’re not my mother, either. Don’t lecture me.”

  “You’re acting like a barbarian.”

  “I’m not acting. I am a barbarian.”

  “I believe you.”

  She stood in front of him, dithering over how to proceed. She didn’t suppose she should leave him to his own devices, but she wasn’t keen to dawdle while he grumbled and grouched.

  “Don’t scowl at me like that,” he griped.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re a cranky governess about to rap my knuckles.”

  “Somebody should tell you how to behave.”

  “Well, it’s not going to be you, so don’t try.”

  “You haven’t answered my question,” she reminded him.

  “What was it?”

  “Why are you in here? Why aren’t you up in the earl’s suite?”

  “I let my brother have it.”

  “Why?”

  “He enjoys the pomp and circumstance of this place, and he can have it. I wish to hell he’d been born first. Then I wouldn’t have to bother with any of this nonsense.”

  She studied him, curious as to why he always seemed so unhappy. He’d grown up in an orphanage, but now, he was incredibly wealthy. Any sane man would celebrate such a turn of fortune, but not him.

  “I see what’s happening,” she scolded. “You pity yourself.”

  “Why would I pity myself?”

  “Because you’re rich and powerful, and you don’t think you deserve to have had so much affluence showered on you. You feel guilty.”

  “I didn’t deserve it, but I don’t feel guilty. This whole burden got dumped on me. I didn’t ask for it. It just…is.”

  “Quit moping. It’s unbecoming.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “Was there something you needed?”

  “Yes, actually. A favor.”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t hear what it is.”

  “I don’t care what it is. My answer is still no.”

  She ignored him and forged ahead. “If you would—”

  “Emeline, I said no.”

  “You’re being rude and ridiculous.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I have a great idea,” she insisted, “and we’ll both benefit.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  She threw up her arms in exasperation. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

  “I don’t need to know. Since you’re excited about it, I’m sure it will be absurd.”

  She pulled up a chair and seated herself. “I want you to start the school again, and I want you to hire me as the teacher.”

  “Do you ever stop?”

  “No. This is the perfect plan. You wouldn’t even have to pay me. You could remunerate me simply by letting me have another cottage.”

  “You’d toil away for no salary? Just for your lodging?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wouldn’t have any funds. How would you buy food for your sisters?”

  “I’ll find a way. I can take in laundry or raise chickens. I’m a hard worker.”

  “I’ve seen how you managed previously. You’re completely incompetent.”

  “But I’m so good at teaching! I realize you hated the school, but—”

  “I’ve never been asked about it.”

  She frowned. “Mr. Mason told me that you specifically ordered it shut down.”

  “I’ve never discussed it with him.”

  Emeline was puzzled. Mr. Mason had been very clear: He’d mentioned the subject to the earl, and the earl had said absolutely not. Yet now, the earl was claiming he and Mason had never conferred over it.

  They were both liars, so who was she to believe?

  She pressed on. “Let me tell you why it’s important.”

  “No. Have you any clue as to how much money you’ve already cost me?”

  She gaped at him. Was he grousing over the meals she and her sisters had eaten? Was he angry that they were sleeping in his beds and the sheets would have to be washed?

  “How have I cost you anything?”

  “I’ve halted the
evictions.”

  “You have? Really?”

  “Yes, but just for the time being. I may resume them in the future—after I’ve had more opportunity to reflect. Any losses I incur are all your fault.”

  “My fault?”

  “You nagged until I couldn’t bear your rants. I did it merely to silence you.”

  “I don’t care what the reason. I’m just so glad.”

  “Mr. Mason is livid.”

  “I’ll bet he is.”

  “He says you’re a menace, and I shouldn’t listen to you.”

  “Aren’t you in charge?”

  “Nominally.”

  “I’m proud of you. You did what was right for your tenants.”

  She was delighted to have goaded him to benevolence. What other boons might she be able to garner?

  “So…about the school,” she started again.

  “Enough about your stupid school! Close the door.”

  He waved at it, expecting her to leap up and obey.

  “I’m not about to be sequestered with you. People will talk.”

  “What people? In case you haven’t noticed, everyone is asleep but us. We can do whatever we want.”

  He stood, suddenly seeming much more sober than she’d assumed. Before she grasped his intent, he marched over and shut the door himself. He leaned against the wood, arms crossed over his chest, blocking any egress.

  “Open it!” she demanded. “At once.”

  “No.”

  She stomped over until they were toe to toe, and she shivered, but not with dread. A part of her—a very small part—was thrilled by his autocratic manner. She knew what it was like to be held by him, to be kissed by him, and she’d enjoy having either occur. Just so long as she kept her wits about her and didn’t get carried away, which was definitely a problem.

  Where he was concerned, it was entirely possible that she might misbehave.

  “Mr. Mason informs me,” he told her, “that your father was much too lenient in how he reared you.”

  “Mr. Mason hates me, and he has a few issues with the truth.”

  “He advises that you were educated far beyond what was required, and it’s made you overly vain. If you ask me, a conceited female is an insufferable female.”

  “I didn’t ask you.”

  “I cite your extensive learning so you can understand why this mission of yours, to revive the school, means naught to me.” His lazy gaze meandered down her torso. “You have only one thing to offer that’s of any value whatsoever.”