Nicholas

by Cheryl Holt

  “What would that be?”

  Nervously, she bit her bottom lip, capturing his hot attention.

  “I’m trapped at Stafford,” he complained, “because of you.”

  “Because of me?”

  “Yes, you’ve pestered me ’til I can’t escape.”

  “You’re not…trapped. You should welcome the chance to spend some time here.”

  “No, I’m trapped, and I can’t predict when I’ll be able to flee.” He took a step toward her, and she took a step back. “I get bored easily, so I’ll need to be entertained. You’re responsible for my confinement, so I’ve decided that you will do the entertaining.”

  “What sort of entertaining did you have in mind?”

  “You know what sort.”

  His focus dropped to her breasts and remained there, and though she was fully clothed, she felt naked and much too exposed.

  “You’re being absurd.”

  “No, I’m being perfectly rational.”

  “You must have…women for that type of endeavor.”

  “Not here.”

  “Find some. Import some.”

  “No, it has to be you, I’m afraid.”

  “I refuse.”

  “It’s not up to you. It’s up to me, and if you please me, Emeline, perhaps I’ll reconsider your school.”

  “You liar. You never would. I’d sacrifice myself on the altar of your lust, and I’d have nothing to show for it but my total ruination.”

  “The altar of my lust?”

  He laughed and laughed, and she couldn’t help but note how handsome he was when he relaxed. He was always good looking, but in a stark, severe way. Merriment lightened his eyes and smoothed the worry lines around his mouth. He appeared younger, friendly, contented.

  “You humor me beyond measure,” he said.

  “I’m glad to be of assistance.”

  “But I’m tired of this game I let you play.”

  “I haven’t been playing any games.”

  “Yes, you have been, and you’ve distracted me so thoroughly, I forgot that I get to set the rules.”

  “What rules? How can you—”

  “Emeline?”

  “Yes?”

  “You talk too much.”

  As if she were a bag of flour, he clasped her waist, tossed her over his shoulder, and marched to the bedchamber.

  Nicholas wasn’t sure what he was doing.

  Emeline was hissing and kicking, her fists pounding his back, and the bed was approaching.

  He threw her onto the mattress and fell on her before she could scramble away. Was he about to ravish her? Was that his plan?

  He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t stop himself from careening down that road.

  From the moment she’d stormed into his life, she’d been an enormous headache. If he wasn’t fighting with her, he was dealing with the catastrophes she’d stirred. If they weren’t bickering over his failings, he was putting out the rebellions she’d ignited.

  He brooded over her constantly, as if she were a gnat lodged in his brain, or maybe a fatal disease that would eventually kill him. He ceaselessly obsessed: Where was she? What was she up to? What calamity would she next wreak?

  She had an unlimited capacity for mischief, so she couldn’t be left to flounder on her own. She needed watching, and he was disturbed to discover that he wanted to be the man who did the watching.

  He’d had too much to drink, so it was likely that he was making bad decisions, but she was the cause of his inebriation.

  By her flogging him with her penury, she’d harassed him until he was conflicted over his actions at Stafford. He didn’t walk around second-guessing himself. He chose a course and moved forward. Yet what if he’d been wrong? What if he’d relied on Mason’s advice when he shouldn’t have?

  When he thought of that quiet interlude in his library, as she’d wept on his shoulder…

  He pushed the poignant vision out of his mind.

  If he wanted anything from Emeline Wilson, it was what he wanted from all women—carnal relations. He didn’t want to understand her or feel sorry for her or create a bond.

  He was keen to have sex with her, but she was a maiden, living under his protection and control. Despite his low reputation, he wasn’t such a brute that he would force her into an affair.

  There was no benefit for her to participate. The estate was a small, close-knit community where marriage was the remedy for illicit conduct, but he would never wed her. Gad, he couldn’t wed her. He was engaged to Lady Veronica, a union he would pursue at all costs.

  So what was his intent?

  He was too muddled to figure it out. He would dally and let what happened happen.

  It was the cad’s way out, but he didn’t care. If he acted horridly, he’d get over it. He was always able to justify his reprehensible gaffes, and vaguely, he recalled telling her she should never trust him.

  She’d been a fool to search him out in the middle of the night. If she started a fire and was burned by the flames, why was that his fault?

  “Lord Stafford,” she said, already complaining. Did the blasted woman ever cease?

  “Nicholas, remember?”

  “Would you release me?”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “No.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  He frowned. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “At your advanced age, why would you have to ask?”

  “Advanced!” she huffed, insulted.

  “Haven’t you ever been tumbled before? Or are you so prim and forbidding that no man has dared?”

  “I’m not prim and forbidding.”

  Her face scrunched up like a prudish prune, and he laughed again.

  He’d never met a female like her. She was such a rare creature—bright and beautiful and belligerent—and he was absolutely fascinated.

  “Would you for once,” he said, “be quiet and enjoy yourself?”

  “I can’t enjoy myself. I’m terrified over what you’re about to do.”

  “What I’m about to do is what some fellow should have done years ago.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You need a man in your bed like nobody’s business. We’ll work off some of that piss and vinegar that has you all bottled up.”

  He gazed at her, and their connection sparked. It had flared previously, so he recognized that they shared a physical attraction, but this seemed to be something more, something profound and deep that scared the hell out of him.

  He didn’t form attachments with women, and he most certainly didn’t succumb to romantic inclinations. Was that what was blossoming? A romantic affection?

  The notion didn’t bear contemplating.

  He had to focus on what mattered. Bed play was where he was most comfortable, where he knew how to behave and what to expect.

  He leaned down and kissed her. For the briefest instant, she stiffened in protest, then she relaxed and let him proceed.

  His loins were pressed to hers and flexing in a slow rhythm, and very quickly, he’d traveled far past any safe point. He unbuttoned her gown and tugged at the fabric, exposing her to the waist, but she was so absorbed that she wasn’t aware of what he’d done.

  Though she didn’t realize it, she had a very sexual nature, so it was easy to distract her. It was only as he caressed her bosom, bare skin to bare skin, that she gasped with surprise and tried to squirm away.

  Her breasts were pert and round, the tips pink and inviting. He’d thought he preferred large-busted females, but apparently not. Her slim perfection aroused him in incalculable ways.

  “You can’t remove my clothes,” she insisted.

  “If I don’t undress you, how will we have any fun?”

  “Kissing I can do. Kissing I understand. Not the…other.” She waved a hand over her torso, not possessing the vocabulary for salacious discussion.

  She w
as yanking at her bodice, anxious to shield herself, but he wouldn’t allow her to hide.

  “Why are you always attired in gray and black?” he asked.

  “Because I’m poor, you oaf, so I can’t afford anything else. Besides, why would I need fancier garments? All I do is putter about the estate, trying to feed my sisters. That sort of existence doesn’t exactly require frippery.”

  “How about wearing bright colors merely to look pretty?”

  “Oh, yes,” she sarcastically retorted, “personal grooming is my biggest worry.”

  “I think I’ll buy you a new gown, just to see how fetching you can be. It might improve your mood.”

  “You’re being ridiculous, and I wish you wouldn’t—”

  He bent down and sucked on her nipple.

  “My goodness,” she breathed.

  “Hasn’t any man ever touched you like this?”

  “No, when would anyone have?”

  “I’m the first?”

  “Of course you’re the first.”

  “Let me show you something.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Let me show you anyway.”

  Working her skirt up her leg, his fingers were at her thigh, her hip, and he slipped them into her drawers. As he slid them into her sheath, he was delighted to find her wet and ready.

  He smirked. The prospect of staying at Stafford was dreadful, but he’d stumbled on the ideal way to amuse himself. Emeline would provide hours of raucous, ribald diversion.

  He stroked back and forth, back and forth, and she fought the deluge that was coming.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, you lout! I don’t know.”

  “Almost there,” he coaxed.

  He flicked with his thumb as he laved her nipple, and immediately, she was pitched into a potent orgasm. She shrieked with astonishment, making such a ruckus that he had to kiss her to swallow the sound. He held her as she spiraled up, then down, and as her ecstasy waned, he was on the verge of ravishment.

  Typically, his base impulses were effortlessly controlled, yet with her, he was so titillated that he was about to violently take her against her will. He refused to hurt or scare her. She had to be eased into the notion of surrendering her virginity, so they could spend weeks satisfying their mutual passion.

  If he acted like a bully, he would wreck their affair before it began.

  Drawing away, he covered her with a blanket so he couldn’t view what was driving him wild.

  He rolled over and stared at the ceiling, struggling to calm the lust pounding through his veins. He had to get a grip on his riotous ardor, on his urge to have her at any cost. Then he would start in again.

  “What was that?” she inquired.

  “What was what?”

  “What you did to me…” She looked very young, very innocent. “What was that?”

  “It was sexual pleasure.”

  “Am I all right?”

  “You’re more than all right. In fact, you’re magnificent.”

  “Am I still a…a…virgin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I…pregnant now?”

  Her naïveté was humorous, and he nearly chided her for it, but at realizing how inexperienced she was, he felt like the worst libertine. Why was he taking advantage of her?

  He’d never lain with a female who was so clueless about carnal matters. He dabbled with whores and doxies who knew what he wanted and how to accomplish it without any fuss. He’d forgotten that there were women like Emeline, women who were chaste and virtuous and uncorrupted.

  The poor thing! Having to endure his callous seduction! He was a ruthless, unprincipled bounder, and she’d rue the day they’d crossed paths.

  He shifted onto his side, and she shifted, too, so they were facing each other. She peered at him, wide-eyed with shock.

  “No, you’re not pregnant,” he said.

  “How does it happen?”

  “It begins with what we just did, but there’s quite a bit more to it. Perhaps I’ll show you some time”—he grinned—“if you’re very, very nice to me.”

  “As if I’d let you do that to me again!”

  “You liked it. Don’t deny it.”

  “You overwhelm my better sense. If I’m not careful, there’s no telling what I might allow.”

  “Lucky me,” he murmured, and a wave of tenderness swept over him. His heart made the oddest flip-flopping motion, as if it had grown too large and didn’t fit under his ribs.

  “I should leave,” she said.

  “In a minute.”

  He pulled her to him, his arm holding her close, her cheek pressed to his chest.

  He was comforted by the scent of her, by the warmth of her skin nestled to his. Before he knew it, inebriation took its toll, and he dozed.

  When he woke, it was morning, and she was gone, with not so much as a hint in the room that she’d been there at all.

  Chapter Nine

  “I have a letter from your father.”

  “Really?”

  Annie Price jumped up and down and clapped her hands, then she remembered herself. They were seated in Mother Superior’s office, a small room where the elderly nun conducted business. It wasn’t the sort of spot to encourage displays of enthusiasm.

  The convent was a very quiet place, and the Sisters of Mercy a very quiet group. None had taken a vow of silence, but they didn’t laugh with joy or shout with anger.

  Annie was never scolded for her outbursts, but her emotions often flared in ways that startled everyone.

  She struggled to contain her excitement. “A letter! How wonderful.”

  “He and your uncle have traveled to Stafford.”

  “Finally!”

  She and the nun smiled. Her father had regaled her with stories of her Uncle Nicholas’s good fortune. It was like a fairytale—the poor orphan boy picked from the crowd and raised up to live with kings.

  Annie and the nuns had avidly followed the proceedings as if they were part of it, and they were—after a fashion. As her father grew richer, he would pay more money for Annie’s expenses, so the Stafford earldom represented a huge benefit for all concerned.

  Her father kept insisting that he was about to send for her, so that they could be together, but that day never arrived. When he’d first suggested it, she’d assumed he meant immediately, but as month had turned to year, she’d realized a hard truth—the chances were great that it would never transpire.

  Now, whenever he talked about how he was making plans, she would nod and reply with all the appropriate remarks, but she no longer expected any changes.

  At age ten, she wasn’t a little girl anymore, and she didn’t believe in happy endings. If she ultimately wound up with her father, she would be glad, but she wouldn’t pin any hopes on him.

  “Does he describe the estate?” she asked.

  “He says it’s very beautiful and even more grand than he’d envisioned it would be.”

  “And my uncle, since he’s gone to Stafford, is he pleased with it?”

  “Your father doesn’t reveal the earl’s opinion, but I’m sure he’s delighted. Who wouldn’t be?”

  Annie smiled again. Her father claimed she’d known her uncle when she was a baby, that she’d briefly resided with both men after her mother had died, but Annie didn’t recollect. She’d been too tiny. Her father came to Belgium twice a year for a short visit, but her uncle never accompanied him. In the sheltered world of the convent, he didn’t seem like a real person.

  “What about me?” she tentatively ventured. “Has Father mentioned my joining him at Stafford?”

  “Of course.”

  “What does he say?”

  “A very interesting comment, I think. He’s investigating the neighbors at Stafford. He’s searching for a family who would be willing to take you in until he can muster out of the army.”

  “You’re joking.”

&n
bsp; “No. He informs me that someone will come from London, before the summer is through, to escort you to England.”

  Annie had been standing, and at the amazing news, she eased down into the chair behind her.

  “Do you suppose he means it?”

  “He’s your father, Annie, and he loves you. I’m certain he always means it.”

  “But this time…”

  Mother Superior was aware of how frequently Annie’s dreams had been dashed by her father, and she always soothed Annie’s disappointment over his failed promises. She leaned across her desk and patted Annie’s hand.

  “I’m very confident,” Mother Superior said. “Your father has established himself at Stafford, so there’s no reason why you can’t be brought to live there.”

  “By August, would you imagine? Could it happen that soon?”

  “Perhaps even sooner. Maybe you’ll be leaving us by July.”

  “July,” Annie murmured, as if the word were magic.

  The nun held out the letter. “Go ahead. Take it and read it for yourself.”

  Annie grabbed it and bowed out. She climbed the stairs to her room in the attic. Though her father was wealthy, she received no special treatment, so it was simply furnished.

  She flopped onto her bed, and she studied her father’s message over and over until she’d memorized it. At the bottom of the page, she traced her finger over the last sentence: I will be sending someone to fetch you to England.

  Giggling with glee, she pressed the paper to her chest, directly over her heart. She gazed at her meager belongings, wondering if she should begin packing.

  When her escort appeared, she wanted to depart without delay.

  “I have the most wicked idea.”

  Lady Veronica Stewart glanced over at her best friend, Portia.

  “Tell me,” Veronica insisted.

  “If you’re so worried about Lord Stafford, why don’t you pay him a surprise visit?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why couldn’t you?”

  “What would my father say?”

  “What the duke doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Don’t ask his permission; just go.”