by Cheryl Holt
“I’ll assist you in any way I can.”
“I was to have a picnic with my sisters, but I’m feeling a bit low. I’d like to rest until I’m more myself.”
“I’d be happy to entertain them for you.”
“You don’t need to. If you could escort them into the village, Mrs. Merrick would watch them.”
At hearing Jo’s name, he covered a wince. “I’ll take them to her.”
She went to the door and opened it, and as she stepped into the hall, she glanced back. She was a tragic figure, so lovely, so forlorn, and Stephen could see why his brother had been smitten.
“I never meant to hurt anyone,” she said. “I wasn’t told about Lady Veronica or I would never have—”
“I know.” He interrupted her so she wouldn’t have to embarrass herself with a humiliating admission. “Nicholas never means to hurt anyone, either. It’s just his habit to be callous.”
She walked on, her strides fading, and he slid into the chair she’d vacated.
It was another mess Nicholas had made, another calamity Stephen had had to fix for him, and Stephen was so weary. He was sick at heart, furious with himself, with his brother, with Miss Wilson for being so trusting and gullible.
He staggered off to find his brother, hopefully to extinguish any other fires before Nicholas could fan the flames.
Chapter Sixteen
A knock sounded on Emeline’s door, but she didn’t rise to answer it. She couldn’t. She was too numb and unable to move.
She felt old and worn out, a woman past her prime, who had no one to help her, no one upon whom she could rely. Every endeavor she’d attempted had failed, every dream had been dashed.
The knock rapped again. The knob turned, and a housemaid poked her nose in.
“Miss Wilson?”
“Yes?”
“A letter came for you.”
When Emeline simply stared, unspeaking, the girl walked over and handed it to her. Emeline didn’t reach for it, and the girl glanced about and laid it on a table.
“Are you ill, Miss Wilson? May I bring you something?”
“I’m a bit under the weather, but I don’t need anything. Thank you for asking.”
“Perhaps a pot of tea? Cook has a blended remedy that would settle your stomach.”
“My stomach’s fine. I’m just weary.”
The girl left, and Emeline was cynical enough to wonder if she’d been fishing for gossip. Was she, at that very moment, racing down to the kitchen to tattle over Emeline’s reduced condition?
Emeline had thought herself so smart, so furtive in her affair with the earl, but if Mr. Price had been aware of it, the entire staff had probably known. There was no more vicious group than servants who’d had a colleague raised above them.
Had they all been informed of the earl’s engagement—with Emeline the sole person who hadn’t been apprised? Had they watched her make a fool of herself while gleefully waiting for her folly to crash down around her?
Emeline glared at the letter. She couldn’t imagine who had written, and she couldn’t bear to pick it up. It would only contain more bad news.
Finally, she rose, and she trudged over to see that it was from a school in Cornwall. It was the last one to which she’d applied, and she’d been expecting to hear that she was too inexperienced or too old or that they’d hired somebody else.
She tugged at the flap and was stunned to find that it was the exact opposite of what she’d anticipated.
They wanted her! The position started at the end of the summer, and the major benefit was a two-room cottage. They were hoping she could come right away so she could acclimate before classes commenced. If she replied in the affirmative, they would send coach fare.
She pressed the letter over her heart and held it there, as if the words could imbue her with the vigor she needed to accept and comply. Leave Stafford forever. Travel across the country with her sisters in tow. Build a life for herself among strangers. Yet what other option was there?
Lord Stafford was tossing her out of the manor, and he had suggested temporary lodging over the blacksmith’s barn. Mr. Price would move her there, but she would soon be relocated to another village.
Considering what she’d given to the earl, the proposed resolution was paltry compensation and much less than what she deserved, but who was she to argue?
She had no one to blame but herself for her current predicament, and she ought to be grateful that the earl had tendered any reparation, at all. He could have just had the maids pack her bags and put them out on the road.
What reason was there to stay at Stafford? Aside from Josephine with whom she was only casually acquainted, she had no real friends. Her neighbors feigned cordiality, but when push had come to shove, they’d abandoned her in the earl’s driveway for a bag of seed and a jug of ale.
Why would she remain?
She wouldn’t, but her decision had naught to do with her neighbors or their opinions.
In the future, Lord Stafford would occasionally visit the estate. He’d bring his bride. Emeline might bump into him as he rode by on the lane. She might have to observe as he lorded himself over a crowd during the harvest festival.
She couldn’t abide the notion of seeing him with his simpering wife on his arm. According to his brother, the earl wanted the whole world to take note of his winning Lady Veronica.
Well, the world could notice and laud him, but Emeline didn’t have to. She—who had convinced herself that he was perfect—knew his true character. She recognized the cruel monster behind the handsome façade.
As she pondered his despicable treatment, she grew angry.
Why was she being such a meek lamb? She’d never been timid or shy, and she’d done nothing wrong—except fall in love with a libertine who didn’t reciprocate her intense sentiment.
Was she to suffer his awful behavior without complaint? Was she to slither out the rear door as if she was ashamed?
She wasn’t ashamed! And she wouldn’t hang her head and mope as if she was the miscreant in the sordid affair. Lord Stafford was a scoundrel, and Emeline wouldn’t pretend any differently.
She had many comments to share with the exalted Earl of Stafford, and he was going to listen to every one of them. She had no brother or father to stand up for her, so she had to stand up for herself.
After he left for London, she’d have no chance to speak with him ever again. If she didn’t tell him what she thought, she’d regret it forever.
She hurried to her writing desk and penned a reply to the school in Cornwall. She accepted the post and agreed to travel upon receipt of the coach fare. Then she stormed into the hall, eager to hunt down the earl.
There were few servants about, and those she encountered didn’t know where he was. She started searching floor by floor.
Wherever he’d gone, she’d find him, and when she was finished, his ears would be on fire!
She walked for ages, checking various places, and gradually, her rage began to wane. It was difficult to sustain such virulent fury, and with each stride, she reassessed.
Why chastise him? Why scold? What was the point? She didn’t matter to him in the slightest. Why waste the energy? He’d simply scoff at her criticism.
She slowed, her livid promenade lagging, then halting. To her dismay, she’d ended up outside his bedchamber, the smaller one he’d picked for himself upon his arrival.
The door was open, and she peered in like a beggar on the street.
She remembered the special evening she’d spent in his bed. They had talked and dallied and shared, and the memory pressed down on her like a heavy weight under which she couldn’t keep her balance.
Sadness swept over her. She didn’t hate him. She loved him, and she always would. It was killing her to know that she’d been so insignificant.
Suddenly, she heard his voice. He was in the dressing room behind his bedchamber.
Her stupid pulse raced with grief, but with joy, too. He wa
s exiting his suite, coming toward her. Perhaps if they could have a moment to chat, he would explain why he’d used her so horridly. If he could just make her understand, she wouldn’t be quite so bereft.
He stepped into view, and Emeline was about to call out his name, when she realized that Lady Veronica was still with him. The exquisite blond girl rose on tiptoe, and the earl kissed her full on the mouth. The embrace was chaste and quick, but it was an embrace nonetheless.
Emeline felt as if all the blood had been drained from her body, all the air sucked from the sky, and she was suffocating. She gasped with shock.
He spun, smiling, until he saw who was loitering and gaping. For a long, torturous interval, his gaze locked with hers, then she whirled away and ran.
In her frenzied retreat, she thought he shouted, “Em!”, but she was sure it was her fevered imagination.
“It’s a beautiful house, Nicholas.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
Veronica looked up at him.
An hour earlier, she’d managed to lose Portia. Her friend had been hungry, and she’d wandered into a dining room where a buffet had been laid out. Veronica had left her there and sneaked off with her fiancé. It was the first time they’d ever been alone.
During the three months of their engagement, they’d rarely interacted, so she’d forgotten how manly he was. At being so vividly reminded, she was thrilled.
With him so tall and dark, and her so shapely and fair, they would cast a dashing shadow across the social world of aristocratic London. She would have the most handsome husband in the kingdom, and heads would turn wherever they went. Every female of her acquaintance would be green with envy.
“Mother requires your presence in town,” she advised him, “for some wedding preparations.”
“I don’t need to come,” he said. “Whatever you decide is fine with me.”
“But you and your brother must visit our tailor. I’ve chosen the fabric for your wedding clothes, and they’re eager to get sewing. The date is approaching so rapidly.”
“My brother and I will wear our uniforms. You don’t have to make a fuss.”
“I don’t wish you wear your uniforms. I wish you to wear what I have selected.” To lessen the sting of her remark, she flashed a flirtatious grin. “I’m afraid I have to insist.”
He didn’t reply, and she frowned, trying to interpret what his silence indicated. Was he amenable? Would he come to London as she’d demanded? Or was he merely being courteous when he had no intention of doing as she’d asked?
She wasn’t accustomed to being ignored, and she refused to have her plans thwarted. Her wedding would be fabulous, and he couldn’t be permitted to spoil it.
They trudged along, not speaking, and she was growing irked by his mulish contemplation.
She’d finally escaped her chaperones, but he hardly seemed to care. She was a chatterbox, but he was barely listening. He kept peeking out the windows, as if worried over what was occurring outside.
Apparently, every detail about the estate was more important than her.
“You’ll allow me to remodel the manor, won’t you?” she inquired.
“Remodel? Why would you? This mansion is the gaudiest place I’ve ever seen. The furniture is in excellent shape, and it’s of the highest quality. It would be a waste of money.”
“It would make me happy—buying things for my new home. You want to make me happy, don’t you?”
She had a very clear image of herself totting about London to the merchants from whom she’d purchase the latest styles and colors. She could envision just how she’d dress for her appointments, just how she’d barter and haggle and shop. He couldn’t ruin her fun, couldn’t prevent her from doing what all brides did after their weddings.
He was quiet again, and she wondered if he’d agreed or not, but she couldn’t figure out how to press him for answers.
For the prior three years, she’d been courted and wooed, but her suitors had all been near her own age. They were malleable and easily coerced. Nicholas was nothing like any of those boys. He wasn’t concerned over how she viewed him, and he’d expended no effort to learn what she wanted or to ensure that she received it.
“Where is our honeymoon to be?” she queried. “I’m dying to know, and you haven’t breathed a word.”
He scowled. “I’m coming to London for the wedding, then I’m returning immediately to my post.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, you’re not. I think we should go to Italy. Wouldn’t it be exciting to rent a villa on the Mediterranean? How long could we stay? Would six months be all right?”
If she couldn’t finish off her glorious wedding with a glorious wedding trip, what was the use of getting married?
He halted at a door and gestured inside.
“You asked to see where I sleep,” he said. “This is it.”
She glanced into a very plain salon, one that was no different from a dozen others he’d shown her. He’d given the earl’s grand quarters to his brother, and he, Nicholas, had taken lesser lodgings. What sort of man would relinquish the earl’s suite for this paltry set of rooms?
“I want to look.” She grabbed his arm, hoping to pull him in after her, but he wouldn’t budge.
“Your father wouldn’t like you to be alone with me in my bedchamber.”
“My father isn’t here, is he? What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
She marched in, leaving him to skulk in the hall like an imbecile.
There was very little evidence of him in the sitting room, no trinkets tossed on a table, no coat thrown over a chair, so she brazenly proceeded to the bedroom and the dressing room beyond.
In it, she found the type of items for which she’d been searching: his razor and shaving cup, a pair of muddy riding boots in the corner, and—scandalously—a bath robe hanging from a hook.
She imagined herself wed to him, having the right to simply waltz in whenever she chose. Several of her friends had already married, and they whispered shocking tales of their husbands prancing about naked, of frightening physical acts carried out in the dark of night. She was anxious to learn what they were, but no one would explain.
She tried to picture him without his clothes, and she supposed he’d resemble a Greek statue, all smooth skin and sculpted muscle. The very idea made her cheeks heat, and she could barely keep from picking up a towel and fanning herself.
She spun around, and he was dawdling in the doorway, leaned against the frame. He appeared bored, and she was aggravated in the extreme. When he gazed at her, he ought to be overcome by desire.
Sauntering over, she approached until her skirt brushed his legs. She was being very forward, but what else was she to do? So far, he’d been tediously polite, and she was determined to elicit a reaction.
She was skilled at flirting, and she could drive a man wild with passion. He didn’t stand a chance at resisting her.
She toyed with a button on his shirt, tracing her finger round and round in circles. He didn’t move away, but he didn’t move any nearer, either. He simply stared, evincing no heightened interest and no curiosity as to her advance.
“I’ve heard the worst stories about you,” she said.
“Have you?”
“Yes. That’s why I came to Stafford. I had to find out if they were true.”
He didn’t remark on her brash statement, didn’t probe as to what the stories might be or if they had altered her opinion of his character.
“Would you like me to tell you what some of them are?”
“Not really.”
“Everyone in London swears you have a mistress, that she’s living here openly with you. Is she?”
He stepped away. “Let’s get you downstairs. You need to be going or you’ll never make Fitzroys by nightfall.”
“I’m staying at Stafford tonight, and you haven’t answered my question. Is your mistress in residence? If she is, I insist on being introduced to her so that I may punch
her in the nose.”
She cocked her head and grinned, a playful pose that was very fetching. She constantly practiced it in front of the mirror. He’d wonder if she was jesting or serious. After all, what gently-bred young lady would mention such a disgraceful person?
She hadn’t seen any indication of a woman’s touch in the house, and the only female she’d run across was the odious Miss Wilson who’d been weeping down in the driveway. Miss Wilson was pretty enough, but she’d been attired in an unadorned day dress, her hair in a ponytail, so she was much too plain to be the doxy Veronica was seeking.
Or was she?
Having never previously met a trollop, Veronica had no idea what to look for.
“You’re not spending the night,” he said.
“Why can’t I? No one knows I’m here, and I won’t tell anyone I visited.”
“If no one knows you’re here, then it’s all the more reason you should go. These sorts of juvenile antics have a way of leaking out.”
“Juvenile!” she huffed.
“If word of your jaunt drifted back to your father, I’d have to explain why I allowed you to behave so outrageously. It’s not a conversation I ever intend to have.”
He walked off, which irked her beyond her limit.
“Nicholas!” She stomped her foot to get his attention.
“What?” He whipped around. “Before you say anything, I should like to inform you that you have prevailed on my hospitality, delayed me in the implementation of my own journey, and insulted my character. I’m a tad exasperated.”
“You’ve been an absolute grouch from the second I arrived. You could at least pretend to be glad to see me.”
“I don’t care for theatrics, and I must ask that you not engage in them, or you will soon learn that my patience is short and my temper hot.”
He was glaring as if he didn’t…like her, and the notion that he might not was unnerving. Had she been too bold? He was so worldly; she’d assumed he would be thrilled to discover that she was no simpering miss.
What if she’d wrecked everything? Gad, what if he decided she was loose and called off their betrothal?