Nicholas

by Cheryl Holt

  In a panic, she smiled and sashayed over, offering him a good view of her shapely, swaying hips. He definitely noticed, and she gained some satisfaction from proving that he wasn’t made of stone.

  She peered up at him, getting lost in the blue of his eyes.

  “Don’t be such a grump.”

  “I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my mind today.”

  “Do you know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think we’re very much alone, and you haven’t tried to kiss me. Not a single time.”

  His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there. She held her breath, certain he would proceed.

  But instead, he said, “It’s not wise for us to travel down that road.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  “I guess I am.”

  “Admit it,” she taunted, “you dream about kissing me.”

  “You’re awfully set on yourself.”

  He spun away and strolled off. In a few steps, he’d be out of the bedchamber. A few steps after that, they’d be in the hall.

  How could she steal a kiss in the hall?

  She started after him, fighting the urge the stamp her foot again, and as she hurried out, she happened to glance in the mirror. The angle was just right for her to see Miss Wilson lurking in the outer doorway and debating whether to enter the suite. She looked forlorn and miserable.

  Why would the woman seek out Nicholas? In his private chamber no less! There was no proper purpose. She had to be the strumpet over whom Veronica had been relentlessly mocked.

  Her temper boiled over.

  “Nicholas!” Her tone was coaxing.

  He hadn’t observed Miss Wilson yet, and he turned back to Veronica.

  “What now?”

  “I came all this way, and I only wanted one thing. You haven’t given it to me.”

  “What is it?”

  “I already told you.”

  She marched over and snuggled herself to him, being intimate and familiar as if she was in the habit of hugging him.

  Before he had a clue of what she planned, she rose on tiptoe, and she kissed him. For the briefest second, he permitted the embrace then, as if he were a fond cousin rather than her fiancée, he eased her away.

  As he did, Miss Wilson gasped. He whirled to ascertain who was watching, and Veronica’s worst fears were confirmed. He appeared to have been punched in the stomach.

  Miss Wilson slapped a hand over her mouth, then she ran off, vanishing in an instant.

  “Dammit!” he muttered, and he shouted, “Em!”

  But she continued on. He might have chased after her, but Veronica slipped her arm into his, halting any escape.

  “What do you suppose she wanted?” Veronica asked, all innocence.

  “I…I…don’t know,” he stammered, his distress obvious.

  “Would you escort me downstairs? You mentioned I should probably get going, and I must find Portia so we can be off.”

  “I need to…to…”

  He was extremely befuddled—the first time she’d ever seen him at a loss—and she seized the advantage. She led him to the hall and walked in the direction opposite from Miss Wilson.

  “This house is so big,” she pouted. “I’ll never locate the front foyer on my own.”

  Her expression demanded his assistance, and there was no reason for him not to accompany her.

  “It’s this way,” he mumbled, Miss Wilson forgotten entirely in his desire to placate his dearest betrothed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Josephine hid in the shadows, the wet evening grass soaking her shoes. She was behind Stafford Manor, lurking underneath the balustrade and hoping Stephen came outside.

  Earlier in the morning, he’d brought the twins to the vicarage. He’d been kind to the two girls and courteous to her brother, but he’d been extremely rude to Jo.

  She’d thought she wanted to end their affair. She’d thought she was strong enough to never see him again, but she’d been wrong. As he’d sauntered into her front parlor, she had nearly fainted with surprise. The pleasure had been that intense.

  She’d spent the afternoon with Nan and Nell, and she’d slyly peppered them with questions about routines in the mansion. They’d shared many interesting tidbits, including the fact that Stephen often enjoyed a cheroot on the verandah after supper.

  When he’d returned to fetch the girls home, she’d tried to catch his eye, to indicate that they should meet, but he’d studiously ignored her blatant hints. So she had risked life and limb—and reputation—to seek him out.

  The furtive trek to the manor had been dark and frightening, and she’d forced herself to make it, but it had probably been for naught. Stephen had never appeared, and she was about to give up, when above her, a door opened.

  Booted strides marched across the stone patio, and suddenly, there he was, his shape outlined by a lamp glowing in a parlor. He put a cigar to his mouth, the tip glowing as he inhaled, smoke circling up above his head.

  “Stephen,” she murmured. He froze but didn’t reply, so more loudly, she repeated, “Stephen!”

  Frowning, he leaned over the rail.

  “Jo? Is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right? Is something amiss?”

  “No, no. Could I talk to you?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Please? I’ve walked all this way.”

  “Why didn’t you just knock on the front door?”

  “You know why.”

  “Heaven forbid that you be seen speaking with the earl’s brother.”

  She refused to argue in a whisper, from ten feet away. If she could touch him, she was sure his resentment would fade and they could start over.

  “Please, Stephen,” she said again.

  His irritation great, he went to the steps and stomped down. Without a word, he clasped her hand and took off at a brisk pace. She stumbled after him, trying to keep up.

  He guided her along the foundation of the house, ducking under windows, until they halted at a rear entrance. They descended a short set of stairs into the wine cellar.

  She held very still, trembling, as he located a candle and used the tip of his cheroot to light the wick. He tossed the cigar under his heel and stamped it out, and as the flame grew, she could see rows and rows of bottles neatly stacked.

  “Is this secretive enough for you?” he sneered.

  “Don’t be angry.”

  “I’m not angry. I’d have to care about you to be angry.”

  “I need your advice. I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

  “So you came to me? Why would you? A few days ago, you were very clear that you don’t wish to pursue an acquaintance. Am I deaf? Did I misunderstand?”

  To her horror, her eyes filled with tears. She was sad and despairing and desperate for his counsel and friendship, but the conversation wasn’t proceeding at all as she’d planned.

  She was anxious to chat with the funny, sexy, charming man who had led her off to dally in deserted barns, not this cold, furious stranger.

  “If you suppose,” he griped, “that a flood of tears will have any effect on me, you’re gravely mistaken.”

  “Stop acting like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re someone I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know me, and this is not an act. You broke off our affair, and I acceded to your demand. What more is there to say? Were you expecting me to chase after you like a besotted boy?”

  Yes! No! I’m so confused!

  He’d erected a hard shell to keep her out, and she had to pierce through it. As he’d mentioned, it had only been a few days. How could his affection have vanished so rapidly?

  It couldn’t have.

  She closed the distance that separated them, and he watched her come. He was wary, unyielding, but she was determined to evoke a response.

  She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her
body to his. Though he pretended apathy, his cock stirred, and at feeling it, she could have wept with joy.

  “How long have you been courting?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Benedict Mason. How long? Were you fornicating with me while playing the shy maiden for him?”

  She pulled away and scowled. “He is courting. I am not.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “It was my brother’s idea. Not mine. I haven’t a clue why Oscar proposed it or why Mr. Mason agreed. We have nothing in common, and I loathe him.”

  “I saw you after church on Sunday. You didn’t look as if you loathe him.”

  “I can’t be uncivil. Oscar has decreed that I submit to his attentions, so I must comply.”

  “You’re such a mouse, Mrs. Merrick. How do you live with yourself?”

  His disdain exhausted her. What did he know about her tribulations? What did he know about anything?

  He could never imagine how difficult it was to placate Oscar or how feverishly she worked to keep him happy.

  Her existence had constantly been the same, and she couldn’t envision any other life. Oscar was a bitter, cruel man, but she’d always been ruled by bitter, cruel men. The home she shared with him was no different from the one she’d shared with her father, then her husband. It was no different from the one she’d share with Mr. Mason if Oscar forced her to marry.

  It was dangerous and impossible to stand up to her brother, to speak out or defend herself. She could only plod forward, praying that she would survive with her sanity intact.

  Stephen Price, with his stellar career, steady income, male independence, and rich brother was in no position to chastise.

  How dare he judge her!

  She was sick of his contempt and resolved to push and push until he behaved in a manner more to her liking. There was a way they connected, a way he couldn’t resist.

  She rose on tiptoe and touched her mouth to his. For an eternity, he was stiff as a board, fighting his attraction. She stroked her hands down his back, across his buttocks, to his loins. By the time she reached between his legs and stroked his balls, he relented in a hot torrent of need.

  He grabbed her and braced her against a post, her legs around his waist. His lips never parting from hers, he managed to unbutton his trousers and raise her skirt. In a thrice, he was impaled, and she cried out in pain and relief.

  He thrust like a wild bull, his cock ramming into her over and over. He opened her dress and shoved at the fabric, baring her breast. As he fell to her nipple, as he sucked hard, he came in a fiery rush, his seed flooding her womb.

  Then, with a furious jerk, he drew away and stood her on her feet. Their frenzied coupling had left her off balance, and she stumbled over and collapsed onto the bottom stair. He moved to the opposite wall, a palm on the rough brick, as he struggled to mediate his breathing.

  Finally, he calmed and straightened. With clumsy fingers, he repaired his clothes, then spun toward her.

  “What do you want from me?” He looked tormented. “You ask me to go away, so I oblige you. You start courting someone else, yet you show up here and practically ravish me. What do you want!”

  “I can’t marry Mr. Mason, but Oscar is determined.”

  “How is that my problem? I’m not your father. I’m not your kin. Why would you presume on me?”

  “Aren’t you my friend?”

  “I could have been—once—but you weren’t interested. I’m not a fool, and I won’t waste my energy on a lost cause.”

  “I didn’t want you to leave me alone!” she wailed.

  “You couldn’t prove it by me.”

  A dozen pleas raced through her mind: Save me! Wed me yourself! Don’t let Mr. Mason have me! Fight for me! Make me your own!

  But she didn’t utter any of them aloud.

  “Mr. Mason doesn’t love me,” she complained.

  “So? What has love to do with matrimony?”

  “I was wed previously to a brute I detested. I won’t endure such agony ever again. If I have to marry, then I insist it be to a husband who is glad to have me.”

  It was the perfect overture for him to propose, and she gazed at him with beseeching eyes, but the thick oaf didn’t grasp what she was requesting. How could she get him to figure it out? Would she have to hit him alongside the head with a club?

  “A few weeks ago,” he said, “when my brother initially traveled to Stafford, do you know why I came with him?”

  “I assumed you were eager to see the estate.”

  “No. It’s because I plan to settle at Stafford after I retire from the army.”

  “Well…good.”

  “I’m bringing my family here.”

  “Your what?”

  Gad! Was he married? If he was, she’d kill him, and she’d never suffer an ounce of remorse. She’d go to the gallows with a smile on her face!

  “My family,” he continued, “with the exception of my brother whom I can barely abide, consists of my very illegitimate daughter.”

  “You have a daughter?”

  “Yes. Born out of wedlock.”

  He stated the fact like a boast, as if he imagined she might swoon over the shocking news, and she had to admit that she was unnerved.

  Illicit fornication was a terrible sin, but when it resulted in a baby, it was even more egregious.

  “What’s her name?” Jo inquired.

  “Annie.”

  “Who is her mother?”

  “A camp follower I scarcely knew. When I was younger, I used to rut like a dog with any trollop who would spread her legs. I like to believe that I’ve changed since then, but I guess I haven’t.”

  He glared as if she belonged in the same category as his camp follower, and his derision made her feel ashamed.

  “There’s no need to be crude,” she told him.

  “If you don’t want to listen to my risqué stories, go home. I didn’t ask you here.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Mother or daughter?”

  “Both.”

  “Mother died in childbirth. Daughter lives in a convent, run by the Sisters of Mercy in Antwerp, Belgium. She’s ten.”

  “Do you ever see her?”

  “Once or twice a year—when I can get away from my regiment.”

  “What does she think of your being gone so much? Does she miss you?”

  “She hardly knows me. I doubt she misses me at all.”

  The cold confession wounded Jo. She stared at the floor, her fingers laced together as if in prayer.

  Why was the world so unfair?

  She’d been married for most of a decade. She’d spent all of that time either flat on her back as her husband pumped away between her thighs or on her knees, begging God to grant her a simple wish of one, tiny baby. Every female in the kingdom seemed able to conceive. Why not her?

  She’d never gotten pregnant, and she’d grown to believe that she didn’t deserve to be a mother, that God had abandoned her.

  Yet Stephen Price had been given a precious gift he neither wanted nor cherished. He had a child he never saw and had made no effort to raise. He paid others to do it for him.

  What type of man didn’t want his daughter? What did such conduct indicate about his true character?

  “You’re lucky,” she said.

  “Am I? You know, Mrs. Merrick—”

  “Don’t call me Mrs. Merrick.”

  “I’d rather not be on familiar terms.”

  She sighed. “Fine. Have it your way.”

  “When I first visited your brother at the rectory, I had a reason.”

  “What was it?”

  “I’m bringing Annie here later in the summer. I’ve already written to the Mother Superior, instructing her that I’ll be sending someone to fetch her as soon as I can arrange it.”

  “How will you orchestrate her entrée into Stafford society?” She posed the question more harshly than she’d intended. “Will you simply sh
ow up with her, then command that she be accepted?”

  “I don’t give a damn about these rural villagers. They’ll welcome her and be gracious about it, or they’ll move on.”

  “This is a very conservative place, and Oscar a very conservative preacher. It might not be as easy as you’re expecting. I’m just warning you.”

  “Warning received.”

  “Why did you meet with my brother?”

  “I was hoping he could refer me to a kindly widow who would take her in until I can muster out of the army. After I spoke with him, I decided not to discuss it. But how about you, Josephine? Are you acquainted with any kindly widows in Stafford?”

  The dig was sharp and, in a temper, and she leapt to her feet. She wished she was a man, that she was strong enough to pound him into the ground.

  “What are you saying? Are you asking me if I’d watch over her until you come back?”

  “No.”

  “Then what is your point?”

  “I mention it merely because I want you to understand how disillusioned I’ve been in the sorts of people I’ve encountered here.”

  “Meaning me.”

  “Yes, meaning you.”

  “I could do it for you,” she seethed.

  “Really, Jo? You could? How? Will you march to your brother and tell him there’s a sinful little girl who would like to have live in his house? Of perhaps you could take on the chore after you’ve wed Mr. Mason.” Sarcastically, he added, “I’m sure he’ll be amenable.”

  “I could make them agree,” she insisted, but her fury was waning.

  He nodded to the door. “Go ahead. Scurry to your brother. Inform him you can’t marry Mason because you’ll be too busy helping me with Annie.”

  She tried to picture the conversation with Oscar, but couldn’t. To her great shame, she was as meek and obedient as Stephen had accused her of being. She had no notion of how to issue demands to a man, how to garner what she craved.

  Oscar would never allow her to assist Annie Price. If Jo went behind his back and proceeded anyway, where would she be when Stephen returned from the army? Her job as Annie’s guardian would end, and Jo would have nowhere to go. If she defied Oscar over Annie, he would never let her come home.

  At that moment, she hated herself. She felt lower than she ever had when her husband railed at her, lower than when Oscar charged her with vanity or sloth.