by Cheryl Holt
He leaned in and stole a kiss, and as he drew away, her heart hammered so hard that she worried it might burst from her chest. He was enormously pleased with himself while she was distressed, furious, and sad.
It hurt to look at him, hurt to hear his voice and see his smile. Didn’t he understand? She’d been scraped raw, hollowed out. There was nothing remaining of the person she’d once been. He’d left her an empty shell.
She scrambled to her feet and hastened off down the lane. Of course, oaf that he was, he wouldn’t let her storm off with any dignity. He came after her, his long legs rapidly covering the ground so that, shortly, they were strolling side by side.
She tried to ignore him, but she couldn’t. He simply took up too much space.
“I’ve been gone for a while,” he said, “and now that I’m back, do you know what I noticed?”
“No, and I don’t care what you noticed, either.”
“You’ve put on a few pounds.”
“How kind of you to mention it.”
“Your bosom is bigger, your tummy more rounded.”
She halted and whirled on him. “Are you calling me fat?”
“No, I’m calling you pregnant.”
She gasped. “What?”
“People claim you’re overly emotional. You cry at the drop of a hat. You’re constantly dizzy. You’re pregnant, Emeline Wilson.”
Could it be? Frantically, she counted the days, the weeks. It had been ages since she’d had her monthly flux, but she’d attributed the lack to stress and strain.
Oh no, oh no, oh no…
“If I had a gun,” she seethed, “I shoot you with it.”
“You ought to be a tad nicer to me. It sounds as if you need a husband.” He smirked. “I’m available.”
“Maybe I won’t kill you. Maybe I’ll kill myself.”
“And do away with Nicholas junior? You never would.”
He stared in that intent way he had, the way that had previously elated her. Once, he’d made her feel as if she was the most unique woman on Earth. Now she just felt tired. Tired and miserable and so very, very lonely.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a gold wedding band. He waved it under her nose like a talisman.
“What is that supposed to be?” she asked.
“What would you imagine it is?”
“I don’t have any idea.”
He clasped her hand and slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.
“Marry me, Emeline.”
“What? No.”
“Marry me,” he said again. “You want to so badly. Stop fighting it.”
“No.” She repeated more firmly, but he was unfazed by her reply.
“Why not?”
“Because if I were to wed, it would be for love.”
“I know that about you.”
“You’re focused on status and revenge. You want a Lady Veronica Stewart—it’s all you’ve ever wanted—and you’ll never convince me that you’d suddenly ask me instead.”
“I have lowered my standards quite a bit, haven’t I? I’m definitely scraping the bottom of the barrel with you.”
It was the sort of sarcastic remark that once might have coaxed a pithy rejoinder from her, that might have garnered him a playful jab in the ribs. But she was exhausted and depressed and anxious to slither away so she could lick her wounds in private while she contemplated her pregnancy.
“Don’t do this,” she quietly implored.
“Don’t do what?”
“You assume I’m increasing, and you’ve been overcome by some odd chivalrous impulse, but it will pass.”
“You think this is an impulse?”
“I’m certain it is. Just leave it be, Nicholas.”
“You called me Nicholas.”
He flashed a devilish grin that had her heart pounding again, and a collage of images popped into her head: their first meeting in London, his initial visit to Stafford, the afternoon he’d caught her fishing in the stream, his kindness to her sisters, her developing infatuation, his ultimate seduction.
She’d been so happy then. She’d felt so vibrant and alive. How had that joy fled so completely?
“Let me share a little secret with you, Em,” he said.
“Please don’t.”
“You want to marry for love. Well, what about me? What if I want to marry for love, too?”
“Then you should go find someone who loves you. You’re wonderful, remember? I’m sure you won’t have any trouble.”
“I don’t have to search,” he insisted. “I’ve found what I need very close to home. It’s been waiting here for me all this time.”
To her consternation, he dropped to a knee and clasped her hand again.
“I love you, Emeline.”
“Nicholas, no, don’t you dare—”
“Hush,” he soothed, “and listen to me for once.”
“Why should I turn over a new leaf at this late date?”
His eyes were so very blue. A woman could get lost in those eyes. She had gotten lost in those eyes. She tried to glance away but couldn’t.
“When I first came to Stafford, I hated it.”
“How could I forget?”
“You made me love it. You made me love you. You’ve ensnared me, and you can’t simply walk away. It would be too cruel.”
“You’re mad.”
“No, not mad. Just in love. With you.” He stroked his fingers across her stomach, reminding her that there might be more at stake than pride and hurt feelings. “You need a husband, Em. Let it be me.”
When he assessed her like that, when he spoke in that soft tone…
“I don’t know what to do.” She started to shake. “I don’t know what’s best.”
“I am best. I am precisely what you need. Say you’ll have me.”
“But…but…a few weeks ago, you were engaged to somebody else.”
“A huge mistake on my part. I admit it.”
“You can’t have changed your opinion so quickly.”
“Can’t I have? I’m a man, Em, and a particularly thickheaded one at that. It never dawned on me that I was in love. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. Guess what I realized.”
“What?”
“I love you so much, I’m dying with it.”
“Oh, Nicholas.”
“I’m not much of a catch. I’m vain and stubborn and intractable, but I’m also loyal and faithful. I will always stand by you and be your staunchest ally. You’ll never be alone again.” Overwhelmed by sentiment, he had to swallow twice before he could continue. “Take a chance on me, Em. You’ll never regret it.”
Voices echoed down the lane, and they peered over to discover that the people from the party had come looking for them. Jo and Stephen Price, her sisters, Annie Price. The new vicar, the carpenters.
“Get up,” she urged, trying to tug him to his feet, but he wouldn’t budge.
“No. The entire town should bear witness to my proposal.”
“I don’t want you to be embarrassed.”
“Silly Em, you could never embarrass me.”
His brother called, “Have you worn her down yet?”
“No,” he replied. “She doesn’t think I’m worth having.”
“I didn’t say that!” she huffed.
“You didn’t say yes, either.” He kissed her ring again. “What’s it to be, Em? We’re waiting for your answer.”
She gazed at him, at her sisters and friends. Their expressions told her she could have it all. The husband who adored her. Children. A father to care for them and keep them safe. A home where she was happy and cherished.
“Swear to me that you mean it,” she demanded.
“Yes, I mean it. I swear.”
“Swear to me that you’ll stay at Stafford. You won’t be off gallivanting, where I’m panicked and fretting over where you are and if you’re all right.”
“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here.”
; “Promise me that it’s forever.”
“Forever…” He nodded. “I like the sound of it.”
She couldn’t refuse him. Not with spectators studying their every move. Not when he was offering her exactly what she craved.
The sad, pathetic fact was that she still loved him. She always had and always would, and she could have him for her very own. She could have him for the rest of her life.
“Don’t ever lie to me again,” she warned.
“I will if it’s for your own good.”
She scoffed. “You’re impossible.”
“Yes, I am. Impossible and conceited and possessed of every other bad trait. Now what’s it to be? Will you have me or not?”
“Yes, Nicholas, I will have you.”
He grinned a sly grin. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.” He stood and faced the crowd. “You heard her, folks. I’m about to become leg shackled.”
“About time,” his brother muttered.
“Isn’t anybody going to congratulate me?”
They clapped and cheered. The girls rushed over, hugging them and squealing with delight.
Nicholas soaked it all in, and she watched him, realizing how much he’d changed from the angry, solitary man he’d been when they’d first met. She’d given him this. She’d brought him this contentment, this sense of belonging.
She sighed with satisfaction.
“Let’s go back to my school.” She smiled—just for him. “I want you to show me everything.”
“You better gush over it,” he advised her. “You better spend the whole day telling me how marvelous I am.”
“I’ll definitely tell you,” she said. “I’ll tell you and tell you, and I’ll never stop.”
About the Author
Cheryl Holt is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of twenty-seven novels.
She's also a lawyer and mom, and at age 40, with two babies at home, she started a new career as a commercial fiction writer. She'd hoped to be a suspense novelist, but couldn't sell any of her manuscripts, so she ended up taking a detour into romance, where she was stunned to discover that she has an incredible knack for writing some of the world's greatest love stories.
Her books have been released to wide acclaim, and she has won or been nominated for many national awards. She is particularly proud to have been named "Best Storyteller of the Year," by the trade magazine, Romantic Times BOOK Reviews.
She received degrees in music, languages, and education, from South Dakota State University, and her juris doctorate was obtained at the University of Wyoming. Her colorful and chaotic employment history includes such variety as public school teacher, cook, bartender, lobbyist, and political activist. She also did brief stints in metro-Denver as a deputy district attorney and administrative law judge.
Cheryl welcomes email and can be found at:www.cherylholt.com.
Oh, the delicious peril of deception…
What the Mistress Did
© 2011 Anya Delvay
Lady Marianne Gillingham has no intention of ending her affair with David Dunscombe, Earl Harrington, despite his pending nuptials. She craves his attentions, and he satisfies her deepest yearnings.
Yet, when his fiancée, the sweet, innocent and oh-so-very young Annabelle Frazier, appears on her doorstep to demand the end of the association, Marianne realizes she does not wish to be second in David’s affections. She also cannot resist issuing a warning. The earl will bed his wife with tedious regularity, but never reveal his more unusual desires.
To Marianne’s amusement, her prediction comes true, with a surprising twist. The countess is back with a new demand: repair the problem her prophetic words created. Taking pleasure in imagining the other woman’s fear and horror, Marianne rekindles the affair to demonstrate exactly how to fulfill David’s lascivious desires—while Annabelle secretly watches from the shadows.
She never expected Annabelle to prove so resilient and surprisingly easy—not to mention delicious—to corrupt. Or that the ensuing erotic tangle would be impossible to put right without heartbreak.
Warning: Loosen your stays and have your fan at hand. Plumes and floggers, along with some other leather devices, were employed in the creating of this erotic tangle. Contains Georgian ladies behaving badly, often with each other. M/F/F, M/F, F/F action herein.
Enjoy the following excerpt for What the Mistress Did:
Sanity has returned by the time Lincoln ushers my visitor into my boudoir that night, and so I am able to watch with some amusement as, with a flourish, Lady Harrington tosses back the thick veil she has swathed about her head. I am sure my lack of astonishment comes as a shock to her, just as my ability to stand with aplomb and acknowledge her curtsy must also be. It is she who pauses infinitesimally before coming forward to offer a greeting.
“I was wondering who would appear at my door this evening,” I say, sinking back into my chair, arranging the folds of my diaphanous robe around my legs. “Did you think I would not be able to discern that the author of the note I received was not your husband?”
For a moment, she makes no response. It was a credible effort at copying her husband’s writing, but I have seen it too often to be completely fooled. Once the initial burst of excitement had waned, I realised the letter could not be from David. Perhaps she thought I would be deceived and, having rehearsed in her mind the way this scene is to unfold, now knows not how to proceed.
“I had to see you,” she eventually replies in her cool, clear tones. “Signing the note as I did seemed the best way to ensure you would capitulate.”
My gesture for her to take a seat goes ignored, so I wait, eyebrows raised in question for her to continue. Her poise is impressive, until I realise it to be superficial, much as is mine. Although she has not moved forward, her skirts rustle softly, obviously from the agitated stirring of her hands, hidden in their folds.
The silence lengthens, and as I begin to wonder if she will ever speak, Lady Harrington says in a rush, “You have ruined my marriage.”
I had no expectations for this visit, could see no good reason for it at all, and no amount of speculation could have led me to this moment. An instinctive rush of rage makes my blood heat, and I am forced to mask it with a laugh.
“I do not see how,” I respond, fighting the urge to rise and slap her face. “You desired me to leave your husband alone, and I have. How does that constitute impeding your marriage in any way?”
She takes a step forward, hands emerging, fingers curled into claws, but stops beyond striking range. Her breath comes in sharp gusts now, and her cheeks are flushed, all evidence of poise having vanished.
“It was what you said, the curse you laid upon me before I had the sense to know what it meant. How could you be so cruel?”
Has the strain of her changed life turned her mind? “I have no idea of what you speak.”
“Bitch,” she cries. “Whore. You have stolen the pleasure from my marriage bed with your words.”
It is all she will say, pausing as though I should understand. Our prior conversation replays in my mind as I search for the answer, and when it comes, another harsh laugh escapes.
“Do you mean when I said you will be bored? That he will fuck you the same way each night and neither of you will find true pleasure in the coupling?”
Her face contorts, and I rise in time to grab her wrists before she can gouge at my face. Annabelle Dunscombe is strong, but I am taller and stronger yet. Forcing her arms behind her, I hold her until she ceases to struggle. We stand, locked together, as she glares up at me.
“If you had said nothing, I would never know or care.” She spits the words at me, but her eyes are filled with tears. Only pride, I suspect, stops them from falling. “Each night when he comes to me, I wait. Wait for him to do something different, to teach me what he wants me to learn. But nothing changes. How can I bear to know he will not seek true pleasure with me but save it for someone like you?”
“Poor little bird,”
I coo, rage making the mocking words a blade to slash at her already lacerated heart. “Do you feel bereft, angry, alone?”
Annabelle Dunscombe growls, begins to struggle once more, and she does not stop until we are on the ground and I straddle her waist, her wrists trapped beneath my knees. She has lost her veil and wig, and her short dark hair is dishevelled. The mass of her skirts and pannier bunch against my back. My robe is in disarray, caught on the tips of my breasts, barely meeting at my waist but open below to expose my belly and the curls between my thighs.
Beneath me, my captor’s chest heaves with each gasping breath, nipples almost escaping her low-cut bodice. Flushed with rage and perspiration, she is truly, absolutely glorious. If David could see her thus, he would be upon her like a ravenous beast. More likely she greets him in the dark with a cool, compliant air instead of this fire.
My ire redoubles, and I hear myself snarl, “It is one of life’s ironies that we never appreciate what we have. I gave you what you desired, but it is not enough for you, is it? You possess all I could ever dream of having, and yet greed brings you here to demand even more.”
“I want nothing from you—nothing!”
I laugh at her rejoinder, pressing my knees harder into her arms. “Liar! If you wanted nothing from me, you would never have come.”
She bites her lip, obviously at a loss for words, and swallows deeply, the hectic colour draining from her face. Unable to hold my gaze, she lowers her eyes.
I recognise the exact moment she realises I am all but naked. Her eyes widen, dart away from my breasts but just as swiftly return—linger. A blush floods her cheeks, and her gaze drops to the junction of my thighs.
Now she cannot suppress her gasp of shock, nor stop herself from staring.
Imogene teases me that my clitoris is larger than one any delicately bred woman should possess, and sucking it is almost akin to performing fellatio. Keeping my pubic hair neatly trimmed emphasizes its size, for it is always visible between my cunt lips. With my legs spread wide to immobilize the little harridan, I know she can see it clearly and do nothing to hinder her view.