WANTON
Page 27
She went to the wardrobe, but she only owned a handful of clothes, so there was little to put away. Three dresses—all gray with white collars and cuffs. A nightgown. Underclothes. A wool cloak for winter. Winter boots too.
And one very pretty day dress that she’d saved for years to buy. It was a fetching violet shade that highlighted the blond of her hair and the deep sapphire color of her eyes. When she wore it, she felt she was someone other than a boring spinster and schoolteacher.
She took a last look at the meager pile, having to admit that—with her marrying a vicar—it was probably all she’d ever possess. Somehow, she didn’t imagine there would be money in the household budget for frivolities such as a stylish gown.
Finished with her chore, she marched out, ready for an adventure. Such an ornate residence would have a music room filled with instruments, and she was eager to locate it.
She roamed about, poking her nose into deserted galleries and salons. It was late afternoon, and the house was very quiet, the servants likely in the kitchen and having tea. So it came as a huge surprise when a woman’s sultry laughter drifted by, when the low rumble of a man’s voice answered the woman.
Evangeline slowed and began to tiptoe, worried over who it might be. Was it Lord Run? What would it mean if he was suddenly on the premises? Could she remain a guest at Fox Run until her wedding?
Oh, she hoped so! She’d only just arrived. She would hate to have to depart so soon.
She found the pair at the end of the hall in what had to be the house’s most ostentatious suite, decorated with mahogany furniture, maroon drapes and rugs. Every item bespoke comfort, wealth, and pleasure. Evangeline neared and peeked through the crack in the door.
They were in the sitting room, the man lounged in a chair, the woman—very beautiful, very exotic—prancing about in front of him. With fiery auburn hair and big green eyes, she was tugging the combs from her hair, letting it fall down her back in a curly wave.
She was about Evangeline’s same height of five feet five inches and probably Evangeline’s same age of twenty-five, but the similarities stopped there.
She was wearing a lush emerald gown that hugged her voluptuous figure, and she was glamorous and confident in a manner Evangeline had always struggled not to be.
As to the man, he was incredibly handsome. Broad shoulders, flat belly, dark hair, blue, blue eyes. He had a face like an angel. Or maybe a devil. He hadn’t shaved, so his cheeks were stubbled, making him appear dashing and reckless and dangerous.
His skin was bronzed from the sun, and he was robust and vigorous. Since he was seated, it was hard to guess his height, but Evangeline suspected he’d be very tall, six feet at least. He was dressed in expensive clothes, black riding boots, tan trousers, a flowing white shirt that was open part way, providing a glimpse of his chest, and Evangeline’s innards tickled at the sight.
It was horrid to spy, but she’d never seen such a delicious male specimen and couldn’t look away.
“You want me,” the woman was saying. “You know you do. Admit it.”
“If I do or if I don’t, Florella, how can it matter?”
“Not matter!” the woman, Florella, huffed. “This has been brewing between us for an entire year. Why not get on with it? We’ll both be happier once it’s over.”
“Doesn’t Bryce have an exclusive arrangement with you? What’s he paying you for if not for your exclusivity?”
“He might be paying me to be his mistress,” she saucily retorted, “but he doesn’t own me, and he doesn’t pick my friends. When he’s not around, he can’t dictate to me over who I can entertain and who I can’t.”
Evangeline was so shocked to hear the word mistress that she could barely bite down a gasp of astonishment. Living as she had at a girl’s boarding school, she’d never associated with loose or disreputable people. If Florella was truly a mistress, then she qualified as being the most scandalous person Evangeline had ever encountered.
Florella was unbuttoning her dress, the fabric falling away to reveal a very shapely bosom. The man watched, seeming bored, as if he regularly viewed naked flesh and was too jaded to be moved by it.
Florella’s sleeves were next, as she exposed a very frilly, very elaborate corset.
The man arched an arrogant brow. “Bryce spends enough to keep you in very fine undergarments.”
“Yes, he does. Lucky me.” Florella grabbed her breasts, as if offering them to the man, and she grinned. “Are you hungry? Would you like a little nibble?”
“If I said yes”—the man shrugged—“how would I explain it to Bryce? I’m too honest for my own good, and I’d feel compelled to tell him.”
“I’ll tell him myself. You won’t have to.”
“He’s my friend,” the man insisted.
“So he won’t mind sharing.”
Florella hiked up skirt and petticoat and climbed onto his lap, straddling him so her bosom was directly in his face. She was riffling her fingers through his hair, fussing with his shirt. She leaned down and touched her lips to his in a brief, but thrilling kiss.
Evangeline observed all, riveted by a peculiar sort of excitement she didn’t understand.
She’d had very limited experiences with men in her life, had never had a beau, or even a close male acquaintance. She’d been kissed several times, but that had been when she was an adolescent and allowed to attend the harvest fair. She’d sneaked off with a few boys and had found the groping and pawing to be particularly stimulating, but much of the exhilaration was due to the danger involved.
If Miss Peabody had ever learned of the indiscretions, there was no predicting what might have happened. Evangeline would likely have been expelled, and as she’d gotten older, she’d had the sense not to flirt. So it had been years since she’d participated in a romantic interlude, and she’d never seen two adults kissing.
She’d always heard risqué stories about how adults behaved when they were alone, but she’d never expected to witness such antics. Her rampant curiosity was one of her worst traits, she wasn’t about to creep away before she saw quite a bit more.
“Bryce won’t care,” Florella persisted, her lips brushing the man’s again. “He’s very generous, and he likes me to be happy.”
“And you’d be happy if we were lovers?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
The man scoffed. “If you think Bryce would be nonchalant about it, you’re mad.”
“If he’s upset by it, we can switch. I’ll leave him, and you can have me instead.”
“Me! I have no desire to support you. I’d have to take out a loan merely to keep you in undergarments.”
“I have very expensive tastes.”
“Poor Bryce. How does he afford you?”
“I’m worth it,” Florella claimed.
The entire moment was so erotically charged that Evangeline could scarcely breathe. She felt as if she’d stumbled on an alien world she hadn’t known to exist. She wanted to burst into the room, to question them about their relationship, their opinions on sin and morality.
How could they so flagrantly eschew decency and decorum? How did they rationalize it? How would they carry on later, when they were seated across from each other at the supper table?
Florella appeared frozen, as if waiting for something special to transpire, but the man wasn’t inclined to oblige her. Ultimately, he said, “I’ll ask Bryce. If he gives me permission, I’ll consider it.”
“Oh, you beast. Didn’t you travel to the country to enjoy yourself? If you’re going to be a stick in the mud, what’s the point?”
“The point is I won’t deceive a friend.”
“You men!” Florella snorted. “As if you have any loyalty.”
“I have some, not a lot, but some. I wouldn’t waste it on you.”
Florella began massaging her breasts, her crafty fingers circling round and round as if trying to mesmerize him. The movement had Evangeline eager to touch her own breasts. Her nipples were
throbbing with an ache she’d never noted before.
Her skin was tingling, her ears ringing, and she was so fixated on the pair that a wild bull could have raced up and she would have noticed.
“Boo!” a man whispered from directly behind her.
“Ah!”
Evangeline yelped with fright and lurched away from him, and it pitched her into the room where the lovers were still together in their chair.
At her sudden arrival, they both stiffened with surprise, then Florella leapt to her feet, shoving her skirt down her legs. She whipped away, showing Evangeline her back, yanking at her sleeves and bodice.
The man who’d snuck up on Evangeline was probably thirty, and he looked enough like her, with the same blond hair and blue eyes, to be a relative. He snapped, “For God’s sakes, Florella, cover yourself.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Florella said.
“You’re such a whore,” the blond man declared, but without any rancor. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”
As with the prior word mistress, Evangeline had never previously heard a person utter the word whore, and she was stunned to the core of her being. What type of asylum had she entered, and what was she to do now?
“She wanted a tumble,” the dark-haired man explained, “but I thought I should check with you first to see if you’d mind.”
“Honestly, Florella,” the blond man scolded, “we’re all aware that he’s richer than me, but stop being a mercenary for two seconds, would you?”
“Sorry,” Florella said again. She turned toward Evangeline, which meant they all three turned.
“What have we here?” the dark-haired man asked, still lounged in his chair as if nothing odd had occurred.
“The door was ajar. She was peeking through the crack.”
“Well, she certainly got an eyeful.”
“I scared the devil out of her.” The blond man approached and made a slight bow to Evangeline. “I’m Bryce Blair.” He waved dismissively at Florella. “This is my good—and very disreputable—friend, Miss Florella Bernard. And this”—he gestured to the man in the chair—“is Aaron Drake, Viscount Run.”
Evangeline’s heart sank.
Lord Run was the owner of the estate, her host, and cousin to Evangeline’s betrothed, Vicar Bosworth. What was she supposed to say? How could she justify her conduct? What if he tattled to Vicar Bosworth? Evangeline’s engagement would likely be over before it had begun.
“Hello,” she glumly mumbled.
“And you are...?” Lord Run inquired.
“Miss Evangeline Etherton.” He gaped at her, clearly not recognizing her name, so she added, “I’m your houseguest.”
“My houseguest?” Lord Run said. “I don’t have a houseguest.”
“Yes...ah...the vicar’s mother, Widow Bosworth, arranged it with you.”
“That’s very curious. I don’t remember her contacting me.”
The three of them were staring as if Evangeline had grown a second head, but Lord Run’s assessment was the most intense of all, his shrewd gaze probing for information and details that Evangeline had no idea how to supply. She flashed a tepid smile, hoping to generate a hint of a smile in return, but he simply glared and pointed to her gray dress.
“Are you a nanny? A governess? What?”
There was no way to hide her identity. She had to reveal herself. He’d learn who she was soon enough.
“I’m the vicar’s fiancée.”
There was a shocked silence, then Mr. Blair asked, “Vicar Bosworth—as in Ignatius Bosworth?”
“Yes,” Evangeline said.
“He’s marrying? Truly?” Mr. Blair persisted.
Miss Bernard chimed in with, “He’s marrying you?”
“Yes.”
Lord Run seemed the most bewildered by the news. He studied her even more intensely. Finally, he said, “You are engaged to Cousin Iggy? Seriously?”
“Yes.” It might have been the sole word Evangeline could speak.
There was another fraught silence, then the trio burst out laughing in loud, rude guffaws.
Evangeline had never been more mortified and didn’t know why they were so amused. Was she an inappropriate bride for the vicar? Was she too far beneath him? Or was the vicar inspiring their hilarity? Were they surprised by his betrothal? Were they humored that he’d settled on Evangeline? Why would they be?
Was Vicar Bosworth horrid? Was Evangeline the only one who hadn’t been apprised? What sort of mess had Miss Peabody orchestrated?
What’s so funny? she yearned to demand.
But instead, she spun and ran, their chortles following her down the hall
Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author
CHERYL HOLT
“Best storyteller of the year...”
Romantic Times Magazine
“A master writer...”
Fallen Angel Reviews
“The Queen of Erotic Romance...”
Book Cover Reviews
“Cheryl Holt is magnificent...”
Reader to Reader Reviews
“From cover to cover, I was spellbound. Truly outstanding...”
Romance Junkies
“A classic love story with hot, fiery passion dripping from every page. There’s nothing better than curling up with a great book and this one totally qualifies.”
Fresh Fiction
“This is a masterpiece of storytelling. A sensual delight scattered with rose petals that are divinely arousing. Oh my, yes indeedy!"
Reader to Reader Reviews
Praise for Cheryl Holt’s “Lord Trent” trilogy
“A true guilty pleasure!”
Novels Alive TV
“LOVE'S PROMISE can't take the number one spot as my favorite by Ms. Holt—that belongs to her book NICHOLAS—but it's currently running a close second."
Manic Readers
“The book was brilliant...can't wait for Book #2.”
Harlie’s Book Reviews
“I guarantee you won't want to put this one down. Holt's fast-paced dialogue, paired with the emotional turmoil, will keep you turning the pages all the way to the end.”
Susana’s Parlour
“...A great love story populated with many flawed characters. Highly recommend it.”
Bookworm 2 Bookworm Reviews
BOOKS BY CHERYL HOLT
WONDERFUL
WANTON
WICKED
LOVE’S PERIL
LOVE’S PRICE
LOVE’S PROMISE
SWEET SURRENDER
MUD CREEK
MARRY ME
LOVE ME
KISS ME
SEDUCE ME
KNIGHT OF SEDUCTION
NICHOLAS
DREAMS OF DESIRE
TASTE OF TEMPTATION
PROMISE OF PLEASURE
SLEEPING WITH THE DEVIL
DOUBLE FANTASY
FORBIDDEN FANTASY
SECRET FANTASY
TOO WICKED TO WED
TOO TEMPTING TO TOUCH
TOO HOT TO HANDLE
THE WEDDING NIGHT
FURTHER THAN PASSION
DEEPER THAN DESIRE
MORE THAN SEDUCTION
COMPLETE ABANDON
ABSOLUTE PLEASURE
TOTAL SURRENDER
LOVE LESSONS
MOUNTAIN DREAMS
MY TRUE LOVE
MY ONLY LOVE
MEG’S SECRET ADMIRER
WAY OF THE HEART
CHERYL HOLT is a New York Times, USA Today, and Amazon “Top 100” bestselling author of thirty-seven novels.
She’s also a lawyer and mom, and at age forty, 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 a knack for writing some of the world’s greatest love stories.
Her books have been releas
ed to wide acclaim, and she has won or been nominated for many national awards. She has been hailed as “The Queen of Erotic Romance” as well as “The International Queen of Villains.” She is particularly proud to have been named “Best Storyteller of the Year” by the trade magazine Romantic Times BOOK Reviews.
She lives and writes in Hollywood, California, and she loves to hear from fans. Visit her website at www.cherylholt.com.