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BOOK: Cheryl Holt
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The woman thrust her bosom up and out, and she inquired over her shoulder, “Would you like a taste?”

“No,” a man answered.

Winchester! He was lounging on his throne, drinking wine, too, and peevishly assessing the woman. His shirt was off, his chest bare, and Emily could view the matting of hair that she’d glimpsed previously. It was thick across the top; then it thinned and descended into his trousers, disappearing to points Emily couldn’t imagine.

“Not even a nibble?” the woman asked. “Are you sure?”

“Very.”

She dipped into the wine again and slathered her other nipple. “Take a good look, darling. I know how you like to watch.”

“I like to
watch,
” he replied, “if there’s anything worth seeing.”

“Don’t be surly,” the woman pouted. “I said I was sorry.”

“You have no idea how to be sorry.”

“Oh, I do,” she cooed. “I really do.” She climbed onto his lap. Her thighs were spread, her knees perched on either side of his, and she caressed him between their bodies in a manner that made him squirm and writhe. “You can’t pretend you’re not interested. I know you too well. You’re glad I came.”

“Don’t be so smug, Amanda,” he cautioned. “An anonymous whore could arouse me as easily as you.”

Emily gaped at them. Lord Winchester wasn’t married, so Amanda had to be his mistress. Emily had never met anyone quite so notorious, and she was fascinated. As she had been raised in a rural village, there hadn’t been many courtesans parading around in men’s parlors. Amanda earned her living by providing Lord Winchester with feminine favors, but Emily was curious as to what those
favors
entailed. What services could Amanda offer to Winchester for which he was eager to pay?

Evidently, they’d had a spat and Amanda was hoping to reconcile, but Emily couldn’t stay around to observe how the tryst ended. There was no telling what she might witness.

How had she landed herself in such a wretched predicament? And how was she to get herself out of it? The door was so far away that it might as well have been across the ocean. She couldn’t creep out without being spotted.

A vision of Winchester’s two wards popped into her mind, and she wondered how he could bring the girls into such a foul environment. Were they already in London? Were they residing in the house? What if one of them wandered in while he was philandering?

The notion had her so angry that she considered rushing out, scolding the couple for their reprehensible behavior, then stomping off in an insulted huff, but she was too much of a coward. Winchester must have forgotten that she was dozing on his sofa, or perhaps he presumed she’d gone, and she couldn’t figure out how to make her presence known.

Amanda began a calculated seduction, but she wasn’t
having much success. He was furious with her and not inclined to participate. Yet the more he ignored her, the harder she tried to entice. She snuggled and nestled, and when he didn’t react, she placed his hand on her breast. For a moment, he relented and squeezed the nipple.

The gesture had an intriguing effect on Emily’s anatomy. It felt as if he were stroking her
own
breasts, as if he were pinching her
own
nipples, and they ached and throbbed with each beat of her heart. She was hot, dizzy with excitement. The mysterious woman’s spot between her legs grew moist, and her womb seemed to shift and stir.

Emily was stunned. Was this typical conduct among men and women? Did they regularly engage in such antics? This had to be the secret of the marital bed. How could she be twenty-six years old and not have learned about it?

If she’d wed Reginald, would she have been required to flaunt herself before him? She shivered with dread. The thought of Reginald touching her so intimately was disgusting.

But I could do it for Lord Winchester. . . .

The naughty concept whizzed past, leaping into her head so quickly and with such vehemence that she frightened herself. Was there a lusty side to her character of which she wasn’t aware? Had she been furtively pining away for a man’s physical attention? How could she have been when she wasn’t cognizant of what the attention entailed? Reginald always claimed that she’d been a spinster too long. Was he correct?

“You’re very tense,” Amanda was commenting. “How about if I relax you?”

“It won’t do you any good. I’m not taking you back.”

“So you’ve insisted before.”

“This time I mean it,” he declared.

“No, you don’t.”

Amanda was so confident, so assured, and she blazed a trail of kisses down his stomach, to his navel and lower. She slid to the floor and knelt, as she untied his trousers and reached inside, which finally produced a response.

Winchester fidgeted, his fingers gripping the arms of the chair. He appeared stressed, yet pleased, and Emily strained on tiptoe, anxious to see what Amanda was doing.

Amanda smirked. “You never could resist me.”

“Like I said,” he told her, “any whore will suffice.”

She halted and scowled. “You’re being cruel.”

“Did I ask you to stop by?”

“No, and now that I have, I’m not certain why I bothered.”

“Maybe because you’re worried about how you’ll afford your town house if I toss you over?”

Apparently, he’d pushed her too far, and Emily was positive Amanda would slap him.

“You callous beast!” Amanda snapped. “Be my guest! Choose some cheap doxy over me! As if I care. I hope you come down with a virulent case of the pox.”

She whipped away, prepared to tramp out, but before she could, Winchester seized her and pulled her to him so that she was, once again, hovering over his lap. While she put up a struggle, it was obvious she was pretending, that she had no intention of fleeing. He knew it, and she knew it, and it was part of an odd game they enjoyed.

Emily was confused. When it was clear that they abhorred each other, why keep on?

Winchester was rich and powerful, so he could have any woman he wanted, and Emily suffered from the strongest urge to march out, to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Didn’t he realize that he could do better?

“I suddenly find myself in the mood,” he informed Amanda. “Finish what you started.”

“No.”

“Last I checked, I hadn’t ceased paying you. I suggest you earn your salary.”

“I’m worth every penny you give me.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion.” He shrugged. “I’m entitled to mine.”

“I’m the best you’ve ever had!”

“You have a bad habit of overestimating your value.”

“And you constantly misjudge how much you need me.”

“Then I should be reminded,” he stated. “Get down on your knees and make yourself useful.”

“Bastard!” she cursed.

“Now, now, you shouldn’t question my antecedents. My parents were married a full six months before I was born.”

He dipped down and latched onto her nipple, sucking hard, nipping at it in a way that had Amanda sighing with pleasure. He grew impatient and ripped off her drawers, and he massaged her between her legs, his fingers working in a slow rhythm until she was quivering with ecstasy.

“I love it when you do that,” she groaned.

“Shut up,” he chided. “I’m sick of listening to you.”

He clasped her thighs and widened them; then he lurched against her. She let out a cry of either pain or
delight—Emily couldn’t decide which—and they began moving together, rocking in a peculiar sort of dance.

Emily was mesmerized, so swept up that she couldn’t breathe. Amanda was noticeably thrilled, but how was Winchester spurring her to such rapture?

Their motions increased, Winchester flexing methodically with his hips, and Emily strove to ascertain what was driving him, but peeking through the curtain made it difficult. She leaned in, her hand balanced on a wobbly decorative table, when, without warning, it collapsed and tipped over with a loud crash. She had no time to right herself, and she tumbled into the room, materializing so swiftly and so completely that she might have been a sorceress.

Amanda squealed with affront, as Winchester said, “What the devil?”

Amanda jumped away from him to frantically scoop up her robe and tug it on, while Winchester yanked at his trousers. If it hadn’t been the most humiliating episode of Emily’s life, their frenzied ruckus might have been comical.

She was mortified to her very core and determined to talk herself out of the mess. What would Winchester say? What would he do? What was the penalty for spying on an aristocrat while he was in the throes of passion with his mistress?

“Who the hell are you?” Amanda demanded.

“Emily Barnett.” Longingly, she studied the door. She considered racing for it, but she didn’t imagine they’d permit her to escape so easily.

“Miss . . . Miss Barnett?” Winchester was aghast. “How dare you interrupt. What were you thinking?”

“I . . . I fell asleep.”

“But that was last night. Why are you still here?”

“I apologize. I just woke up.”

Her malice palpable, Amanda snarled at Winchester, “You know this . . . this . . . interloper?”

“She’s one of the top candidates.”

Amanda was incensed. “What’s she supposed to be? The innocent governess?”

“Yes,” Winchester retorted. “She likes to play games.”

“You detest games.”

“No. I detest
you.

Amanda glared at him. “If you take her out in public, you’ll be a laughingstock.”

“I doubt it,” he said. “Picture her in a stylish gown. She’ll be stunning, and every man of my acquaintance will be green with envy.”

“You’re a dreamer.”

“You wouldn’t believe how
satisfied
I was during our interview.”

“You wretch!” Amanda seethed.

“I so enjoy a pretty face.”

“She’s not
that
fetching,” Amanda insisted.

“Plus she’s a naïve lass, straight from the country, who’s practically begging to be debauched.”

“Debauched?” Emily interjected, though neither of them paid her any heed.

“You perverted beast!” Amanda reprimanded. “You’d lie down with a barnyard animal.”

“After the fare upon which I’m used to dining,” he rejoined, “I’m sure she’ll be most appetizing. I can’t wait to commence.”

Emily fumed. Clearly, he had designs on her that went
far beyond what she would agree to as his servant. Though she was fearful for his wards, and the future they’d have under his roof, no force in the world was strong enough to compel her to accept the position.

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind,” she stated. “I’m not interested.”

“Of course you are,” Winchester asserted in a tone that brooked no argument. “And the job is yours.”

He was wealthy and omnipotent. Could he order her to work for him? She wasn’t certain, but she sidled toward the door. “No, thank you. I don’t want it.”

“But I’ve picked you, and my decision is final.”

“I won’t. I can’t.”

“You have no choice in the matter.”

“Oh, yes, I do!” Her knees were quaking. Was a commoner allowed to refuse a peer of the realm?

Amanda took a menacing step toward her. “Be off, you little harlot, before I tear your hair out by the roots!”

Terrified that Amanda might carry out her threat, Emily stumbled away.

“I’m going; I’m going.” Emily peeked about for her reticule, which was nowhere in sight.

“This position is filled,” Amanda claimed. “By me—as it has been for years. So don’t come sniffing around again, or you’ll be sorry.”

“The position is
not
filled,” Winchester contended to Amanda. “We’re finished. When will you get it through your thick head?”

“You can’t be serious.” Amanda gestured at Emily’s drab costume. “Look at her. You’d toss me over for that?”

“Miss Barnett will be a fine substitute. I won’t miss your dubious companionship for a single second.”

Emily was puzzled. Amanda was the governess? But wasn’t she the mistress? Was she both governess and mistress?

What a sordid scheme! How horrid for the two children who would be thrust into this cauldron of lust and loathing.

She’d always heard that the lives of the Quality were too bizarre to fathom, and she wouldn’t delve into the convoluted relationship between Winchester and Amanda. Whatever was transpiring was beyond her ken, and if the true details were ever disclosed, it would be more than she could abide. It was best to depart and forget about them and what she’d witnessed.

“No, I shan’t return,” she vowed as she hurried out, mumbling to herself, “I never really wanted to be a governess anyway.”

There was a startled silence; then Lord Winchester hollered after her, “What did you say?”

Emily halted and explained, “I’m not cut out to be a governess. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“A governess? You’re here because you’re hoping to be my governess?”

“Yes.” What had the impossible dolt presumed?

“But I thought you wished to be my new mistress.”

“Your . . . your mistress? Are you mad?” With each passing minute, it was more obvious that the man was a lunatic.

“Who sent you to me?” he asked.

“The placement agency you hired.”

“Are you telling me they arranged an interview in the middle of the night? That’s idiotic.”

“They said you’re an idle sluggard who sleeps all
day,” she rudely mentioned, “and you weren’t ever available at a decent hour.”

He stood, unfolding from his fancy chair like a graceful African cat, and he stalked toward her. She had no idea what he planned, and she wasn’t about to wait around and find out. She whirled and darted away.

“Miss Barnett!” he yelled. “Hold it right there!”

She careened down the hall, out the front door, and into the street, where she was dismayed to discover that it had to be noon or later. For the briefest instant, she paused to get her bearings; then she ran toward her rented room without stopping or glancing back.

 3 
BOOK: Cheryl Holt
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