Cheryl Holt (16 page)

“No, I like it down.”

Exasperated, she glared at him, but he was mellow, insouciant, and completely disinclined to aid her. She’d have to wear the hood on her cloak and sneak home, praying she encountered no one, hoping that inquisitive Jane wouldn’t question her messy coiffure.

“Get up!” She jerked on her cloak, but he was securely moored upon it and wouldn’t budge.

“Why are you in such a rush?”

“Because—as opposed to you—I have a life and I’ve got to get back to it.”

“Cancel what is so imperative. I want you with me.”

“I can’t snap my fingers and make my responsibilities
vanish”—she glowered at him—“like some people I know.”

Jostling the cloak, she managed to wrench it out from under him. Arranging it over her shoulders, she fussed with the clasp, but she was too shaky to fasten it. She couldn’t recall where they’d left her hat, so she’d have to hunt for it another day when she wasn’t quite so discomposed.

“Can you find your way to the main house on your own?” she inquired.

“Of course.” Apparently, he’d deduced that she was going, that despite his autocratic manner, he couldn’t convince her to remain. Disconcerted, he stood, taking her hand, hugging her close. “Stay with me.”

“I can’t!”

“Tell me what you need done, and I’ll have someone see to it for you.”

Depressed and weary, she stared up at him. He could never comprehend the pressures she underwent, and she wouldn’t even try to explain them to him. To a man of his affluence and station, her problems would seem so petty.

“No one can perform my chores for me.”

“You’d be surprised by what I can accomplish if I set my mind to it.”

“So you’re not an idler and a sluggard as your detractors claim?”

“What do you suppose?”

“I
suppose
that you pretend you’re an impossible lout, but I can’t figure out why you go to so much trouble to garner everyone’s adverse opinions.”

He scrutinized her as if she’d expressed an extremely profound observation, then quietly he said, “I don’t want to be alone up at the house.”

It was an astounding admission. She wasn’t sure
what to make of it, and could formulate no appropriate reply.

“Stay with me,” he murmured again, and he kissed her, coaxing and cajoling.

“I can’t,” she repeated, and she eased away before he could tempt her into agreeing. With him, she was forever on the verge of doing what she oughtn’t, and it would take so little for him to overwhelm her resolve. She had to get home!

Jane was probably frightened by her protracted absence, and Emma couldn’t believe how greedy she’d been, how inconsiderate, just so she could engage in an illicit tryst.

Her moral compass was broken!

“I must go.”

She whirled away and started toward the path.

“Emma!”

There was such yearning in his voice that she pulled up short.

“Don’t ask it of me,” she beseeched, alarmed by how she’d react to whatever enticement he might utter next.

After an attenuated pause, he said, “Tomorrow, then. At one.”

“At one.”

She scurried off without looking back. He didn’t follow after her, and she was so relieved.

H
AROLD
Martin tugged at his hat and slumped his shoulders, slouching on his horse so that he looked nondescript—a commonly dressed, uninteresting traveler passing by. With night approaching, it wouldn’t do for speculation to fly that the new vicar from Wakefield village had been seen rambling down the rustic lane.

People would talk. In this godforsaken rural area, they didn’t have anything else to do but gossip about their betters, and though he’d deny till his dying breath that he’d made a clandestine journey across the countryside, rumor was difficult to quell. Should he ever be interrogated, which he doubted would happen since his reputation was impeccable, he would swear that he’d had supper at the vicarage, had read before the fire, and had retired early.

In a few minutes, he’d reach his destination, and the sense of anticipation was thrilling. He made the trip twice a month, and wished he could stop by more often, but circumstances and distance rendered it impractical to indulge more frequently. Besides, he refused to submit to his scurrilous urges too regularly, reluctant to acknowledge that he was ruled by his sordid propensities.

A vision of Emma flashed into his head, and he shook her likeness away, furious that his cerebral meandering allowed her to intrude as he was about to pervert himself.

It was offensive to contemplate her—his future
bride—when he was so near to committing such horrid sins. He couldn’t abide that he might tarnish her image by what he was about to do. In his mind, she needed to be pure and untainted.

She was innocent, demure, all he desired in a wife. His own proclivities were so deviant that he had to wed a woman who was his opposite, someone like Emma who would convey chastity and modesty to their marriage bed. Her virtuousness would impel him to rein in his predilections so that he wouldn’t disgust her with his raging passions.

Hopefully, some of her stalwart decency would rub off, and his constant need for degrading amusement would wane. It was simply a matter of character, of strong will. He was determined to prevail over his wanton nature!

He couldn’t recollect when he’d become so enamored of decadency. When he’d gone to university, he’d been a virgin, an honorable chap with lofty ethical standards. His roommate, Adrian, had been the catalyst that had led him astray. Adrian had had a penchant for abhorrent pleasures, and thus, he’d had an uncanny aptitude for ferreting out those unsuspecting souls who were disposed to dissolution.

It had been a slow descent for Harold. He’d valiantly struggled to resist Adrian’s attempts to lure him from the straight and narrow, but eventually, he’d succumbed, trying a meager taste of the carnal diet on which Adrian had thrived, savoring more and more of the degenerate feast until he’d acquired his own insatiable appetite for depravity.

He’d fallen so low that there’d even been those glorious occasions that he and Adrian had . . .

Well, he wouldn’t mull on that. Rehashing that rough, heinous interlude was a waste of energy. Fleetingly,
he’d immersed himself in Adrian’s world, but he’d managed to escape, having not surrendered to any invidious manly fascination since that wretched relationship.

But still, he couldn’t abstain completely. His repressed cravings were so unbearable that he’d begun to conclude they weren’t healthy, that it wasn’t prudent to keep such tumultuous impulses bottled up.

He’d been a bachelor much longer than was wise, and with Emma declining to set a wedding date, what was he to do? His lust for her was escalating so rapidly that he could scarcely risk spending time in her company, lest the beast rampaging inside leap out and he devour her with his rising ardor. She was so unschooled that she’d be alarmed and shocked, perhaps repulsed, if she had any idea of the blatant drives that churned inside a man, so he couldn’t let her surmise how badly he wanted her.

Luckily, he’d learned of the Back Door, the information having been unwittingly furnished by another minister whom he’d met at a neighboring congregation. The pastor had regaled his listeners with the worst transgressions of his flock, and when he’d honed in on the sins of the flesh, Harold had paid particular note, gleaning enough detail to infer where the house of ill repute was located.

Upon making the discovery, he’d debated for weeks, pondering whether he dared visit, until finally, he’d gone on an intelligence-gathering mission, telling himself it would be a single sojourn and no more. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on one’s point of view—the establishment had been everything the other vicar had railed about and much more, the proprietress inclined to orchestrate any nasty diversion if the price was sufficient.

What with the ample income endowed by his post, he had plenty of money, and he’d quickly ascertained that the madam was a veritable master at deducing what entertainment he might like to try.

He mused as to what perversion might await, and his reflections set his manly parts to swelling. His trousers were uncomfortable, and with each clop of the horse’s hooves, his genitalia rubbed the saddle, making him anxious for the reckless abandon stretching ahead.

At his prior appointment, he’d had a girl, eleven or twelve he’d guessed, and such a juvenile that she’d had no breasts to speak of, no feminine hair covered her pussy. Her bottom had been smooth and bare, her cleft painfully tight. Pitiably, she hadn’t been a virgin, but what had he expected in a brothel?

Previously, he’d never had a child, and copulating with her had been splendid. She’d fussed and cried over how big he was, and he’d had to hold her down, had had to force her to do the dirty deed, and oh, how wicked it had been! He kept at her most of the evening, his masculine rod repeatedly inflamed by the naughtiness.

He hadn’t known that he harbored such a sinister obsession, and now that he’d had a sampling, he couldn’t quit ruminating over the episode, and he hoped that the madam offered him the lass again—or another just like her. The prospect tempted him in a vile fashion that went beyond what he’d tried or dreamed about before.

It had him considering Jane Fitzgerald in a totally new light. Formerly, he’d believed he loathed her, but now he wasn’t positive. Once he married Emma and moved her family into the vicarage, Jane would be under his control, would be wholly dependent on him. Surely, she would have to obey him, might be pressured to . . .

Aghast, he let the thought trail off, finding it so appalling
that he couldn’t pursue it. He absolutely would not fantasize about Jane Fitzgerald!

He was foul, despicable! A brute! A monster! How could he conceive of such iniquity? To where had his rectitude disappeared? His prurient voracity was growing ungovernable, was pushing him to limits he couldn’t contain.

Kicking his horse, he spurred it to a trot, and momentarily, he arrived. A boy came out from the stables to tend the animal, and he provided Harold with a lamp so he could walk down the dark path, through the untrimmed hedges, to the porch and the red door that was shielded by the shrubbery.

Upon rapping the special knock, he was admitted and instantly whisked upstairs to a private chamber, which suited him very much. There wasn’t a chance that he’d encounter other patrons. His anonymity was assured.

As he was a valued customer, the madam assisted him, herself. He didn’t have to deal with her servants, another boon for which he was grateful, as every bit of furtiveness was appreciated.

“What’ll it be, luv?” she asked, her huge bosom heaving under the fabric of her dress, her large nipples jutting out.

“I’ll try a young girl. The youngest you have in the house.”

He extended a pile of coins, which she briskly snatched up and stuffed into a purse that hung at her waist.

Georgina Howard reclined on her fainting couch in the receiving parlor of the lovely town house procured for her by John Clayton. Pensively, she assessed her elegant
surroundings, remembering the numerous guests who had called upon her in the cozy, welcoming room. The ambiance was typical of her entire residence.

Wakefield was a generous man, and when she’d shrewdly allied herself with him, he’d spared no expense at accoutering her in a style that would proclaim her elevated station. Her home was a flawless example of color and design, as well as a visual testimonial to her cunning and greed.

It had taken almost three years to finagle Wake-field’s support, and while others presumed that their joining had been a flip decision by John, their association hadn’t been an accident. Meticulously, she’d plotted and schemed to bring it to fruition, and after all her hard work, she wasn’t about to let it slip through her fingers.

Sipping her glass of wine, she insolently gazed out the window into the yard where her gardener trimmed her rosebushes. She had twelve employees—twelve!—which was an enormous amount for a single female of her humble antecedents. It was a confirmation of how far she’d come, of how strenuously she’d scrimped and saved, of how successful she’d been.

Due to Wakefield’s largess, her servants were liberally compensated. They knew upon which side their bread was buttered, and they were excessively courteous and helpful, coddling and pampering her, deeming her to be a person of substance, so she carefully hid how their fate was riding on Wakefield and her enduring ability to hold his attention—which she knew from vast experience was prone to wander.

As a child, Georgina couldn’t have predicted that she might rise so high. Her father had owned a taproom, and she’d assumed that she’d always live in the village where she’d been born. But her father had died when she was eleven, and her mother had remarried. Georgina
had already been maturing with her voluptuous figure, and her stepfather had been titillated by the changes.

For months, she’d fended off his crude advances until he’d caught her alone in her room. He’d tied her to her bed, gagged her with a towel, then violated her.

The rape had been vicious, profane, and had left her torn and distraught, terrified and confused, and he’d ravished her on four subsequent occasions before she’d fled to the city.

A distant cousin, a jaded actress who’d been ten years older, had initially supplied Georgina with a place to stay and food to eat, had even escorted her to the barber’s wife so she could rid herself of the babe her stepfather had planted, but Georgina had had to devise a method for making her own way.

With her cousin’s guidance, she’d perfected her only marketable commodity—that being her looks and anatomy—so that by age fourteen, she’d secured her first protector. He’d been elderly, and extremely patient in their physical affairs, more excited about having an attractive, adolescent woman on his arm than anything else, so she’d been able to ignore her revulsion to corporeal interaction.

Gradually, she’d learned how to beguile and enchant, to charm and cosset, to fornicate in every manner a man could possibly seek to do it, and to accomplish it with her smile firmly affixed, despite how repugnant she found some of the behaviors to be.