Cheryl Holt (25 page)

The tears flooded again, and he felt like clamping his hand over her mouth so that he wouldn’t have to hear more. Every word she uttered cut like a blade to the bone.

Gruffly, he declared, “I don’t give a rat’s behind about a basket of scones.”

“Well, I do.”

Though she resisted, he turned her, nestling her to his chest while she had a lengthy cry. He liked consoling her when she was distraught, and he suspected that she didn’t let loose very often. She wouldn’t permit others to witness her woe, and he felt privileged to be the one with whom she shared it.

Eventually, the torrent subsided, and she was limp, spent and exhausted, and he speculated as to how she kept on, day after day. “As soon as I can locate a suitable accommodation, I’m moving you out of here.”

She stiffened. “You are not.”

“I am,” he ordered, but for once he wasn’t certain of the authority he wielded. She was exceedingly stubborn, and if he insisted too strenuously, she’d refuse just on principle.

“I’ll purchase something small, that’s clean and safe, and I’ll—”

Furious, she shoved him away. “You are such a pompous ass!”

“What? What did I do?”

“I said
no
, but you never listen.”

“That’s because you’re so obstinate! And you’re always
wrong!” He crossed his arms over his chest. “In case you haven’t noticed, Miss Fitzgerald, you’ve gotten yourself into a damned fine fix, and you need some assistance to get yourself out of it.”

“Not when your solution is so ludicrous.”

“What—may I ask—is so
ludicrous
about your having a proper home?”

“Do you have any idea how my neighbors would gossip if I let you proceed? What pretense could I use that wouldn’t be hideous?”

“Who the hell cares what other people think?”

“I care! Me!” she shouted, clutching her fist over her heart. “This is where I live, where I’ll remain long after you’ve hied off to London—to your mistresses, and your fiancées, and Lord knows who else.
I
have to stay here.” She swallowed down a huge gulp of air. “My reputation is all I have left. I’ve lost everything else.”

“But we’re friends, Emma, aren’t we? Surely, I could help you because we’re friends.”

“Don’t you understand?” She slapped her arms at her sides. “We’re
not
friends! We’re not anything at all!”

“How can you say that?”

“You put your hands on me, and I put my mouth on you. I’m sure a hundred other women have done the same with you in the past.”

Her bluntness startled him, and he detested that she had such a low opinion of his character. He wanted her to picture him as a better man—the man he
could
be, instead of the man he was.

Adamantly, he asserted, “It’s much more than that, and you know it.”

“I know nothing of the sort. I
know
that you’re bored in the country, and you’re searching for a way to pass the time. For some reason I can’t begin to fathom, you’ve decided to pass it with me.”

“And it’s been grand.” He smiled, escalating her wrath.

“No it hasn’t. You make me forget myself, my duties, my place.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Totally aggravated, she was nearly shrieking. “I’ll tell you what’s
wrong
with that: I have a life! That’s important and fulfilling. And there’s no room for you in it. You make me dream for things I can never have! You make me yearn to become a woman I can never be. I try to curb my immoral conduct by staying away from you, yet you come here anyway, ingratiating yourself with my sister, pretending you’re concerned for our welfare—”

“I am concerned—”

“—and you have the gall to stand there, smiling at me, looking so damned magnificent. Like a bloody prince—”

“Emma”—he blinked, astounded—“you cursed at me.”

“Yes! Yes, I did, John Clayton. Are you happy now? You drive me to perpetrate every wicked trespass known to mankind. Covetousness, sloth, avarice, envy, fornication, profanity. Pick your sin!”

Charmed, he laughed uproariously. “You’re a virtual felon.”

“I hate you!”

“You’re crazy about me.”

“I am not!”

Clasping her bottom, he lifted her up, twirling her in circles while she batted at his shoulders.

“You’re in love with me.”

“You are so full of yourself.”

“Say it out loud. Say that you love me.”

“Not in a thousand years, you arrogant bounder!”

He stopped spinning them and loosened his grip, sliding her down his torso till her feet touched the ground.

No one had ever loved him. Not his distant, aloof parents. Not Ian, who found him to be—as Emma did—spoiled and impossible. Not Caroline, who was so steeped in ritual and ceremony that she couldn’t recognize a valid emotion. Not any of the promiscuous women, such as Georgina, who had various motives, none of which had to do with excessive ardor.

If Emma was in love with him, he’d be swamped, deluged, bowled over by the force of her affection.

How frightening! How extraordinary! How glorious!

He cradled her in his arms, relishing how natural it felt to have her there. “You can’t keep living where you are, so I want to find you other lodgings. Let me.”

“We’ve been through this before. Any gift would make it seem as if you were paying me.”

“I wouldn’t intend any disgrace.”

“But still, that’s how I would feel. I’d be naught but another mistress to you.”

“Em—”

“I would! Don’t deny it. Knowing you brings me joy, and I won’t let you ruin my happiness by transforming our relationship into something shoddy.”

She was so forlorn, so tragic, that he was ashamed of every base tendency to which he’d ever succumbed. “I could never think badly of you.”

“Then, how do you
think
of me? Are you ready to speak vows? To commit yourself to me and your responsibilities here at Wakefield? Or are you simply eager to copulate at your leisure, compensate me for it, and be on your way?”

He couldn’t reply. The notion of proposing was so distressing that it made him weak in the knees, and he
had to physically brace himself lest he fall over in a panicked swoon.

She couldn’t expect that they would wed!

But the instant the supposition materialized, he realized that of course she would! That’s what all women craved—except the dubious types with whom he was well acquainted. Yet marriage to her was out of the question. As was dishonoring her by setting her up as his mistress.

So what—precisely—did he want from her? Uncomplicated fornication? For which he paid? Which he received for free?

Neither concept was palatable, nor did they adequately address what he was growing so frantic to obtain.

He wanted to delight in her company, to bask in her glow, to wallow in the magic that erupted when they were together, but other than those obscure abstractions, he couldn’t explicate what he desired. A fleeting sexual fling seemed the only viable outcome. It was an incredible conclusion for himself, but how could it be fair to her?

“I’m sorry, but I’m not very good at this,” he admitted candidly. “I have to return to London soon, so I’m not positive where you fit. All I know is that I need to spend time with you while I’m here. I can’t formulate an answer beyond that.”

The perceptive look she flashed said that she hadn’t anticipated anything better from him, and he felt petty and shallow.

“Come visit me tomorrow at the manor,” he cajoled.

“Not while your fiancée is there.”

“Get this through your head!” He grasped her shoulders and gave her a firm shake. “Caroline is
not
my fiancée.”

“
She
believes she is.”

“She’s not.”

“Why would your brother allege differently?”

“He likes you, and he doesn’t want you hurt through your association with me. So he lied.” Skeptical, she studied him, and he insisted, “Em, I’m not engaged.”

“Swear it to me.”

He placed one hand over his heart and raised the other as though pledging on the Bible. “I swear it.”

She scoffed. “As if I’d take your word for anything.”

He bent down and kissed her, a lush meeting of their mouths, and he was relieved when she didn’t pull away. It had been an eternity since he’d last kissed her, and he tarried, cherishing every detail.

When they separated, he gripped her neck, and rested his forehead against hers. “I missed you.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“Because I want it to be true.”

“It is, you silly wench. I missed you every second.”

He kissed her again, and the embrace developed into something more, something stunning and bewildering. He couldn’t fathom the moment in the future when he’d travel to London without her. How would he persist with his normal routine when she had so subtly altered his reality? What was there about his habitual method of carrying on that still appealed?

“Come to me tomorrow,” he repeated.

“No.”

“Caroline’s leaving in the morning.” At least, he hoped she was. For once, he would be abnormally blunt with her. The woman had to go! She couldn’t be allowed to prevent him from fulfilling his abbreviated destiny with Emma.

“John—”

“At one. As always.”

Shrugging, she nodded in defeat. She couldn’t resist the mutual temptation any more than he could. Triumphant, elated that he’d worn her down, he took her arm and led her to the cottage.

Jane hid behind a bush and peeked down the lane. She could see the viscount and Emma. They were kissing!

She was so thrilled that she could barely restrain herself from whirling around in merry circles.

As she’d imagined, he looked like the picture of a prince in an old storybook Emma used to read to her as a child. He was so tall and handsome, so dashing and gallant. And he loved Emma! She just knew it!

Would he rescue them, like in the storybook?

Making a wish, she crossed her fingers. Then, doubling her chances for success, she removed a pretty rock from her pocket and buried it under a leaf for the fairies, reciting the same wish for them to hear.

Seizing every option, she murmured a prayer to God, imploring Him to bless them by giving Emma the viscount to love and treasure.

She peered down the lane again, and they were strolling toward her, so she scampered off and rushed into the house. A huge smile lighting her face, she sat at the table, toying with her soup as though she hadn’t moved from her chair.

Harold Martin perched in his jaunty carriage, staring through the thick woods.

He couldn’t believe it! He simply couldn’t believe it! His Emma! Kissing another man!

It wasn’t their first kiss, either. They were extremely familiar with one another.

When he’d rounded the corner and gazed down the road, he’d noted the pair and stopped. It had taken a minute to deduce the identity of whom he was watching, and his original reaction had been that some brigand was forcing himself on her. He couldn’t conceive of the virtuous woman behaving immorally of her own accord, but as he’d spied upon her, he’d surmised that she was willingly participating.

She responded to the man as a harlot might, with hands, body, and tongue involved.

How could this be? Emma had defiled herself, had let a man—who wasn’t her husband—touch her. Had she gifted him with her virginity? Her chastity belonged to Harold! How dare she cuckold him!

He’d strained to ascertain with whom she’d perverted herself, and after a thorough assessment, he’d been shocked to determine that it was Viscount Wake-field.

The scandal! The shame!

Wakefield was a libertine, a rake, a roué of the worst sort! He was disposed to any heinous conduct, and he regularly humiliated himself in London. Now, apparently, he’d decided to perform some of his depraved deeds in the country.

How had he gotten his dastardly clutches on Emma? What did it portend for Emma and himself? He couldn’t marry her after this abomination!

Furtively, he continued to evaluate them as they ceased their torrid display and sauntered back to the loathsome cottage. As though they were old friends, they paraded arm in arm, disgustingly comfortable with one another.

Seething, he waited until they were inside, then he
found a clearing and turned around, proceeding to the vicarage, with no one in the cottage aware that he’d been on the Fitzgeralds’ deserted road.

With each clop of the horse’s hooves, he pondered what he should do with the information he’d gleaned. He was fond of his position, so he couldn’t rile the viscount in case the eminent nobleman became irked and had Harold’s career terminated before it had really begun.

So how could he utilize his discovery to best advantage?

Emma was no more than a whore. Considering what he’d learned about her proclivities, he didn’t want her as a bride, but could he garner other boons? On what conditions might he coerce her into acquiescing?

Outraged, aghast, overtly offended—yet titillated by the carnal prospects of her sordid nature—he hastened on, his mind awhirl.

E
MMA
wasn’t sure why she’d made the journey to Wakefield Manor. The disaster in John’s foyer, with the beautiful Lady Caroline, had persuaded her that she must stay away. It had been one thing to philander with him when she’d believed that he dallied solely with scandalous mistresses. It was quite another to continue on after being apprised that he was engaged.

Since that dramatic encounter, she’d let the exalted lady’s image constantly fill her mind, so that she’d be deluged by the reasons she had no place in John’s life. The excuses she’d used to justify her wanton behavior were ludicrous.

As his brother had pointed out, Lady Caroline had always been slated to marry John, their parents having decided ages ago that their two exceptional, dynamic children would forge an alliance of power and influence about which Emma could only fantasize. If he didn’t wed Lady Caroline—as he insisted he wouldn’t—then some other gorgeous, poised woman of the aristocracy would ultimately be his bride.

It would never be Emma, which she knew absolutely and hadn’t considered even a remote possibility, so her absurd attraction to him was insane, and she’d assumed she’d talked herself out of calling on him ever again. Her doldrums, her thriving discontentment, were inadequate pretenses for licentious comportment.