Cheryl Holt (31 page)

The solution came in a flash. Her sister! Yes! She’d ask her sister, Gwenda, to visit! Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

Gwenda was zealous for any excuse to escape her monotonous routine in the country, as well as the lecherous, elderly swine to whom she was married. Plus, she was enamored of Wakefield and anxious for any proposition that included him.

The three of them had trysted on a singular, decadent occasion, taking sexual licentiousness to a new height. She and Gwenda were a year apart in age and looked enough alike to be twins, and John had engaged in numerous acts with them that had stoked his male fantasies.

After that depraved encounter, he’d been extremely grateful, and she’d been significantly rewarded for bringing the abandoned rendezvous to fruition, yet since then, she hadn’t conjured up anything remotely similar.

Feeling more secure than she had in weeks, she returned to the box. She wouldn’t depart with Lady Caroline in the house, so she’d have to suffer through the remainder of the performance, but once she managed to flee, she’d race home and draft the indecent invitation.

The moon was up so she’d be able to send a messenger without delay. By dawn, her note would be well on its way to being placed in Wakefield’s hand.

Emma stumbled from exhaustion as she sneaked into John’s bedchamber. It had been a full seven days since they’d found the time when they could be together, and in the interim, she’d tended to many children who were ill with a pesky influenza that was sweeping the village, had delivered two babies, and had sat with a dying man. After his demise, she’d aided his family in preparations for the funeral and burial. As Harold had no training or aptitude for dealing with bereavement, he’d been no help, and she’d had to lead all of them—minister and mourners—through the painful ordeal.

She was weary, weak from fatigue, her customary store of energy depleted, and when she’d arrived at the cottage, she’d wanted to fall into her bed and sleep for a week. But John’s servant had been there, watching over Jane and her mother, and she’d conferred the message that the viscount was expecting Emma at the manor.

The retainer’s assistance had been a godsend during the sedulous period, allowing Emma to carry on with her duties, to earn some extra coin. John had also been relaying food, their meager reserve of supplies gradually augmenting. Conditions were improving, her friendship with him resulting in infinite dividends.

When she’d left the cottage, dragging her haggard,
overburdened body through the woods and up the hill, she’d told herself that she’d agreed to attend him merely because she wanted to personally thank him for his generosity, but while she had every intention of expressing her appreciation, she wasn’t fooling herself: She was going because she wanted to see him. There were no loftier motives behind her actions.

During the desolate nights, as she’d been awake and toiling away, she’d missed the rogue, and she’d spent the lonely hours thinking of him, wondering where he was, what he was doing, and if he might be missing her, too. She’d dreamed about when she’d be free, once again, to stop by. At the height of her enervation, she’d longed to lie down with him, to doze and rest while he snuggled with her.

Her attachment to him was rash and dangerous, her fondness preposterous and absurd, but she couldn’t alter her course. She loved him
and
she liked him, even though there was no explanation for why she would. He was rude, tyrannical, spoiled rotten, a licentious libertine, with a different woman behind every door. Yet, as he’d proven over and over, he could also be kind, considerate, benevolent, and they shared a mutual affection and physical magnetism that couldn’t be disregarded.

Why she was attracted to him was an unanswerable puzzle. How she’d let him come to mean so much a complex mystery. She could have sworn she was too astute to embroil herself in any ridiculous indiscretion, but she’d done exactly that, and now she was enmired far beyond any level that was prudent.

She’d set herself up for heartbreak, and her only choice now was to count the days to that terrible moment when he would leave for London.

At his room, she furtively crept in. He was at a table by the window, with various books spread out before
him as though he’d been absorbed with paperwork. Attired casually in loose-fitting trousers, he was without a coat or cravat, his sleeves rolled up, the buttons of his shirt unfastened.

“Well, well,” he said, smiling, “if it isn’t the Saint of Wakefield. How honored I am to be graced by your presence!”

She was flustered by his teasing. “Hello.”

He pushed away from the table, and patted his leg, indicating that he wanted her to sit, and she rapidly and willingly crossed the floor and crawled onto his lap.

“Is there any sacrifice you won’t make? Any task you won’t assume?”

“People need me.”

“Yes, they do.” He kissed her forehead, her lips. “I’d about decided that you were never coming.”

“I’ve been so busy.”

“That’s what I hear.” He kissed her again, lingering, savoring, making her stomach tickle. “I hate it that you work so hard.”

“I don’t mind.”

Which wasn’t precisely true. She felt it her duty to serve others—it was her nature—but she wouldn’t complain if the schedule wasn’t so hectic, if she sporadically had the prerogative to refuse those who came knocking.

“You’ll be pleased to learn that I’ve been busy, too, while you were away.”

“With what?”

“Reviewing the accounting ledgers. I’ve designed a strategy to get the estate back in the black. As you suggested, I’ve canceled the crofters’ rents. For this year and next.”

“My hero.”

“I’m not giving you any of the credit, either. I’m pretending that I conceived of it all on my own.”

“I knew there was a gallant heart beating beneath that tough exterior.”

“Hmm—” he groused, incapable of a reply, and she pressed her face to his shoulder, hiding her smile. He was uncomfortable with his developing philanthropic constitution, and he wasn’t quite sure how to take a compliment. He chafed at her acknowledgment and approval of his charitable deeds.

“And there’s one more thing,” he said. “I’ve condemned your cottage.”

“You what?” She bolted upright. What would they do? Where would they go?

“Calm yourself,” he soothed. “You’ll stay in it until a better residence is vacant. Then, you’re moving.”

“You can’t do that!”

“I can, and I shall.”

“But I can’t afford to pay more than I already do!”

“In exchange for your continued commitment to the community, your rent has been voided.”

“Who’s been informed of this?”

“The estate agent and myself.”

“But what if others find out? What will they say?”

“They’ll
say
that you deserve it.”

He smirked, and she sagged in defeat. She was too tired to argue. Too tired to fight. Later, with some of her vigor restored, she’d be angry over his high-handedness, would have the stamina to resist his unwarranted largesse, but at the moment, she couldn’t muster any outrage.

An unladylike yawn escaped, her eyelids drooped.

“Come.” He urged her to her feet and led her toward the bed, and she let out an unrefined snort, and he smiled down at her. “What’s so funny?”

He
wanted to climb into his marvelous bed to dally.
She
wanted to climb into it and nap for an eternity. They
were oil and water, never on the same page, never in accord. How had she deemed them a match?

“You want to make love. I want to sleep.”

“I know.”

Surprisingly, he guided her past the bed and into his dressing room. A bath had been laid out in his fancy tub, the water steamy and inviting. A fire glowed in the brazier. Soft towels were folded and stacked on a stool. A candle burned, a glass of wine had been poured.

“I thought you might like a bath.”

She stared at the tub as though she’d never seen one before. When had she last enjoyed a real bath? Tears welled in her eyes, languor and perpetual travail taking their toll.

“It’s still hot,” she inanely remarked. “You were so certain of when I’d arrive.”

“I’ve been keeping track of you. When I was advised that you were finally on your way, I had it brought up.”

“Oh, John—” she murmured. “You couldn’t have done anything nicer.”

“If I’d known it was this easy to convince you to call me John, I’d have had a bath drawn for you every day.” He chuckled, dipping down to kiss her on the mouth. “After you’ve finished, I’ll give you a back rub, and then you can sleep as long as you like.” A few tears dribbled down her cheeks, and he thumbed them away. “Let me help you with your dress.”

He started with the buttons, and she stood, her arms at her sides. He stripped her as one might a young child, and the experience was too sweet! Dawdling, he fussed with sleeves, knots, and laces. As each piece was tugged away, he kissed and fondled, cuddled and cooed.

Progressing from top to bottom, he slipped her shoes off her feet, untying her garters and rolling down her
stockings. Eventually, she wore only her chemise, and he knelt before her, nuzzling her stomach, burrowing into her cleavage. His divine blond hair grazed her breasts, and she riffled her fingers through it, her entire being aching with gladness.

He yanked her chemise up and over her head, and she was naked, but she wasn’t disconcerted. Her nudity seemed perfectly normal, and in an odd fashion, she pictured her body as belonging to him, having been created solely for his delectation and delight.

“In you go.” Holding her hand, he stabilized her as she stepped into the tub and sank down into the water, and she emitted a hiss as she immersed herself.

“Would you like me to wash your hair?” he asked as she reclined. “Shall I let it down?”

“No. It would take forever to dry.”

“Lean back then.” He spurred her to relax. “I’ll brush it out.”

He pulled up a stool and removed her combs, her hair hanging over the rim, and he dragged through the curly mass in methodical, smooth strokes. The rhythmic motion was tranquilizing, and though she tried to stay awake, to concentrate on every delicious aspect of the extraordinary encounter, she kept nodding off.

“Don’t doze in the tub, sleepyhead.” He set the brush on the vanity and kissed her cheek. “You’ll drown yourself.”

She laughed as he took a cloth, soaped it, and massaged her shoulders and arms. He lifted her to her knees, the water lapping at her thighs, and he swabbed her privy parts, her breasts. The rubbing was satisfying, pacifying, but also arousing, the rough nap of the material sending prickles of sensation shooting through her.

He nudged her down to rinse in the water, and she smiled with an abrupt reminiscence.

“What are you grinning about?” he inquired.

“Do you remember when I first came up here? For
your
bath?”

“How could I forget?”

“Would we have made love if your mistress hadn’t barged in?”

The mention of his London doxy caused a hitch in the intimacy, but he swiftly recovered. “That was definitely my plan.” Mischievously, he said, “I’m wicked that way.”

“Yes, you are.”

Suddenly, she was intent on pursuing the topic of his paramour. They hadn’t ever discussed the woman, but Emma was extremely curious about what John would do when he left Wakefield.

If he could split with her, then travel to London and resume his licentious habits—with nary an intervening respite—what did that say about all of them? About their collective characters? Their morals? The perilous states of their immortal souls?

Lethargy was loosening her tongue, making her utter things she wouldn’t have contemplated had her usual circumspection been fully engaged. “Is your mistress eager for your return?”

“Emma—” he scolded.

He couldn’t look at her, and she couldn’t deduce which emotion was preventing eye contact. Embarrassment over his conduct with the fallen woman? Irritation at Emma’s raising the subject? Anger at her presumption? A combination of all three?

“Will you keep on with her after you marry?”

His forearms were balanced on the rim, and he vacillated, cautiously choosing his words. “What I did in my private life wouldn’t be any of my wife’s business.”

“But wouldn’t Lady Caroline be upset by the relationship?
I can’t see you deliberately hurting her.”

“Caroline and I are not betrothed!” he snapped. “I made it clear to her that there’s no chance for us, and she’s gone home.”

“But you’ll wed someday. Whatever woman ultimately becomes your bride, wouldn’t she—”

“Em!” he sharply interrupted. “I won’t debate this with you.”

He was trailing his fingers through the water, and he appeared baffled, as if she’d poked at disturbing facets of his personality that he didn’t care to confront.

She considered him more thoroughly, and it seemed he was distressed, unsettled, as though he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Being overly weary, she hadn’t detected his elevated woe, and she detested that he could be tormented, that he was dejected or despondent.

“If you were my husband, and I found out you had a mistress”—she ruffled her fingers through his hair, wanting only to make him smile once again—“I’d kill her. Then, I’d kill you. Very slowly. Very painfully.”

“You probably would.” His beautiful blue eyes linked with hers. He was so handsome, so dear. So alone.

“You’re worth fighting for, Wakefield.”

“Do you think so?” He posed the question as if the notion hadn’t occurred to him.

“Absolutely.”

He kissed her, a luscious, overwhelming joining of mouth and tongue, then he withdrew. “The water’s getting cold. Let’s get you out before you catch a chill.”

He assisted her as she clambered out, then he took a large towel and dried her. She was still naked when he escorted her to the bedchamber, and he laid her down so that she was stretched out in the middle of the enormous, enticing mattress.

From a dresser, he retrieved a bottle of scented oil, then he scrambled up next to her. “Roll onto your tummy.”

She readily complied, pillowing her chin on her forearms, as he straddled himself over her bare behind.