Cheryl Holt (41 page)

“Is this how you entertain yourself? Do you travel from property to property, immorally inflicting yourself on your unsuspecting female tenants?”

“I’ve only done it with you.” Annoyingly, he grinned from ear to ear. “You seem to bring out the worst in me.”

They were toe-to-toe, and she stared up into his mesmerizing blue eyes, hating him and loving him.

How easy it would be to say yes. To fall into his arms and let him take her up to the manor. She could wallow in luxury, could dine, and bathe, and lounge until she was refreshed and reposed.

Recently, she’d been working more than ever, trying to scrape together extra coins, to garner extra supplies for their larder. The babe, coupled with her excessive schedule, had escalated her exhaustion. She was fatigued, scared out of her wits, her mental state disordered, and she was laboring under a cloud of misfortune.

At the mansion, she’d be pampered and coddled, and the leisurely respite would be expedient. Her diet
would stabilize, so she’d add some weight, which would be nourishing for the babe, and Harold couldn’t drag her to the church if she was under Wakefield’s protection, so she was tempted to acquiesce.

But after . . . Then what?

John would return to London, and she’d be forsaken once more. Left with her broken heart and shattered illusions, her predicament with Harold would aggravate, and she’d be back where she’d started.

Like a fatuous, lovestruck dolt, she pondered him. Her head was tilted up, and the angle made her dizzy. Her pregnancy had been mostly uneventful, with mild morning sickness and sporadic bouts of vertigo. Plus, she couldn’t recall when she’d last eaten.

The world spun. She lost her balance, and instantly, he was there, snuggling her to his chest. It felt wonderful to be in his arms, and she inhaled deeply, relishing his scent, his heat. She had every intention of pulling away and standing without his support, but she’d do it in a minute or two. If she moved forthwith, she’d land on her rear in the dirt.

“Are you all right?” he inquired.

Her fate was more bleak than it had ever been, so she’d never be
all right
again, but she lied. “Yes. I’m fine.”

Affectionately, he cradled her cheek in his palm. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

She perused him as if he’d spouted horns. Was he alluding to her pregnancy? To what else could he possibly refer?

She’d already informed the knave—little good it had done—and she wasn’t about to demean herself by rehashing it. She’d die in the streets before she’d beg him for assistance! She’d starve, she’d freeze in a snowbank, she’d sell herself into slavery!

Did she have something to
tell
him? Ooh, yes! A thousand insults were perched on the tip of her tongue, but as they began to spill out, her dizziness increased, her disorientation elevated, her stomach churned and lurched.

She fainted dead away.

Harold lay on his back, an arm thrown over his eyes, sweat pouring down his chest as he struggled to soothe his thundering pulse. The whore who’d rendered the spectacular French kiss had slipped out, giving him a moment to recover before the next round.

Thanks to the pending changes in his life, his climax had been stunning. He was able to generate such delicious fantasies! Frequently, he concentrated on Emma, on how he’d have her under his dominion and control. When he’d been at university, his friend Adrien had taught him numerous methods by which he could exert his supremacy over her.

He liked to have the whores sucking at him while he pretended it was Emma, that he had her tied to the bed, sniffling and pleading.

She was about to find out who stood as her lord and master!

More often, he envisaged that it was sweet Jane who was satisfying him. Jane—with her innocent manner and her child’s body. How luscious it would be to have her under his roof and dependent upon him for her very survival! He had many techniques at his disposal that would enlighten her as to gratitude and subservience.

The door opened, and he smiled malevolently. The madam had acquired a new virgin and, since he was such a valued customer, she’d saved the lass just for him.

To be the first to have her, he’d had to pay an exorbitant
price, but the cost would be worth it. He would imagine she was Jane Fitzgerald, and he would practice with her, bending her to his will as he ultimately would with Jane.

His randy cock stirred. At Madam’s declaring that he could have the youngster, he’d initially dabbled with an older whore, slaking his lust so that he could moderate his rampant desire.

Sufficiently sated, he could proceed slowly, could temper the pace, would make her cry and beseech him to be lenient. But there was no mercy to be had—as Emma was about to discover. She would repeat the vows; he’d situated himself so that she couldn’t refuse. And later . . .

Ah, later . . . Their wedding night would be sublime.

“You there! Girl!” he barked sharply, planning that she learn to obey from the outset. “Come over here!”

A terse, sarcastic male responded. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

He froze, frowning. Had he dozed off? Was he dreaming?

No . . . the voice was real and emanating from the doorway. Alarmed, he rotated to his side, and gulped in dismay, his cock wilting to a sorry nub, and he crossed his hands over his genitals, trying to shield his nude form.

“Lord Wakefield!” he keened weakly. “I can explain.”

“I’m sure you can, but do you know what?”

“What?”

“I don’t care to hear what your reason might be. In fact”—he was brimming with disgust—“I don’t care about you at all.”

Wakefield left the threshold and sidled nearer. With Harold prone, the imposing nobleman towered over him.
He felt vulnerable, defenseless, so he leapt to his feet, but being vertical didn’t improve his condition. As he was stark naked, it was difficult to exhibit any aplomb.

He was filled with shame, but also quite an amount of rage. Who was Wakefield to barge in and seize the moral high ground? The notorious aristocrat was a profligate libertine, a lascivious roué, for whom no sexual act was too despicable.

“Now, see here, Wakefield,” he blustered, extending to his full height, which wasn’t adequate to intimidate. “I don’t have to listen to—”

“You bloody pervert!” the viscount simmered. “How young do you like them to be? Nine? Ten? Is it just girls? Or boys, too?”

Panicked, he strove to come up with refutations and evasions.

It was one thing to be caught in a brothel; a bachelor couldn’t be censured for seeking feminine company! Even a man of the cloth had his corporeal cravings. But he couldn’t account for his aberrant predilection for children.

Denial seemed to be the prudent route.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Stuff it,” Wakefield growled. “I had a lengthy chat with the madam.”

Harold was mortified down to the marrow of his bones. What had the aged harlot dared to confess? What if she’d cited his passion for . . .?

God, he couldn’t even consider it!

She couldn’t have told! What could he say as a rejoinder? What could he do?

“Wakefield,” he wheedled, “can’t we discuss this?”

“No.”

“But you understand how a man has . . .
needs
.”

“Trust me, Vicar Martin, no
man
of my acquaintance has your sort of
needs
.”

A sudden thought occurred to him: Why was Wake-field in the whorehouse? It couldn’t be a fortuitous appearance! He must have come for the same purpose as Harold! The hypocritical ass!

“Why are
you
here, sir?” He used the reproachful tone he exuded from the pulpit. “You malign me when we are about to engage in identical behavior! I suggest you clean your own house, before you condemn the grime in another’s.”

Wakefield chuckled, a menacing, vicious sound that sent chills down Harold’s spine. “You assume that I would stoop so low as to partake of the trollops in this place?”

“Why else would any fellow visit this foul den of iniquity?”

“Why, indeed?” Wakefield stepped closer. He seemed immense. Tall. Broad shouldered. Muscular. Trembling with indignation.

Fully dressed!

Harold recoiled, but the bed frame blocked retreat. Longingly, he gazed at his clothes that were neatly stacked on a chair. He’d give his right arm to grab for them, but Wakefield was an impenetrable wall, preventing movement or escape.

“It’s not sporting,” he tried to assert, “to berate a chap for reveling in the same base tendencies that you enjoy.”

“Unlike yourself, I’m not here to fornicate.”

“Then why?”

“Merely to advise you that you’re finished at Wakefield parish.”

“No!”

“You need not return to the vicarage. Even as we
speak, your belongings are being packed and removed.”

“You can’t do that!”

“I already have.”

He couldn’t lose his job! He’d waited years to secure the lucrative assignment! If he was discharged, how would he earn a living? His fashionable wardrobe and jaunty carriage would be forfeit. He’d have to relinquish Emma, and then, being poor once more, he’d never persuade another bride to have him.

The ignominy! Gad! No one was ever fired from a vicar’s post! It simply wasn’t done! He’d be disgraced, humiliated, a laughingstock.

How would he rationalize a dismissal to his father? What would he tell his mother?

“I’ll write to the bishop! To the archbishop! I’ll protest! I’ll appeal! I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” Only a fool would believe that he could alter what had transpired. Wakefield was too powerful and influential. He would get his way.

Fury swept over him, and with hostility spurring him on, he unwisely admonished, “Who are you to chastise me? With your reputation, you’re in no position to judge!”

“Point well taken.” Wakefield nodded agreeably. “But as my lovers are adults, I don’t have to sneak around in the dark.”

“As with Emma Fitzgerald? Your
affair
with her was certainly aboveboard, wasn’t it?” Upon his referring to Emma, he received a staggering reaction from the pompous ass, and he preened inwardly. So . . . the viscount had a soft spot, did he? Best to exploit it.

“I fucked her, you know,” Harold prevaricated. “Several times. She wasn’t much of a catch after spreading her legs for you, but I—”

Wakefield punched him so hard that he flew across the room. Arms buffeting, he crashed into the vanity, the
bottles on top clattering to the floor as he grappled for purchase. Blood poured out of his nose and down his chest, and he clutched his face.

“My nothe! My nothe!” he moaned. “You broke my nothe!”

“Stand on your feet, you slimy bastard!”

Panting, wailing, he rose to his knees, and Wakefield hit him again, then again, repeatedly knocking him to the floor. He kicked Harold in the groin, the blunt toe of his boot making direct contact, and doubling Harold into a howling, whimpering ball of agony.

As the worst of the pain ebbed, Wakefield loomed over him, clasping him by the neck, and shaking him like a recalcitrant dog. “If you ever utter her name aloud, if you so much as reflect upon her, I’ll kill you. Now, I’m sick of the sight of you. Get out!”

Wakefield lifted him by an arm and a leg, and tossed him into the hall and, with a noisy thump, he crumpled into a heap against the opposite wall.

Patrons and whores from the surrounding rooms were peeking out from every door lining the corridor, anxious to ascertain the cause of the commotion. The stairs were at the end of the gauntlet, and he was naked, covered with blood, his nose and cheeks swollen and throbbing.

“Go!” Wakefield bellowed, lunging after him. “Get out of here, Vicar Martin!”

At Wakefield’s specifying of his title, there was a collective, shocked gasp, then titters, then boisterous guffaws and belly-quivering mirth that enraged and scandalized him. They shrieked with jolly humor, gesturing at his withered genitals, his ruined face.

Wakefield picked him up and flung him, gradually propelling him toward the stairwell.

“My clotheth!” he begged. “Pleathe!”

He held out a hand in supplication. The insane aristocrat couldn’t mean to cast him out unclad? Could he?

Wakefield slapped at his outstretched limb, and terrified, Harold scrambled, lurching to the stairs, where he tumbled down.

A whirlwind of violent umbrage, Wakefield rushed after him, jabbing and shoving to speed his progress. He landed in an ungracious pile, sliding into the main parlor where guests were drinking and prattling with the whores.

As he rolled into the room, there was a profound, astounded silence, then they began to merrily chortle just as the onlookers had in the upper passageway.

He stumbled toward the front door, which a huge, hulking giant of a fellow had obligingly opened, and he hastened out into the frigid night, the cacophony and malicious sniggering trailing along behind.

Wakefield stalked after him, a dangerous, deadly bully, following him out onto the porch and into the yard. Harold ran for safety, pebbles and twigs cutting into his bare feet, but he scarcely noticed. At the edge of the woods, he paused and glanced over his shoulder, but Wakefield was still there, limned in the moonlight.

“Go, you revolting weasel!” he taunted. “Don’t cross my path again!”

Wakefield threw an object—Harold saw it launched. It was a large rock, and surprisingly, the viscount had excellent aim. The stone hit Harold in the center of the chest, pitching him backward. Wakefield hurled another, then another, each striking with penetrating accuracy.

Cold, exposed, and alone, Harold screamed and fled into the trees.

E
MMA
stirred on the bed, and John peeked over to see if she was finally awakening. She had to regain consciousness sometime. A person couldn’t sleep into infinity.

When she’d fainted at the cottage, she’d given him a fright, and he’d dashed to the manor with her cradled in his arms, certain she was at death’s door. She’d been pale as a ghost and thin as a rail, and she hadn’t roused the entire journey, not when he’d lugged her onto the horse, not when they’d loped through the woods, not when he’d carried her up the stairs, or had had the housekeeper undress her and tuck her in.