Cheryl Holt (43 page)

“Ssh,” he soothed, “it’s over. Everything will be all right. I’m here now.”

“I’ve been so scared.”

From his tough, tenacious Emma, it was a huge admission, and he smiled, kissing her hair, her cheek. “I didn’t receive your letter, Em. I swear it.”

“Then how did you know?”

“Ian learned of your situation somehow. He notified me, and I came at once.”

“I was afraid that I would have to marry someone else, and I couldn’t have borne it. I was so confused, and I was so . . . so frightened about—”

“Don’t fret over Harold Martin,” he interrupted, astounding her with his total insight into her predicament. “He won’t ever bother you again.”

“But he knows all about us, and he threatened to—”

He tamped down on his rage, unwilling to have her perceive how provoked he’d been by the vicar, even as he speculated as to what coercion the perverted swine had used to terrorize her, but he truly didn’t want to be apprised. If he ever unearthed all the facts, he’d be compelled to hunt down and murder the offensive weasel.

“Mr. Martin and I had a heart-to-heart chat,” he said as placidly as he was able, “and he’s decided that this
isn’t the job or the town for him. He’s moved on.”

“You’re certain?”

“Aye.”

She trembled fiercely, her relief enormous, and she seemed to recognize that he and Martin had had more than a polite discussion, yet she didn’t press, and he was glad. He wouldn’t dream of alarming her further by relating where he’d found the despicable reprobate, or what he’d been up to.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He studied her, staring into her heavenly brown eyes, so content and happy merely to be with her. Brimming over, with felicity, with his affection for her, he said in amazement, “I’m about to become a father.”

“Yes, you are,” she acknowledged.

“So I ought to become a husband, too.” He pinned her to the bed. “Miss Fitzgerald, there’s a proposal on the table, and your reply was unsuitable. I won’t settle for anything but yes.”

“You’re serious . . .”

“Bloody right, I’m serious!” he irritably stated. The woman was lethal to his pride! “Do you think I’ve nothing better to do than to flit around the countryside, offering marriage to ungrateful females?”

“What benefit could there possibly be for me in marrying you?”

“Emma!” he barked in exasperation. “How about a roof over your head? Food in your larder? Clothes and stability and security?”

“That’s all well and good,” she began maddeningly, “but what about—”

He was a vain man, and she’d needled him to petulance. He couldn’t tolerate a subsequent slur to his intentions or his integrity. Annoyed, he queried, “Do you
have any idea how many women in this world wish they were in your position?”

“That’s what I’m worried about. How many women will I have to—”

“None. They’re gone. Forever.”

“Your mistress, too?”

“I split with her before I left London.”

“What of the drinking? The gambling?”

“Done.”

She assessed him, dubious, incredulous. “Really?”

“You’ve had an extremely detrimental effect on my base character. Spirits and wagering bore me to death. As to other women”—he scoffed—“nary a one can tickle my fancy.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re not you!”

“You expect me to believe such nonsense?”

He sobered. This might be his only chance to make her understand how much he treasured her. He kissed her again, a simple melding of lips and tongues, and he was exhilarated as she joined in the euphoric embrace. “As husbands go, I’m not much of a catch.”

“No, you’re not.”

“But I will always cherish you, I’ll always look after you, and I promise I’ll love you all my days. Till I draw my last breath.”

“Oh, John . . .”

“Say yes, Em. Marry me.”

“I am such a fool,” she muttered. For an eternity, she was silent, pensive and introspective, and he panicked because—for once—he couldn’t decipher her musings. The quiet went on and on as she struggled toward a resolution.

In the end, she inquired, “We’d live here at Wake-field?”

He could barely keep from shaking his fist in triumph. “Most of the year.”

“You’d watch over my mother and my sister?”

“As if they were my own.”

“You’ll be a devoted father to my children?”

“I hope we have a dozen.”

“If you ever stray, you’ll meekly acquiesce to castration?”

“You drive a hard bargain, Miss Fitzgerald, but for you”—he chuckled—“I’d consent even to that.”

“I mean it, John. If you speak vows, I’ll demand that you honor them. I’d be crushed if you took another after me.”

“I know that. I never could.”

Searching his face, she probed for equivocation or vacillation, but encountered none, and ultimately, she accepted that his pledge was genuine.

She sighed, giving in, giving up. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”

There’d never been any other choice. No other conclusion would have been adequate or satisfactory. He couldn’t explain why he’d dawdled and procrastinated. Usually, he wasn’t so oblivious, and he blamed his paucity of astuteness on being dictatorial, on narcissism and pomposity and presumption, and he was so relieved that he’d come to his senses before it was too late.

If he’d lost her, due to his stupidity or conceit, he couldn’t guess what would have become of him. How would he have carried on without her?

“When? Tomorrow?”

“Well, I’d like a bit of time to plan. I don’t even have any clothes to wear for the occasion.” She caustically appraised him. “Someone seems to have burned all mine.”

“A week, then. I can’t wait any longer.”

“A month.”

“Two weeks,” he haughtily intoned, “and that’s final.”

“Yes, Viscount Wakefield,” she obligingly conceded.

“It’s so pleasant when you do as you’re bid.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

He laughed, once more, full and loud. There’d never be a dull moment, being wed to her!

He was tired of the wooing, tired of the verbal moil he’d had to endure in order to win her over. Their separation had been wretched, and he was ready to experience some of the rewards of being an almost-married man.

“Now . . . about those debts you need to discharge—”

“My debts! Of all the nerve!”

She attempted to leap off the bed, but he held her down. When she couldn’t flee, she pummeled him with her fists, but as they were prone, she couldn’t land any effective blows.

He reached down to fondle and caress her, and the instant he touched her intimately, her opposition ceased. She gazed up at him, her ardor and regard shining through, and she nodded, a gesture of permission and capitulation. He kissed her tenderly, then he moved to center himself between her luxuriant thighs.

“Where were we?” he asked, grinning.

“We were arguing over how I should repay the money I owe you.”

“Ah, yes. We’d determined that sexual favors would mitigate your arrearage, but we hadn’t debated the terms any further.”

“We agreed on no such thing,” she said, sounding prim and proper. “I won’t be bullied.”

“Fine, then. I shall establish the conditions with no input from you.” He pretended to consider, then imperiously commanded, “You will accommodate me, in any fashion I request, as often as I require your services, from now until the wedding.”

“I can’t abide it when your aristocratic tendencies are showing.”

“I know. That’s what I love about you.”

“Despotic lout,” she grumbled.

“Think of how much fun you’ll have reforming me.”

“I have my life’s work cut out.”

“Yes, you do.” But that’s when Emma was at her best, fixing, providing succor, arranging, helping. What a lucky, lucky man he was!

A sly feminine smile creased her cheeks. “So, my
lord
, Wakefield, how would you have me begin? What is it you desire?”

The answer was so basic. So elemental. So essential.

“Just you. Only you.”