Cheryl Holt (6 page)

“You won’t accept a verbal commitment from me?”

“I hardly know you, and what I do know is quite horrid. Why should I credit what you have to say?” She glanced over at his brother. “Would you take his word for anything, Mr. Clayton?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

At his answer, Wakefield grew so furious that she was even more satisfied as to the wisdom of her scheme.

Wakefield was sputtering and stammering for a valid retort, so she aimed her comments to his brother. “Mr. Clayton, would you be so kind as to transcribe the terms for us?” She smiled up at Wakefield. “It will be beneficial to have a witness, don’t you agree?”

“By all means,” he ground out.

Wakefield glowered at Mr. Clayton, and a silent communication passed between them, which she tucked away for later dissection and analysis. Obviously, they were very close, and she would have to factor Ian Clayton into her plans. If the two brothers were as attached as they appeared to be, she might be able to utilize him in her handling of the viscount.

“Glad to be of assistance, Miss Fitzgerald,” Ian Clayton finally said, and he moved to the desk, but only after Wakefield had given him some type of taciturn permission.

Another fascinating detail to mull!

He made a great show of seating himself and dipping pen to ink, and she was overcome by the notion that he was acutely enjoying the interlude. Evidently, she had bested Wakefield in a way that didn’t often transpire,
and Ian Clayton was humored that she had.

“Where would you like to begin?” He seemed innocent and obliging, and he conspicuously kept his attention from settling on Wakefield.

As for the viscount, he had stepped away from her, creating space, or perhaps staking out his territory. His arms were crossed over his chest and, visibly angry, a ponderous frown marred his brow.

“Let’s start out with a title,” she suggested. “ ‘Agreement Between the Parties’ or some such. Then list our names and identities.”

The pen scratched across the page as he filled in an introductory paragraph.

“How about this?” Mr. Clayton queried, and Emma scooted behind the desk to read over his shoulder.

“That’s excellent.” She looked up at Wakefield whose scowl hadn’t lessened a bit. “Would you like to see what he’s composed so far?”

“No.”

“Fine, then. Let’s continue.” She recited, “ ‘Viscount Wakefield stipulates that he will rescind the eviction notices for the following fourteen tenants.’ ” She laid her list on the desktop and smoothed it out, indicating each of the names as Mr. Clayton affixed them to the document. “ ‘In exchange, Miss Fitzgerald will perform fourteen episodes of sexual intercourse.’ ”

At her blunt phrasing, the tips of Mr. Clayton’s ears turned bright crimson, but he persisted with his writing as though she’d uttered nothing untoward. As to the viscount, he gulped down a strangled sound.

Hoisted on his own petard! Wonderful! Before they were through, she hoped he’d suffocate from embarrassment.

Feigning naïveté, she asked him, “Is that language amenable to you?”

He paused, his steamy regard sweeping over her in a blatantly carnal way, and he said to Mr. Clayton, “I want the sentence to end like this: ‘ . . . sexual intercourse in any fashion Wakefield requests.’ ”

Smirking, his rabid gaze locked with hers, and he seemed to crow,
Top that!

He didn’t grasp that he could preen and strut forever but his arrogance wouldn’t have any effect.

Mr. Clayton peered up at her. “Will that addition suffice?”

“Yes. Now this: ‘The viscount will not initiate any other evictions for a period of one year. At that time, should he feel the situation still warrants such drastic action, he will not proceed without consulting Miss Fitzgerald and giving her a chance to change his mind in whatever style he demands.’ ”

Wakefield stiffened. “Just a damned minute. I’m not about to enter into an arrangement where I’m eternally beholden to your whims and—”

“Don’t curse in front of me.”

He bit down on his lip so hard that he might have drawn blood. “My apologies,” he muttered, “but you talk as if I’ll be taking advantage of you in perpetuity.”

“I guess you will be, but I’d like to think you’ll come to your senses long before then.” She nodded to Mr. Clayton. “Jot that last down. About our cohabiting a year from now—if it’s required.”

He was grinning. “It that all right with you, John?”

“Splendid!” the viscount barked. “Dandy!”

“Is there anything we’ve omitted, Miss Fitzgerald?” Mr. Clayton inquired.

“There are two other items,” she said, “but I don’t know if they belong in the contract or not, so I’ll let you advise me.”

“What are they?”

“Well, I can’t abide a drunkard—”

“A drunkard!” Wakefield snapped.

“—so he must refrain from imbibing. Should that be included? Or can I trust him to stay sober?”

“Miss Fitzgerald,” the viscount griped, “you will not direct me in my drinking habits!”

“Sir,
you
are bartering for the privilege of regularly violating my person, so I’ll be surrendering much more than you. You ought to give up
something
as a concession.”

“She’s got you there, John,” Mr. Clayton chided. Conspiratorially, he murmured, “We’d better include it. He can be stubborn about his vices.” He scribbled away. “And the other?”

“His loose women and sluggardly companions will have to go back to London.”

“What!” both men complained together.

They were jointly appalled by her ultimatum, stunned that she had the gall to raise the scandalous topic. No doubt about it, she needed to keep the upper hand with the pair of bounders. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”

She saw a propitious opportunity to rid the property of the wastrels and scalawags who had traveled with the viscount, and who had been driving the staff crazy with their despicable antics.

The peace and quiet generated by their departure would be welcomed, plus she wanted Wakefield all to herself, without the distraction of his rough crowd. With the two of them in seclusion, she’d have better odds for altering his conduct.

“You are a marvel, Miss Fitzgerald!” the viscount exclaimed. “You’ve insulted me for nearly all of my perverse tendencies. Is there anything you’ve neglected to enumerate?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“I pity the chap you marry. You’re already a proficient nag. You’ll have him thoroughly unmanned before your wedding night!”

“I’m sure you’re correct.” She laughed gaily. As if any man would marry her! The only one who’d ever evinced a heightened interest was the new vicar, Harold Martin, and Emma shuddered at contemplating what a miserable existence that would be.

The viscount and his brother were glaring at each other, Wakefield enraged, Mr. Clayton mystified by her effrontery. They were speculating as to how they’d gotten into this fix, and how they were going to get themselves out of it. They’d commenced the spurious discussion as a lark, a joke that would provide a slew of hilarious stories to bandy about.

They hadn’t counted on the prospect that she’d outwit them.

Another imperceptible communication occurred between them, and they seemed to shrug in unison. In tacit accord, they’d decided to placate her, while ruminating over how to subsequently weasel out of the bargain.

Weren’t they in for a surprise!

Mr. Clayton dipped the pen and adjoined her resolution that Wakefield’s visitors return to town. Finished, he held the document so that she could peruse it. “How’s this?”

“Perfect,” she affably concurred. “Let’s sign it and make it official.”

“Let’s do,” Wakefield grumpily mimicked.

Mr. Clayton drew three lines at the bottom. One for herself, one for Wakefield, and one for Mr. Clayton, who would serve as their witness. Emma took the pen, and wrote her name in her usual tidy script, then she extended
it to the viscount, who stared at it as though it were a venomous snake.

“You’re next,” Mr. Clayton goaded him.

Seeing no way out of the conundrum, Wakefield stomped around the desk and yanked the pen out of her hand. To reach the contract, he had to jam himself into the confined gap between herself and Mr. Clayton and, as he did, he was wedged up against her.

Convinced as to her wantonness, she didn’t move away, but allowed the improper contact, inhaling his luscious scent, scrutinizing the intriguing golden color of his hair then, at the last second, she jerked her eyes away so he’d have no clue as to where she’d lingered.

He inscribed his name with a grand flourish, then he offered the pen to his brother, and as Mr. Clayton scrawled his name, Wakefield whispered to him, “Cheeky little baggage.”

She grinned, champing down on a giggle, barely able to conceal her elation.

Mr. Clayton sanded the ink, and Wakefield snatched up the paper. Most likely, he was bent on hiding it, and she plucked it away, folded it, and tucked it into the bodice of her gown before either of them could react.

Wakefield was horrified. “You’re not going to keep it!”

Oh, how she relished being close to him! She couldn’t remember when she’d previously stumbled upon a man who was so handsome, so dashing and distinct.

He towered over her, his masculine heat and essence overwhelming her, making her skin tingle, her pulse escalate, her senses come alive. But while she treasured his proximity, she was too shrewd to be deluded by his magnificence.

“I’m not about to let you have it,” she caustically
pointed out. “I’m quite sure it would disappear.”

From the invisible daggers the two men traded, it was disgracefully apparent that they’d had every intention of destroying it once she’d left, but their prank wasn’t progressing at all as they’d foreseen. They’d assumed they could send her off, foolishly surmising that she had a deal, when she’d have had no method of proving it, or holding Wakefield to his promise.

Much to their communal chagrin, she hadn’t submissively done as they’d calculated.

“When should we start?” she asked Wakefield.

Plainly, he longed to answer,
Never!
but he was too egotistical to say so aloud. Instead, he stomped around the desk, while he pretended to be magnanimous. “When would be convenient for you?”

“How about now?”

Luckily, he wasn’t swallowing a bite of food, because he would have choked on it.

“Now?” he echoed faintly. Maneuvered into an ambush, he rapidly regrouped. “An immediate commencement wouldn’t be possible for me. I’m extremely busy today.” He frowned at his brother. “Isn’t that right, Ian?”

“You don’t have anything on your schedule.”

If looks could have killed, Mr. Clayton would have been dead on the floor.

“I’m sure you’ve forgotten”—Wakefield tersely clarified—“that I’d planned to go riding with some of our guests.”

“Had you?” Mr. Clayton smiled, all ingenuousness. “This is the first you’ve mentioned it.” Wakefield took a menacing step toward him, and Mr. Clayton held up his hands in surrender. “But then, I’m never fully apprised of your calendar.”

“Tomorrow, then?” she interjected. She’d had enough of the obnoxious duo and whatever game they
were playing. “I’d really like to get on with it, so I can give some early assurance to those who’ve received your eviction letters. Many people are packing their belongings—and in grave despair—even as we speak.”

Wakefield yearned to object, but she’d neatly boxed him into a corner. She had the endorsed agreement crumpled between her breasts, and short of wrestling her to the ground and snagging it from her, he couldn’t get it back. As long as she kept it in her possession, she would have a chance to reverse his decision; he couldn’t renege.

“Tomorrow will be fine.”

“At one?”

“Yes,” he irritably acceded.

“You’ll be sober, and your friends gone?”

“Yes, Miss Fitzgerald! Yes!” Exasperated, he gestured toward the door. “Will that be all?”

He was so piqued that she was amazed he wasn’t down on his knees and begging her to desist and depart, and she couldn’t resist tweaking his temper a tad more.

She knew she should leave while she was ahead, but she was having such an extraordinary time in his company that she couldn’t make herself walk out.

These few minutes had been so invigorating and vital, a pitiful indicator of the state of her life, and she couldn’t force herself to end their initial encounter. She liked having his attention focused on her, wanted to dawdle in his presence.

“Actually, there is one more thing.”

“What?” he snarled.

“I thought you might give me a good-bye kiss. So I’d have some idea of what to expect.”

“What to
expect
? You’ve just negotiated a sexual contract, and you don’t know how to kiss a man?”

“Well, of course I know how to
kiss
a man. I’m
more worried about . . . well . . . if the experience will be repugnant or not.” Which was a bald-faced lie. She anticipated that it would be remarkable, but it was so entertaining to have him fuming.

“Did you hear that, John?” Mr. Clayton chimed in, chortling merrily. “She’s concerned that kissing you might be repulsive!”

Wakefield had suffered through her other slurs without becoming overly upset, but this slander of his masculine abilities was too much. Especially that she would question his aptitude in front of his brother. He was obviously conceited as to his reputation with the ladies, but from the apathetic copulation she’d seen, she didn’t understand why any lover would rave.

“Come here, Miss Fitzgerald.”

She’d egregiously poked at his ego, and she’d reap the consequences, but she was anxious to have this inaugural foray terminate on a bold note. Oozing bravado, she sauntered around the desk and approached him until they were toe-to-toe. His body was taut as a bowstring, and she supposed that he would roughly grab her, that he would maul her with a punishing kiss.

Astonishingly, he placed his hands on her shoulders so lightly that she could scarcely feel them, then he bent down and tenderly melded his lips to her own. It was the most chaste, most precious, moment of her life. His breath brushed across her cheek, it was warm, he tasted like . . .