Cheryl Holt (9 page)

“With the condition of that indolent servant, I might be.”

Eventually, the retainer showed himself. He was in a snit, obviously mistaking Miss Fitzgerald for one of John’s London colleagues. Though Rutherford tried to hide his feelings, he abhorred most of John’s acquaintances.

Little did he know that the individual doing the shouting was his newest nemesis!

“You!” He was aghast to discover that she’d sneaked in without his knowledge or permission. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Didn’t Lord Wakefield tell you? I’ll be here every afternoon. For at least two weeks. Perhaps longer if it suits me.” She rotated so that Rutherford couldn’t see, then she winked at John. “I’m helping him to evaluate the financial situation of the estate.”

“Holy cripes,” John grumbled. He’d speculated as to how she’d rationalize her repetitive appointments to those who might question her goings-on. So she was
working
for him, was she?

He bent over and rested his chin in his hands. The lady had more audacity than anyone he’d ever met.

“He’s paying me an exorbitant amount for my
assistance
,”
she breezily prevaricated. “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”

For a vicar’s daughter, the lies certainly rolled off her tongue! In his dealings with her, he couldn’t overlook that fact. She was capable of all sorts of duplicity, and he had to be on his guard, lest he be ensnared in one of her schemes—of which he was now convinced she had many.

“She hasn’t done much—yet—to prove that she’s worth it, Rutherford,” he pointed out.

“But I will,” she baldly rejoined. “I’ll be worth every penny.”

Did she ever let a man have the final word?

“Now then,” she continued, “Lord Wakefield advises me that he’s been involved in debauchery all night—”

“Miss Fitzgerald!” John sputtered, flustered by her public dissection of his profane tendencies, but she didn’t miss a beat.

“—so he’s having difficulty settling down to business. He needs a pot of tea. Strong as Cook can make it.”

“Coffee,” John countermanded.

“And breakfast,” she added. “Whatever Cook can scrounge this late in the day, but a full plate.”

“His Lordship doesn’t eat breakfast,” Rutherford imperiously droned.

“He does now. You’re to feed him each morning before I arrive.”

John noted in a huff, “You talk as if I’m an infant!”

“Well, you act like one,” she said with great equanimity. She peered at Rutherford. “And he needs a bath. Right away. Have it delivered abovestairs immediately. If I’m to spend time in his company, his sloppy personal habits must end.”

Rutherford almost choked, and he stared at John, his puzzlement clear, but as John had already learned, who could fail to comply with one of Emma Fitzgerald’s edicts? It was like trying to stop the wind from blowing.

He tipped his head. “See to it.”

“Very good, milord.”

He departed, and Miss Fitzgerald called after him. “By the way, Rutherford,
all
of Lord Wakefield’s friends are leaving for London in the morning.”

“Whoa!” John shot up in his seat. “What did you say?”

“Even now,” she persisted, “his brother is spreading the news to the guests, so you might inform the staff that they’ll be busy with packing.”

“Wait just a damned minute!”

“Don’t curse at me,” she admonished as his butler scurried off, and John was positive the bastard had been smiling. Rutherford had been in John’s employ for years, and he was well aware that no one told John what to do, and no one was about to on this occasion, either!

He had no appetite for languishing in the country, with no companions or nocturnal revelry to relieve the tedium, and no mistress to tend to his carnal requirements.

But then
, he mused wickedly,
there is the delightful Miss Fitzgerald to take Georgina’s place
.

A fascinating conundrum.

He stood. “I’ve humored you quite extensively, Miss Fitzgerald, but you’ve finally gone too far.”

“You agreed, Wakefield. I won’t permit you to renege.” She jerked at the door and gestured for him to proceed to his room, and he blindly obeyed without arguing.

How did she do that? Why did he let her?

Usually, he was completely intractable, but when
interacting with Miss Fitzgerald, she was so adamant, and he was so indifferent, that it seemed easier to simply go along. Plus, he liked listening to and watching her. He couldn’t recollect when he’d been with someone who was so passionate about every little thing. Her attitude was so bloody refreshing.

“My friends are staying,” he contended as he stomped by her.

He had to locate Ian and rescind her decree! How could his blasted brother follow the termagant’s instructions without first garnering John’s consent?

“They are not.”

As though she were lord of the manor, she promenaded to the staircase and climbed, and he was behind her, focused on how her skirt swished across her charming bottom with each step.

“Your reputation will be irrevocably soiled if you accompany me to my bedchamber.”

“I don’t intend to loiter.”

“Then why are you coming with me?”

“Because I’m not letting you out of my sight until I’m assured that you’ve been restored to an acceptable state. I can’t abide your sloth.”

She bustled on, not sure of the route, and he steered her around. As they progressed, he grew eager. Very soon, they’d be sequestered in his bedchamber. She might assume that she was merely ushering him upstairs, but she didn’t understand the male animal.

As if he’d allow her to go once he had her alone!

Checking out the sway of her hips, the curve of her delicious ass, he trailed after her. He wanted to take her hair down, to ascertain if it felt as silky as it looked. He wanted to remove her clothes, to have her naked.

His desire for her spiraled to such a dangerous height that, as they entered his room and he shut the
door, his cock was so enlarged that he was afraid he might burst the placard on his trousers.

Offering her no chance to demur, he fell on her like a wild beast, pushing her against the door and gripping her thighs to wrap her legs around his waist. Trapping her, balancing her with his hips, he took her mouth in a searing kiss, while his hands dipped to her breasts, kneading and pressing the flawless mounds.

“Wakefield, we have to stop,” she protested, wrenching away, so that he had to nip and bite her cheek, her ear. “Rutherford will be along with your bath and your breakfast. He’ll see us.”

“He’s used to my promiscuity. He won’t bat an eye.”

“Wakefield!” she scolded, her sharp retort like a bucket of cold water on his raging lust. “Shame on you.”

“What? What did I say?”

“How often must I remind you that I am not—and never will be—one of your London harlots?”

With a shove, she forced him away, then opened the door, as burly footsteps sounded in the hall. Several men brought in jugs to fill the tub in the dressing room. Miss Fitzgerald knew all their names, and supervised the preparations as if she were his housekeeper or—perish the thought!—his wife.

The servants snapped to when she spoke—in a fashion they’d never exhibited for him!—and they did her bidding without dispute or vacillation. It was evident that she was highly respected, so beyond reproach that no one seemed to find anything indecent about her presence in the viscount’s private suite.

“Ah, here’s your breakfast,” she said as two maids carried in trays.

She made distracting, innocuous chatter with the girls, supplying caustic remarks as to her reason for being
in his bedchamber that had to do with her discussing the estate and some of the Viscount’s recent decisions. The way she pronounced
decisions
left no doubt that everyone was cognizant of—and furious about—the evictions.

All ears were perked in her direction, and whenever she referred to him, the employees stole furtive, angry glances at him that made him shift uncomfortably.

She arranged the dishes and accouterments on a side table, then she shooed the servants out. As they went, she asked one about a new baby, and another about an ailing grandmother, waving and prattling until they’d withdrawn down the hall and around the corner.

When it was apparent that no one would notice, she closed the door, and his hopes soared that they might tryst again, but she displayed no signs of the ardor that had had him nearly doubled over in the library. She’d been so hot and bothered, extremely proficient in her exploration of his erection, and he wanted to lure her back to the erotic crest where they’d left off.

What would it take to rekindle her flame? He was bound and determined to reap some satisfaction.

She kept maintaining that they had a deal and needed to stick by it. So be it. She’d insisted that he comply with the terms, and he was beginning to reflect upon the advantages. If she could demand his adherence, he was definitely within his rights to demand hers.

She rendered the perfect solution to his dilemma when she queried, “Would you like to have your bath? Or your breakfast?”

“I’ll start with the bath.” He held out his arms. “Undress me.”

How could she refuse?

E
MMA
gaped at him, trying to think of a way to balk, but lamentably, nothing beneficial surfaced, and it occurred to her that she couldn’t devise an excuse because, deep down, she was a slattern. She’d love to shed him of his apparel. Slowly. Piece by piece. Until he was naked and at her mercy.

He wasn’t aware of her spying indiscretion, so he didn’t know that she’d had a glimpse of what was shielded behind those fashionable trousers. A bit earlier, she’d briefly gotten her hands on it, and what a glorious adventure that had been!

She’d made him so aroused! Herself! Emma Fitzgerald!

The virile rogue had been excessively provoked, but she kept her pride in check over the role she’d played in inciting him. He was an unmitigated libertine, and he’d probably have gotten an erection if a female dog had walked by! He was that loose with his favors—evidence the odor of perfume hanging about his person.

Thank heaven she’d detected it, or there was no telling into what predicament she’d have landed. The bitter aroma had rudely jolted her. She was here to prevail upon him to cancel the evictions. Not to fornicate with him, despite how loudly her poor, untended flesh was begging for the opportunity.

Having scarcely slept a wink, she was running on adrenaline. The kiss they’d shared the previous day had
left her testy, uncomfortable, and aching in places she hadn’t noted in years.

In the wee hours, she’d paced and scolded, trying to rein in her careening emotions, endeavoring to put what they’d done into perspective, to lessen its impact and importance, but to no avail. With an almost insane gladness, her body had cried out for more, while her heart . . .

Oh, her stupid heart!

She’d always been by herself. Had peered down the road of her life and seen naught but struggle and loneliness. Isolation and despair. No joy. No happiness. No contentment.

Like a foolish, lovestruck girl, she’d found herself asking,
Why not?
Why not jump in farther than she’d meant to go? Why not seize the moment? Why not use him as badly as he intended to use her?

Certainly, he could be objectionable, dictatorial, and overbearing. But he could also be engaging, witty, clever. He was smart, educated, and interesting, in a manner that only a prosperous gentleman could be. Plus, he was too handsome for his own good, and she shamelessly pined for the chance to know him in the biblical sense. And not once. But over and over.

She recognized all the reasons to stay away from him, was conscious of his faults and flaws. He’d end up wreaking havoc on her staid existence if she allowed it, but while she comprehended the perils, he was arrogantly posed across the room and commanding that she divest him of his clothing. Madly, heedlessly, her feet were traipsing across the floor, her entire being disposed to assent.

As she’d been up all night, her usual acuity was absent, her self-discipline shot to Portsmouth and back, so it was risky to proceed. There was no guarantee that she could keep her wits about her, that she could keep
her skirt down, her knees together, and her chastity intact.

What he was offering was so immoral and so appetizing that she couldn’t deny herself. His potent rod was pushing at the placard of his pants, summoning her to release him from his confines.

Just this once
, she bargained with herself,
and then never again
.

Disgusted, she shook her head, realizing that this was how every sinner started down the road to perdition. And she’d been raised knowing with what the road to Hell was paved. None of it mattered. Before the hour of three arrived and she was due at home, she would see John Clayton in the altogether, would pet, and stroke, and fondle. And taste, too, if it came to that.

She neared, insolently took his hand.

“In here,” she said, ushering him to the dressing room, and he followed, a definite strut in his gait. He was preening over her acquiescence, having not doubted that she’d comply with his wishes.

A fire was burning in a brazier, even though it was July, and the air was toasty and muggy. The tub was opulent, spacious and broad, designed for Wakefield’s larger proportions. It was situated behind a painted screen, and a small table was next to it, stacked with washing cloths, towels, and soaps.

They stopped, turned toward one another, and the encounter grew incredibly intimate. It was just the two of them, no one to intrude or interrupt, and a marvelous expectation hovered around them. Any extraordinary event might ensue, any licentious behavior would be permitted.

Wakefield slipped his hands around her waist and pulled her close. His cockstand prodded her belly, igniting tingles of agitation that rushed outward through
her extremities, to her nipples, her womb. There was no awkwardness in their informality. They were so compatible that, bizarrely, she felt as if she’d been in his bedchamber a thousand times before, that she’d regularly assisted him with his bath.