Cheryl Holt (11 page)

What was happening to her? Perhaps his penchant for dissolution and debauchery was catching—like a bad cold!

Initially, she’d meant to toy with him, to flirt with
him as a ruse to get what she wanted for her neighbors, but her plan was folly. Her life was a solitary vacuum, and he filled it with his amazing vitality. She wished she could capture some of his charisma and charm in a bottle, so that the contents could linger and cheer her when she was back at her dismal, dreary cottage.

He was like a healthy tonic, a bracing restorative, a shining star in her dull universe.

Sensing her distress, he rose up and hugged her, nestling her in the crook of his neck, while he nuzzled and kissed her hair. It had been a long while since anyone had held her or crooned endearments. The solace was welcome, like an unexpected gift on a rainy day, and she wrapped her arms around him and embraced him in return, wallowing in the sweetness.

Astonishingly, he appeared to treasure the moment every bit as much as she did, and it occurred to her that maybe his lofty world of wealth and affluence was a forlorn place, as well. Maybe he had no one to render sympathy, a pat on the back, a needed hug, either.

They were a sorry pair!

A clock chimed the hour of three. She sighed, hating that it was time to go, but relieved that the lateness would preclude her from making unwise choices. At home, with distance between them, she could regroup, could regain her equilibrium, while she came up with a way she could be in his company without demeaning or surrendering herself.

When she was with him, the man reduced her to a baser sort of individual, whose corporeal drives were unchecked, and she had to find a procedure whereby she could circumscribe her behavior.

You can do it!
she scolded.

“I must go.”

She removed herself from the security of his arms.
Her bodice was moist from being pressed to his wet skin. The humid air had curled her hair more than usual. Tendrils had escaped from her combs to tickle her cheeks and neck, and he twirled a lengthy strand around his finger.

“It’s only three o’clock.”

He was genuinely displeased that she would leave, and the realization was dangerous and magnificent.

“I have other appointments.”

Her most crucial one was locating some food for her family’s supper. There wasn’t a single scrap left in the house.

“Cancel them,” he authoritatively decreed, and she smiled, thinking how grand it must be to be rich and idle.

“I can’t.”

“But I’m not ready for you to depart.”

He was astounded that she would go after he’d told her no. He was so selfish, had perpetually been coddled, and people jumped to obey whenever he snapped his fingers. The total subservience of those around him was most likely the reason he was so impossible.

“Well, Wakefield, you can’t have everything you want.”

“Yes I can.” He smiled, too, his eyes twinkling with merriment. “I’m a viscount, remember?”

Oh, yes, she remembered, all right. He was of the nobility, a peer of the realm, who dined with kings and queens, and he was so far above her that it was ludicrous for her to be mooning over him, and fantasizing over what could never be.

“Yes, you are, and you’re horridly spoiled.”

“I’ll be crushed if you don’t let me have my way.”

“You’ll get over it.”

“No I won’t.” He pouted, making her chuckle, then
he sobered, kissing her, endeavoring to cajole away her inhibitions. “I want you to stay, so I can make love to you. All afternoon. All night.”

“Not even you could have that much stamina.”

“Would you care to bet?”

Oh, he was incorrigible! His invitation was so enticing, and a hairsbreadth from acquiescence, she was appalled by her foolishness. “You make me crazy to do things I oughtn’t.”

“You agreed that you would. In writing!”

The scoundrel had the audacity to toss their bargain back at her! “Yes, I did, and you’re a cad to remind me of it.”

“Being a cad is only one of my abominable habits.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Isn’t your word your bond, Emma Fitzgerald?”

“It is,” she grumbled.

The light banter ceased, and he grew serious, turning so that his elbows rested on the rim of the tub, their forearms folded together. “I want us to be lovers.”

“I know you do.”

“In the beginning, you were disposed, but now you’re scared. Why?”

Because you’re all I’ve ever wanted! All I’ve ever dreamed about!
She swallowed and said, “It’s so much more intense than I’d imagined it would be.”

“This connection between us”—he gestured back and forth, incapable of explicating what they both sensed—“it’s powerful.”

“Yes. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

“Nor have I,” he claimed, and she speculated as to whether his disclosure was true, or if it was merely a flattery he successfully utilized to wheedle recalcitrant women into lifting their skirts.

He traced his thumb across her bottom lip. “I pushed you too fast. Next time, we’ll go slower.”

“It’s not the
speed
we need to worry about. It’s—” She cut off, unable to verbalize why she was afraid.

“How far we might go?” he completed for her. She nodded, and he kissed her, a quick, dear peck on the lips. “It will be wonderful. I promise.”

Which was what she feared.

In the outer bedchamber, the door opened—stupidly, neither of them had thought to lock it!—and a sultry, unmistakable female voice inquired, “Wakefield, are you in here?”

As his mistress boldly entered, reality crashed into Emma with the force of a runaway carriage. What was she doing in this room? With this man?

Frantically, she lurched away, but he was squeezing her hand, refusing to release it. His eyes searched hers, probing for something she couldn’t define, and his cheeks flushed, as if he were embarrassed by the intrusion, but he made no comment. Perhaps he couldn’t.

After all, what could possibly be apropos?

“Let me go,” she begged in a whisper, but he only tightened his grip, so she yanked her hand away, and leapt out of reach.

There was only one exit, so she couldn’t avoid his paramour, but she didn’t want the beautiful doxy to stumble upon her as she was huddled over the tub, with Wakefield naked as a jaybird.

She patted her hair and jerked at her damp clothes, uselessly trying to straighten herself. She was a sight, but there was nothing to be done about it, and desperate to appear calm, she strolled out.

“Tomorrow at one, Emma,” Wakefield said softly to her retreating back. “I’ll be waiting.”

Her insides clenched. Dare she come on the morrow?

No! She absolutely would not!

She stepped into the bedchamber, and the imposing courtesan—had Wakefield referred to her as Georgina?—was so stunned that her painstakingly plucked brows rose to her hairline. Her shock instantly metamorphosed to a scowl, then full-on hostility.

The encounter might have been comical if Emma hadn’t been so utterly mortified. She and the demimondaine stared one another down, and they didn’t require pistols for it to be described as a duel. Though Emma hid her trepidation well, she felt the loser. Too short, too thin, too poor, and obviously too free with her favors. Her drab, dowdy dress was sodden in several spots where it shouldn’t have been, and Georgina took careful note of every incriminating mark.

When she’d seen Georgina on the stairs two hours earlier, she’d been immaculately attired in an exquisite gown, but in the intervening period, she’d changed her apparel, slipping into a robe that was all but transparent. Her hair was down, her feet bare, and she was clearly intent on an assignation with the viscount.

The belt at the waist of the robe was loose, the lapels widened so that the center of her torso was visible. Emma could see her large nipples, her tonsured privates.

“What are
you
doing here?” Georgina barked.

Her haughty tone was terrifying and would have made a normal woman cringe and tremble. As it was, Emma’s legs were wobbly.

She despised the other woman, for all that she was, for all that she represented, but mostly, Emma loathed her because she was entitled to waltz into the other room and finish what Emma had started. Wakefield would spend the evening having sexual relations as he’d proposed
to Emma, but he’d have a different partner.

Dismayed and confounded, Emma recognized that she was jealous. A red-hot rage surged through her at the idea of Georgina reveling with Wakefield as Emma, herself, could not.

“Wakefield asked me to attend him.” Emma was deliberately vague and suggestive, wanting Georgina to stew and fume over what exactly they’d been doing. “We’ve been . . .
busy
.”

“Be off, you little harlot.” Georgina was seething, disdainful as any princess, and she floated by Emma as if she were invisible.

Emma was rooted to the floor, and she flinched when, behind her, Georgina gushed, “John, where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere.”

“Shut the door,” he said, his voice husky and altered now that Georgina had sauntered in with no clothes on.

“Certainly,” Georgina cooed.

The door was firmly latched, and Emma cocked her head, attempting to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t hear a peep, which was the worst torture of all. She whirled away to flee, impatient to be off lest amorous sounds begin to emanate. Wakefield was aroused, so it wouldn’t take much to spur him into carnal play, and she couldn’t abide contemplating the myriad ways he might garner satisfaction.

Could he—would he—substitute one lover for another in the blink of an eye?

Just as she would have moved into the corridor, she noticed the table of food that had been laid out for Wakefield. There were baskets of breads, pastries, cheeses, fruits, more than one person could eat in a week. She’d fed him till he was stuffed, so what would be done with the leftovers?

Her stomach protested loudly, and she was tempted
by how delicious everything smelled, how fabulous it would taste, what a treat it would be for her younger sister, Jane. Without pausing, so that she wouldn’t have the opportunity to talk herself out of it, she walked over, pulled the cloth from the table, made a sort of bag, and stuffed the food into it. Then, she flung it over her shoulder and pranced out, flouncing down the hall, then the stairs, as if she owned the accursed mansion.

If she was observed, she doubted that she would pique anyone’s curiosity. Wakefield’s acquaintances would ignore her, and she knew most of the servants. They wouldn’t question her as to why she was marching off with the viscount’s belongings.

So, Emma, you’ve always been a wanton. Shall we add thievery, avarice, and gluttony to your list of sins, as well?

The stern chastisement reverberated through her, as if God, Himself, were directly admonishing her, but she vociferously shoved away the censure, declining to heed the reproach.

I’ll bring the tablecloth back tomorrow
, she vowed.
I swear it
.

Even as she did so, she perceived that it was a pretext whereby she could contrive to visit Wakefield again.

E
MMA
approached what was her home, a minuscule, decrepit shack the estate agent had located for them after her father’s death. Though it had enabled her to keep a roof over their heads, it was a sorry excuse for familial lodging. Especially taking into account the comfortable house in which she’d spent the prior twenty-eight years of her life. But she wasn’t about to complain; devoid of options, her finances totally depleted, she’d been ready to accept anything.

The cottage was a thirty-minute walk from the manor, another thirty from the village, so it was secluded and quiet, and their existence was very different from being next to the parish church, where they’d constantly been overrun by visitors.

Now, unless they ventured out, they rarely saw anyone, which Emma didn’t particularly mind. Their fortunes had fallen so low that she was glad they were out of sight from the general community where she would have had to deal with the pity of others on a daily basis.

As she stepped out of the woods, she was dismayed anew by the dismal appearance of the building. She never became accustomed to how dreary it was. Scant more than a shed, it had two small rooms and a loft. The roof sloped, and whenever it rained, water poured in, and they had to set out pans to collect it. The two windows had been broken and were boarded up. Except for the meager flower bed she’d managed to plant by the
door, the yard was covered with tall weeds.

There was a stove, and it currently worked well enough to heat the dank interior, but in a few months, winter would be upon them, and she was greatly worried by the prospect.

Reality slapped her like a cold cloth, monotony and invariability pressing down on her with crushing intensity. She was tired of having to be valiant, of having to carry on in the face of adversity.

Hadn’t she contributed enough to those around her? Hadn’t she ceaselessly accepted more than her share of ordeal and tribulation?

Recently, she’d spread herself so thin that she’d begun to feel invisible, that there was no Emma Fitzgerald, but merely an empty shell of a woman who perpetually immersed herself in others’ woes, who was cursed with having to cure everyone else’s ailments.

Surprisingly, she pondered the female visitors sequestered up at the manor, and she found herself wondering what it would be like to be one of the ravishing, opulent—unprincipled!—courtesans who’d joined Wakefield for his sojourn in the country.

Wickedly, she thought that it would be so marvelous to subsist in such an unrestrained environment. If only she could trade places with one of them. For a week—or even a day. She’d have no duties, would suffer no guilt over her failures, would have no one to look after or tie her down. She’d lounge and loaf, flirt and philander, dally and trifle.

For a frivolous moment, she let the impetuous fantasy take wing and flourish, and she decided that a life of repose and recreation would suit her. She’d excel at it. She’d rapidly adapt.