Cheryl Holt (14 page)

He had to have her. He’d been mired in decadence forever, and for some bizarre reason, he felt that her goodness might rub off on him if he could have some intimate appointments with her.

Peering over his shoulder at the clock on the mantel, he was annoyed to note that she was fifteen minutes late. What if she didn’t come? At the realization that she might not, he suffered a twinge of alarm. Was she angry with him? Hurt? Insulted?

Before Georgina’s inopportune entrance into his bedchamber, they’d been linked emotionally, had shared an incredible moment, and he could imagine what Emma must have thought as she’d stood on the other side of the dressing room door, with himself and Georgina sequestered
inside. Very likely, she deemed him to be a rutting beast who could flit from one female to the next in the blink of an eye.

While he’d been known to redefine lechery with his shameful habits, he couldn’t have fornicated with Georgina if he’d been offered all the gold in the Bank of England. Oddly, he’d have felt as if he were cheating on Emma!

No doubt, Emma suspected the worst, but he’d instructed Georgina to close the door solely because his mistress had a sharp tongue, and he hadn’t wanted Emma to hear whatever snide comments Georgina might have made.

The situation had been hideously awkward, and he hadn’t been able to rapidly devise a feasible solution, so he’d done what seemed best at the time, but in retrospect, he’d been horridly callous. He’d wounded Emma with his ostensible lack of regard, and he wished he knew what to do to mend his gaffe.

Well, if she didn’t appear shortly, he’d have to hunt her down. One of the servants had to know where she lived. He’d give her till one-thirty, then seek her out.

The house was quiet, his clamorous associates having departed for London. They’d grumbled and complained but, confronted with Ian’s staunch adamance, had ultimately gone.

Although John would never admit it, he was relieved by their egress, but he loathed the isolation and seclusion left in their wake. The large mansion was too serene, the vast salons echoing with old messages from his father. He yearned to jump on his horse and catch up with the entourage, but there was too much to be done, too many changes to be set in motion before he could leave.

Just then, Emma burst out of the trees and tramped toward the manor, her tenacity evident in her dogged
stride. It had rained in the night, and the temperature had cooled. She was swathed in a dingy brown cloak and straw bonnet.

As she approached, he spied on her, a smile creeping across his face, and suddenly, his sojourn to the country didn’t seem so oppressive. He was deluged with a special kind of happiness—as if he were smiling on the inside, too—and he gleefully anticipated being in her presence once more. She turned the corner of the house and was out of sight, and he loitered, impatient as she knocked, as she was let in, as Rutherford escorted her down the hall.

She waltzed into the room, and he was lurking by the door, scowling and pretending to be irked by her tardiness. “Miss Fitzgerald, you’re late.”

“I wasn’t going to come at all.” She was in a merry mood, declining to heed his feigned pique. “Are you sober, Wakefield?”

“As a judge, Miss Fitzgerald.”

“We’re making progress.”

“According to whom?”

“Rutherford advises me that you’ve sent your friends to London.” He glared at the retainer who was busy studying the ceiling, and the man scurried out, securing the door behind.

The instant it was latched, he covered the distance that separated them, wrapped his arms around her, and swept her into a torrid embrace that went on and on. When their lips parted, he was hard, aching for her and what was coming. On several occasions now, he had put off having her, and there would be no delay.

“Don’t ever make me wait,” he murmured. “I hate it.”

“You’re spoiled.”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you always get your way?”

“Yes.”

He clasped her hand and attempted to lead her to the couch so they could begin their afternoon of love-play, but she dug in her heels and wouldn’t budge.

“Not so fast.” Before he grasped what she meant to do, she’d opened the door again, and there was Rutherford with John’s outerwear.

“Grab your coat,” she ordered. “We’re going visiting.”

“I don’t want to go visiting.”

“Too bad, because we are.”

“Who?”

“One of the tenants you’re evicting.”

“Now just a damned minute!”

“Don’t curse in front of me.”

“I’m not about to meet with some poor sod who—”

Ignoring his protest, which exasperated him beyond measure, she walked into the corridor and started out, fixed on her destination, and if he wanted to spend any private time with her, he had to follow.

Rutherford extended his coat and hat and, gnashing his teeth, he snatched them up, then obediently trailed after her.

“How long did you say Mr. Gladstone had worked for my family?”

Emma smiled. Wakefield was behind her, so he couldn’t see. “Seventy-nine years. He started in the stables when he was a lad of six.”

“Hmm . . .”

He added nothing further, and she continued down the winding path through the woods that led to the mansion.

She hadn’t planned to visit John Clayton again. After their disastrous, fantastic encounter during his bath, she’d fumed and ruminated until she’d ultimately concluded that the perils far outweighed the benefits.

They shared a hazardous physical attraction—a compelling emotional one, too—that made her heedless to commit any negligent act, and she’d convinced herself that she couldn’t travel down such a risky road. But as day had dawned, as morning had slowly ticked by, as one o’clock had approached, her honorable intentions had flown out the window.

The notion of not being with him was too depressing to ponder. She couldn’t desist, yet she didn’t dare let him sequester her in a private parlor. He was so adept at cajoling her to lustful behavior that he’d have had her on her back, her clothes off, in a matter of seconds. Where he was concerned, she had no willpower. She couldn’t tell him no.

She wasn’t sure how or when she’d devised the fabulous inspiration of going to Mr. Gladstone’s, which allowed her to dawdle with Wakefield, but without any opportunity for illicit flirtation. It had been the perfect solution to her dilemma.

Wakefield had barked and complained, griping about her tyrannical manner with every step, but still, he’d acquiesced.

By her standards, the appointment had been an enormous success. Mr. Gladstone, in his eighties, almost blind, mostly crippled, had been named on Wakefield’s despicable ejection list. Though he scarcely had the ability to care for himself, he refused to abandon the cottage that Wakefield’s grandfather had provided for him three decades earlier as a reward for meritorious service.

Despite his infirmities, his mind was sharp as a tack. He was a spry fellow who hadn’t been cowed by the aristocrat. He’d chatted amiably and, in a surprising revelation, he’d mentioned that he’d taught Wakefield’s grandfather to ride, his father and older brother, too.

Emma had been shocked to learn of an
older
brother. She’d always thought Wakefield to be the eldest and hadn’t known that he’d inherited as an adolescent.

What effect had his sibling’s death had on molding him into the dissolute, ne’er-do-well he’d grown to be?

Intrigued and enthralled, she’d discreetly observed their conversation from the corner, while she’d thoroughly analyzed Wakefield who was suddenly her favorite topic in the entire world. She couldn’t have predicted how he’d relate to the aged man’s predicament, but he’d impressed her tremendously.

He was possessed of an interesting capacity to adapt, to mold himself to his environment, so he hadn’t seemed awkward or out of place. He’d curbed his rampant imperiousness, had been diplomatic, courteous, and respectful.
It was a fascinating glimpse that made him appear even more remarkable.

“Fine!” he grumbled, halting. “I agree!”

She spun around. “What?”

“He can stay.”

“Mr. Gladstone?”

“Aye.”

“I don’t have to bed you first?”

“No.”

He was so irritated by his decision that she grinned. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course I
mean
it. What do you think? That I’m talking simply to feel my lips flapping?” She giggled, and he snapped, “Why are you laughing at me?”

“Because you’ve done the right thing, and you’re angry about it.”

“I’m not angry.” He stopped short. “Well . . . maybe a little.”

Underneath the bluster, he was the sweetest man—as she’d sensed from the beginning. A serene joy swept through her, commencing at her heart and flowing outward to her extremities.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“You’re welcome.” He tipped his head in acknowledgment, then straightened, folding his arms across his chest, his domineering demeanor reasserting itself. “But he’s the only one. Do you hear me, Emma?”

“Yes. Now about the others—”

“Don’t pester me!”

“I have an interview arranged every afternoon. Tomorrow, we’re to call on Mrs. Wilson so that I can introduce you to her children.”

“I’m not about to chitchat with some strange woman’s children!”

“You’ll like them, especially baby Rose. She is such
a darling.” Chattering a mile a minute, she went off, jabbering about the Wilson family’s poverty, about the father who’d been killed in a haying accident.

He frowned at her, then his glower softened, and he gazed at her in amazement.

“What?” she queried on noticing his curious expression.

“You have more audacity than any person I’ve ever met.”

“Why do you say so? Because I’m trying to help my neighbors?”

“No-o-o.” He dragged out the word as though he were about to instruct a moron. “It’s because I give you the earth, and you demand the moon and stars, too!”

“If I never ask, I’ll never receive, will I?”

“
You
—Miss Fitzgerald—are a mercenary! I’m lucky I’m not facing you over a negotiating table.” He bent nearer. “Or across the barrel of a pistol!”

“You’re not about to make me feel guilty. You shouldn’t have issued any evictions. And you know it.”

“I know nothing of the sort.”

“What you really need to do is cancel the rents.”

“The rents!”

“Yes.”

“MissFitzgerald”—he was excessively exasperated—“I am the Viscount Wakefield. I take it you’re aware of my position in the community?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m here at the estate because it’s in horrendous fiscal condition. I must salvage a calamitous situation but how, exactly, am I to accomplish this feat?” Annoyed, he threw his hands up in the air. “I’m not to oust any tenants! I’m not to collect any rents! Just what is it you would have me do?”

“I have many good ideas.”

“I’m not foregoing any rental payments!” He shot her a fierce glare. “And that’s final!”

“They’ll be null and void for one year,” she adjoined calmly as though he hadn’t shouted at her. “Then, when you reinstate them, you’ll lower them, so that people have a fair chance to get back on their feet. It’s the drought, you understand, and a drop in the price of wheat, and then there was the—”

He grabbed her forearms, dipped under the rim of her hat, and kissed her, cutting off the rest. It only took an instant for the wonder to sink in, and she relaxed against him, pressing her torso to his so that they were connected from breasts to toes. He’d developed a marvelous cockstand, and it prodded her stomach, making her feminine regions tingle and throb.

When their lips separated, his eyes were sparkling with delight. The sun shone down on him, the leaves swished in the trees, a warm breeze rippled around them. It was tranquil, a brook rustling off in the distance, birds clamoring in whistles and squawks. The only other sounds were his steady breathing and the furious pounding of her pulse.

It was a magical moment, the two of them alone, surrounded by the dense forest, and he was showering her with such stunning affection that she longed to weep with how precious he made her feel.

“You talk too much,” he declared.

“So I’ve been told all my life.”

“You fill up my ears with your prattle.”

“You should listen to me.”

“I like you better when your mouth is busy.”

“With what task?” she saucily inquired.

“With entertaining me.” He molded his lips to hers and, when he ended it, she was sighing with pleasure.

“I love how you kiss me,” he said. “As if you truly want to.”

It was an odd comment, and she swore she wouldn’t reflect upon it. Besides, he was kissing her again, commanding her full attention, and she wrapped her arms around him, and gave her whole self over to the embrace. Their tongues mated in a frantic rhythm that made her womb stir, and swarms of butterflies surge through her stomach.

Her hat was in his way, and he yanked at the bow that was tied under her chin and tossed it into the weeds, then he gripped her bottom, whirled her around, and braced her against a tree. He was settled between her legs, his phallus pushed into her, so that if he shifted, even the slightest amount, he rubbed himself over her animated parts.

In a thrice, she was wet with desire, her body on fire. She wanted to have his hands on her, to have him fondle and nuzzle and caress.

His need spiraled in direct proportion to her own, and he thrust ardently, then abruptly, he quit, his respiration ragged, his control frazzled.

Moderating the conflagration, he nibbled across her cheek, down her neck, taking small bites that made her squirm and writhe. Her nipples were so hard they ached, straining at her dress, flagrantly imploring that they be released. She was so aroused that, if he so much as looked at them, she would likely do anything he suggested.

“I want to make love to you.” His voice was tempting, seductive, urging her to do what she oughtn’t. “Here in the forest.”

“No, someone might come by. Someone might see us.”

“These woods are deserted. We haven’t stumbled on
another soul all afternoon. It will be fine.”