Cheryl Holt (36 page)

Why abstain? He had ties to no woman, was unshackled by convention or restraint. In forty-eight hours, he was bound for Yorkshire. Before going, he was eager to revel in his preferred pastimes, and he’d not feel any guilt over his decision.

“Would you like a drink?” Georgina queried, smoothing over the awkward silence.

“Yes, I would.”

She grabbed a glass, poured whisky to the rim, then delivered it to him. Their fingers grazed, and he inanely observed that there was no flare of sensation at their touching.

He tipped the libation and took his customary protracted swallow, but as he’d scarcely had a drop of spirits since meeting Emma, he’d lost his acclimation, and the stringent liquid burned. His eyes watered, and he almost embarrassed himself by coughing and spitting it up.

Hastily pulling himself together, he advised Georgina, “I had an exhausting journey. I’d like a bath, then a massage and supper. I’m starving.”

“Certainly, John.” In the intervening period, her poise had reasserted itself, and she pranced about as though she’d like nothing more than to wait on him hand and foot.

She rose on tiptoe, and bestowed an irksome kiss
against his lips, then she exited to summon the appropriate servants.

After she left, Gwenda patted the spot next to her on the couch, flashing a primitive smile that promised numerous episodes of erotic bliss. “It’s been a long time, Lord Wakefield.”

“Yes, it has.”

He crossed the room and sat down.

Georgina idled at her breakfast table, sipping her morning chocolate and contemplating the sealed envelope before her. She was in no rush to open it. Whatever message was contained within would be dangerous, would have the power to transform her life forever.

It held hazardous propensities—she felt it deep in her bones—an instinctive, inherent female premonition of bad news.

The missive was from Wakefield and, without a doubt, would clarify what had befallen John. Before he’d trekked off to Yorkshire, his abbreviated visit had been discouraging. He’d been morose, obviously troubled by a momentous dilemma, and unwilling—or perhaps unable—to rollick due to his preoccupation.

Nothing she’d tried had lured him out of his unusual doldrums, and much of his inclination for vice and corruption had vanished, which was a terrifying discovery for someone in her line of work.

If he persisted with his present direction and totally relinquished his penchant for fast living, what would become of her?

Drastic measures were imperative. She needed to proceed aggressively, but at the same juncture, it couldn’t hurt to privately and quietly begin investigating other financial opportunities—just in case she failed in
her efforts and her arrangement with John was terminated.

She picked up the envelope and examined it, testing its weight and size in her palm. It had been simple enough to retrieve it from John’s daily post. The footman who’d stolen it for her had a gambling addiction and was constantly in need of extra cash, which Georgina was delighted to provide in exchange for the favors he managed.

A woman could never have too many friends in the right places!

She wasn’t sure what had compelled her to watch for a letter, but now that the correspondence had arrived, she was elated that her fortuitous acumen had been so acute.

Weary of the suspense, of delaying the inevitable, she stuck her thumbnail under the seal and carefully lifted it. If it wasn’t what she’d anticipated, she’d have to resecure it and have it slipped into John’s mail with no one being the wiser as to its temporary absence.

Dispassionately, she scanned the text, her lips curving into a small moue of distaste, her heart pounding at the realization of how near she’d come to disaster.

“My dearest John,” the tidy, feminine script read, “I regret that I’m forced to write with these horrid tidings, but when we parted, you asked me to contact you should the worst happen . . .”

At the bottom of the page, she shook her head in disgust.

“Foolish, foolish girl!” she chided to the quiet room.

She refolded the paper and tapped the edge against the wood of the table, mulling, speculating, deliberating as to the likely consequences if John received the communication—and if he didn’t.

What would he do with the information?

Ultimately, she decided that there was only one viable choice. The prospects of any action he might take to assist the little Jezebel were too grave.

The note had to be destroyed.

If he subsequently learned that the strumpet had written to apprise him of her predicament, it would be far too late for him to intervene, and no one would ever postulate over why her solicitation had been lost.

The post was so unreliable.

A candle was lit on the sideboard. She snatched it up and held the corner of the letter over the flame. Once the document grew too hot, she dropped it on her plate, and it dwindled to a pile of ashes, then she strolled to the hearth and threw the remaining scraps into the fire.

As the last of the evidence disappeared, she used a napkin to brush at her fingers, wiping away any sign that she’d handled the blackened mess, then she went upstairs to dress for her round of afternoon socializing.

Emma meandered down the hall of the vicarage and took in the details of the house where she’d been born and raised. As the domicile was now a bachelor’s residence, there were many differences from how it had been when the Fitzgerald family had utilized it, but she was pacified by the familiar surroundings.

I can do this!
she murmured to herself.
I can!

Ten weeks had passed since that dreadful incident in John’s bedchamber, when they’d loved so tenderly and fought so viciously. Since that vile encounter, she’d often pondered how two people who’d been so intimate could have come to such a hideous end.

She hated him! She loved him! And she excruciatingly felt every riotous swing of emotion in between.
How could her immense ardor for him have brought her to this despicable low?

Mortified, degraded, frantic, she trudged on to the library, where the housekeeper had said that Harold was finally ready to accommodate her. He’d kept her waiting for nearly an hour, and she’d dawdled in the parlor like a supplicant, checking the clock on the mantel, counting the arduous ticking by of the minutes.

If she’d been in a stronger position, she’d have declined to play his game. He was trying to make a point, or teach her a lesson, when she couldn’t fathom what it might be, but she was in a dismal, desolate mood, so she’d lingered.

While she wasn’t certain what had transpired between them, it definitely didn’t seem as though he still wanted to marry her. The notion that he might have changed his mind set her insides to quivering.

If he was no longer interested, what would she do? What options did she have?

Previously, he’d been a frequent visitor, but now, she rarely saw him. He didn’t arrange for picnics or carriage rides, he never stopped by to inquire how she was faring. At church, she and Jane would say their hellos after the service, and he was cool and reserved, his demeanor toward her having reversed dramatically.

She feared that she’d angered him, though she couldn’t see how. He could be tedious, fussy, although she’d always tried to be polite, but something had driven him away.

The village social, where the parish celebrated the harvest at the end of September, had been held the prior week, and she’d been so sure that he’d invite her to go with him, but no request had been forthcoming, and it boded ill for how circumstances had evolved.

Her trepidation spiraling, she approached the library.

The door was open, but she knocked anyway, the rift in their relationship making her feel uncomfortable about barging in. Petulantly, she noticed that he was sitting behind what had been her father’s desk, involved in paperwork, and he didn’t look up when she entered.

She missed her father, missed the invariable rhythm of that era, the ebb and flow where each day had blended into the next, where there’d been no surprises, no catastrophes, no anguish or grief. No John Clayton to wreak havoc.

Her father had been a compassionate man, and he’d spent his life doing for others who were less fortunate. How galling that Harold had been allowed to succeed him! She was inexplicably furious, and she bit down on any comments, lest her wagging tongue spew sentiments she dare not utter aloud.

“Have a seat.” He was irritable, as though she were wasting his time.

Busy with adjusting and organizing his documents, he ignored her, incensing her with his discourtesy, but she quashed her spike of temper. Considering the current precarious state of their association, she couldn’t display a hint of annoyance.

After lengthy rumination as to her plight, she’d determined that she had to seek Harold’s help. She’d written to the exalted Viscount Wakefield, but he couldn’t be bothered to answer, and there was no one else to whom she could turn. Not her mother, certainly. Even if her mother had been in full possession of her faculties, she’d never been robust, could never have dealt with such horrible news. Jane was much too young.

Emma had no trusted confidantes and, while she was on amiable terms with many women, she couldn’t discuss her condition with any of them. Such a juicy tidbit
would race like wildfire through the neighborhood, when Emma needed absolute secrecy.

Though she’d racked her brain, she hadn’t devised an alternative. There was no other gentleman of her acquaintance who might aid her. Just Harold. From the first, he’d been infatuated, had seemed almost obsessed with the idea of marrying her. That sort of profound affinity didn’t cease overnight. He
had
to still feel some fondness.

She prayed that she could find the words to plead her case—without humiliating herself in the process!

“What is it?” he snapped.

He tossed his papers aside, and shifted in the chair, his fingers steepled over his chest, and there was a particular venom about him that scared her, which was preposterous.

This was Harold! Plain, boring, stodgy, dependable Harold.

Momentarily, she faltered, then regrouped. “I must speak with you.”

“In what capacity? As your minister?”

“As my minister but also, I would hope, as my friend.”

She smiled hesitantly, but he didn’t render any reciprocal sign of affability.

“Shut the door.” He nodded toward it.

Rising, she walked over and closed it. His vehement gaze cut into her back, but she returned to her chair, head high, though her hands were quaking, and she tucked them under her skirt.

“I have a confession to make, and I—”

“What?” he barked, interrupting. “I can’t hear you.”

“Well . . . you’ve wanted to marry me for many months now”—he was glaring at her so malevolently that she wasn’t sure she’d be permitted to spit it all out,
so she hurried on—“and I’ve kept putting you off. It was rude of me, I admit, but recently, I was wondering if . . . that is . . . if you might . . .”

Though she’d mulled over the conversation on dozens of occasions, the reality was nothing like the fantasy. She couldn’t verbalize what she required. Her shame was too gigantic, her burden too impossible.

In all actuality, she barely knew Harold, and for her to have imagined that she could beseech him to shield her from scorn, to wipe away her sins before the community, had been a ludicrous plan. She’d simply been so desperate, and her anxiety had her grasping at straws.

She couldn’t do it. Not to him. Not to any man.

Ooh, how she’d love to strangle John Clayton! If she could wrap her hands around his neck for ten measly seconds, he would rue the day!

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.” She started to stand, but his sharp tone halted her.

“Sit!” he decreed, angrily drumming his fingers on the desktop. “You can tell me whatever it is. We are
betrothed
, after all.”

His concern was unmistakably feigned, and
betrothed
was imbued with such rancor and disdain that she shrank away from him, wanting to go, but worried as to how she should depart. Anymore, her musings were so agitated, her panic so enormous, that she couldn’t make a valid decision to save her life.

She slid down into her chair, and she was incapable of speech, couldn’t explain what she was doing in his library. Tears welled to her eyes. Increasingly, she was overly emotional, and the slightest development set her to weeping. Plus, she was excessively fatigued. From hard work. From lack of sleep. From torment and toil and despair.

“Let me guess,” he chided. “You’re in a wretched
spot, and you need me to get you out of it.”

“I thought I did, but I was wrong. I can’t ask you.”

“Whyever not,
dearest
Emma? I’m your fiancé! Soon to be your husband! What could have occurred that would be so terrible you couldn’t share it with me?”

His insulting manner, his attitude and hostility, were so out of character that she couldn’t deduce what had wrought such animosity. Rounding the desk, he placed himself in front of her. He wasn’t inordinately tall, but she was sitting down, so he towered over her and seemed extremely intimidating.

“Are you—by any chance—here to divulge that you’re with child? And it is by another man?”

She trembled. “How did you know?”

His malice escalated. “So it’s true!”

“Yes.”

She stared down at her lap, but she could sense his glittering regard drifting to her abdomen, her breasts, and he assessed her in a prurient, contemptuous fashion. The analysis was so meticulous that she felt as if he were viewing her unclothed, and she struggled against the urge to fold her arms over her torso in order to conceal herself from his probing evaluation.

“Did you enjoy your
romp
with your precious viscount, Emma?”

My stars! He knew about John! How could he? “I didn’t mean to—”

“Shut up!” He bent down, thrusting his face into hers, compelling her to look at him. “You’ve disgraced yourself! And me! Do you have any inkling of how sickened I am by what you’ve done?”

“I can’t begin to—”