Cheryl Holt (12 page)

She’d wear only the most expensive gowns, would hire a personal maid to wait on her hand and foot. A
French coiffeuse would style her hair. She’d accouter herself in the finest jewels, would feast on the most scrumptious diet, imbibe the rarest wines, while being courted and wooed by dozens of cultured swains.

What an extraordinary adventure it would be! A restorative holiday! A grand lark!

From the time she was a babe, she’d longed to be someone different. Throughout her childhood, she’d chafed over what couldn’t be changed, even going so far as to speculate whether a huge, celestial error had been made, if the stork had deposited her in the wrong house. She was so distinct from her humble, modest parents. They were decent folks, who hadn’t hungered for more than they’d been given, while she’d constantly envisioned herself in a bigger world, filled with gaiety and excitement.

As a result, she’d never fit in, had never belonged, and clearly, she hadn’t learned any lessons from her contrariety, either. Her father had regularly counseled her about the dangers of craving too much, yet she persisted in clinging to fruitless illusions.

The flamboyant life relished by the likes of Wake-field and his friends wasn’t for her. Her sedate, ho-hum existence was meant to be, and there’d be no variation. Not on this day or any other, and immature daydreaming wouldn’t accomplish anything, except to exacerbate her discontentment.

Happiness came from within, as her father was wont to say. She appreciated the wisdom of the statement, but still, every once in a while . . .

Jane was lingering by the stoop. She jumped up and, with a lovely smile on her face, rushed out. Almost eleven, she was pretty, with Emma’s same brown eyes and slim figure, but her hair wasn’t quite so curly or uncontrollable, and it was a lighter shade of brunette, an
auburn with blond highlights. She was happy, sweet-natured, gangly and lanky as a colt, and perched on the verge of blossoming into a charming woman.

Emma adored her and had from the moment she’d been born, having assisted the local midwife in the miraculous delivery. Although she’d helped at hundreds of births since then, her first encounter with childbirth had been seeing Jane slip from their mother’s body. It had made the two sisters inordinately close. Emma had been sixteen, and with their mother’s precarious health, Jane’s upbringing had been fully placed into Emma’s hands, so she usually felt more like the girl’s mum than her sibling.

“Did you meet with Viscount Wakefield?” Jane was bubbly with excitement. With Emma’s revelation the night before—that she would have several appointments with Wakefield—Jane had been delighted and fascinated.

“Yes, I did.”

Flinching at the reminiscence, she couldn’t stop ruminating over how phenomenal it had been to be with him, but also about how dreadful it had been when his mistress had ambled into his dressing room and shut the door.

On the solitary trek from the mansion, she’d been besieged as to what had likely transpired. Hundreds of grotesque visions rampaged, and she couldn’t keep them at bay.

She’d pictured Georgina embracing him, or maybe letting him mount her from behind as he had when Emma had spied upon them.

Miserable and forlorn, in a dither, she’d stomped through the forest, struggling to come to grips with her envy and jealousy. She felt as if Wakefield were cheating on her by having sex with his mistress! An absurd notion
all the way around! But there it was, and she couldn’t put it aside.

Such vice and dissolution were destructive for him—damaging to his person and his soul—and Emma was inexplicably troubled about both, though why she should fret over the bounder was a mystery.

“Tell me everything,” Jane begged. “Was he very grand?”

She’d developed a fanciful, adolescent-style crush on John Clayton that had Emma realizing how fast she was growing up.

“Aye.” Emma grinned, not having to prevaricate about that fact, at least.

“Would you say he’s handsome as a prince?”

“Definitely.”

“What was he wearing?”

There at the end, nothing at all!

Emma’s cheeks blushed scarlet at the recollection. Lord, but wasn’t he a dangerous, enticing rogue? “A flowing white shirt and tan pants, made from very expensive fabric. And jaunty black boots that came up below the knee.”

“He was very dashing, wasn’t he?”

“You’re right about that.”

“And is he kind?” Romantically, she professed, “I couldn’t bear it if he wasn’t.”

“He’s extremely kind,” Emma answered. “Look what he gave us.” She opened the tablecloth so that Jane could peek inside at the feast Emma had stolen.

“Scones!” Jane breathed the word as if she were beholding a precious gift of gold or jewels. She clasped her hands and pressed them to her chest. “Did you tell him I love scones?”

“I did”—fornication, stealing, and now lying! She was transforming into a criminal with scarcely any effort!—“and
he went straight out and advised Cook to pack a big bag so you could have all you want.”

“He sent them for me?”

“Yes.”

Jane skipped along with Emma, thrilled to suppose that Wakefield would have taken an interest in her. In her short life, few people had. Their father had been too preoccupied with his duties, and their mother too sickly to be attentive. Jane was a darling lass, but lonely, being too solitary and isolated due to their mother’s declining condition.

To earn them coins or food, Emma often had to leave for hours or days. When she was summoned by their neighbors, Jane had to stay by herself to watch over their mother, Margaret.

Margaret’s physical constitution had perpetually been unstable, but recently, her mental acuity had started to go, too. Disoriented, careless, she was prone to wandering off, so someone had to be with her every second.

Too much of the burden was teetering on Jane’s slender shoulders, and Emma ceaselessly fretted about the hardship, but it couldn’t be rectified, and the onus was one more item about which Emma had to feel guilty.

“How is Mother?” It was painful to inquire. Long ago, she’d conceded that Margaret would never improve. She was steadily fading away—even her body was shrinking—and it seemed as though she might soon disappear altogether.

“She had a fine afternoon,” Jane said, but then, Jane invariably claimed their mother was doing well; it was an essential deceit she utilized to cope with the irreparable situation. “She’s been rocking in her chair.”

The rocking motion soothed their mother, and whenever she was distressed, they would lead her to it and give the chair a gentle shove. Emma was relieved that
the time had passed so uneventfully for both of them.

“Let’s go in and unpack these goodies.”

Jane raced ahead, Emma following more slowly. As they reached the door, the sound of wheels crunching down their narrow lane had them stopping and turning to see the new vicar, Harold Martin, drawing nigh. He was exceedingly proud that he could afford a carriage, and he always pretentiously arrived in it.

In his peculiar manner, he presumed himself to be courting Emma and, on one stunning occasion, he’d proposed marriage. As he’d been strutting through the rectory and taking possession of her home when the offer was tendered, she hadn’t been inclined to say yes. He’d been too gleeful over his usurpation of the property, while having virtually no regard for the incapacitated widow and her two children from whom the house was being confiscated.

He had garnered his post through an attenuated connection to the Claytons, and he periodically and aggravatingly alluded to his distant association. Since he’d acquired a sufficient income through his job as vicar, he’d decided to marry, an act he’d had to delay as a bachelor with no means of support.

Emma was the sole female in the vicinity whom he deemed worthy of his elevated status, but she hadn’t been able to imagine herself as his wife, though disgustingly, she hadn’t entirely abandoned the possibility. Unduly wary, she felt that, as yet, she hadn’t descended to rock bottom, and she needed to keep the alternative available should her quandary worsen.

His chipper conveyance rattled to a halt, and as he fiddled with the reins, Jane fidgeted, reminding Emma of another reason she had no genuine fondness for him. His dislike of children was palpable, and Jane sensed it.

“Why don’t you take our treats inside, while I chat with Vicar Martin?”

Jane stood on tiptoe, and whispered, “Would you be upset if I hid them so we don’t have to share?” Emma was shocked by the comment, and Jane quickly added, “Or would that be too un-Christian?”

Emma pondered her request, taking in Harold’s smart vehicle, his sporty clothes, his shined shoes, and she winked at Jane. “Put it all away.”

Jane bounced in, elated to be out of the vicar’s presence. His relief was reciprocal.

“Emma”—he neared, smiling a smile that was a tad chilly—“it’s such a pleasant afternoon. I thought you’d like to join me for a ride.”

While she wasn’t overly enthused about his company—he could be an exceptional boor—she frequently went with him, enjoying the excuse to gad about, to do something fun and frivolous. A fair fellow, of medium height and stature, he had blue eyes and thinning blond hair. In a few years, he’d be bald, but for now, he was well dressed and dapper.

He was precisely the type of gentleman a woman should have been flattered to entertain. Was she mad to reject him? In view of her dire plight, what did she hope to gain?

She sighed. This was not the day she could tolerate his insincere prattle. Not after she’d been fondling and caressing the very naked, very virile Viscount Wakefield an hour earlier.

“I can’t, Harold. I’ve just returned, myself. I haven’t even said hello to Mother yet.”

Her mother was another barrier between their having a future. He detested Margaret’s increasing senility and avoided her as if the affliction were catching.

On hearing that she’d been out, his brows rose. He
was regularly amazed to learn that she had a life beyond the cottage, and he was determined to guide her in her private affairs. As she’d consistently been an independent female, his pomposity rankled.

“What have you been doing?”

“I dropped in on Viscount Wakefield.”

“He received
you
?”

“Yes.”

“Why would he?”

“Because I asked him to.”

“But I’ve been trying to obtain an audience for the past week!”

“Really?” She feigned innocence. “I can’t fathom why you couldn’t. He didn’t seem to be busy.”

His mouth firmed into a tight line, and he pretended no affront, that he hadn’t been deliberately snubbed by the nobleman. “I wasn’t eager to meet with the man. I merely felt I should pay my respects, but with all the gossip . . .” He let the implication trail off.

“About what?”

“About the viscount and his . . . his
colleagues
. From what I gather, there is a lot of mischief occurring at the manor.” He paused for dramatic effect, fiddled with his watch, tugged on his vest. “If you get my drift.”

“No, I don’t,” she lied. “What’s happening?”

“Let’s just say it wouldn’t be fitting for a man of the cloth to visit, and I must order you not to go again, either.”

She wondered if Harold would suffer an apoplexy should she confess some of what she’d seen and done—by her own choosing! “Sorry, but I can’t accommodate you.”

“Emma, you must acquiesce to my guidance in this matter. It won’t do for my fiancée to be discovered on the premises.”

“We’re not engaged, Harold.”

He ignored her contradiction. “The viscount is not a proper individual for you to know.”

“Well, Wakefield can be a bit of a—”

“You call him
Wakefield
?” he petulantly remarked. “Aren’t you a virtual pair of chums!”

“I’m hoping he’ll ultimately consider us to be friends. It will enhance my chances of success.”

He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you accosted him with your foolish petition!”

“Of course I did.”

“But you’re aware of why I objected.”

“Yes, I am, Harold.” He’d been excessively vocal in his command that she not meddle.

“Emma, you must desist with these impractical quests. You’re tilting at windmills.”

“You can’t convince me not to try, Harold.” His pessimism was the biggest obstacle between them. She saw incessant opportunities where he was certain none would ever exist. “Besides, I’m gradually swaying him. He’ll change his mind like that.” She snapped her fingers, her show of bravado so impressive that she almost believed it herself.

“Such a worldly, sophisticated chap doesn’t wish to be inconvenienced with petty complaints.” He assessed her, making it obvious she had nothing of value with which to persuade the infamous aristocrat. “You forget that I’m well acquainted with the Claytons. Lord Wake-field won’t oblige you.”

“We’ll see.” Thankfully, she was rescued by her sister beckoning to her from the cottage. “Jane must need my assistance with Mother.”

“What about our drive?”

“Invite me next week.”

She spun away and bustled inside, resolutely shutting
the door and peeking at him through a crack in the boards. As his carriage vanished down the rutted lane, she shuddered with distaste.

What if desperate circumstances forced her hand, and she ended up married to the lummox?

She’d rather take up harlotry. Full time.

Ian Clayton lounged on his bed, a pile of pillows propped behind him, peering at the flame of a candle as it flickered and extinguished. A warm summer breeze rustled the curtains, and a refreshing gust of wind blew in, smelling of moist earth and impending rain. Far off in the distance, thunder rumbled and lightning flashed.

Across the room, movement caught his eye. Surprisingly, his door was opening, and someone sneaking in, when he couldn’t conceive of who it might be. Before they’d left London, he’d made a decision to steer clear of the females who’d tagged along, and he’d been categorical in his disdain so that none of them would misconstrue. While John relished their licentious tendencies, and felt they were worth the bother, Ian couldn’t abide any of them. They were loose with their favors, and foul of character.