Only Miss Wilson had brightened his stay. He would scold her for her folly. He would explain a few facts of life, then he’d go away and never come back.
“Are you stealing from me, Miss Wilson?”
Nicholas stood on the bank of the river, fists on hips, trying to appear stern, but failing. Though he didn’t like her sassy attitude, he couldn’t deny that she was very pretty, and it pleased him to look at her.
She was out in the stream, the water up to her knees, the bottom of her skirt sodden and heavy. She wore a man’s hat—her father’s?—the brim torn, the fabric faded. Her beautiful golden hair was stuffed haphazardly into it, but the tresses couldn’t be constrained and various ones drooped down her back.
She hadn’t heard him approaching, and at his severe query, she squealed with alarm and whipped around.
Her fishing pole was a paltry stick, a piece of string tied to the end, and he couldn’t imagine what she was using for hook or bait.
From the condition of her cottage, her sisters, and her fishing gear, it was obvious she hadn’t a clue how to fend for herself. She was a walking disaster. Previously, he’d wondered why she wasn’t married, with a husband to protect her, and the question was becoming ever more relevant.
She had a sharp tongue and quick wit, but she had no practical qualities. She couldn’t care for herself or her sisters—she probably couldn’t even cook or clean—and he’d never stumbled on a woman who was more in need of male guidance and support.
For the briefest instant, he almost wished he was staying at Stafford so he could provide what she required. Almost.
It was amusing to think about an extended acquaintance, but he would never pursue one. She was exhausting. She’d slay him with her foolishness and constant speechifying. In a week, he’d be dead from exasperation.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“You’re fishing. Are you stealing from me?”
“I wasn’t fishing.” Surreptitiously, she dropped her rod, and it floated away.
She peered up at him, her gaze firm and unwavering, and he laughed.
“You, Miss Wilson, are a bald-faced liar.”
“I am not. Do I seem like the sort of person who would know how to . . . fish?”
“No, you don’t, but your sisters spilled the beans.”
Panic flashed in her eyes. “What have they told you?”
“That you regularly dine off the bounty from this river—despite Mr. Mason’s specific prohibition that you not.”
“They’re just girls,” she gamely retorted. “They’re easily confused.”
“A suggestion, if I may?”
“No, you may not,” she snapped, but he offered it anyway.
“You don’t have to do it like that.”
“Like what?”
“You can fish from the bank. You don’t have to wade in and dampen your gown. Simply tie a longer string onto your pole.”
“If I was fishing—which I wasn’t—I would take your method under advisement.”
She started toward him, but her skirt tangled around her legs, and she pitched one way, then the other, and she tumbled to the side. She was about to suffer a complete dunking—could the madwoman even swim?—but she merely fell to her knees, wetting herself to her waist.
She struggled in the current, and he couldn’t bear to watch her flail. It was like seeing a turtle on its back. He marched into the water, soaking his boots in the process. Without asking her opinion, he picked her up and hauled her out.
“Don’t touch me!” she fumed.
“Should I have let you drown?”
“Yes.”
“Your sisters would miss you if you perished.”
“They’d be the only ones.”
“Perhaps I’d miss you too.”
“You’re too selfish. You’d never notice I was gone.”
“I stand corrected: If you vanished, I wouldn’t be concerned in the least.”
“I’m sick of you manhandling me.”
“Mind your manners and thank me for saving you.”
“As if I’d thank you for anything,” she complained as he set her on her feet. “You’re a menace. I wish I’d never begged you to come here.”
“No, you don’t. You’re delighted to see me.”
“You’re so vain that I’m surprised your head can fit through a door.”
He released her, but not too swiftly. He liked buxom, fleshy, dark-haired trollops, so he’d deemed her too blond, too thin, and not his type, but there was no mistaking the shapely breast that had just been pressed to his chest. Rogue that he was, he reveled in the naughty contact.
An image flared, of her stretched out on his bed at his London house. He hadn’t thought the fleeting moment had registered, but apparently, his body remembered the prurient interlude. To his amazement, his cock stirred.
Was he physically attracted to her? How hilarious! But then, he was enticed by any female in a dress. He wasn’t fussy, and Miss Wilson’s irritating traits hadn’t yet grown so irksome that they’d overwhelmed his salacious urges.
She had scrambled up the bank and stomped off. He’d expected her to stop and insult him again, but she kept going. On realizing that she’d had enough of him and was leaving, he was extremely annoyed.
She was correct that he possessed great vanity. He was the center of his universe; he was heeded and flattered. He barked out commands, and underlings jumped to execute them.
They didn’t storm off in a huff. It wasn’t allowed. The entire world was aware of this fact—except her.
“Miss Wilson!” he bellowed, infuriated to find himself chasing after her, his drenched boots squishing with every step.
She whirled around. “What now?”
“I’m not finished speaking with you.”
“Well, I am finished speaking with you.”
“You may not depart until I give you permission.”
“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “Just go away!”
She started off again, and he trailed after her like a spurned suitor. In a few strides, they were walking side by side.
“Why doesn’t Mr. Mason let you fish?”
“Why would you think?”
“I haven’t any idea.”
“He’s a cruel bully. I told you he was.”
“You don’t like him, but that doesn’t mean he’s—”
“People are hungry
