The notion was preposterous, but blatantly apparent all the same. What could it portend? Had Fate brought them together? If so, to what end? Where would it lead?
“What should I do with you, Miss Wilson?” he asked as he pulled away.
“Please don’t kick us out on the road.”
“As if I could. You seem to have the opinion that I’m an ogre.”
“Well . . .”
“I’m trying to be kind and turn over a new leaf.” He scowled ferociously. “I’d like to accomplish it without suffering any of your harangue.”
“I wasn’t going to harangue.”
He snorted. “Don’t ever lie to me. You’re awfully bad at it.”
He snuggled her down again, and she breathed slowly, inhaling his clean, masculine scents of leather and horses. He was contemplating, considering her future, and she held herself very still, not wanting to interrupt his musings.
Ultimately, he said, “When we’re alone, I’m calling you Emeline.”
She laughed and sat up. “You’ve been thinking and thinking, and that’s all you could devise?”
“Yes. And you’re to call me Nicholas.”
“I never could.”
“Why not?”
“It would indicate a heightened familiarity.”
“Why would I care about that?”
“You’re an earl. You’re supposed to care.”
“Let me clue you in on a little secret.”
“What is it?”
“I hate being an earl, and I’m not concerned over how you address me.”
“You should be concerned.”
“I’m not, so Emeline and Nicholas it’s to be from this point on. I’m afraid I have to insist.”
He gripped her by the waist and set her on her feet. He stood too.
“Come,” he ordered.
“To where?”
“Why does a simple command always elicit a question from you? Why can’t you just follow me without hesitating?”
“Because I don’t trust you, and I naturally presume you’re up to no good.”
“Which is very wise. You should never trust me. But come with me anyway.”
He clasped her wrist and dragged her toward the door.
Obviously, he’d reached a decision about her. What would it be? If he threw her out, this was the last time she’d ever see him. A day or two prior, she’d have been glad. Now the prospect had her unaccountably sad.
“Where are we going?” she tried again.
“You need some breakfast, so we’ll get you fed.”
“Then what?”
“Then . . . you should wash up. You’re a mess.”
She glowered at him. “Would you be serious?”
“Yes, I will be. I’m instructing the housekeeper to prepare a suite of rooms for the three of you. I want you here in the manor, where you’re safe, while I make some plans for you.”
“What sort of plans?”
“If I already knew, I wouldn’t have to make them, now would I?”
“So . . . you’re not kicking us out?”
“Gad, no.”
“You mean it?”
“Emeline!” He frowned; she was trying his patience.
She flew into his arms and hugged him so tightly that she was surprised he could breathe.
“Thank you, thank you,” she murmured over and over.
“You’re welcome.”
His voice was gruff, as if he was embarrassed by her gratitude. He kissed her hair, her temple, her neck, then eased her away and opened the door.
“She’s gone?”
“Yes.”
“Her cottage leveled?”
“Yes. Finally.”
“I thought we’d never be shed of her.”
Benedict Mason leaned across Vicar Blair’s desk. They clinked their brandy glasses, toasting their success at ridding themselves of Emeline Wilson. Though it was mid-afternoon, and they shouldn’t have been drinking, they had ample cause for celebration. And when good liquor was involved, Blair was always eager to participate.
Early on in his tenure at Stafford, Benedict had learned that Oscar Blair might preach fire and brimstone, but he wasn’t averse to privately partaking of alcohol. With Miss Wilson’s downfall, a hearty tipple was definitely warranted.
In Benedict’s world, people were either friends or enemies. Blair was an ally, their connection necessary so they could both get what they desired from the community. Blair demanded absolute spiritual authority, and Benedict demanded absolute fiscal authority. They understood their spheres of influence and didn’t attempt to usurp the other’s power. Their devious alliance was extremely rewarding, and Benedict worked to keep it functioning smoothly.
He liked Blair to be off guard, liked him to believe they were closer than they actually were. Whenever Benedict visited, he brought a gift, usually a pilfered bottle of the earl’s best brandy. That way, Benedict had excellent liquor to swill when they congratulated themselves on some especially pernicious act.
Their latest project had been orchestrating the fate of Emeline Wilson. Benedict loathed her for refusing his courtship. Blair loathed her simply for being a female, and he abhorred all women.
Benedict wouldn’t allow her to remain in the area, both because she’d spurned him, but also because she’d been pestering Nicholas Price with her ridiculous ideas of equity and fairness.
Benedict enjoyed enormous autonomy. Often, he felt that Stafford belonged to him, rather than Nicholas Price, and he couldn’t have Miss Wilson luring the earl to the estate. He’d wanted Emeline Wilson to go away, and he wanted the earl back with his army regiment so Benedict could carry on without interference.
“Are you aware of her plans?” Benedict asked.
“My sister mentioned that she was in the pauper’s line at the market. There was a man from London offering to take our beggars to the city and beyond.”
“Let’s pray she went.”
“Yes, let’s do.”
They clinked their glasses again, then Benedict finished his drink and departed. He mounted his horse—well, the earl’s horse, but why quibble?—and headed to the manor. It was a beautiful spring day, the road busy with crowds coming to the market.
Those who recognized him glanced away, their fear obvious and gratifying. He couldn’t foster a reputation for compassion or mercy. He had too many distasteful tasks to accomplish, and people needed to be wary so they wouldn’t argue when he appeared on their stoops.
Only Emeline Wilson had been foolish enough to stand up to him, but look where her bravado had left her.
Ha! Out on her ear, with no friends, and nowhere to go. Her plight would be a warning to others: Think twice before crossing him.
He trotted down the lane to the mansion, and he’d
