He was worldly and sophisticated, had traveled everywhere and seen everything. He was a soldier in the army! He probably tumbled trollops in barns every night. Their dalliance had been a whim for him, and if she alluded to any sort of extended bond, he’d likely scoff at her provincial notions.
Out in the alley, a pair of drunks staggered by. They were singing, their speech slurred. Lt. Price pulled her close, not breathing, until they’d passed on.
On hearing their noisy carousing, reality crashed down with a vengeance.
How long had she dawdled? What time was it? What if Oscar was awake when she entered the house? There’d be no way to conceal her transgression. Her hair was down, her cheeks reddened from the rub of Lt. Price’s whiskers, and—she was certain—she’d be glowing.
Oscar wouldn’t have to guess at her behavior. It would be obvious.
“I’d better go,” she murmured.
“Will your brother be waiting up for you?”
“No, he went to bed ages ago.”
She prayed it was true.
“Still, you’d best be careful.”
“I will be.”
His cool remark dashed any lingering hopes she might have had as to whether terms like courtship or connection would be mentioned. Their encounter had been an impetuous, immoral romp but naught more.
He rose and tugged her to her feet, then he crept to the door and peeked out. Seeing no one, he urged her through.
He was extremely composed, as if nothing extraordinary had occurred, so she tried to match his aplomb, which was difficult. Her life had been turned upside down. She was reeling with elation, with worries over the present and the future, but then, she was a female, and she understood that men were rarely bothered by such concerns.
She scooted by him, and he clasped her wrist.
“We have to do this again,” he vehemently whispered.
“You’re mad. It’s too dangerous.”
“I’ll only be at Stafford for six weeks. I’m not about to avoid you.”
“I wouldn’t want that.”
“And if I bump into you, I know what will transpire.” He pointed to the pile of straw where they’d frolicked. “I’ll have to have you. We enjoy a strong attraction, and I’m not about to fight it.”
“It would be impossible.”
“We’ll be discreet,” he insisted. “We’ll find a way to be together.”
“Yes, we will,” she agreed, even though it was insane. The village was too small, the chances for discovery too great. Yet at the moment, she didn’t, didn’t, didn’t care. She yearned to twirl in circles and proclaim her happiness to the world.
He kissed her a final time, hard and fast, then—with a hand on her rear—he pushed her out.
She tarried, gazing at him, anxious to speak but aware that she couldn’t. She wanted to . . . thank him for choosing her, for singling her out, for showing her how it felt to truly be a woman. But she was quite sure he wouldn’t wish to hear her gushing.
Boldly, she stepped to him and initiated a final kiss of her own, then she hurried away. She liked to imagine that he followed her to the vicarage, watching so she arrived safely, but she didn’t glance around to check.
She slipped into the vestibule and tiptoed to her room with no one being the wiser as to what she’d done.
Emeline walked down the hall to the earl’s library. It was very late, and everyone was abed—except for herself and, hopefully, Lord Stafford. She had to speak with him, and until she did, she’d never be able to sleep. Her thoughts were too scattered, her anxiety too extreme.
Since he’d brought her home earlier that morning, she hadn’t seen him. He was supposedly still on the premises, but he’d been noticeably absent.
She was so insignificant that it would be easy for him to forget about her. If he departed for London before her situation was resolved, she couldn’t predict what would happen. She would be at the mercy of Benedict Mason again, and the prospect was terrifying.
The earl had said he would make plans for her, but what kind? The answer was becoming more urgent.
She’d applied for numerous teaching positions in other areas of the country, but with scant success. Another rejection letter had arrived that afternoon, so there remained only two employers who hadn’t replied. She wasn’t optimistic.
Why not continue the school at Stafford? It was the obvious solution to her finding a job. She was determined to plead her case to Nicholas Price. She had a knack for persuading him. Could she work her magic once more?
She hurried to the library and peeked inside, but he wasn’t there, so she returned to the stairs and climbed. On the landing, when she would have headed in one direction, she stared the other way. At the end of the long hall, a door was open, and a candle had been left burning. Should she blow it out?
It wasn’t the earl’s suite—that was up on the top floor—so she couldn’t guess who would be there, and she didn’t imagine anybody was. There were no other guests in the house.
She crept toward it, listening for sounds, but not hearing any. Suddenly, a glass shattered, and she jumped with alarm.
“Emeline?” a familiar male voice barked. When she didn’t respond, he growled, “Miss Wilson! I’m talking to you. Get your ass in here.”
She sidled over and peered in. “How did you know it was me?”
“I’d know that snotty stride anywhere.”
He was in a sitting room, the bedchamber behind him, and slouched in a chair over by the hearth. A robe covered his shoulders, but the lapels drooped, his naked chest visible. He had on a pair of trousers, but they were made from a flowing fabric that draped across his thighs, the sort of garment a sultan might wear when entertaining his harem.
His feet were bare, his thick hair loose around his nape. He hadn’t shaved, so his cheeks were darkened with stubble. He looked decadent and dangerous, and on seeing him, butterflies swarmed in her stomach.
He’d been drinking. There was
