“I didn’t ask you.”
“I cite your extensive learning so you can understand why this mission of yours, to revive the school, means naught to me.” His lazy gaze meandered down her torso. “You have only one thing to offer that’s of any value whatsoever.”
“What would that be?”
Nervously, she bit her bottom lip, capturing his hot attention.
“I’m trapped at Stafford,” he complained, “because of you.”
“Because of me?”
“Yes, you’ve pestered me until I can’t escape.”
“You’re not . . . trapped. You should welcome the chance to spend some time here.”
“No, I’m trapped, and I can’t predict when I’ll be able to flee.” He took a step toward her, and she took a step back. “I get bored easily, so I’ll need to be entertained. You’re responsible for my confinement, so I’ve decided that you will do the entertaining.”
“What sort of entertaining did you have in mind?”
“You know what sort.”
His focus dropped to her breasts and remained there, and though she was fully clothed, she felt naked and much too exposed.
“You’re being absurd.”
“No, I’m being perfectly rational.”
“You must have . . . women for that type of endeavor.”
“Not here.”
“Find some. Import some.”
“No, it has to be you, I’m afraid.”
“I refuse.”
“It’s not up to you. It’s up to me, and if you please me, Emeline, perhaps I’ll reconsider your school.”
“You liar. You never would. I’d sacrifice myself on the altar of your lust, and I’d have nothing to show for it but my total ruination.”
“The altar of my lust?”
He laughed and laughed, and she couldn’t help but note how handsome he was when he relaxed. He was always good looking, but in a stark, severe way. Merriment lightened his eyes and smoothed the worry lines around his mouth. He appeared younger, friendly, contented.
“You humor me beyond measure,” he said.
“I’m glad to be of assistance.”
“But I’m tired of this game I let you play.”
“I haven’t been playing any games.”
“Yes, you have been, and you’ve distracted me so thoroughly, I forgot that I get to set the rules.”
“What rules? How can you—”
“Emeline?”
“Yes?”
“You talk too much.”
As if she were a bag of flour, he clasped her waist, tossed her over his shoulder, and marched to the bedchamber.
Nicholas wasn’t sure what he was doing.
Emeline was hissing and kicking, her fists pounding his back, and the bed was approaching.
He threw her onto the mattress and fell on her before she could scramble away. Was he about to ravish her? Was that his plan?
He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t stop himself from careening down that road.
From the moment she’d stormed into his life, she’d been an enormous headache. If he wasn’t fighting with her, he was dealing with the catastrophes she’d stirred. If they weren’t bickering over his failings, he was putting out the rebellions she’d ignited.
He brooded over her constantly, as if she was a gnat lodged in his brain, or maybe a fatal disease that would eventually kill him. He ceaselessly obsessed: Where was she? What was she up to? What calamity would she next wreak?
She had an unlimited capacity for mischief, so she couldn’t be left to flounder on her own. She needed watching, and he was disturbed to discover that he wanted to be the man who did the watching.
He’d had too much to drink, so it was likely that he was making bad decisions, but she was the cause of his inebriation.
By her flogging him with her penury, she’d harassed him until he was conflicted over his actions at Stafford. He didn’t walk around second-guessing himself. He chose a course and moved forward. Yet what if he’d been wrong? What if he’d relied on Mason’s advice when he shouldn’t have?
When he thought of that quiet interlude in his library, as she’d wept on his shoulder . . .
He pushed the poignant vision out of his mind.
If he wanted anything from Emeline Wilson, it was what he wanted from all women: carnal relations. He didn’t want to understand her or feel sorry for her or create a bond.
He was keen to have sex with her, but she was a maiden, living under his protection and control. Despite his low reputation, he wasn’t such a brute that he would force her into an affair.
There was no benefit for her to participate. The estate was a small, close-knit community, where marriage was the remedy for illicit conduct, but he would never wed her. Gad, he couldn’t wed her. He was engaged to Lady Veronica, a union he would pursue at all costs.
So what was his intent?
He was too muddled to figure it out. He would dally and let what happened happen.
It was the cad’s way out, but he didn’t care. If he acted horridly, he’d get over it. He was always able to justify his reprehensible gaffes, and vaguely, he recalled telling her she should never trust him.
She’d been a fool to search him out in the middle of the night. If she started a fire and was burned by the flames, why was that his fault?
“Lord Stafford,” she said, already complaining. Did the blasted woman ever cease?
“Nicholas, remember?”
“Would you release me?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“What do you want from me?”
He frowned. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“At your advanced age, why would you have to ask?”
“Advanced!” she huffed, insulted.
“Haven’t you ever been tumbled before? Or are you so prim and forbidding that no man has dared?”
“I’m not prim and forbidding.”
Her face was scrunched up like a prudish prune, and he laughed again.
He’d never met a female like her. She was such a rare creature—bright and beautiful and belligerent—and he was absolutely fascinated.
“Would you for once,” he said, “be quiet and enjoy yourself?”
“I can’t enjoy myself. I’m terrified over what you’re about to do.”
“What I’m about to do is what some fellow should have done years ago.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You need a man in your bed like nobody’s business. We’ll work off some of that piss and vinegar that has you all bottled up.”
He gazed at her, and their connection
