“I don’t think He intervenes in this sort of thing.”
“It can’t hurt to try.”
Oscar was in his study, staring out the window as the clock rang with a single chime, indicating that it was one o’clock.
Josephine was an hour late.
In the mornings, she made charity calls for him so he didn’t have to bother. He hated visiting the sick, the poor, or the dying. People brought on their own troubles, and he had no sympathy for them, but she oozed compassion.
Until he was wed—a future event he viewed with extreme distaste—she would serve as his hostess, so it was her duty to minister to his flock, much as it would be his wife’s after he chose a bride. But she was aware of the requirements when she left the house.
She had to be back by noon so she could freshen up. Then they would dine promptly at twelve-thirty. He was a fastidious man, and he liked his routines. When his schedule was interrupted, it soured the remainder of his day.
Her tardiness was disrespectful, but then, she had always been much too independent. She presumed she could act in any brazen fashion and there would be no consequences.
Their father’s strict rules had not tamed her. Her husband’s severe criticisms—criticisms leveled for her own good—had not tamed her. Oscar’s firm guidance and moral instruction had not tamed her.
She would blithely make note of his concerns, then carry on however she pleased.
None of them had ever taken a belt to her, but maybe it was time. If she could be taught to fear the lash, she might temper her defiance.
Down the lane, he observed her sauntering along, and as she neared, he realized she wasn’t alone. The earl’s brother was with her. They weren’t behaving improperly, but still, Josephine was grinning at him like a flirtatious trollop.
They stopped at the gate, and Lt. Price bowed courteously. She uttered a remark that had him laughing, and he continued on.
Oscar’s fury simmered to a boil. While he’d grown hungry and his meal cold, she’d been throwing herself at the earl’s brother! Had she no shame? No sense of status or class? How could she humiliate herself over the likes of Stephen Price?
Lt. Price was an ungodly heathen who, with the elevation of his impious brother, had been raised up above everyone. He could now pick any woman in the world to be his bride, so he’d deem a female of Josephine’s humble position to be a trifle, a plaything for his manly lusts. Didn’t Josephine know any better?
Or perhaps she welcomed his attention. Her husband had never discussed the sordid details of their marriage, but he’d often hinted at her having disgusting tendencies. Was Stephen Price drawing his sister’s base inclinations to the fore?
Oscar would kill her before he’d let it happen.
He shifted away from the window, and he waited silently, listening, as she entered the house, as she hung her cloak and apologized to the maid for being late.
He poked his head into the hall, his face blank.
“Josephine, would you come here? I must speak with you.”
“Yes, Oscar, certainly.” Hustling toward him, she smiled and stepped into the room. “I’m sorry I was delayed. There appears to be an influenza circulating the neighborhood. I couldn’t finish as quickly as I’d hoped.”
He closed the door, and as he spun the key in the lock, he hissed, “Where have you been?”
“What? I went visiting.”
“Don’t lie to me!”
“I’m not lying!”
“You were with that blackguard, Stephen Price.”
“Lt. Price? Yes, I ran into him on the way home. He accompanied me. There was no harm done.”
He loomed up over her, liking how she shrank away, as if afraid he would strike her, and he had to admit the notion was tempting. However, the maid and cook were on the premises, so he couldn’t administer the punishment she deserved.
“So long as you are living under my roof,” he snarled, “you will not prostitute yourself.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I? I saw him looking at you.”
“You’re mad. He was being friendly.”
“I saw you looking back.” He grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, and he squeezed tight, shaking her as if she were a bad dog.
“Get down on your knees! Get down and beg the Lord for forgiveness.”
Mute and aggrieved, she gaped at him, but didn’t move, so he forced her down. Recalcitrant whore that she was, she resisted with all her might, so he pushed and pushed until he had her on the floor. He held her there, as she cried and prayed, and he kept on and on until his back and arms ached, and he grew too weary to persist.
He tossed her away, and she stumbled to the side.
“Go to your room,” he spat, “and reflect on your sins. And if I catch you talking to Lt. Price again, I will beat you within an inch of your life.”
She scurried out and scrambled to the vestibule on her hands and knees. As she reached the stairs, she used the banister to pull herself up. Then she climbed to her bedchamber and shut herself in to repent in private where he wouldn’t have to watch.
“You’re to do what?”
“Measure you.”
“Why?”
Emeline scowled at Widow Brookhurst. Though most wives did their own sewing, she was the premier seamstress in the area. People sought her out for special garments like wedding dresses or baptismal gowns. They were in her shop in the village, where Emeline had stopped to pick up supplies for the housekeeper at Stafford Manor.
“My instructions,” the widow explained, “were from the earl’s brother. The earl is buying you clothes.”
“The earl is buying me . . . clothes?”
“Yes. Your sisters too. Bring them by tomorrow so I can check how tall they are.”
“When were you informed of this?”
“Earlier this morning. Lt. Price came by personally.” The woman raised a brow. “You’re to have whatever you need. I’m to spare no expense.”
Emeline shook her head. “There must be some mistake.”
“I received an order,” the widow huffed, “and I
