“But why would the earl buy me clothes? I don’t understand.”
“I’m supposing it’s because he let Mr. Mason burn your house down—with all your possessions inside.”
“Mr. Mason has burned many houses. The earl hasn’t replaced anyone else’s belongings.”
“No, he hasn’t.”
Mrs. Brookhurst studied Emeline, and a warning bell began to chime. The widow was obviously speculating that Nicholas Price wouldn’t purchase expensive gifts for Emeline unless she’d done something to deserve them. What was he thinking by encouraging such gossip? Didn’t he realize the stories that would spread?
“I’d better return to the estate,” Emeline said. “I have to ask what this is about.”
“Oh, I know what it’s about,” Mrs. Brookhurst baldly retorted.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You’re very pretty, Emeline, and he’s a rich, handsome bachelor. You watch yourself.”
“Mrs. Brookhurst! Honestly! I hardly require a lecture on morals.”
“Well, someone should speak up. Your mother isn’t around to counsel you. A girl could easily get herself into trouble with a fellow like him.”
Dazed, Emeline had spun to go when Mrs. Brookhurst called, “Wait! I have a package for you.”
“What’s in it?”
“I had a few items that I’d prepared for other customers, but they’ll fit you. The earl insists you have them. I’ll send on the other pieces once they arrive.”
“What pieces?”
“He had me write to a shop in London where they have a selection of ready-made garments. He wants you fancied up faster than I can accomplish it.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“It’s interesting, how fond he’s grown. And so quickly too.”
“He’s not . . . fond,” Emeline seethed. “He’s insane.”
“What about these?” Mrs. Brookhurst held up a neatly-wrapped parcel. “If you’d rather not fuss with them, I can carry them to the manor for you.”
“Please don’t.”
“They’re paid for.” The widow shrugged. “You might as well have them.”
Her temper spiking, Emeline whipped away and stomped out.
If the entire neighborhood didn’t yet know about the gift, they’d soon learn of it.
What a disaster! Nicholas—yes, Nicholas was how she now thought of him; he was no longer the earl—had left her in a dangerous position.
The previous night, she’d lain in his bed and had gleefully allowed him to do delicious, amazing things to her. Pathetically, she was keen to misbehave again, the moment a clandestine tryst could be arranged.
She’d told Mrs. Brookhurst that he was insane, but Emeline was the one who was mad.
When they’d been snuggled together, he’d mentioned buying her a dress, but she hadn’t imagined he was serious. She’d naively deemed their encounter to be a spontaneous episode of mutual passion, but he seemed to have had a different opinion.
Apparently, he presumed her favors could be purchased, and she was to be paid for her participation. If the price was high enough, what else might he expect her to try?
Offended and furious, she marched on when another notion occurred to her.
He was a male, and an especially obtuse one at that. Perhaps he’d intended no insult. Perhaps he simply hadn’t been informed that a man of his station couldn’t give a gift to a woman of hers, that the gesture would be misconstrued.
While she was aware that she constantly imbued him with traits he didn’t possess, she was eager to have the second possibility—that he was a clueless idiot—be the actual fact.
The mansion came into view, and she entered the house and proceeded to the kitchen to deliver the provisions she’d retrieved in the village. She lingered, eavesdropping on the servants. She was anxious to ask where Nicholas was, but she couldn’t pose a question without generating unwanted attention.
Eventually, she found out he was in the small dining salon, awaiting his breakfast. It was twelve-thirty in the afternoon, and the cook and her helpers were scurrying around, cracking eggs and slicing bread.
She slipped out, wondering if she dared barge in on his meal without invitation, but she swiftly persuaded herself that she could. For goodness sake, she’d completely disgraced herself with him, and he’d touched her in her most private places. If that didn’t confer some sort of status, she didn’t know what did.
She approached the doorway and peeked in. He was alone, his head in his hands, and he cut such a solitary figure that her heart ached. He looked so forlorn and dejected, his typical proud bearing tucked away.
What must it be like to be him? She’d heard the most tragic stories about his childhood, yet he’d built a life for himself in the army where he was reputed to be a man of great courage and fidelity.
He’d overcome so many obstacles. Who could blame him for being arrogant? After starting at the lowest point, he’d been elevated to one of the highest spots in the land. Wasn’t he entitled to his conceit?
He appeared to have just staggered out of bed. He hadn’t washed or shaved. His hair was down and uncombed, the tangled strands brushing his shoulders. He’d put on a coat and trousers, but he hadn’t donned a shirt so his chest was bare.
With what had transpired between them, how would they interact? Would he be flirtatious and fawning? Or would he be his usual abrupt self?
If she’d been hoping for a tender welcome, he quashed any foolishness.
“Emeline,” he snapped without glancing up, “stop lurking and get your ass in here.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“I told you last night. I’d recognize that snotty stride anywhere.”
“I can’t begin to guess what that means.”
“It means you walk like a scolding shrew. When I hear you coming, I brace myself for a reprimand.”
She pulled out a chair, and as she seated herself, he frowned and winced.
“Would you close the curtains?”
“No. It’s almost one o’clock. It’s about time you roused yourself.”
“My head is pounding like there’s an anvil inside it. The sunlight only makes it worse.”
“You’ll survive.”
“You’re too cruel, Miss Wilson. Why do I tolerate you?”
“I force you to behave. You secretly enjoy it.”
Suddenly, her sisters raced by out in the hall. They were shrieking like wild monkeys swinging through the
