“Absolutely not! What a rude request!”
“How will you entice me with such a dour attitude?”
“I’m not . . . dour. My attitude is quite pleasant—when I’m in pleasant company.”
He laughed. “Don’t you know the rules? You’re supposed to fawn over me. You’re supposed to feign excitement and tell me I’m the manliest man you’ve ever met.”
He was the manliest man she’d ever met, but she wouldn’t admit it in a thousand years.
“I’ve never been much of a one for fawning.”
“Good. I can’t say I enjoy it much myself. Have you looked your fill?” He gestured down his body, as if he’d been deliberately displaying it for her. “Would you like to continue admiring me? Or shall we get down to business?”
“Yes . . . ah . . . business would be fine.” She waved at all that bare skin. “Would you put on some clothes?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“I can’t imagine discussing any topic of significance when you’re undressed.”
“I’m not interested in discussion. At the moment, I have more important things on my mind. Such as how quickly we can get the dirty deed accomplished.”
“I can’t possibly proceed when you’re in this condition.”
He raised a curious brow. “You are the strangest whore ever in the entire history of whores.”
“The strangest . . . what?”
He lunged for her, and she shrieked and raced into the bedchamber, but she tripped on a pillow. As she hastened to right herself, he was on her.
He scooped her into his arms and sauntered to the bed, and though she kicked and complained, she couldn’t stop him. He dropped her onto the mattress, and he fell on top of her, her wrists pinned over her head, his torso stretched out the length of hers.
While she’d planned to keep fighting, she was astonished by the intimate positioning. She could feel him and smell him, and even though she was fully clothed, it didn’t seem as if she was. She yearned to be closer to him in a very naughty fashion.
Her interactions with men had been few and fleeting. She’d never been courted, had never had a beau, so she had no experiences by which to measure what was happening. She should have been incensed—and she was—but she also should have been petrified, and she wasn’t.
Though he was obviously a rake, she sensed no overt menace. Her virtue was certainly in peril, though what would have to transpire in order for her to lose it, she couldn’t say. She was clueless as to the physical conduct between men and women.
Still, she perceived details about him that she had no reason to know. He wouldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t do anything she didn’t wish him to do—the trick being to snag his arrogant attention long enough to make him listen.
“Let me go,” she demanded.
“No.”
“I mean it. Let me go!”
“No.”
“If you don’t, you’ll be sorry.”
“I doubt it. I’ve never been sorry my whole life.”
“I’m sure that’s true.”
He untied her cloak and pushed it off so he could glance down her body.
“That is the ugliest dress I’ve ever seen,” he said.
“I guess I don’t rise to your incredibly high standards,” she sarcastically retorted.
“Are you new at this? You don’t have any flair. Couldn’t you have borrowed a fancier gown from one of the other girls?”
“Honestly, you are a vulgar, annoying cur.”
“Yes, I am,” he agreed, seeming proud of the fact.
“And I am not a—”
Her tirade was cut off by his leaning down and kissing her. The same instant, his roving hand shifted to her breast and rested there. The illicit touch made her nipple harden into a taut nub. It nudged against his palm, as if begging to be petted.
His lips were warm and soft, and she inhaled a shocked breath, and it only encouraged him. He slipped his tongue into her mouth, and he stroked it in and out as he massaged her breast.
The outrageous contact was so unexpected—and so thrilling—that for a delicious second, she forgot to protest. Then she remembered herself, her mission, her place, and she yelped and shoved with all her might.
She managed to slide out from under him and scurry across the mattress. Clutching at her cloak, she scrambled to the floor.
“What the devil?” he muttered, his confusion plain. “What kind of whore are you?”
“I am not a whore!” she fumed.
He narrowed his gaze and focused on her so intently that she understood how the soldiers under his command had to feel when they’d committed an infraction. She wondered if she was about to be flogged.
“If you’re not a whore,” he asked, “what the hell are you?”
“I am Miss Emeline Wilson.”
He cocked his head; he scowled. “Why do I know that name?”
“Perhaps because I’ve written you four times, requesting an audience. We have an appointment today at two.”
“We do not.”
“We do.”
“About what?”
“About the condition of the tenants at your estate. If you’d ever deigned to visit Stafford, you would have discovered that—”
In a fluid move, he leapt from the bed, the towel gripped at his waist. Murder in his eye, he stormed over, grabbed her and dragged her to the door.
When they reached it, it was still locked, and he was so angry that he was flummoxed as to why it would be or how he was to open it.
He hammered on the wood, shouting, “Stephen! Stephen! Get your ass in here!”
She hissed and wrestled, trying to free herself, as he continued to bang and bellow. Eventually, footsteps winged toward them. A key was jammed and turned. The door was flung wide. The man who’d initially seized her—the one with features she now recognized as looking very similar to Lord Stafford’s—was standing there.
She recalled that he had a brother, Lieutenant Stephen Price, who was two years younger. Stephen Price was also in the army. They served together.
“What is it?” Lt. Price snapped. “What did she do? I warned her that she wouldn’t be paid if she caused any trouble.”
Lord Stafford hurled her at his brother, and Lt. Price caught her.
“She’s not a whore,” Lord Stafford explained.
“She’s not?” Lt. Price frowned. “Who is she then?”
“She’s that fussy scold
