“We’ll see.” He toyed with her hair, riffling through the lush strands. “Go to sleep.”
“I will, but don’t you fall asleep too.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“I mean it. You can’t be caught in here.”
“I won’t be.”
He nestled with her, listening as her breathing slowed, as her body relaxed. It was a magical moment, the likes of which he’d never previously experienced with a woman, and he didn’t want to leave.
His erection hadn’t waned in the slightest, and he wondered how he would bear up with being so constantly aroused.
Had he decided not to deflower her? It wasn’t healthy to be so titillated, and if he wouldn’t push her into copulation, he had to get himself to London and find someone to tend his needs.
To his amazement, he wasn’t in any hurry to return to the city. Would he stay on at Stafford? Was that his plan?
There were only five weeks left of his furlough from the army. Five weeks to remain at Stafford and dally with Emeline. Or five weeks to spend in London where every conceivable vice and vixen were available.
The very idea—that he would choose Emeline and Stafford over the thrills to be had in town—was terrifying. What was happening to him?
He slipped out of her bed, grabbed a quilt, and tucked it around her. For an eternity, he gazed at her, reflecting on how small she looked, how content.
She’d suffered no qualms over slumbering in his presence, and she was a fool to trust him. She supposed—wrongly—that he had her best interests at heart, but he was stupidly, pathetically glad that she did.
He went to the door, peeked out, and tiptoed away.
Oscar Blair marched down the aisle of the church, his robes billowing out, a Bible clutched to his chest. Organ music rattled the rafters, reminding everyone of God’s power over them.
The Sunday service was concluded, and he exited onto the front steps. The congregation followed him out. It was the part of ministering he hated most, the socializing demanded of him as their leader.
He was much happier when he was alone, filling his hours by reading Scripture and writing sermons.
“May the Lord be with you,” he murmured, shaking hands over and over.
Not inclined to linger, he hurried people along. He kept glancing inside where Josephine was chatting with Emeline Wilson rather than Benedict Mason who was bringing up the rear of the crowd.
Finally, Emeline strolled out.
“Where are your sisters, Miss Wilson?” he asked. “You know I don’t allow children to miss services. It sets them on a bad path.”
“They’ve come down with colds, Vicar Blair. I had them stay away so you weren’t interrupted by their sniffling.”
A likely story, he fumed. Her father had been a recalcitrant churchgoer. Oscar had battled with him constantly over his sporadic attendance.
“I’ll expect to see them next Sunday.”
“I’m sure they’ll be better by then.”
“They certainly should be, considering your sudden stroke of good fortune.”
Her smile faltered. “What do you mean?”
“You always manage to land on your feet, Emeline. It stokes your vanity.”
She frowned. “What is stoking my vanity?”
“You’re living at the manor and prevailing on the earl’s generosity. As usual, you’ve inserted yourself where you don’t belong and raised yourself above your class. There will be consequences. I suggest you be ready for them.”
“I’m not prevailing on the earl,” she dared to argue. “He’s simply provided some Christian charity to me.”
“You didn’t deserve any.”
“And as to my residing in the manor, he’s hired me to work for him. I’m earning my keep.”
“You are unwed,” he hissed, “but brazenly ensconced in the home of a known fornicator. A bachelor, no less. Your morals have flown out the window.”
“Honestly, Vicar Blair, you shouldn’t—”
“Don’t defend yourself to me. The Lord sees all, Emeline Wilson. You’ve been judged and found lacking.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re correct,” she blithely agreed. She gestured to the lane where a carriage was approaching. “If you’ll excuse me? I must be going.”
She scurried away, and Oscar watched—aghast—as Lord Stafford arrived to pick her up. His vehicle was built for two, with just the narrow seat where they would sit very close together. It was scandalous!
“Emeline,” he called, “what are you thinking?”
“I told you. I’m working for the earl. I’m giving him a tour of the area.”
“A tour? You and the earl—alone?”
“We’ll be visiting some people in the neighborhood who are struggling.”
Oscar wondered if he might faint. He’d practically begged for a meeting with Nicholas Price, but couldn’t wrangle one. Yet apparently, every miscreant in a five-mile radius would be blessed with an appointment.
Emeline rubbed salt in his wound by saying, “I thought it might paint a better picture of what’s been happening.”
It was so inappropriate for her to inject herself into men’s business. Why couldn’t she understand? As a female, she wasn’t intelligent enough to comprehend issues of significance, but she insinuated herself anyway.
“I’ve counseled you and counseled you, Emeline, not to involve yourself in matters that don’t concern you.”
“How can conditions at the estate not concern me? If the earl hadn’t taken pity on me, I’d be living in a ditch.”
“His patronage has swelled your pride. For shame, Emeline! For shame!”
“Sorry.” She shrugged as if the damage to her reputation—and eventually her soul—was of no import.
Without so much as a wave of acknowledgment to Oscar, the earl jumped down to help Emeline climb in his gig.
Oscar’s outrage increased. Emeline appeared to be bosom buddies with the earl, while he—Oscar—hadn’t met the man. Oscar had once been the old countess’s favorite, but now, he was being treated no differently than the lowest beggar.
He stomped down the stairs and approached the couple.
“Lord Stafford”—he extended his hand in welcome—“I am Vicar Blair.”
It was extremely improper for Oscar to introduce himself, but what else could he do?
“Hello, Blair.”
The earl didn’t shake his outstretched hand. It dangled between them, and finally, Oscar dropped it.
“You missed Sunday
