He spun away and strolled off. In a few steps, he’d be out of the bedchamber. A few steps after that, they’d be in the hall.
How could she steal a kiss in the hall?
She started after him, fighting the urge the stamp her foot again, and as she hurried out, she happened to glance in the mirror. The angle was just right for her to see Miss Wilson lurking in the outer doorway and debating whether to enter the suite. She looked forlorn and miserable.
Why would the woman seek out Nicholas? In his private chamber no less! There was no proper purpose. She had to be the strumpet over whom Veronica had been relentlessly mocked.
Her temper boiled over.
“Nicholas!” Her tone was coaxing.
He hadn’t observed Miss Wilson yet, and he turned back to Veronica.
“What now?”
“I came all this way, and I only wanted one thing. You haven’t given it to me.”
“What is it?”
“I already told you.”
She marched over and snuggled herself to him, being intimate and familiar as if she was in the habit of hugging him.
Before he had a clue of what she planned, she rose on tiptoe, and she kissed him. For the briefest second, he permitted the embrace then, as if he was a fond cousin rather than her fiancé, he eased her away.
As he did, Miss Wilson gasped. He whirled to ascertain who was watching, and Veronica’s worst fears were confirmed. He appeared to have been punched in the stomach.
Miss Wilson slapped a hand over her mouth, then she ran off, vanishing in an instant.
“Dammit!” he muttered, and he shouted, “Em!”
But she continued on. He might have chased after her, but Veronica slipped her arm into his, halting any escape.
“What do you suppose she wanted?” Veronica asked, all innocence.
“I . . . I . . . don’t know,” he stammered, his distress obvious.
“Would you escort me downstairs? You mentioned I should probably get going, and I must find Portia so we can be off.”
“I need to . . . to . . .”
He was extremely befuddled—the first time she’d ever seen him at a loss—and she seized the advantage. She led him to the hall and walked in the direction opposite from Miss Wilson.
“This house is so big,” she said. “I’ll never locate the front foyer on my own.”
Her expression demanded his assistance, and there was no reason for him not to accompany her.
“It’s this way,” he mumbled, Miss Wilson forgotten entirely in his desire to placate his dearest betrothed.
Josephine hid in the shadows, the wet evening grass soaking her shoes. She was behind Stafford Manor, lurking underneath the balustrade and hoping Stephen would come outside.
Earlier in the morning, he’d brought the twins to the vicarage. He’d been kind to the two girls and courteous to her brother, but he’d been extremely rude to Jo.
She’d thought she wanted to end their affair. She’d thought she was strong enough to never see him again, but she’d been wrong. As he’d sauntered into her front parlor, she’d nearly fainted with surprise. The pleasure had been that intense.
She’d spent the afternoon with Nan and Nell, and she’d slyly peppered them with questions about routines in the mansion. They’d shared many interesting tidbits, including the fact that Stephen often enjoyed a cheroot on the verandah after supper.
When he’d returned to fetch the girls home, she’d tried to catch his eye, to indicate that they should meet, but he’d studiously ignored her blatant hints. So she had risked life and limb—and reputation—to seek him out.
The furtive trek to the manor had been dark and frightening, and she’d forced herself to make it, but it had probably been for naught. Stephen had never appeared, and she was about to give up, when above her, a door opened.
Booted strides marched across the stone patio, and suddenly, there he was, his shape outlined by a lamp glowing in a parlor. He put a cigar to his mouth, the tip glowing as he inhaled, smoke circling up above his head.
“Stephen,” she murmured. He froze, but didn’t reply, so more loudly, she repeated, “Stephen!”
Frowning, he leaned over the rail.
“Jo? Is that you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you all right? Is something amiss?”
“No, no. Could I talk to you?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please? I’ve walked all this way.”
“Why didn’t you just knock on the front door?”
“You know why.”
“Heaven forbid that you be seen speaking with the earl’s brother.”
She refused to argue in a whisper, from ten feet away. If she could touch him, she was sure his resentment would fade and they could start over.
“Please, Stephen,” she said again.
His irritation great, he went to the steps and stomped down. Without a word, he clasped her hand and took off at a brisk pace. She stumbled after him, trying to keep up.
He guided her along the foundation of the house, ducking under windows, until they halted at a rear entrance. They descended a short set of stairs into the wine cellar.
She held very still, trembling, as he located a candle and used the tip of his cheroot to light the wick. He tossed the cigar under his heel and stamped it out, and as the flame grew, she could see rows and rows of bottles neatly stacked.
“Is this secretive enough for you?” he sneered.
“Don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry. I’d have to care about you to be angry.”
“I need your advice. I don’t have anyone else to ask.”
“So you came to me? Why would you? A few days ago, you were very clear. You don’t wish to pursue an acquaintance. Am I deaf? Did I misunderstand?”
To her horror, her eyes filled with tears. She was sad and despairing and desperate for his counsel and friendship, but the conversation wasn’t proceeding at all as she’d planned.
She was anxious to chat with the funny, sexy, charming man who had led her off to dally in deserted barns, not this cold, furious stranger.
“If you suppose,” he said, “that a flood of tears will have any effect on me, you’re gravely mistaken.”
“Stop acting like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re someone I don’t know.”
“You don’t know me, and this is not an
