“Don’t worry about Veronica,” he insisted. “She’d never come here. She knows better than to visit a bachelor’s quarters—even if we are engaged.”
“What if she got a wild hair? What if she grew a spine and showed up unannounced? What if she did?”
“She won’t,” he snapped, “now close the damned drapes.”
Stephen stomped over and was tugging at the heavy fabric when a sight outside made him halt and curse.
“Oh, for bloody sake,” he grumbled.
“What is it?” Nicholas asked.
“It’s Miss Wilson. She’s pacing out in the drive.”
“I could have sworn you tossed her out.”
“She didn’t leave!”
“What is wrong with her?” Nicholas asked.
“Do you think she’s crazy? Literally. Could she be insane?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps she’s the village lunatic.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Might she be dangerous?”
“Ha!” Nicholas scoffed. “She’s too small to be dangerous.”
He rose and went over to join his brother. Together, they stared at the petite virago. She spun toward them, and she couldn’t help but notice them watching her.
An awkward moment ensued, with Nicholas trying to intimidate her, but having no effect. Though she was a tiny sprite, her disdain made him feel petty and pathetic.
She had the biggest, prettiest green eyes, and they bored into him, delving straight to the center of his cold, black heart. Under her intense scrutiny, he lurched away.
She was the first and only tenant he’d met from Stafford. What did she want? More importantly, what stories would she tell when she returned to the country?
While he detested the estate, he had his pride. In London, he was working hard to offend, but—oddly—he was incensed at the notion of having his character sullied at rural, provincial Stafford.
He whipped around and stormed outside. Wrath wafted off him like a cloud, yet she was unfazed and unafraid. On noting her fearlessness, he became even more angry.
Didn’t she understand how powerful he was? Didn’t she realize how he could crush her? How he could ruin her family? With the stroke of a pen, he could beggar her, could have her jailed or hanged or transported.
He never would, but still!
“Miss Wilson,” he growled as he approached, “why are you loitering in my driveway?”
“We had an appointment at two o’clock.” She flashed what—if he’d been a more superstitious fellow—appeared to be the evil eye. “It’s almost three. You’re late.”
“We do not have an appointment.”
“Yes, we do.”
“In order to have an appointment, both parties must agree to the meeting. I’ve been abundantly clear that I have absolutely no desire to speak with you.”
“You have not been ‘abundantly clear’. You’ve been rude and juvenile. I’ve written you four times, and you never replied.”
“Has it occurred to you that there is a reason I didn’t reply?”
“Well, of course it has: You’re a discourteous boor, but you’re behaving like a child. You’re Lord Stafford now”—she pronounced the word Lord as if it were an epithet—“and you can’t shirk your responsibilities. There are too many people counting on you.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek.
She was very short. Her head came up to the middle of his chest, and she was so thin, a stiff wind would blow her over. But there was an aura about her—of righteousness and rectitude—that made her seem much larger than she was.
She was a veritable ball of umbrage, rippling with indignation over his conduct—and she didn’t even know him. If they ever had the misfortune to be better acquainted, she’d never survive the affronts she’d suffer at his behest.
After his parents’ deaths, he’d had to care for his brother, so he’d grown up very fast. He’d bluffed and blundered his way to adulthood, and even before being named earl, he’d been spoiled and impossible.
He never did what he didn’t wish to do, and he never took advice or listened to complaints—particularly complaints from women.
He endured their company for one thing and one thing only, that being sexual congress. He loved their shapely mouths, but he felt they should be used for a deed other than talking.
Out on the street, an open barouche rattled by. It was filled with young ladies going for a ride in the park. They saw him and waved, calling out flirtatious hellos.
He supposed he was a peculiar sight, dawdling as he was and arguing with the diminutive shrew. He didn’t like the image it created: of himself being chastised and not in control of the conversation.
He yanked his furious gaze to Miss Wilson.
“You!” He pointed a condemning finger. “Inside. Now.”
“With how you’ve treated me,” she snottily said, “I don’t know if I should—”
“Miss Wilson, you’ve demanded a meeting, and you’re about to get it.” He bowed mockingly and gestured to the door. “After you.”
She studied him, then relented—as he could have predicted she would. He was a master at issuing commands and having them obeyed. Her pert nose thrust up in the air, she marched by him. She smirked with triumph, but he’d drum it out of her soon enough.
He herded her to his library and indicated the chair where she was to sit. Then he went around to his seat behind the desk.
Stephen was lurking over by the window, having watched their pitiful escapade in the driveway. He raised a curious brow, as if to ask if Nicholas was insane, and Nicholas decided he probably was. A brief hour in the irritating woman’s presence and he was stark raving mad.
“Miss Wilson”—he tossed a thumb toward Stephen—“may I introduce my brother, Stephen Price?”
“I’ve already had the displeasure of making his acquaintance.”
Ignoring the barb, Stephen was overly polite. “Hello, Miss Wilson.”
“She is here,” Nicholas said, “to . . . to . . .”
He stopped, having no idea what she wanted. He’d never bothered to read her letters.
“Why precisely are you here?” he inquired.
“I’ve come on behalf of the tenants and villagers who have been affected by the deteriorating conditions at Stafford.”
“Stafford is fine.”
“You’ve never been there. How would you know?”
He actually had been there once. Shortly after his parents’ funeral, a
