Cheryl Holt (8 page)

“Because you helped me.”

“I did?”

She gazed at Emily. “My father was prone to heavy
drink. It was a weakness he had. He’d fallen and couldn’t get up. It was very late. Lord Winchester was visiting, and he assisted me in putting Father to bed.”

An awkward silence ensued, and finally, Winchester broke it. “I do recall.”

“It meant very much to me. I never forgot.”

What a lonely life she must have led! A drunkard for a father. Men like Winchester as his associates. Winchester was the only one who’d been kind. Emily couldn’t conceive of what Margaret must have endured.

Winchester was shaken by the story and embarrassed that Margaret still had such a high opinion of him. “Gad, you couldn’t have been more than three or four.”

“Like I said, it was ages ago.” She stifled a yawn and peered at Emily. “I’m awfully weary. Would you be upset if I went directly to my room?”

“No, darling.” It took every ounce of strength Emily possessed not to reach out and hug her. “Let me show you where it is.”

“Don’t put yourself out on my account. The maids can guide me.” She climbed a few steps, then stopped. “Don’t worry about Pamela. She can be vain and bossy, but I’ll keep her in line. I promise we won’t be any trouble.”

“I know you won’t,” Winchester agreed, and he gave her an encouraging nod.

She trudged up and out of sight, a cadre of servants bustling with her, lugging trunks and boxes. As she disappeared, Emily realized she was trembling.

“My Lord, but that was horrid.” How had she allowed Winchester to dump her in such a mess? She’d envisioned sweet girls, pleasant afternoon outings, and scholarly classroom discussions. Not trauma, not distress. Not
a vamping, overdeveloped adolescent, or an anguished, suffering child in desperate need of mothering.

“I’m going to want daily reports.” Winchester stated. “At least in the beginning.”

“Of course.”

He stared up the stairs, frowning as if he were about to utter a profound comment, but what emerged was, “I need a drink. A very stiff one.”

He walked down the hall and vanished, leaving Emily to pick up the pieces of the Martins’ complex, disturbing arrival.

 5 

“You’re two hours late, Emily.”

“I know. I apologize.”

“You
know,
you apologize, and that’s supposed to make it all right?”

Michael sipped his whiskey, one of too many he’d already enjoyed. He was much more irritated than he should have been. After all, he’d hired her to tend the girls, not to be his leisurely handmaiden, but she took her job seriously, so he rarely saw her. He hated being ignored, and he wasn’t about to be relegated to second place merely because she had more important things to do.

“I asked you to attend me at nine,” he griped.

“I realize that.”

There were dark circles under her eyes, a testament to her exhaustion. The day had been extremely vexing for her, and she’d worked hard, so he should have let her head for her bed, but he seemed bent on tormenting her.

“It’s nearly eleven,” he pointed out.

He was trying her patience, but she managed to refrain
from snapping her reply. “I understand that you’ve not had much contact with children, but I feel I must explain again that you now have two nine-year-olds living under your roof.”

She was constantly busy, constantly minding the girls, and he was so irked by her diligence. “And their presence would induce you to disobey a direct instruction from me because . . . ?”

“They’ve been thrust into strange circumstances,” she added as if he were an imbecile.

“So?” he immaturely countered. “They’ve had almost three weeks to adjust.”

“Which is a very short interval, considering what they’ve been through. It took an enormous amount of effort to calm them so that they could fall asleep. Then, of course, Pamela was angry and demanding to know when I’ll let her paint up the town.” She scowled. “You might have warned me what she was like.”

“You think I had any idea?”

“Yes, actually, and you deliberately kept it from me.”

“It
is
amusing to aggravate you.”

“Lord Winchester . . .” she started, when he cut her off.

“Michael.”

“What?”

“When we’re alone, you know you’re to call me Michael.” He told her as much every evening, but she refused to join him in taking their relationship to a higher level.

“I most certainly will not,” she retorted as usual.

He was exasperated with her independence. He didn’t like women to be autonomous, didn’t deem it proper for
them to exhibit such self-sufficiency. Every female of his acquaintance was positively thrilled to rely on him, to have him lead and control. Even Amanda, with her domineering temperament, comprehended who was boss.

Emily Barnett hadn’t a clue.

“Come here,” he ordered, and without argument—praise be!—she walked across the library and halted at the sofa where he’d been hiding, tippling and pondering the recent changes to his life.

As Alex had grumpily indicated, there could be no bachelor activities, no raucous parties or carnal gamboling. His abode had been transformed as thoroughly as if a group of nuns had moved in.

“Are you drunk, milord?”

“Not as drunk as I intend to be.”

“You can’t be inebriated. What if we needed you? What if one of the girls were ill or injured? What then?”

“With your competent administration, I’m convinced everyone would survive.”

“But what of Margaret’s past? Her father’s vulnerability to alcohol has had a horrendous impact on her, and she worships you as a sort of savior. Would you dash her veneration by having her detect the same failings in yourself?”

He was furious that she’d remark. He’d been whiling away, ruminating over the paths he’d selected, but he wasn’t about to have her discover how he was fretting. She was much too astute as to his faults and flaws, and she would presume that she was having a beneficial effect on his character.

In his estimation, nothing was more annoying than a female attempting to rid a man of his imperfections, and
if Emily had the slightest inkling that she was having an affirmative influence, there’d be no living with her.

“Emily,” he scolded, “despite how foul you find my personal habits, it’s not your place to comment.”

She recognized that she’d crossed the line. “You’re correct. I apologize again.”

Wasn’t she a veritable fount of contrition?

“Stop it,” he growled.

“Stop what?”

“Stop being so bloody sorry.”

“Don’t curse at me.”

“It’s my own house, and you are my employee. I’ll speak however I damned well choose.”

“Yes, you may, but I don’t have to listen.”

She whipped around, prepared to stomp out, when he couldn’t bear to have her depart. Much as he loathed acknowledging it, he’d been so forlorn before she arrived, had been anxiously awaiting her, and he couldn’t stand to contemplate how quiet it would be once she left.

He grabbed her wrist, and they engaged in a tug-of-war she couldn’t win.

“Let me go,” she insisted, furious with him.

“No.”

He dragged her onto the sofa, so that her body was draped across his. Through several layers of gown and petticoat, he could feel her stomach, her mons, her thighs, and his cock leapt to attention with an urgency it hadn’t shown in years.

There was something about her that provoked him, that spurred him to behave as he oughtn’t, and though he’d pledged that he wouldn’t trifle with her, he couldn’t remember why he’d offered such an idiotic vow.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he claimed.

“Yes, you did!”

“I’m just tired.”

“So am I.”

She glanced away, and there were tears in her eyes, which tore at his conscience. He was eager to make amends, but he wasn’t sure how. He wasn’t used to begging for forgiveness.

“I’ve had a lousy day,” he endeavored to explain. “I’m irritable, and I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

“My day hasn’t been so grand, either.”

“I can tell.”

“Then quit picking away at me.”

“I’m an ungrateful wretch,” he admitted. “Yes, you are; now let me up.”

“No.” He planted his hand on her lovely bottom, and his phallus was ecstatic.

“You’re being a bully.”

“My normal state.”

“I can’t abide your acting like a tyrant.”

“I don’t know how to carry on any other way,” he asserted.

“You could learn another way.”

“Why would I want to?”

“Because your manners are atrocious.”

“We’ll get along better once you grasp that my every wish should be granted.”

“Despot.”

“Emily?”

“Yes.”

“You talk too much.”

“So I’ve been told.” She shifted about, trying to
dislodge his hand, and the motion was tremendously stimulating. “Lord Winchester?”

“If you call me Michael, I’ll release you.”

She studied him, expecting a trick. “Swear it to me.”

“I swear,” he fibbed.

“Michael,” she intoned, “will you please let me up?”

“No.”

“Ooh! You despicable, lying rat!”

She started to wrestle in earnest, grappling and shoving at him, but to no avail. It was becoming difficult to hold on to her, so he rolled them, pinning her to the back of the sofa, with himself stretched in front to block any escape.

“Emily?”

“What?”

“Hush.”

She went still but watched him warily. She was nervous as to his intentions—and her own—and she confessed, “You make it impossible to behave.”

“Have I asked you to behave?”

“No, but one of us needs to keep a clear head.”

“Why?”

“So we don’t . . . don’t . . .”

He wiggled his brows in naughty invitation. “Succumb to ardor?”

“Well . . . yes.”

It was a nightly game they played, with both of them tiptoeing around their obvious attraction. He flirted and cajoled, while she would nearly relent, then panic and flee, so they hadn’t been able to move from the spot where they were entrenched.

“Have I furnished you with any indication,” he queried, “that I want you to be strong and resist me?”

“No.”

“Then why persist?”

“We can’t keep doing this,” she said. “It’s sinful.”

“According to whom?”

“To everyone that matters.”

“Not to me, and I’m the most important person of all.” He assessed her, his heart pounding with excitement and anticipation. “Give over, Emily. You want this to happen as much as I do.”

“How could I
want
it,” she inquired, “when I don’t have any idea of what you mean to do?”

“Your body knows. Let me show you what you need.”

Though he was eager to forge on, he wasn’t positive what he planned. She was a respectable gentlewoman, with whom he dare not romp lest he had marriage in mind, which he didn’t. Was he set to ruin her? Could he?

The blatant answer was no.

Though his reputation was the worst in London, he never dabbled with innocents. There were too many wicked, willing courtesans who would perform any deed for a price, so there was no need to expend the effort or create the scandal that would arise should he cavort with the wrong female.

He couldn’t decide what was best, but he wasn’t about to let her loose, so he kissed her. She was too shocked to object, and he seized the advantage. His lips were melded to hers, her soft breath coursing across his cheek, his tongue in her mouth. Initially, she was stunned by the intimate contact, but as his arms folded around her, she shook off her stupor and joined in the embrace, kissing him back with a relish and exhilaration he’d not imagined before meeting her.

The moment was thrilling and exotic. Instantly, he craved more from her than she could ever confer. An absurd swirl of yearning rushed through him—for camaraderie, caring, and companionship, but sex, too. Sex that was so stirring he couldn’t fathom what it would be like.

Why was he so attracted to her? With each passing minute, his fascination was more extreme. Why couldn’t he curb the reckless infatuation? She incited him beyond all sane reflection, and he was overcome by the notion that if he bonded with her physically, he would gain a peace and solace for which he’d been searching without even realizing he was.