Cheryl Holt (4 page)

“You, sir, are a barbarian.”

“So I’ve been told. On copious occasions.”

He tried to match her glare for glare, but couldn’t. She had an aggravating ability to focus in that had him fidgeting like a miscreant. Under her austere evaluation, he felt like a lad about to be paddled by his tutor—a happenstance with which he’d been intimately familiar as a boy.

“I shan’t tolerate it,” she said snippily. “Straighten up. This instant.”

Gad, but if she’d been wielding a cane, she might have rapped his knuckles with it.

“Don’t tell me how to behave.”

“Someone should. How old are you? Seven? Eight? You act like a child.” She whipped around to Ian. “Who are you?”

“I’m the black sheep of the family,” Ian fliply replied.

“I can see that you are,” she concurred wholeheartedly. “Didn’t your mother teach you to stand when a lady enters the room? Where are your manners?”

The unflappable Ian was caught off guard by her
blunt criticism, and astonishingly, her chastisement was successful. Chagrined, he rose.

“I seem to have misplaced them, Miss Fitzgerald. I apologize for my lapse.” He walked over to her and made a courtly bow, the type that invariably had women swooning over the black-haired, blue-eyed devil. “Ian Clayton, at your service.”

“You’re the Scotsman, aren’t you?” she inquired. “Some sort of elder . . . brother?”

“Well . . . yes,” he ultimately confirmed, not choosing to delve into their convoluted patrimonial affiliation, when it wouldn’t have been suitable for her ears, anyway.

“How can you expect this scoundrel”—she gestured at John—“to comport himself appropriately if you don’t set an example?”

“You’re correct, again. I’ll try harder.”

“I’d appreciate it if you would.”

The woman gave Ian a radiant smile, and John stared, dumbstruck, at how winsome she looked, how enchanting. If she’d had a stylish outfit, and a flattering coif, she’d be downright beautiful.

Pity for such loveliness to be wasted, although with that caustic tongue, all the clothes in the world couldn’t make her more appealing.

Ian was returning the woman’s smile, and John was cognizant of how Ian’s devious mind worked. Since any dawdling by Miss Fitzgerald would annoy John, Ian was considering striking up a conversation so he could delay her departure,

Lest Ian have the chance to activate his nauseating spigot of charm, John interrupted.

“Miss Fitzgerald, I’m extremely busy,” he lied. In all actuality, he didn’t have any pressing plans for the day, other than to further plod through the estate ledgers.
“Could you please be about your business? Why are you here?”

“I’ve come about the evictions.”

“What evictions?”

“The ones you imposed yesterday.” Distinctly rankled by his inability to recollect, she waved some papers.

“Oh, those evictions.”

The economic condition at the estate was tenuous, and the removal of those malingerers who hadn’t paid rent in ages seemed an elemental place to start in regaining financial ground. He’d signed the notices with barely a thought. Besides, it was only a dozen or so crofters. Why was she protesting?

“What about them?” he testily snarled.

“How could you?” Her devotion to her cause was so profound that tears welled in her eyes.

“Well, I . . . I . . .” he stammered again. The woman was turning him into a blathering fool. Frowning over at Ian, he visually pleaded for help, but of course didn’t receive any.

He couldn’t abide female histrionics, and he wasn’t about to suffer through a bout of weeping.

Pulling himself up to his full six feet, he peered down at her in his most imperious fashion. “I won’t be interrogated—or vilified—as to any decisions I make regarding the property. And I certainly don’t intend to answer to the likes of you.”

“Aren’t you the high-and-mighty lord.” She pronounced his title with the same contemptuousness Ian constantly used, infusing it with an ample amount of scorn so that John ended up feeling as though he were committing some horrid crime simply by existing.

“That is what I am, Miss Fitzgerald. Lord. And master, I might remind you.” He wasn’t about to subject himself to badgering by the termagant. The expulsion
resolution had been the first he’d made concerning the property in years—a property to which he’d never wanted to be tied—and he wasn’t about to be challenged over it by the village tyrant.

“Well, you may be the lord here, but you’re making a brilliant mess of it. And you’ve scarcely arrived. I can only guess what idiotic steps you’ll take if you’re in residence a whole month.”

How dare she? The little despot.

“I’ll take your opinion under advisement.” Oozing sarcasm, he motioned toward the door, specifying that her appointment was over, but she didn’t leave.

How much more explicit could he be?

“But some of these people have loyally served your family for generations. Why, Mr. Gladstone, himself, toiled in the stables for seventy-nine years. It’s not his fault that his rheumatism has gotten so painful that he can’t continue. And Mrs. Wilson is a widow. With twelve children. Where will they go? What will they do?”

A widow? With children? A crippled, elderly man? Could he have . . . ?

No. He wouldn’t wander down that disturbing road.

“Their problems are not mine,” he loftily declared, sounding arrogant and pretentious even to his own ears.

“Isn’t that a fine Christian attitude?”

He abandoned the safety of his desk and stomped toward her, but not too close, lest she was prone to bite. “Miss Fitzgerald, we’re finished.”

“We are not.”

“I won’t listen to any further drivel.”

“Drivel!” she fumed. “Well, I’ve just begun, so you’d better sit down and get comfortable. We’re in for a lengthy discussion.”

“We’re not discussing this,” he wailed in a near shout.

Ignoring him, she rummaged through her documents, as though hunting for a list of grievances, and he looked to Ian for guidance, but his brother grinned and shrugged, immensely enjoying the squabble.

John was totally mystified as to what to do. Though he’d threatened to Rutherford that he’d bodily throw her out, he couldn’t picture himself lifting her up and hauling her off like a sack of potatoes. Nor could he imagine calling for the servants to dislodge her. In light of her state of pique, it might take more than one footman and, despite how irksome she was, he couldn’t bear to watch several burly fellows wrestling with her.

She was talking, having launched into an impassioned speech about the village, the estate, and the needs of the community. As she spewed an endless stream, her remarks were sprinkled with snubs and insinuations as to his intelligence, his reasoning capacity, and his aptitude for administration.

A zealous dynamo, she went on and on, haranguing about this family and that, naming names, providing ages, duration of service, depth of penury, and he was impressed with her presentation. In his social milieu, his associates gave new meaning to the term
detachment
, so it was refreshing and exhilarating to run across someone who felt so deeply, who cared so completely.

When was the last time he’d cared intensely about anything?

He couldn’t recall.

Fascinated, mesmerized, he shifted back, resting his hips on the edge of the desk, and he was forced to admit that he’d never encountered anyone like her. She showed no respect for his position over her, paid no deference or heed to his edicts or commands.

Ian was the only other person of his acquaintance who wasn’t exhaustively willing to ingratiate himself, to
fawn or wheedle. People ceaselessly wanted dispensations from him: money, favor, patronage. They were in awe of his rank, his status, his wealth. They were frightened of him, envious, dazzled, cowed.

But not Emma Fitzgerald. Yes, she wanted things from him—her demands were coming through loudly and clearly—but she wasn’t requesting any boons for herself. Each solicitation was made for the benefit of another. He’d never stumbled upon anyone who was quite so selfless, so altruistic.

Her benevolent nature was perplexing. Perhaps she was a genuinely nice individual, which, taking into account the buffoons and hangers-on who made up his circle of companions, was a pleasant notion.

Or, perhaps, she was a fool, not astute enough to comprehend how dangerous it was to risk offending him. With a snap of his fingers, a stroke of his pen, he could ruin her. Either she didn’t understand that fact or wasn’t worried about it.

How vexing. How marvelous. How insulting.

Had she no concept of his power, his authority, his omnipotence?

Apparently not.

He scrutinized her, thinking that he could put that pretty mouth to many tasks that were more advantageous than talking, but even as the risqué idea flitted past, he blushed, embarrassed to have grown so corrupt that he could muse lasciviously about a vicar’s daughter.

His moral constitution had plummeted to a despicable low.

Gad, but he wanted her gone. His headache was worsening by the second, and he craved a dark room, where he could drink, play cards, and snuggle with a few cheery, spirited—silent—women.

The words flowed out of her mouth in a perpetual stream. How to make her stop?

He’d already decided against physical removal, and he wasn’t about to engage in a verbal sparring match, because he wasn’t positive he could win it.

Briefly, he pondered agreeing with her, revoking the evictions and letting the crofters remain, but as rapidly as the sentiment manifested, he shoved it away. He wasn’t about to change his mind solely because she was a pain in the arse.

“So you see, milord Wakefield”—she rudely intruded into his reverie—“you can’t proceed with your dastardly scheme.”

He was taken aback. Not even his own father, when Douglas had ranted and raved, had ever labeled John’s actions dastardly. It was an additional, disgraceful slur, and he wasn’t sure if he should laugh, yell, or incarcerate the sassy wench.

She was too bold by half.

Cocking her head to the side, she folded her arms across her chest, waiting for his reply. The placement of her arms pushed her breasts up and out, and he impolitely perused them, taking a slow gander. Her outburst had elevated her pulse, and heightened her respiration, the result being that her nipples were enlarged. He could make out the tempting morsels through the fabric of her dress.

How had he judged her to be too skinny? She was rounded on top, and he would bet she’d be rounded on the bottom, too. Her hips would curve out from that tiny waist and extend down into long, lean legs, legs that could wrap around a man’s waist and squeeze tight when he was . . .

Vicar’s daughter! Vicar’s daughter!
The refrain screamed out like a fire bell, admonishing him as to her
modest condition, and he lurched straighter, as if slouching before her was improper.

“Well?” she asked haughtily.

The answer to his dilemma, when it dawned on him, was so naughty—but so ingenious—that he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. He must be more fatigued than he’d suspected.

Though Ian was the bastard by birth, John was the one who’d deserved the designation. His comportment was regularly deplorable; his father had maintained that he went out of his way to be exasperating, which he did. Ninety-nine percent of the time, he was an unrepentant, unremitting blackguard.

He had the very mode by which to scare her off, and her egress wouldn’t be difficult to achieve. Obviously, she’d heard stories about his reputation and repute. If he acted heinously, she wouldn’t be surprised. Monstrous behavior was exactly what she would expect from him. A flagrant proposal, which she would be honor bound to refuse and would never accept in a thousand years, would goad her into a maidenly swoon, and he would promptly have her fleeing in terror.

If he was sufficiently vulgar, she’d be too mortified to ever return, so he’d never again have to be confronted by her righteous opinions or condescending disposition.

This was going to be so simple. And so amusing.

Poor Miss Fitzgerald. She was about to be shocked senseless.

“Well . . .” he echoed, pensively tapping a finger to his lip, and assessing her as a cat might study a canary trapped in a cage. A calculated grin creased his cheeks. Instantly, she noticed the transformation in his demeanor and took a reflexive step back, but he wasn’t about to let her escape. Not when he’d courteously weathered her diatribe. He vacated his perch on the desk, and approached
until he was so indecently close that the toes of his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt.

Amazingly, she retreated no further, bravely standing her ground.

“I might be persuaded to alter my course,” he said.

“How?” Hesitantly, she smiled, eager to hope that her arguments had been effective.

He gazed into her brown eyes, momentarily distracted by how limpid they were, how penetrating. Her skin was smooth as silk, her cheeks rosy and delicate, and . . .

Vicar’s daughter!
The alarm rang again, and he visibly snapped himself back to the successful culmination of his machination.

He was a master at effrontery—he’d had his entire life to practice—so the unsophisticated, wholesome Miss Fitzgerald hadn’t a chance against his rehearsed insolence.

“My decision was fiscal, not personal. So if I’m to change it, you’d have to provide me with a special remuneration.”

“What do you mean?”

She was so guileless, so innocent and sincere. He almost hated to deceive her, but he was an indisputable cad and always had been. “If I let your friends stay,” he cajoled, luring her in for the kill, “you’d have to reimburse me for my troubles.”

“What troubles do they cause you?” she huffed. “They’re old, sick, and overburdened.”

“I would sustain a financial loss if they remain”—he fought to appear contemplative, then earnest—“but I’d be amenable to forgoing the income if you could do something to make it worth my while—so to speak.”

“Me? I don’t have any money.”

“Well, I wasn’t referring to money.”

“What then?” She was still without a clue as to where he was deliberately and crassly leading her.