Chapter One
Wakefield, England, 1813
Emma Fitzgerald left the groomed path that skirted
Wakefield Manor. She rose on tiptoe and peeked through an
open window into one of the lavish parlors. And what an
eyeful she received! At ten o'clock in the morning!
Inside, a woman was reclined in the middle of the room,
her body artfully draped across a fainting couch. She was
buxom, striking, her lustrous auburn hair piled up on her
head. Attired solely in a flimsy white robe that was
loosely cinched at her waist, one of her breasts was
completely exposed, the nipple large and attenuated. She
sipped on a glass of wine-so early in the day!-clutching
the stem of the ornate goblet, and swirling the contents
round and round.
As she rolled to her side, her robe widened further to
reveal her curved stomach, her shapely thighs, her long
legs, her ... her privates. Astoundingly, she had no hair
down below, her nether lips smooth as a baby's bottom.
"Oh, my goodness," Emma murmured as she evaluated the lewd
scene. How-and why-would a woman do such a thing to
herself?.
Considering the stories circulating about John Clayton,
Viscount Wakefield, and his dubious associates who'd
ensconced themselves on the property, the extravagant
woman's behavior was hardly surprising. But to have such
an offensive, risque episode so conspicuously displayed
was reprehensible. Anyone might stroll by.
The degeneracy seemed beyond the pale, even for the
notorious aristocrat.
The ravishing woman laughed, the sultry, feminine chortle
billowing out, and Emma liked the sound. She paused,
curious as to what was happening that had put the lady in
such a playful mood. From the gossiping in the village,
she'd anticipated that the mansion was inhabited by bossy,
cantankerous snobs, so the spontaneous burst of merriment
seemed peculiar.
She studied both directions, realizing that she was
sheltered by the meander of the walkway and the shrubbery.
If she dawdled, no one could see. Risk of discovery was
slim, and a mischievous imp must have been egging her on,
because she continued to observe, exhaustively examining
every aspect of the indecent exhibition.
A man strutted into view. Partially clothed, he wore no
shirt, but his lower torso was covered by tan pants and
black riding boots. His back was to her, and entranced,
she surreptitiously assessed his anatomy.
He was tall-at least six feet-and broad shouldered, but
thin at the waist and hips. His arms were muscled and
defined, and he had the countenance of a gentleman who
utilized fencing or pugilism as a technique for keeping
himself in commendable condition.
Whatever his mode of training, it worked. He had an
amazing, manly physique that gave him an air of elegance.
He sauntered to the sideboard, converging on the spot
where she was hidden, and she shrank into the foliage.
With the angle of sun and shadow, she couldn't be
detected. Not that he was looking. He was too intent on a
beverage, and he reached for a crystal decanter and poured
himself a glass of amber liquid, swilling it down in a
quick gulp, then he poured another and drank it down, too.
Turning toward the window, he gazed across the lawn. His
stance and nearness afforded her the ideal excuse to
furtively spy, and spy she did. She was transfixed.
He was gorgeous. Nay, beyond gorgeous. Into the realm of
godlike.
As though some deity had taken a special interest in his
formation, his features were perfectly constructed, each
bone and stretch of skin flawlessly situated for maximum
effect. His hair was lush, blond, the color of ripened
wheat, the type that made a woman eager to run her fingers
through it. A few of the untamed locks dangled rakishly
over his noble forehead and, as if he'd been too busy to
have his valet render a necessary trimming, the back was
too long and deliciously curled.
His eyes were blue and penetrating as the waters of the
Mediterranean Sea were said to be. Not that she'd been to
the Mediterranean, or would ever go, but she imagined that
the shade was an exact match.
A tempting layer of hair coated his immense chest. It was
a tad darker than the golden hair on his head, and it was
matted in a thick pile across the top, then it narrowed to
disappear into his trousers and masculine points below.
He tucked both hands behind his neck and stretched, and
she was presented with a mesmerizing glimpse of the tufts
of bristly hair under his arms, the bones of his rib cage.
As he arched out, the tightness of his pants was more
noticeable, his powerful thighs splendidly delineated, his
vital regions explicitly outlined. She could make out
ridge and contour, and there was certainly a great deal to
investigate.
He shifted to the side, furnishing her with a profile of
his John Thomas. It was larger now, having increased in
length, probably from his contemplation of the nude beauty
loitering behind him. In visible discomfort, he pushed the
heel of his hand at the erect rod, striving to ease the
constriction.
Hung like a racing horse.
The crude phrase echoed past, and she blushed to the tips
of her toes.
What was she doing, skulking and prying, while cogitating
as to the genital size of the robust rogue? No doubt, he
was about to participate in a tryst with the woman on the
sofa, and Emma refused to watch.
In a temper, she reminded herself of why she'd come, of
the righteousness of her mission. It had naught to do with
the virile scoundrel, and she wouldn't be dissuaded by him
or the sordid spectacle that was about to unfold.
Annoyed with herself, she stepped away, and above her, she
could make out the white shutters and trim, the gray
bricks of the majestic mansion. It was perched on a hill
so that its wealthy occupants could loftily stare down on
the land and the poor inhabitants living below. In the
July sunlight, the panes in the dozens of polished windows
sparkled like diamonds. She peered across the expanse of
rear yard. Despite the current dour state of the local
economy, the estate grounds didn't look any the worse for
wear. The bright green lawns were meticulously swathed,
the gardens carefully pruned, the bushes and hedges
painstakingly sheared, the flower beds weeded and arranged
in eye-catching designs.
When people in the surrounding villages were struggling so
terribly, the flaunting of such blatant affluence made her
furious.
In her fist, she clutched the eviction notices that had
been sent to various acquaintances the previous day by the
viscount. The ruthless missives had targeted widows and
the elderly, those least inclined to self-sufficiency,
those who were most in need and, in some perilous cases,
who were owed lifetime compensation from the Clayton
family.
Most of the recipients couldn't read the horrid tidings.
Seriously agitated, they'd rushed to the tiny, ramshackle
cottage where she'd moved-with her disabled mother and
younger sister-after her father had died and his housing
and income allowances had been terminated.
Imploring her for information and encouragement, they'd
come to her as they always had in the past, pleading for a
reassurance she couldn't give.
Why, she, herself, had received one of the spurious orders
for displacement. After her father's nearly half a century
of dedication to the Wakefield district.
Had the viscount no shame? No sense of obligation or
fealty?
Well, she wouldn't submissively tolerate such abhorrent
nonsense, particularly when it was being dished out by a
pampered, rich, self-indulgent ne'er-do-well such as John
Clayton. She'd once relinquished the roof over her head
without a whimper of protest, and she wasn't about to do
so again. If the viscount was resolved to proceed, his
edicts would not be implemented easily or peacefully.
Not if Emma Fitzgerald had anything to say about it.
With a fresh wave of ire and conviction shooting through
her, she tried to picture him.
What would such a despicable lout be like?
"Majestic as an angel painted on a church ceiling," the
housekeeper's sister had maintained.
"A silver-tongued devil, who could outcharm the snake in
Eden," had been the opinion of the gardener's wife.
"Usually tippling hard liquor by noon," was the conclusion
of the gardener, himself.
To her knowledge, the unrepentant villain hadn't formerly
put in an appearance at the estate. At age thirty, he'd
assumed the title the prior autumn after his father,
Douglas Clayton, had passed away. He'd been the viscount
for almost a year, and his total abdication of
responsibility had left him with a steady, significant
income, coupled with extensive leisure opportunity in
which to squander it at his disreputable pursuits.
According to rumor-and there were many-his hobbies were
reckless gambling, wild women, and intemperance. He was a
man of town, a handsome, dissolute libertine who thrived
on degraded activity. His history was a long line of
debauchery, immorality, and vice, with nary an intervening
interlude of exemplary behavior or ethical conduct.
There was no escapade in which he wouldn't wallow, no
antic too outrageous, no indiscretion too scandalous, no
abomination too disgraceful.
How dare he show up now, demanding more than his faithful
crofters could provide? Just so he could hie himself back
to London and waste their hard-earned money at the faro
tables.
He'd traveled to the estate with a London retinue in tow.
It contained a bevy of beautiful, unchaperoned women, and
a collection of bawdy, impertinent men-the pair upon which
she was gawking a consummate example of the scurrilous
group. The interlopers had fully established themselves,
running roughshod over the servants with their
requirements and directives.
They reveled and caroused, staying up till dawn. An
endless card game was in progress, with wagering for high
stakes. Inebriation was rampant, as were flaunted forms of
undress, and there was ample indication that Wakefield's
companions were prone to lecherous fornications,
systematically enjoying sexual congress with miscellaneous
partners.
The viscount had been in residence for a week and had
swiftly succeeded in twisting the placid mansion into a
veritable den of sin and iniquity.
Her poor father, the beloved Vicar Fitzgerald, had to be
rolling over in his grave.
She was determined to depart, when the woman spoke from
the fainting couch.
"Is it a pleasant day outside?" Her voice was husky,
tantalizing, and Emma wondered if it was natural or if it
was a practiced affectation.
The man was distracted, but responded, "It's quite nice."
"Will we be able to go riding?"
"Perhaps," he said noncommittally.
"While you're up, darling, would you refill my glass?"
For some reason, the simple request had the man glaring at
her over his shoulder. He was testy, irritated. "I'm not
your darling, and I'm not your damned slave, either. Get
it yourself."
A lovers' spat. How indiscreet. How uncivilized to listen
to it. Yet, Emma wasn't about to desist.
The woman achieved a credible pout. "Don't tell me you're
still angry over the incident with that insipid serving
girl. She deserved to be slapped."
Emma's brows flew up in astonishment as she conjectured as
to which girl had been the object of the shrew's temper.
She couldn't wait for one of the neighbors to drop by and
chat so that she could be apprised of all the details.
The man glowered, the irate force of his gaze making the
woman fidget. He almost made a cutting remark then, in the
next instant, his wrath vanished, as if he'd considered
whether the matter was worth a quarrel and had decided
that it didn't merit an expenditure of energy.
"These people are country bumpkins," he contended. He was
so flip that Emma was sincerely offended, and she
questioned how she could have found him attractive.
Clearly, he was handsome only until he opened his mouth
and talked. "They don't understand the concept of adequate
service," he went on, "and they aren't discerning enough
to comprehend their mistakes. I warned you before we came
that you'd have to make do."
"You failed to mention that the domestic staff was
comprised of untrained barbarians." "You'll
survive." "Yes, well," she huffed condescendingly, "with
the sloppiness that's allowed here, we might as well be
camping in a cave."
"You can be such a bitch." He peered outside, rolling his
eyes in repugnance-or maybe it was exasperation-and Emma
was left with the distinct impression that the woman was
goading him beyond his limits, but she was too self-
centered to realize it.
"I thrive on it," she retorted puckishly, making a pretty
moue with her lips. "But that's what you love about
me." "Not bloody likely." The man's rejoinder was so quiet
that only Emma had heard him. He lifted an arm, steadying
it against the sill, the posture extending his lank frame.
Emma froze. She was so close that she could distinguish
the individual hairs under his arm, the bumps on the brown
ring of his nipple, could swear she perceived the earthy
scent of his skin.
"Georgina"-he referred to the woman by her name-"I
permitted you to accompany me for the sole purpose of
entertainment. If you're not up to the task, I'd be more
than happy to send you back to town."
Evidently, his comment was a threat, one that had a
fascinating result. Georgina frowned at him with concern
and panic, which were abruptly masked and replaced by what
was an attempt at an earnest smile.
"Don't let's fight so early in the morning." Cooing, she
was fairly dripping with sexual promise. "I didn't mean to
upset you, darl-" She cut off just before expressing the
loathed endearment. "Would it make you feel better if I
apologized to the silly chit?"
He chuckled. "You wouldn't have the faintest idea how."
"I could do it. For you."
He chuckled again, and Georgina's relief was palpable-a
catastrophe avoided-although Emma couldn't deduce what
calamity she'd almost beheld.
Georgina slithered off the couch, gliding toward him and
untying the belt on her robe as she neared.
They were going to engage in the marital act.
Disgustingly, Emma couldn't compel herself away.
She was riveted, agog to finally have the opportunity to
learn secrets about which she'd incessantly ruminated. The
intriguing mysteries of libidinous conduct were about to
be unraveled.
Her pulse rate elevated, her breathing escalated, her
palms tingled.
She was a wanton at heart. Who could guess that under the
prim, proper exterior of a vicar's daughter, she harbored
such base tendencies and corrupt character? Deep down, she
was possessed of a weak moral constitution. How
mortifying.