Cheryl Holt Read Online Free PDF

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, tofawn 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