Cheryl Holt Read Free Page A

gradually driving her mad.
    Shaking her head, at her absurdity, at her foolishness, she crept away as Georgina spun toward the man. The paid harlot was struggling to pull herself together, to seem satisfied and thrilled, not wanting him to detect how unmoved she’d been.
    Saucily, she patted the front of his pants, elated over the bulge that endured, confirmation of her hold over him. “Feeling better?”
    Indifferent, he shrugged. “No.”
    “You are such a beast, Wakefield. I don’t know why I put up with you.”
    Wakefield! The odious aristocrat, himself. She might have known it was he. How could she have not?
    To think that she’d been dawdling in the bushes, mooning and drooling over him. How embarrassing.
    Appalled, furious, she stalked off, not looking back, not wanting to see or hear anything further from the contemptible couple.
    “Wakefield and his mistress.”
    She felt soiled by their debauchery. What a detestable pair. How could she have been enthralled?
    So this was how the viscount spent his mornings. In between signing eviction orders for widows and cripples, he loafed, drank liquor, and fornicated with compensated whores.
    Oh, wasn’t he in for it.
    Grumbling aloud, she traipsed around the side of the mansion, detouring past the verandah, and she was relievedthat there were no guests lurking on the elaborate porch, but then, the slackers were probably still abed.
    Out of habit, she started toward the servants’ door, then she halted. She was on official business, and she wouldn’t demean herself by slinking in the back door like a groveling supplicant.
    She’d go to the front door. If the viscount didn’t approve, too bad.
    Righteous indignation spurring her on, she marched up the bricked drive and climbed the stairs, banging the knocker with three marked raps.
    A thin, scrawny butler in an expensive black suit answered. He was no one local whom she knew, so he was likely a Wakefield employee from London.
    “I’m here to speak with the Viscount Wakefield,” she announced before the servant could take a breath.
    Patronizingly, he stared down at her. “And you are . . . ?”
    “Emma Fitzgerald. From the village.” She wouldn’t be cowed by the pompous lackey. “With a petition. I demand an immediate audience.”
    “I’m quite sure he’s too busy to confer with you.”
    “When will he be available?”
    “He won’t be,” and he commenced shutting the door in her face.
    Ignoring him, she pushed with all her might, then swaggered across the threshold and pranced into the foyer. Apparently, people were more polite in the city, or perhaps he carried more authority there, because he was egregiously flummoxed by such a breach of polite etiquette. As he pondered what to do with her, his mouth flapped open and shut, like a fish tossed on a riverbank.
    She planted herself in a chair. “I’ll wait.”
    “You most certainly will not. I’ll have the footmen escort you out.”
    She shot him such an evil grimace that he flinched. “Do you really suppose they could?”
    He sputtered, then blustered, “It might be hours before the viscount is free.”
    Standing, she pointed an angry finger at his chest. “You tell that bounder for me that if he hasn’t sent for me in fifteen minutes, I’m coming in to find him.” She sneered malevolently. “And heaven help the man who tries to stop me.”
    The retainer harumphed and scampered off, destined for his master with the dreadful news that she’d arrived.

C HAPTER T WO
    J OHN Clayton, Viscount Wakefield, sat up in his chair and frowned at Rutherford, the butler he’d brought with him from London since he’d been positive that none of the provincial staff would be able to tolerate his proclivities. Rutherford wasn’t shocked by John’s bad habits. Or if he was, he hid it well.
    “Did you say there’s a woman from the village? With a petition?”
    “Yes, milord.”
    “Are you sure you heard her correctly?”
    “Definitely.” Rutherford