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.