Cheryl Holt (6 page)

“I reviewed your references.”

“You snooped in my reticule. How crass!”

“The list is remarkable.”

“It’s fabricated,” she contended. “I invented every single name. I copied them off gravestones in the Hailsham cemetery.”

Curious if it was true, he chuckled. “You have the qualities I’m seeking. You’re educated, refined, genteel.”

“I have no skills, I have no previous experience. I was taught by my mother at her dining table. I’ve never been a governess, and I have no aptitude for such a post.”

“You’ll be ideal.”

“While visiting your home, I got drunk. You’re too polite to say that I passed out, but I did. You’re a fool to ask me, so by refusing, I’m saving you from yourself.”

Unnerved by how he towered over her, she tried to shove him away but couldn’t. As if they were adolescent sweethearts, he clasped their hands and linked their fingers, and he bent down and buried his face in her hair. The soft curls tickled his nose and chin.

“I like you when you’re drunk.”

“You’re the sole man in the kingdom who would be charmed by such appalling conduct.”

She edged herself farther into the corner, and he followed, needing to touch her, to be as near as he was able. “Before you fell asleep, you claimed that you’re an excellent judge of character. You even insisted that you love me.”

“Aah!” she shrieked. “I was intoxicated! I didn’t mean what I said, and you’re a beast to mention it.”

“Do it for me, Emily,” he whispered in her ear.

She peered up at him, her eyes wide and trusting, and she was nettled by his earnest request. She was a compassionate individual, and she wanted to stand firm, but she grasped how much he craved her assistance.

Though he couldn’t deduce how or why, she made him yearn to be someone else, someone respected and admired, a man worthy of her esteem. She was unsullied,
pure, as far removed as could be from his dishonorable acquaintances and sordid amusements. He was eager to spend time in her cheery company. If he were lucky, some of her integrity and propriety might rub off.

She was so close, her ruby lips inches away, and without thinking, he kissed her. In the history of kisses, it wasn’t much, but it seemed natural to attempt. In his convoluted swirl of absurd logic, he felt as if she belonged to him, as if she were his.

For a few brief seconds, his mouth was lightly melded to hers, and he was jolted by the contact. He lusted after her in a fashion he hadn’t in years, hungering for those heady days when desire had been so exhilarating.

At first, she was amenable. As if holding on for dear life, she gripped his jacket and leaned into him, but sanity swiftly returned, and she lurched away.

“Lord Winchester!” She was stunned, accusing. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Pardon me,” he murmured, though he wasn’t sorry in the least. He lied, “I don’t know what came over me.”

“My goodness. I don’t know, either.”

“You bring out the worst in me.”

“I have that effect on people.”

They were both embarrassed, gazing anywhere but at each other, while anxious to gracefully end the discussion that he’d thoroughly mucked up, but he couldn’t depart without obtaining her consent.

“I need your help, Emily,” he stated. “With the girls. No one else has evinced the slightest interest. Only you.”

“Well, that certainly has me flattered.”

He’d tried commanding, then pleading, but with no success. Perhaps the answer was to be brutally frank.
“They’re afraid of my reputation. They’re afraid to work for me.”

“With valid reason,” she scolded, though without her prior fervor.

“My father killed my mother.” He wasn’t sure why he’d alluded to the incident—he hadn’t planned to—but he was desperate. “They all maintain that his insane blood flows through my veins. They stay away because of it.”

“You? Insane?”

“Yes.”

“That’s poppycock. You’re not mad. A tad too salacious maybe, but definitely not mad.”

“See? You comprehend what sort of man I am deep down. I’ll treat you well, and I’ll strive to do what’s best for the girls.”

She studied the floor, his admission weighing on her. Their short kiss had altered their relationship, had lowered barriers and created a novel bond.

Could they be friends? With her a female, how peculiar it would be!

“I believe you’re a decent person,” she finally concurred, “but you struggle so hard to hide it, and I can’t figure out why.”

They were the truest, kindest words anyone had ever spoken to him. “I’ll pay you whatever you demand. What is your price?”

“It’s not the money.”

“What, then? I’m rich and powerful. Tell me what you want, and it’s yours.”

She paused, considering. “So maybe it is the money. You couldn’t pay me enough.”

“Five hundred pounds.”

“A year?”

“Seven hundred fifty.”

“An entire family could gambol on that much.”

“A thousand.”

“Stop it!”

“I need you. Badly. I wasn’t joking.”

“You’re not being serious,” she argued. “I couldn’t possibly merit such an enormous amount, and I wouldn’t allow you to waste so much on me.”

“You’d be surprised at how much I deem you to be worth.” He assessed her, astounded that he’d offered her a small fortune, with her in dire straits, but she’d been totally unmoved. She was the sole individual he’d ever met who hadn’t greedily clutched at his purse.

He grinned, more positive than ever that he was doing the right thing. “Plus room and board.”

“That goes without saying.”

“For you, but for Mary and Rose, too.”

“I couldn’t let you.”

“Why not? I own a drafty, huge mansion, with just me and my brother lumbering around. There’s plenty of space.”

“But such an arrangement would be outrageous. What would your servants think?”

“Do I look as if I care?” That wrangled the first smile he’d managed to garner from her. “Rose would be a great help to me, too.”

“Rose? How could she be?”

“My wards, Pamela and Margaret, are sixteen and nine. Rose could be a companion for Margaret.” They stared at each other, the silence lengthening and settling around them. “Emily, I saw the scones you’d stuffed in
your bag. I appreciate how grave your circumstances are, and I won’t leave the three of you here.”

“I can’t decide . . .” As if she had a terrible headache, she rubbed her temples.

“It’s for the best, Emily.”

Transfixed by nothing, she scrutinized the floor again, as she mentally debated the issue. Ultimately, she muttered, “There couldn’t be any inappropriate behavior.”

“Meaning?”

She glared at him. “You know precisely to what I refer.”

“Not even with you?”

“Especially not with me.”

He mulled it over, convinced that if he agreed, he’d be giving up something wonderful. With a sigh, he said, “As you wish.”

“And I don’t want your lady friend, Amanda, skulking around. I won’t have her dropping by, I can’t be running into her in your vestibule; I won’t have her hallooing us when we’re walking down the street.” She hesitated. “Swear to me that she’s out of your life.”

It was an easy vow to make. “She’s gone. You’ll never have to worry about her.”

“Then I’ll try it. For three months, which will put us through the summer and into the autumn. After that, we’ll discuss the situation to determine if I should continue.”

“You’ll all come to live at my town house?”

“Yes.”

“Today?”

“Yes,” she repeated.

“How much will you require as remuneration?”

“When the three months have ended, you can pick the sum, depending on how valuable a service you feel I’ve rendered.”

He scoffed at her naïveté. “You should have lessons in how to negotiate. What if I take advantage and never compensate you?”

“You won’t.”

He was thrilled by how well she understood him. “No, I won’t.”

In complete accord, they went to share the news with Mary and Rose.

 4 

“Let me get this straight.” Alex Farrow glared at his older brother. “We’re about to be overrun by women.”

Michael hemmed and hawed, then admitted, “I guess you could look at it that way.”

“You know how I feel about the Martin girls living with us.”

“You’ve been extremely vocal in your objections.”

“Any sane man would have sent them directly to boarding school, with the annual letter inquiring after their welfare. But not magnanimous, wonderful you! Oh, no!” Contemptuous of the bloody business, he waved his hand as if the topic were a foul odor he couldn’t bear. “By all means. Move them in! Let them have keys to the place! Why set any limits? Why keep our own routines intact?”

“I’ve merely requested that you not drink in front of them. Or invite any prostitutes over. I’m positive you’ll survive.”

“You can amuse yourself at your country properties and your club. What am I to do?”

Since Alex’s return from his insane stint in the army, their disparate fiscal stations were a constant source of strife. Michael was wealthy and had his fingers in every pie that made up the Winchester coffers, while Alex was reduced to barely subsisting on an allowance that never went far enough.

Alex hated to be envious, to incessantly harp, but his jaunt to the Continent had left him bitter and resentful, and anymore, he couldn’t talk to Michael without complaining.

“When the mood for companionship overtakes you,” Michael said, “you may use either one,” which was an easy boon to grant when Alex wouldn’t avail himself of a public haunt. His pride guaranteed that he couldn’t tolerate the stares or whispers.

“You’re too, too generous,” he sarcastically griped. He sounded like a nagging fishwife, but he couldn’t stop. “When will the governess arrive?”

“She’s already here.”

“With her whole damned family! Are we operating a pauper’s haven for every unemployed female in London? What were you thinking?”

Michael sighed with exasperation. “Alex, we have a huge mansion, and these destitute women need somewhere to stay. We’ll sort it out. Give me the summer to have things settled. That’s all I’m asking. It won’t kill you to be flexible.”

Absently, Alex rubbed the horrendous scar that had ruined his face, detesting—as always—to be reminded of the marring an enemy’s sword had inflicted in Portugal. Once, he’d been as handsome as Michael, with the customary Farrow black hair and blue eyes. Now, even
his prior fiancée avoided him, and his vanity couldn’t abide the derision he experienced from those who were supposed to be his friends. Bit by bit, their veiled pity was destroying him.

“I don’t want these strangers poking about,” he grumbled.

“I know you don’t,” Michael kindly concurred, which made Alex even more irascible. Did Michael have to be so understanding?

“Then why are you doing this to me?”

“I am not doing it
to
you. I simply need to deal with this new situation and, hopefully, to resolve it in a fashion that works for everyone.”

“Aren’t you the empathetic arbiter?”

In a fit of temper, he whirled away and hurried to the stairs, marching up to the seclusion of his bedchamber.

How dare Michael institute so many changes without discussion or consultation! Yes, it was Michael’s house. Yes, he owned every knickknack and bauble, but the accursed dwelling was Alex’s home, too.

Michael had welcomed guests, hired employees, and rearranged sleeping quarters, without soliciting Alex’s opinion. There were so many people joining them, the floor piled high with their luggage, that the main foyer resembled a coaching inn.

Where was he to hide? How was he to have any peace?

He was hurt, despairing, and wanting Michael to . . . to . . .

He couldn’t decide what he wanted from his brother. Michael had been naught but attentive and considerate about the maiming, but every word spewed from his mouth was like salt on a wound.

Michael seemed to have everything, while Alex had nothing. He was wretched, pessimistic, deplorable in his drive to wallow in misery.

What abominable fortune had conspired to lay him low? Others had endured worse fates, had died, sacrificed limbs, or grown crazed from war madness, but his arrogance had slain him with the humiliation of his disfigurement.