Sinful Confessions (3 page)

“It’s so small.”

“Yes,
miss,” Jenny replied.

“Aren’t
there any bigger ones?”

“No,
miss. This is the master’s one.”

Viola
tapped a finger to her lips as she eyed the tin bath. She was hardly the
largest of women but she was tall. How would her legs fit inside that tiny
thing?

Jenny
poured in another bucket of water and handed it back to the maid who was
bringing warm water up from the kitchen. The other maid looked to be a good few
years older than Viola and not up to the task hauling bucketful upon bucketful
of heated water from downstairs. She suspected that by the time the bath was
full, the original water would be cold.

“Do
you not have indoor plumbing?” Viola couldn’t resist asking. It was an inane
question because surely if they did, they wouldn’t be running back and forth to
fill her bath.

But
she was entirely baffled by the lack of taps and baths. A house like Lockwood
Manor would have all the latest in modern engineering surely? The vast building
with its impressive columns, high ceilings and utter decadence had taken her
breath away but she really had been expecting it to be less... old. And
certainly less draughty.

“These
old houses aren’t easy to modernise, Miss,” Jenny explained. “Only new houses
and hotels have indoor plumbing. I expect you have it everywhere in New York.”

“Well,
yes, actually.”

“We
do have it in London—not that I’ve ever been there, but my brother has. It must
be wonderful to live in a city like New York. I’d love to visit it one day.”

Viola
sat down on the four-poster bed and gave the mattress an experimental bounce.
It was soft—very soft. As old as the bed probably. “It’s exciting but I do like
your countryside. There’s no green fields where I live.”

“Green
fields are dull.” Jenny swirled about the bath water with a hand and looked to
her. “I’d far rather be surrounded by shops and huge buildings.”

The
other maid returned with another bucket. Jenny poured it in, gave it a swirl
and stepped back to eye the bath. “We have no bath oils or salts, I’m afraid.
The lord threw out everything like that after his last wife died.”

His
last wife? She knew he was a widow but hadn’t realised there had been more than
one. How awful, losing two wives. He had written little about his wife in his
letters, save that she had died just over a year ago. Was he still in mourning?
Did that explain his surly countenance? And if he was, why had he implied he
wished to marry her? Viola resisted the desire to put her head in her hands or
probe Jenny for information. That would be the crass thing to do and she was
trying to prove herself. If she could show that she was marchioness material,
perhaps he would warm to her.

No
doubt he had been expecting something else from her letters. Someone refined
and intelligent perhaps. Viola was certainly not simple but she always felt she
expressed herself better in writing. Was he disappointed in her?

“Shall
I help you undress, miss?” Jenny asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“No!”
She smiled. “I mean, no I can manage, thank you.” She’d certainly never needed
anyone to dress and undress her. She wasn’t going to start now.

“Very
well. If you need anything, just pull that rope there.”

“Thank
you.”

Jenny
backed out of the room and Viola finally gave into the urge to throw herself
back against the bed and lay an arm over her face. If she became a marchioness,
would she have to let people dress her? She shuddered—and not from the cold. In
a house full of boys, privacy had been a rare thing so she treasured it when
she had it. She was the only one with a separate room growing up—at least until
her father made his fortune in coffee and moved them into a beautiful house
with rooms enough for all of them. Except for Ralphy who had left home by then.

Fatigue
made her lids heavy and she forced her arm back and her eyes open. The excitement
and anticipation had left her, leaving her drained. Adding that to the chill in
her body and she felt almost ill. And Viola Thompson never got ill.

But
she had imagined this differently. Yes, the grand old house was more breathtaking
than she could have dreamed possible, and Lord Lockwood certainly affected her
breathing too. But there had been no romance, no being swept off her feet. She
had anticipated him seeing her, falling desperately in love and carrying her up
to his bedroom to make love to her then and there. Then they would get a
special licence and marry as quickly as possible. How envious her friends would
be to hear she was a marchioness. How dreamy her life would be to live in
England, married to a lord.

She
was a romantic fool. Her father would blame all the novels she’d read of
England. She had hoped for her very own Mr Darcy but it wasn’t to be.

Well,
he certainly had that aloofness she might have expected from an English gent.

Pushing
herself up, she drew off her necktie and unbuttoned her shirt. She flung it
aside then thought better of it. Viola retrieved it and hung it over the sky
blue chair in one corner. She paused to peer out of the window. The nice thing
about living in the middle of the countryside, she decided, is no one would
care a whit that she was standing in only her corset and skirt. For many miles,
huge green fields stretched out. From here she could see over the oaks that
surrounded the house and spotted a few scattered cottages, presumably belonging
to the farmers.

How
much of this land was Julian’s? She had researched his family as much as she
could, spending hours looking at his name in Debrett’s, but knew only that he
was around the fourteenth richest man in England. She had to assume then, that
much of this land was his.

As
she slipped off her skirt and began to unlace her corset—something she was very
adept at having grown up without a maid or mother—she pondered the other
properties she knew he owned. Would he take her to Kent for the summer perhaps
to stay in the house by the sea? Or up to Scotland so she could explore the
mountains and castles?

She
put her corset on top of her shirt and removed her skirt and combination. A
chill swept across her skin. Jenny had apologised for the temperature of the
room, explaining they didn’t light fires in the rooms that weren’t to be used.
Though a fire now blazed in the hearth, casting golden light over the tin
bathtub, the room hadn’t warmed yet.

Viola
dipped a toe into the water and sucked in a breath. It wasn’t freezing but it certainly
wasn’t as warm as she liked. To immerse herself in that seemed unbearable. How
did these English women put up with these conditions? They had to be made of
sterner stuff than her. Holding in a breath and drawing up her shoulders, she
stepped fully in and sank down quickly.

The
lukewarm water enveloped her and she bit back a curse. She favoured bathing in
water that was almost boiling. Her brothers always teased her so for it,
telling her she’d turn into lobster if she wasn’t careful. But still, she would
manage. She ducked under the water quickly and came up for air. Jenny had laid
out her toiletries nearby so she reached over for her block of rosemary soap
and rubbed it vigorously through her hair. After days of travel, she felt the
need for a good scrub and of course, she wanted to look beautiful for Julian.

She
laid back in the bath for a moment and let the soap soak into her hair. Would
he ask her to marry him formally? Had he changed his mind? That man who wrote
those letters was under that stern exterior somewhere. She simply had to weed
him out.

And
once she had, she, Viola Thompson—once a nobody, now an heiress—would marry the
Marquess of Lockwood and live happily ever after.

Julian pondered his reflection. Then he
pondered the woman who was a whole wing away from him. At least twenty bedrooms
separated them. He grimaced at the sight he presented. Why he should care what
this crazy American woman thought of him, he didn’t know, but the idea of
having her in his house forced him to wash and dress in a more presentable
manner. He still forwent his necktie, however. After all, this was his own damn
house and he could dress however he pleased.

But
he did want her to like his appearance.

Perhaps
because he liked hers. He liked a lot about her which was ridiculous. Their
letters back and forth had been one of the more enjoyable moments in life. They
discussed so many aspects of life from music, to family, to duty. He never
expected to find her on his doorstep, however, expecting him to finalise the
details of his arrangement with her father. Why come all this way for a simple
business deal? It made no sense. Was it some sort of American etiquette to do
deals face-to-face?

Either
way, she couldn’t stay. He hadn’t shared the house with another woman—with the
exception of his staff—for over a year and he might have little reputation to
protect but he certainly didn’t want to make it any worse. It was already hard
to hire staff as it was.

Not
to mention, he didn’t want her ruined. As annoyed as he might be with having
his leisurely day interrupted, he had grown fond of the woman he’d been writing
to and would never wish her harm.

Never.

Another
reason she had to leave. He was dangerous to women. So far only his wives, but
who knew if that could extend to female friends? He only hoped his mother didn’t
get wind of Viola’s arrival. She might think she was another potential bride
from him. He didn’t care if he died without an heir. With six younger brothers,
there were more than enough Cynfell men to go around. Besides which, once his
mother found out she was American, there would be no end of questions and
concerns. He wouldn’t put it past the old woman to put a stop to any further
correspondence.

He
smirked at his reflection. A marquess being bullied by his mother. He wasn’t
the first and he wouldn’t be the last. The marchioness had strong ideas of
tradition and they certainly didn’t include one of those ‘money-grabbing,
uncouth Americans’ charming her son. If she had to intercept his every letter,
he knew she would.

Julian
ran a comb through his hair and slapped on some cologne. At least his head was
a little clearer now, and he could work out the problem that was Viola
Thompson. She couldn’t stay in the local inn alone. Christ, he couldn’t believe
she didn’t even have a bloody lady’s maid with her. If she was his, he wouldn’t
let her out of his sight. Anything could have happened to her.

Except
she wasn’t his. She never would be. He hoped to keep up their letters once his
business deal with Mr Thompson was completed. A relationship by letters was
something he could manage, for surely even he, as cursed as he was, could do no
harm to her if she was on the other side of the ocean.

He
turned to eye the tabby cat currently curled up on his pillow. “You shall have
to come and meet her. You’ll like her.”

Patches
opened one eye, gave his master a disinterested look and closed it again.
Julian shook his head. The two things he enjoyed in life were his cat and Viola
Thompson’s letters. In the dead of night, when he was at his loneliest, that
purring creature and a re-read of her bright, intelligent penmanship usually
got him through. And when it didn’t, that was when he turned to the drink. He
certainly preferred the after-effects of the letter and the cat though.

“Let
us see if we can’t make a better impression and find somewhere for her to stay.
Perhaps Mrs Whittleworth will know of someone who can play lady’s maid at the
inn.”

The
cat buried his head deeper into his tail to indicate his annoyance at having
his nap interrupted. Julian gave the cat a brief pet and retreated before
Patches got too angry. He would find the housekeeper, ask her about finding
someone to employ for however long Viola needed someone and be sure to have
dinner arranged. Perhaps he could ensure Miss Thompson wasn’t too angry with
him by way of a good hearty meal. He really didn’t want to ruin their
friendship with his terrible mood.

Julian
made his way down to the bottom of the house and weaved through the corridors
to the kitchens. The few maids milling about dipped their heads and one of the
footmen stepped aside and greeted him. The aroma of boot polish mingled with
that of freshly baked bread. He found the housekeeper in the servants’ dining
hall, polishing the cutlery.

She
glanced up. “Good afternoon, my lord. I hear we have a visitor.”

“We
do indeed. Can you make sure a decent meal is served tonight?”

“Will
Miss Thompson be staying long?”

“Only
tonight, I hope.” He pressed his hands to the back of a chair and leaned forward.
“Mrs Whittleworth, do you know of any girls in the village who are in need of
work?”

The
slender older lady gave him a look that he knew meant no. Mrs Whittleworth had
worked for his father and he still recalled the days when she’d had dark hair
instead of salt and pepper locks and her face had been relatively wrinkle-free.

“None
of them will come here, my lord, you know that.”

He
sighed. Yes, he knew that well. The locals were a superstitious bunch who had
never set foot outside of the village let alone the county. He had the touch of
death, they said. Those who worked in his house would all meet terrible
endings. While he might have a tendency to drink and stay behind closed
curtains, he was a fair master and good lord. He did his best to run things
well, even when he’d been lost to despair. But that didn’t matter. All that
mattered to them was that he had lost three wives.

“What
if they only needed to stay at the inn? I need someone to accompany Miss
Thompson.”

“Whatever
for?” She placed down the fork she was holding and gave him a look. “You have
enough space here and Jenny can act as a lady’s maid. There will be no shame in
it as long as she has Jenny on hand. Besides, she’s American, is she not? They
don’t stand upon ceremony as we do.”

“She
needs to leave,” he said tightly, gripping the wooden back of the chair.

The
housekeeper’s shoulders rose and fell in a heavy sigh. “Don’t tell me you are
starting to believe the rumours too?”

Julian
didn’t answer. How could he? What would he say?
Yes, I believe it. I’m
cursed. I’m no good for women.
Hell, half the population of the village had
started to believe he’d had a hand in his wives’ deaths which was preposterous,
especially considering Mabel had been two counties away when she’d been killed.

Two
counties away and in the arms of a lover, he thought bitterly.

If
something happened to another woman, he would never forgive himself.

“I’ll
send one of the boys down to the village shop to ask.” She picked up another
fork and waved it at him. “But be pleasant to this American lady. Don’t scare
her away. You’ve spent too long avoiding women—avoiding everyone—and it will do
you some good to spend some time with her.”

Julian
frowned at her. If it wasn’t for the fact she was like a second mother to him,
he’d have thrown her out on her arse. None of the other servants would dare
speak to him like that. And what did it matter if he didn’t want company? Did
it harm anyone if he avoided social events? Really they should be grateful he
spent his time attending to estate matters rather than devoting time to London
society or dining with all the local families. Unlike some of his brothers.

He
pressed away from the chair and tried not to huff. “Just make sure a decent
meal is prepared and I will be as gracious as I can be,” he promised.

Whether
his limited manners would be enough to make up for his greeting, he didn’t
know. Visitors—even ones with a liking for cats and beautiful hair—made him
shudder.

By
the time he had paced about the library for quite a while, circled the drawing
room several times, checked that no signs of his debauched evening existed any
longer and given in to the annoying voice in the back of his head that told him
he should put on a necktie and a dinner jacket, it was late evening and dinner
was served.

Mrs
Whittleworth had managed to create a spread worthy of a large dinner party. He
grimaced as he eyed the platters and the large pheasant in the centre. He
strongly suspected his housekeeper was guilty of matchmaking. As much as he
enjoyed writing to Miss Thompson, he had no intention of doing anything other
than continue to write to her. Correspondence—now that was the sort of
relationship he could have with a woman. No fear of her coming to harm at a
distance.

Julian
circled the long table—currently only set for the two of them. It seated twelve
normally with himself at the head of the table. The shining walnut piece of
furniture hadn’t seen that many guests since his second wife who loved to
entertain. A jab of agony shot through him as he recalled her at his side,
radiant and laughing. She had always enjoyed company and tried her best to
persuade him to enjoy it too. It was an image that was so far from the last
memory he had of her.

Now
Miss Thompson would take her place. Funny how he could see her there much more
easily than he ever pictured his third wife. Drawing in a lengthy breath, he
drew out his chair and sat. Hands twined together, Julian ran his gaze over the
gilded candelabra in the centre of the table, then up to the chandelier hanging
above. No doubt Viola would appreciate the elegance of the room and the extra
feminine touches the housekeeper had added. He noted several fresh bouquets
scattered about the dining room.

Half-an-hour
later, and with dinner getting cold, Miss Thompson had yet to arrive. Arms
folded, Julian tapped his foot and glanced at the mantel clock. Where in the
devil was she? Damn her, keeping him waiting like this. He had better things to
do with his time like... Well, he knew there was something that needed to be
done, he just couldn’t think of it at this time.

Jenny
had informed her what time dinner was. There was no excusing this. Was this an
American thing? Arriving fashionably late? If so, it was a bloody rude thing to
do.

Heated
anger began to rise under his skin. He tried to inhale a deep breath through
his nose and let it abate but it didn’t work. He hadn’t even wanted to eat
dinner with her so why was he so incensed?

“Damn
this.” Slamming back the chair, he rose and flung down his napkin. “Damn her.”

Julian
stalked out of the dining room, through the drawing room and into the hall. He
wasn’t even hungry now. He’d go back to the library and she could eat alone if
she ever turned up.

But
a footstep on the stairs made him pause and swivel. Ideas of eating alone and
telling her exactly how he felt about waiting for her dissolved. The cream gown
she wore caught the light of the lamps, almost blinding him. When she took a
few more steps down and beamed at him, he wasn’t entirely sure his vision would
return fully. He opened and closed his eyes in quick succession to ensure he
was seeing her properly. He felt as though she had taken a dagger and jabbed
him right in the heart.

The
neckline was square and low, giving him a perfect view of her high breasts. Her
hips swayed naturally from side to side as she descended and the satin gown was
cut to highlight that slender waist. Layers and a train enhanced any curves she
might have and for some inane reason, the heeled shoes she wore captured his
attention. In the same colour as her gown with delicate bows on the front, he
found himself imagining drawing off those shoes one at a time and kissing the
arches of her feet before slipping down her stockings and lavishing attention
higher up.

Julian
gritted his teeth. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to shame himself.

It
seemed to take an eternity for her to reach the bottom of the stairs. She
offered him a shaky smile. Did he make her nervous? She hadn’t appeared one bit
intimidated by him earlier. That wasn’t really his intention. But neither was
wooing her, as Mrs Whittleworth hoped. Better that he set down some simple
rules and let her know that her stay was only going to be brief—just until he
could find someone to look after her outside of his house.

“Good
evening,” he said hoarsely. If only it was anger making his voice sound as
though he’d been gargling sand. No, it was something much, much worse.

Desire.

He’d
long admired the Viola Thompson he knew on paper. He enjoyed her strong
opinions—a sharp contrast to his wives’—and her passion for England and its
history. But now he found himself admiring the reality of her. The rapid rise
and fall of her breasts against that neckline... Good God, he found himself
silently begging for one of those pert globes to escape the tight confines of
her bodice. Never had he been so enraptured by one movement of the body. Up and
down. Up and down. His pulse quickened in time with her breaths.

Which
were incredibly rapid.