Too Wicked to Wed (13 page)
All the more reason to send her away from Linsley Close, he reminded himself roughly. And the sooner the better, for both of them.
“W-what do you mean?” whispered Alexa.
“Never mind,” he growled.
“That first encounter at The Wolf’s Lair was not a role I had rehearsed, sir,” she finally stammered. “It just…happened. I thought my brother might be in danger, and so I acted.”
“I do not question your motivations, Lady Alexa, merely your sense of timing. Courage and loyalty are admirable qualities. But you have an unfortunate tendency to charge in without thinking of the consequences.”
“Perhaps you ought to be glad of that. Otherwise the script might have taken a tragic turn—murder on top of intrigue and foul play.”
“If you expect me to play the role of grateful hero, you have greatly misjudged my character.”
She had taken up a position by the tea tray, but made no move to pour. Her hands remained clenched by her sides.
“And as for a happy ending to this farce, it will come when you exit the stage.” Connor took care to keep his gaze leveled at the leaded glass window. He would far rather face the bleak view of dark clouds, heavy with the rains of an impending squall, than the look on her face.
“I mean to send off some letters this afternoon. Just as soon as I am assured that it is safe for you to leave, I will arrange for your departure.”
Leaving the tea and the pastries untouched, Alexa turned without a word and quitted the room.
Bloody hell.
The earl drank the draught of medicine she had prepared, finding it more bitter than usual on his tongue.
Tallow.
Alexa added the item to her list, then looked up from her notebook. “Anything else you can think of, Mrs. Callaway?”
“No, milady.” The housekeeper cast a doubtful glance at the dusty holland covers, faded draperies, and unwaxed floors. “But begging your pardon, I am not sure how it can be done. There is no staff here, save Joseph and myself.” She hesitated. “And even if the blunt was available, I would have a hard time convincing any of the local lasses to work here.”
“Why is that?”
Ducking her head, the older woman fell to a nervous twisting of the keyring at her waist.
“Mrs. Callaway?”
“If you must know, milady, the earl—the old earl, that is—was a lecherous old goat who was always trying to slip a hand up their skirts.”
“Well, you may assure them that things have changed at Linsley Close.”
The other woman scuffed her shoe over the threadbare carpet. “To be frank, that is not going to be easy. Even in an isolated spot such as this, we get wind of the gossip from London.”
“Regardless of what you or others have heard, the present Lord Killingworth is not the sort of gentleman who would ever force his attentions on a unwilling female,” replied Alexa. The new earl might be just as randy as his father, but he had no need to chase after skirts. They tended to fall right in his lap. With an inward sigh, she recalled the buxom beauty who had so obviously enjoyed her waltz with him. No doubt the lady was just one of his many paramours…
She quickly cleared her throat and went on. “As you have known him since childhood, I imagine you can convince the local folk that it is now safe to pass through these portals.”
An odd little look flitted across the housekeeper’s face before she bobbed her head, “Yes, milady.”
Enough of the Irish Wolfhound.
She would not think of his wickedly wanton mouth. Or his rampantly male…maleness.
Cock. Pizzle. Pego. Tallywag
—oh yes, she had overheard all the cant terms her farmworkers used for the male reproductive organ. Such whispers of forbidden things had been mildly titillating. Her barnyard experience had given her some idea of what to expect. And yet, she couldn’t help but be curious as to how a man looked in the flesh.
Well, now I know.
She should have screamed. Fainted. Melted into a puddle of shame. Instead she had sighed. Stared.
Oh, I admit it—I was tempted to take his challenge and touch him.
The tantalizing textures—the coarse dark curls, the ruddy velvet flesh, so impossibly hard and soft…
She closed her eyes for an instant, trying to squeeze away a stab of longing. It was unlikely that she would ever have the chance again to experience such shocking intimacies with a reprobate rake.
For which I should be profoundly grateful.
And yet…
Tightening her grip on the pencil, Alexa quickly thumbed to a fresh page of her notebook. She would soon be gone from here. But in the meantime, rather than sit around mooning over foolish girlish fantasies, she might as well occupy her time with doing the sort of things she was good at.
“I believe we can budget a small sum to hire help for some of the larger jobs,” she murmured. Cameron had provided her with a generous purse to cover contingencies. “As for the other tasks, I am sure that between the three of us, we shall manage quite nicely.”
There was a sharp jangling as the heavy iron ring slipped from the housekeeper’s fingers. “Oh, milady, surely
you
can’t be meaning to be donning an apron and taking part in the actual work!”
“Why ever not?”
If possible, Mrs. Callaway looked even more shocked than when she had walked into the bedroom and discovered Alexa in a near scandalous state of undress. “Because you are a fine lady, with a lofty title!”
“I am a down-to-earth country miss,” she replied with a wry smile. “Not some pampered Town belle. If need be, I am perfectly capable of rolling up my sleeves and wielding a broom or a dust mop.”
The assurance did not appear to put the housekeeper’s mind at rest. She voiced no further protest, but her fisted hands and furrowed brow spoke clearly of how little enthusiasm she had for the plan.
Stifling a sigh, Alexa consulted the lists she had drawn up, then jotted down several more notes. “I suggest we start in the drawing room. By your accounting, we have an ample supply of beeswax, ash, and lye.”
A stiff nod bobbed in answer.
“Excellent.” Forcing a brisk cheerfulness, she slapped her book shut. “We shall also need buckets, mops, brooms, and dusting cloths.”
“As you wish, milady.”
One would have thought she had just ordered up a coffin and gravestone.
“Excellent, excellent. Then let us count on beginning first thing on the morrow.”
“I will see to it, milady.” Clutching at her skirts, Mrs. Callaway edged back a step, clearly anxious to be dismissed. “Is there anything else, milady?”
“No, that is all.”
The housekeeper scuttled away, leaving her standing alone in the shadows of the neglected room.
Hell, she seemed to be out of place wherever she went. Unwelcome, unappreciated, unattractive, un…Alexa bit back the quivering of her lip. No, she would
not
come undone at this latest rebuff. If she wished to take gambles in life, she must be willing to accept the losses as well as the victories, whatever the cost.
But unlike Lord Haddan, she would fold her hand before she had lost everything, including her dignity—or what remained of it.
Lifting her chin, Alexa managed a rueful smile. At least she could give a good polish to the table before making her exit.
Her spirits thus uplifted, she tucked her notebook back in her pocket and turned for a last look around at what needed to be done to make the place habitable. Reaching up for a closer inspection of the soot stains on the mantel, she found that the twist of goat hair she had tucked away earlier had become twined around her fingers.
Alexa was about to toss it into the empty hearth when something about it caused her to hesitate. Light as a puff of air, the gossamer fibers were intriguingly soft against her skin. She stared for a long moment, slowly spinning them between her thumb and forefinger.
The smudges of smoke forgotten, Alexa hurried off in search of the library.
T
aking a momentary break from her work, Alexa leaned back to admire the newly burnished glow of the sherry-colored paneling. Now that years of accumulated salt and dust had been cleaned from the bank of leaded windows, sunlight spilled into the room, illuminating the fine grain of the oak and the delicate detailing of the acanthus leaf moldings.
Ah, yet another task could be crossed off her list.
She looked over to where Mrs. Callaway was running a vinegar-soaked rag over the last pane of glass. The draperies, lank folds of emerald velvet that had long ago lost their luster, would have to go. Something much lighter was in order. But nothing too feminine. This was, after all, a bachelor’s retreat. A contrasting stripe, perhaps.
She made a mental to note to ask the housekeeper about paying a visit to the attics. There might be some suitable material stored away in a trunk.
“What the devil is going on here?”
The deep baritone rumble sent a tingling through her fingertips. The cursed Wolfhound was right—her mutinous body reacted in the most shameful ways when he was near.
Gripping the polishing cloth more tightly, she gave the wood another rub. “I should think that is rather obvious, sir. We are making the place habitable.”
“Don’t bother.” The earl had managed to shave and make himself presentable in an old silk dressing gown, but his voice was bristly as ever. “I have no intention of spending any length of time here.”
Why was it that a gentleman could look raffishly handsome in a hodgepodge of borrowed clothing?
Alexa brushed at a straggle of hair, belatedly realizing she had left a streak of beeswax and dust on the tip of her nose. It was a good thing she had abandoned all illusions of appearing attractive or alluring to his eye. A droopy mobcap, dusty apron and shapeless gown were not likely to elicit any sighs of admiration.
“Nonetheless, I prefer to keep busy,” she replied. “Besides, on a purely practical level, it’s a prudent business investment to keep a house in good repair.”
“I can never sell it,” he snapped. “It’s entailed. Otherwise I would have gotten rid of the cursed place long ago.”
She raised an eyebrow. “It’s actually quite a wonderful house, with lovely architectural lines, airy rooms, and a marvelous view. Why do you hate it so?”
Ignoring the question, Connor shuffled past her. Aside from a slight limp and a deeper chiseling to his features, he appeared to be recovering nicely from the gunshot wound. Staring up at his back, the broad expanse of shoulders and narrow waist limned in the sunlight, Alexa felt her breath catch in her throat. It had been some time since she had seen him standing on his own, and she had almost forgotten what a large, imposing man he was.
“I am afraid that my lady may have become carried away with her role as mistress of the house,” he said to the housekeeper. “It is, after all, a position that is quite new to her.” Another glance around only deepened his scowl. “She seems to have forgotten that we will only be here a short while. There is no need for all this fuss. A simple sweeping of the bedchambers and an adequate fire is all that is required.”
“I don’t mind, milord. As Her Ladyship says, it is good to be busy. A body should have a useful purpose, rather than engage in frivolous pursuits.” Mrs. Callaway wrung out her cleaning cloth and picked up the bucket. “Or just sit around brooding himself into a black study.”
The earl glowered.
Ducking her head, Alexa bit back smile. The housekeeper must still see a sickly little mite, and not the notoriously dangerous Irish Wolfhound looming over her.
“Shall I fix you a cup of tea while I mix up a batch of fresh suds?” Mrs. Callaway directed the question at Alexa. Her frosty manner had thawed somewhat over the course of the morning, and her tone, while still reserved, betrayed a grudging note of respect. “You have been working since daybreak without a respite. Wouldn’t do for you to fall ill, too.”
“Yes, that would be lovely.” Straightening with a wince, Alexa realized that her muscles were indeed cramped with fatigue. Besides, if the earl was intent on ringing a peal over her head, she would much prefer not to have an audience witness her humiliation.
Connor waited until the other woman had gathered up her things and left the room before turning his gaze from the freshly dusted curio table back to her. A brief glint of teeth was followed by a gruff cough. “My apologies for what occurred yesterday.”
“None are necessary, my lord. If we could go back and repeat the last week, I am sure both of us would choose to do a great many things differently.”
“Still, I have placed you in an awkward position—”
“More than one, actually,” murmured Alexa.
Her rueful attempt at humor did not extract a glimmer of amusement. Angling his face away from the light, Connor picked up an enamel snuffbox from the curio table and turned it slowly between his fingers. Shadows darkened the faint lines crinkling out from the corners of his eyes, accentuating their hooded heaviness. He looked immensely weary, in a way that was more than physical.
Some of the reasons she could guess. As to the others, the Earl of Killingworth deserved his reputation as a supremely skilled card player. She had never seen anyone keep his hand—and his feelings—so closely guarded.
“As I said, I am sorry that you have been dragged into danger.” Connor put down the box and took up another item, this one a Celtic cross, its intricate patterns finely worked in silver. Just as abruptly, he changed the subject. “How did you come to have an Irish name?”
“I am called after my grandmother,” she said softly. “Who hailed from Donegal.”
“I should have known from the red highlights in your hair that you had a spark of Hibernian fire in you.”
“By all accounts, she was an even greater hellion than I.” Alexa sighed. “At age seventy, she still rode to the hounds, danced till dawn, and enjoyed a daily tipple of Bushmills.”
“A remarkable lady.” He shifted his stance. “It appears to run in the family.”
Her head jerked up.
Was that a compliment?
Or simply an oblique way of indicating how little he approved of her conduct.
Alexa had little chance to reflect on the question, as she found herself staring at his outstretched hand.
“Come, you have spent long enough on your hands and knees.” She allowed him to help her up. “If you have need of vigorous exertion, perhaps you will consent to join me in a walk to the cliffs after you have taken your refreshment.”
“But the hearth has yet to be polished—”
“It has lasted this long without crumbling to ashes. Another hour or two will make no difference,” pointed out Connor. “You, on the other hand, look as if you could use a breath of fresh air. As do I. I also would like a private word with you.”
“Very well, sir. Let me just inform Mrs. Callaway of our plans and change into more respectable clothes.”
“Thank you…” A pause. “Alexa.”
Don’t be a goose
, she chided herself. Still, the intimacy of her name without a title, spoken just as a lover or husband might say it—set her heart to fluttering.
The crunch of gravel punctuated his labored steps. Connor had brought along one of his father’s old walking sticks from the entrance hall, but still his progress was painfully slow. Determined to recover his stamina as quickly as possible, he tightened his grasp on the silver knob and forced himself to pick up the pace.
“You know, sir, it is not necessary to hike up into the moors in order to have a private conversation,” pointed out Alexa after they had traversed a steep ascent. “You have a perfectly comfortable library.”
“I would prefer that Mrs. Callaway does not become privy to our deception.” His mouth quirked. “I wouldn’t want my reputation ruined in the eyes of an old family retainer.”
“She indicated to me that she is hard of hearing.”
“When it comes to matters of a confidential nature, I have always found that servants, no matter their age or proclaimed infirmity, have extremely sharp ears,” replied Connor.
Beneath the poke of her bonnet, he detected a smile. “A point well taken, sir. What is it you wish to discuss?”
“How the devil I am going to send you back to Seb without kicking up a terrible dust?” he said.
She stopped short. “What makes you think I shall consent to being trundled home, as if I am a naughty child in need of a spanking?”
“Because you have no other option.”
Her half boot scuffed at the ground, and a large pebble skittered perilously close to his ankles.
He sympathized with her anger and frustration. For an independent, intelligent young lady, the strictures of Society must feel like a cage, no matter how gilded the bars.
However, he was in no position to offer her an escape.
“I’ve dispatched Jenkins back to Town,” said Connor dispassionately. “With orders to return as soon as possible with the latest news from Cameron, as well as a portmanteau of your clothing and a conveyance suitable for a fast journey north.”
A sharp inhale of breath was her only response.
“Cam is extremely capable when it comes to dealing with delicate situations,” he went on. “I’m sure that he has been able to squash any unpleasant gossip concerning your abrupt disappearance from Town. Without the cloud of public scandal hanging over your head, your family won’t have any problem in accepting your innocence—that is, as long as you exercise a bit of discretion.”
“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought,” said Alexa slowly.
“Not really,” he lied. “I have a good many more important things on my mind than a headstrong hellion. However, as I would rather not be distracted by the demands of an outraged brother, I strongly advise that we play down some of the particulars of this predicament. For both of our sakes.”
She stood stony-faced as the surrounding crags as he went on to suggest a highly edited version of the recent events. “If you stick to this script,” he finished, “you should suffer no serious consequences.”
“Nor will you, if that is what you are worried about.” No longer impassive, her features betrayed a twist of indignation. “You odious, arrogant beast. Are you implying that I set out to
deliberately
snare your paw in the parson’s mousetrap?”
“I meant no—” he began, only to be cut off.
“Ha! I may be an aging antidote, but I am not
that
desperate for a husband. Even if I was, I should not wish to shackle myself to one who is an unmannered, ungrateful lout!”
“As I do not seek a wife, we are in perfect accord on one thing,” he said evenly. “My intention was not to offer insult, Lady Alexa. Merely to make certain things are clear between us.”
“Never fear, sir.” Brushing by him, she started back in the direction they had come. “Your sentiments are egregiously clear.”
The path was narrow and steep, but that did not stop her from lengthening her stride to put some distance between them.
The uneven stones made it impossible for him to go any faster. Swearing, he limped over the loose scree, swatting with his stick at the occasional sprig of gorse that hung in his way.
Marriage?
Bloody hell. Even a sham one was proving decidedly difficult.
On making his way around a sharp outcropping of rock, Connor spotted Alexa up ahead. She had stopped at one of the stiles that dotted the stone fences, and as he came closer, he saw that she was feeding a handful of meadow grass to what looked like a walking skein of unraveled wool.
“Where did these animals come from?” The recent quarrel seemed forgotten as she pointed out several other longhaired animals grazing over the hardscrabble terrain.
He paused to catch his breath. “Haven’t a clue. The same place, I imagine, where most farmers buy their sheep.”
She made a pained face. “First of all, they are
goats
, not sheep. And ones that would not have been easy to acquire.”
“Well, then it can’t have been my father who brought them here. His interest in livestock was confined to the two-legged variety.” Not that he could claim to be an authority on the hairy beasts either. “Why do you ask?”
The sun suddenly appeared from behind a scattering of clouds, but the glint in her eye was more than a reflection of the slanting rays. “I thought I recognized the characteristics, and so I did a little research in your library last night.” She tugged gently at the animal’s beard. “These are Kashmir goats, which come from India. They are rare here in England and the wool is quite valuable, you know. With the numbers you appear to have running wild here, you could start a highly profitable business.”
“Too much hard work involved.” Connor shrugged. “I would rather fleece reprobates of the
ton
than be a cursed farmer.”
And yet, why did he feel a strange clenching in his chest at the thought of returning to his ancestral home? Shading his eyes, Connor darted a look back at the facade of the manor house, its mortised limestone warming to a honeyed glow in the changing light.
Ah yes, what a pretty picture that would make
, he scoffed. The Irish Wolfhound turning into a domesticated herder of wool on the hoof.
Next he would be imagining a wife for real and a litter of squawling brats.
Perish the thought.
“It would not entail all that much effort,” persisted Alexa. “Or initial expense. They are very self-sufficient, and you would not require more than one or two shepherds to handle the shearing. Of course, the marketing of the product would need some careful consideration—”
“Hell and damnation!” he exclaimed. “Fate may have thrown us together as nominal partners in The Wolf’s Lair, but the arrangement is purely temporary, and does not give you the right to try to order the rest of my life.”
Spooked by his shout, the goat gave a startled bleat and pulled away from Alexa’s grasp.
“This is
not
my home,” he finished. “Or yours.”
“Damn you, Connor Linsley!” She, too, was shouting. “I need no cruel taunts from you to remind me I have no real place to call home. Just as I need no hostile insults or pawing liberties to tell me how much my presence irks you.”