“Well, why should I?” She peered around, waiting until the butler had slipped out of the hallway. “After all, you were in a whorehouse last night,” she hissed.
“As were you, Miss Haversham.”
“Yes, well, I was not there for the...entertainment.”
“No, you were there to pry into my business, which I must say is getting exceedingly exhausting.”
She huffed and turned away from him. “Where is my mother? I demand you return her to me.”
He stepped in front of her, his arms folded. She glared up at him.
“Well?”
“She’s sleeping. She had some soup and bread and is under the capable care of Ruth, one of the maids, and my housekeeper. I’ve asked for my physician to take a look at her too. No doubt he will be along shortly.”
Miss Haversham stilled and blinked a few times. “She had bread?”
He nodded.
“She hasn’t eaten bread in days,” she murmured.
“Well, Ruth said she had quite the appetite when they got her settled in bed.”
Her posture softened. “And she’s sleeping now?”
“As I said.”
“I suppose...I suppose I should let her rest. She hasn’t been sleeping well with that cough.” She tilted her head and eyed him. “Why did you take her?”
“Because she is ailing, Miss Haversham, and in case you had not noticed, I have plenty of room here and enough servants to care for a good deal more people than just me. It seemed rather the logical thing to do.”
“You could have at least waited for me.”
Guy arched an eyebrow. “If I had waited, you would have fought me every step of the way.”
“I might not have done,” she mumbled.
He allowed himself a slight smile and she echoed it, her lips curving.
“I might have done, I suppose.”
“Let her stay here a while. I have the space and she can stay warm and recover properly here.”
Her chin lifted. “I was doing my best.”
“I know,” he assured her, spying the wounded glint in her eyes. “But you can look after her much better here.”
“Me?”
“If you wish to stay with your mother, you are more than welcome.”
Her brow furrowed. “You wish me to stay too? Me?”
“Indeed.”
“But I have been making your life miserable!”
“Well, it is nice that you could admit that but as far as I can tell, if you are under my roof, I will know exactly where you are at all times and thus my life will be much easier.”
“So you did have an ulterior motive?”
“No, but it does seem rather a good plan now, does it not?”
She pressed her lips together and narrowed her gaze at him. “I will stay, but as soon as my mother is well, we’ll be going home. I would not wish to be an imposition any longer than necessary. Nor do I intend to fall for any of your trickery.”
He lifted a hand. Miss Haversham thought him devious and he supposed she was not wrong. He’d planned enough kidnappings in his life to accept such a description. However, he had scarcely given his plans to help her mother any thought. Mostly, he could not conceive of her suffering through the death of her mother. It pained him more than it should. And, as he said, he had plenty of space.
“There is no trickery here, I vow.”
Though, he might very well have tricked himself. Here he was, trying to talk himself out of any kind of desire for the woman and now he had her staying in his house. He wondered sometimes if he was just a glutton for punishment.
Yes, Guy, why not have the woman who cannot know anything about you under your roof where you can see her every day? Why not offer yourself the chance to imagine her in the room a few doors down from yours, slipping naked into the sheets? Why not—
Good God but he was a fool.
“You know you still owe me an explanation for yesterday.”
“Ah.” He’d rather thought she might have forgotten that. “Over dinner.”
“But—”
“Take the carriage home. Inform your father what is happening and gather your things. Bring him along too if you like.” At least if her father was here, he’d be a lot less tempted.
“I’m not certain he will come...”
“Then we can discuss this over dinner.”
“I—” She lifted a finger then dropped it. “I suppose that will do.”
It was a small victory but a victory nonetheless. He still hadn’t quite figured out what he was to tell her, but he hoped he could be vague enough not to give away any details. Miss Haversham might be a determined woman who wrote bloody awful gossip columns but there was no chance she was the callous, gossip-gathering person he thought her to be. If he appealed to her caring side, she might just understand.
As she left and he shut the door, he met Brown’s gaze. “Don’t say a bloody word,” he told the butler.
He shook his head. A victory. To have her here. Under his roof. What an idiot he was to believe that.
“FREYA?”
Freya jerked awake from her position beside her mother’s bed, her elbow slipping from where it had been resting on the arm of a chair. She jumped up before she had fully remembered where she was and put a hand to the wooden pillar of the bed to steady herself.
“Yes, Mama?”
She smothered a yawn and perched herself on the edge of the bed. Her mother peered at her from beneath a mountain of blankets and surrounded by plush pillows. Without a doubt, her mother was far more comfortable here than at home. The sumptuous damask silks and golden tassels alone had to be worth more than their entire furniture collection.
She didn’t know if Lord Huntingdon had been responsible for choosing the room in which her mother stayed but it was decidedly feminine, with little touches of pale green combined with muted gold and cream. Furnishings from the far east sat alongside older English pieces, combining to make a most elegant room. If she let herself, she could be quite envious of such a room, though she had already been assigned a guest bedroom and it was hardly squalid.
“I did not know you were here.” Her mother attempted to push up from the bed.
Freya jumped up and aided her with sitting. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she swore her mother looked better already. This recent illness had taken its toll, her face growing gaunt and the dark circles around her eyes more prominent.
They shared similar pale hair but her mother’s had grown thin and wispy with the white in it appearing more stark. Their facial features were similar too. At least they had been until her mother had sickened. But color shone on her cheeks for the first time in weeks.
“Lord Huntingdon has been kind enough to let me stay whilst you are here,” she explained.
“He seems a good man. Quite commanding. I like that in a man.” She paused, a cough wracking her.
Freya patted her back and waited for the fit to subside before offering her a drink. Her mother took a few sips and handed it back. After setting it on the table, Freya moved back to the chair on which she’d been sleeping. She scarcely recalled falling asleep which indicated quite how tired she must have been. Her neck ached from the silly position and it felt as though she had bruised her elbow from being perched on the hard wood.
“How are you feeling, Mama?”
“Better for having some sleep,” she said. “And I ate a fair amount earlier.” She smoothed her hands over the bedding. “What a lovely room this is.” She looked to Freya. “Is your father well?”
“Quite well. He is staying at home with Brig. I think he will enjoy the peace and quiet without us womenfolk.”
Her mother smiled. “No doubt. I know my ill health has been worrying him.”
“Mama—”
“This Lord Huntingdon—he must be quite interested in you to wish to look after your mother.”
“Oh no, not at—”
“Men like that do not do such acts without motive.
”
“Well, actually, I think he’s rather in the habit of doing such acts,” she admitted quietly.
“A good man then. And rich too.” Her mother waved a finger at her. “Do not be too stubborn to give him a chance.”
Freya shook her head, feeling a few spirals of hair bobbing loose from her impromptu nap. “I doubt a man like him would be interested in me. I’m sure if he wanted someone, he could have his choice of women.” She straightened. “Besides, I am quite comfortable with my status as spinster. Why should I wish to give that up?”
There were more reasons too, but she certainly was not going to tell her mother that her hallowed rescuer frequented the worst whorehouses in London.
“Because there is no weakness in loving another. It takes strength to depend on your husband and, so long as he depends on you too, you shall be most happy, of that I have no doubt.”
“Mama, I am not here for a husband.”
“You need someone to look after you,” her mother insisted. “You take too much on those small shoulders of yours.”
“I’m perfectly fine on my own. I have lasted this long after all.”
“Freya—”
The dinner gong echoed through the house and Freya’s stomach gave a little tumble. She had chosen her best dress, but it was hardly suitable for an evening dinner in a fine house. The pale muslin had recovered from its dip in the puddles, but its long sleeves were a little crisp and the bodice slightly too tight. She tugged at the itchy lace at her wrists and eased out a breath. She looked smart at least. Hopefully that would make up for her lack of ornamentation.
“Try to at least be a little charming, my love,” her mother ordered. “And fix your hair!” she added as Freya scurried out of the room.
She shoved the strands of hair back into clips as she made her way downstairs and turned left then paused and turned right. Lord Huntingdon waved from the open doorway of the dining room and she hurried toward him. “Am I late?”
“To a dinner for two, hardly.”
“Oh good.” She huffed out a breath and dropped her hands from her hair. A traitorous strand dropped immediately down her shoulder. She grimaced when his gaze landed on the long length of it, sloping its way down her bodice.
“May I?”
She nodded and stilled, her spine as straight as a ship’s mast. He took the long length of her hair and she felt the tug and pull of a pin. “I didn’t know earls were versed in women’s hair,” she said lightly in a bid to hide the tremulous quality of her voice.
“Oh earls are versed in just about everything,” he said, coming around in front of her and offering a slightly lopsided smile. “You have about the most amount of hair I’ve ever seen. I do not know how women do it.”
She touched the back of her hair. “It’s my one concession to vanity I suppose.”
“It is quite beautiful.” His throat bobbed. “Shall we?”
He offered her an arm and led her into the dining room. She nearly paused on the threshold and considered escaping when she spotted the golden candelabras, the shining chandelier above and the long, gleaming oak table, laid with enough food to feed a sizable family. What on earth did she think she was doing here?
Chapter Fifteen
Guy could not quite fathom when Miss Haversham had become beautiful. Though even that word felt a disservice.
Stunning.
No.
Spectacular.
Not that either. It was something else, something no man could put his finger upon. When he first met her, he’d considered her a little plain. Then he had conceded there were interesting things about her. The pale skin for example and the inquisitive eyes.
Discovering the full length of hair that skimmed down to her hips when she had shoved him into the pond had done something odd to him. He kept picturing her bare shoulders with it spread over her milky skin. Touching a lock of it made that image worse because now he found himself imagining it draped across his skin.
She sat to his right, her eyes as wide as the dinner plates as she eyed the food spread across the table.
“Is all well?”
“Um.” She gestured to the food. “I hope this is not in aid of me.”
He waved a hand. “Not at all. Any extra will be given to those in need.”
She shook her head. “I should not be surprised that you dine like this every night.”
“It’s just how it’s done.”
“Do you never question why?”
He peered at her. “Why?”
“Why this is how life as an earl is done? Do you never question your duty to the title?”
He lifted a shoulder. “In some ways, I suppose.” He could not claim kidnapping troubled women was exactly part of his duties.
He aided her in loading her plate with food. A footman filled her wine glass then brought around quail roasted in a fragrant, tangy sauce. Her stomach grumbled in response and she grimaced. Guy pressed his lips together and glanced away from her. She really did look uncommonly pretty, especially without adornment in her hair or any jewelry distracting from the bare expanse of her décolletage. There was something to be said for ridding oneself of all the fuss required for such dinners usually.
“What of you?” he asked.
“Me? I do not have any noble obligations in case you had not noticed.”
“I was speaking of duty. Do you never question yours?”
She blinked a few times. “What duty?”
“To your ageing parents. Your friends.” He lifted his brows. “Your dog...?”
“Why would I?”
“It would be nice, would it not, to take a little time for yourself occasionally?”
“Time is the privilege of the rich,” she said blithely.
“Oh yes, time,” he drawled. “I have so much of that.”
“Well, you must be an exception.”
“If I had a wife, no doubt she would have endless time on her hands, but I cannot say the same for most landed gentlemen. It occupies most of one’s time simply running an estate, let alone several.”
“I see.” Her throat bobbed and she took a quick sip of wine. “Is that why you visited the—” she glanced around “—place of ill repute. So you could, um, relax?”
Allowing himself a slight smile, he shook his head. He wondered how long it would take her, and by his approximation, it was all of twenty minutes. “I went there for business of a sort.”
“I’m certain many women who work there think of it as...business.” Warm, rosy splotches of color appeared on her cheeks and she stabbed her quail with a fork several times.
“I went there to help someone.”
Her gaze shot to his. “One of the women there?”
“Someone else.”
“But who?”
He eased out a breath. He should have known a mere snippet of information would not be enough for her. “If I were to tell you that a woman needed my help or else she could end up in grave danger, would that be enough for you?”
Her gaze searched his, a little furrow appearing between her brows. “Perhaps. What sort of danger and what kind of help could be found at a place like that?”
“I needed to know the movements of a certain person. One who visits that place.”
“So you could then help this woman?”
He nodded.
“I see.” She eyed her plate for a few moments then lifted her gaze to his. “I suppose that makes sense.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s what?”
Guy chuckled. “No more questions?”
“Well, I have many, but I can see you do not wish to tell me more, and if what you say is true, I doubt this woman wishes a stranger to know her business.”
“It is true, and you are right. The fewer people who know her troubles, the better.”
Though, like a fool, a nagging part of him wanted to reveal all. He really must be addled. How could he forget this woman was in pursuit of a story that could ruin
him, and everyone involved?
“I’m really not certain why you did not tell me this yesterday,” she murmured.
“Would you have believed me? Especially when you were looking very much like you wanted to see me strung up for being there?”
Miss Haversham straightened in her seat. “I do not think I looked like that at all, and I would have been fair.”
“Doubtful.”
“I would have,” she protested.
“I think you were quite jealous of me speaking with those women.”
As soon as he said the words, he wished he could conjure them back. Yes, he believed that to be true but why the devil did he think to say it aloud?
Whatever this unspoken thing between them was, it did not need bloody well addressing. It needed burying, somewhere deep. Maybe the center of the Earth, though he suspected even that wasn’t deep enough.
This vow to avoid women forever, was getting mightily old and tiring, though.
Not to mention rather impossible at present. It seemed no matter what he did, Miss Haversham ended up in his life. Or possibly he kept engineering it that way. He needed to see his doctor perhaps. Have his sanity checked.
Several moments passed of Miss Haversham staring at him with her mouth ajar. Finally, she lifted her shoulders. “I certainly wasn’t jealous. You may do whatever you wish with your spare time, my lord. It has nothing to do with me.”
She jabbed a fork aggressively into what was left of the quail and Guy forced away a smile. Jealous, to be certain. But he really, really should not like that fact one jot.
Not one damned jot.
“MR. BROWN, I do not suppose you’ve seen Lord Huntingdon, have you?”
The butler peered at Freya from underneath patchy white eyebrows. He always looked somewhat amused at her presence and she could not tell if he liked having her here or thought her beneath him but, as yet, he had been kind to her mother and her.
“I do believe he is in the stables, miss.”
“Thank you.” She twisted then twisted again, eyeing up each of the doors.
Brown’s lips quirked and he pointed to a door at the rear of the hallway. “Through there, miss, then follow the corridor into the rear drawing room.”
“Right. Thank you.”
Taking the Spinster (The Kidnap Club Book 3) Page 10
