The footman extended his hand, and Pamela reached out to take it, but Lord Reynard said, “Age before beauty, young lady, age before beauty.”
Startled, Pamela pulled her full skirts back as he tottered to his feet, and when he pointed at the second footman and said, “You’ll have to support me, also,” she thought nothing of it.
Until he had wobbled his way down and let the footmen lead him over to Beth, leaving no one to assist her except Kerrich, and he had a hot, intent expression that she recognized as…well, that didn’t look like respect, admiration or gratitude. Moreover, he held his hands behind him as if he had to physically restrain himself from snatching her from the carriage.
His clothing didn’t reflect country ease. He wore an almost formal dark green suit, black waistcoat and silk neck cloth. His shiny boots glittered in the sunlight, and his smooth chin must have been shaved within the last hour. The rose in his lapel drew her gaze; it was gloriously red and perfectly formed, a bud on the verge of full blossom. Gorgeous. Taken altogether, he was gorgeous.
The new gown that Pamela had resisted wearing now seemed scarcely good enough, and she was grateful for the quality of the cashmere shawl and the frame of her blue-trimmed hat, which, she knew, brought out the blue of her eyes.
Kerrich pitched his voice to reach her ears only. “Welcome, Miss Lockhart. I have imagined you here at Brookford, and the reality is a greater gratification than the dream.” He took one white gloved hand from behind his back and held it out to her.
“Thank you, my lord, for inviting me.” Painstakingly, she laid her palm in his.
The contact was like rain after a drought. Like spring after winter. Like the first time in a long time that the man she loved had touched her.
But he didn’t love her.
His fingers closed around hers and he helped her to her feet, then steadied her as she set foot onto his property. He gazed at her with the greed of a miser catching his first glimpse of gold.
He said only, “You look well. I worried that you would take on too much after you returned to work, but you appear to be robust.”
“Yes, most robust. I am very strong.” Silently, she winced. She made herself sound like a prizefighter, savage and grunting.
“Your strength is one of the things I most admire about you.” He stood so close he filled her gaze, and she could smell the scent of starch from his clothing and the sweetness of the rose in his lapel. “But I feared you might overestimate your stamina.”
“On the contrary, Miss Setterington and Beth have quite coddled me.” She found herself glancing up into his eyes, then away, as if the elegance of his brown eyes with their heavy black lashes was too much for a mere woman to contemplate.
“Good,” he said.
“What?” What were they talking about?
“Good that Miss Setterington and Beth coddled you.”
His lips formed the words with glorious precision, and all she could do was admonish herself not to behave like a fool. “Lord Reynard and Beth are waiting for us.”
“No. They went inside.”
How did he know that? He’d been looking at her every moment.
With tender hands—well, she considered them tender, probably they were only polite—he turned her toward the house. “I have people I would like you to meet.”
“As you wish.” She would likely have agreed to anything he said. Then she realized he meant the crowd on the stairway. The servants, she supposed, but why would he want her to meet them?
Placing her hand on his arm, he brought her to the bottom of the steps. “First, let me introduce the butler, Mr. Dawson.”
The perfectly groomed, slightly rotund butler bowed.
“Mr. Dawson.” Pamela nodded.
“My housekeeper, Mrs. Bell.”
The thin and erect housekeeper curtsied.
Why was Kerrich introducing her? “Mrs. Bell,” Pamela echoed.
“The head cook, Mrs. Smith.” Kerrich gestured to a broadly smiling, apron-clad woman. He continued as they walked up the stairs, naming each servant. “The senior downstairs footman, Ralph. The senior downstairs maid, Betty. The senior upstairs footman, Roger. The senior upstairs maid, Joyce. The cook’s assistant, Paul.”
Why was Kerrich doing this? “Mrs. Smith.” Pamela smiled politely and repeated after Kerrich. “Ralph. Betty. Roger. Joyce. Peter.”
Gently, Kerrich corrected her. “Paul. The cook’s assistant is named Paul.”
With a shock, Pamela realized—Kerrich knew them. This careless, arrogant, domineering peer of the realm knew each one of his servants, what they did, what their names were. She looked at him, wide-eyed.
“I learned their names so I could introduce you properly,” he said.
“I see.” She had imagined an incredibly uncomfortable visit, with Kerrich treating her coolly if he noticed her at all. Now he was introducing her to his staff as if…her mind veered away. She couldn’t think that. She didn’t dare. Instead, she concentrated on remembering the servants’ names.
At the top of the stairs, she had made it through the ordeal with no more mistakes. Glancing toward Kerrich, she discovered he wore half a smile and satisfaction like a second skin.
For some reason, his confidence snapped the steel back into her spine, and she straightened, gestured down the long line of servants, and in the crisp tones of Miss Lockhart the elderly governess, she asked, “Where is Moulton, my lord? Did he remain in town?”
“Mr. Moulton refused my excessively generous offer to remain my butler and has returned to his investigative firm.”
With difficulty, Pamela absorbed that information.
“He did, however, offer me a position there should I ever desire.” Kerrich smiled openly. “Which of course I shall accept if my plans do not come to fruition. What is the use of being safe if you’re not happy?”
She thought it a rhetorical question, but he paused as if expecting an answer. “I’m afraid I don’t know,” she replied to him and herself.
What plans?
“Exactly,” he agreed. “Now you must come in and tell me what you think of Brookford House.”
Two footmen had left their places in line and held the polished doors wide. Kerrich guided her into a soaring foyer whose marble columns directed her vision upward to a blue-painted ceiling decorated like the sky with clouds and a stylized sun.
“The house wasn’t originally in the family.” Kerrich led her slowly forward, his hand over hers as she craned her neck to look above. “Brookford was built in 1790. When I was looking for a country estate I found it and fell in love. I confess I have changed very little, but perhaps you like a more modern style.”
She thought she restrained her enthusiasm admirably. “This is most beautiful. Very calm and welcoming.”
“Just what I thought,” he said with an irksome contentment.
It was as if he saw through her propriety to the woman beneath. Dreadful man, did he dare think he understood her?
Worse—did he?
“The servants are setting up refreshments in the conservatory,” he said, “but if you aren’t too tired from your journey and wouldn’t mind stretching your legs a little I’ll give you the brief tour of the downstairs.”
“I would like that.” Perhaps it was vulgar curiosity, but Pamela found herself wanting to view the vastness of Brookford House.
They walked along through the door at the end of the foyer and into the picture gallery, another long, high room with huge pastoral landscapes in gilt frames and a few portraits, some darkened with age and some bright with new paint.
“As you may have guessed, we haven’t a lot of family portraits.” He pointed at one of his grandfather, another man obviously his father and a youthful Kerrich. “Until Grandpapa came along, the family was noble, but poor. Not that my ancestors ever starved, you understand. The old Mathewes estate provided a decent living, and I can safely tell you that the men in my family are excellent providers. We always take care of our w
ives and children.”
Again he seemed to expect an answer, so she said, “An admirable trait.” What she really noticed was that he still held her hand trapped between his arm and his palm and showed no indication of letting her go, and the warmth of the contact distracted her from studying the picture of him as she would have liked.
He led her into another room, a library much like the one where he worked in London, with comfortable chairs, bookshelves on either wall that went on forever—and a desk. A wide desk similar to the one where they…without warning she blushed, all over, at once. Not even Miss Lockhart’s professional serenity was proof against the sight of that broad, shiny surface.
“My office here at Brookford.” He walked her right through, but she thought he must have noticed her discomfort, for he strolled with ever more obnoxious confidence. “This corridor leads to the conservatory.”
As he ushered her through, she thought strongly about suggesting that a meal shared between the two of them would be inappropriate and asking that she be led to her bedchamber where she could rest. He would understand then that he knew nothing about her and had no reason to feel confident about anything. He would never have to know that with his help, she had healed from the pain of her father’s abandonment and had left the silver watch behind at the Distinguised Academy of Governesses. She would escape with her pride intact and her emotions in shambles.
Drawing herself up, she made ready to annihilate him with her dignity and her indifference—when abruptly, he stopped.
“Matilda!” he snapped. “What are you doing?”
Chapter 32
Kerrich’s sharp tone startled Pamela, and the greyhound of perhaps three months yelped. In a flurry of long and scrambling legs, Matilda ran away from the stain she’d just left on the Aubusson rug and hid under a table. Landing on her belly, she peeked out, her big brown eyes worried.
Kerrich dropped Pamela’s hand and strode forward. “Bad dog. Bad dog!”
Matilda started crawling toward him, tail wagging.
Pamela was irresistibly charmed. By the dog, and by the master. “She’s a darling.”
“I’ve had Jimbo and Bailey—they’re my other two greyhounds—for years, but recently I decided I should get a new dog.” He picked up the gangly animal and glared into her eyes. “Right now, I can’t remember why.” The little dog whined and her tongue licked at his face, and he spoke directly to her. “And kissing isn’t going to get you out of trouble, Miss Puddles!”
Pamela couldn’t control her grin, or the mawkish sensation of indulgence she experienced at the sight of the suave, wealthy, confident Lord Kerrich brought to treacherous sentimentality by a puppy.
“Hey, there!” he shouted.
A footman and two maids arrived on the run.
“Matilda needs to be taken for a walk.” He handed the dog to the footman, who bowed and backed hastily away. “Julie and”—he hesitated—“Dora?”
Both maids curtsied.
“Matilda has left her calling card.” He pointed. “There.” The maids were smirking, too, and Kerrich scowled at the three women. “Stop that!” Striding to the far door, he stood aside and said, “If you would come this way, Miss Lockhart, I believe we have a small repast laid out for your pleasure.”
Pamela walked toward him, her plan to bow out discarded, but her dignity intact. She would eat with Kerrich, carry on a conversation with him, and let him know by her demeanor that she didn’t mourn their previous intimacy, scarcely remembered his unflattering marriage proposal, and was doing very well without him.
Like the rest of his house, the conservatory glittered with all that was resplendent, a glass-enclosed room where potted flowers bloomed in pots and strawberry plants set small green fruit. A linen-draped table sat in the center covered with an artfully arranged plate of cold meats, cheeses and condiments. A massive marble vase filled with roses stood off to the side. Two chairs were drawn up facing the imposing view from the windows into the garden where chrysanthemums bloomed.
Kerrich held the chair for Pamela. Still enthralled by the view, she walked over, began to sink down—and Kerrich exclaimed, “Stop!”
She half-turned to see him scooping a large, gray-striped, slumbering cat out of her seat.
“I forgot. Luke likes to sleep in here.” He held the limp cat as she sank into the chair, and asked, “Do you want to hold him?”
“Of course,” she said doubtfully, “if you’re sure he’s alive.”
“He’s just old.” Kerrich laid him in her lap. “And spoiled. The housekeeper spoils him.”
Kerrich looked chagrined enough that Pamela eschewed challenging his blame of the housekeeper. Instead, she petted the cat, who proved himself to be among the living by draping himself upside down across her knees and purring. With the afternoon sun slanting in and the scent of flowers rich in the air, the conservatory exuded peace. She relaxed against the back of the chair.
Then Kerrich placed his hands on her shoulders, and she stiffened.
“I suppose it’s pathetically obvious what I’ve been doing,” he said.
She took a careful, controlled breath. “Showing me your majestic possessions.”
“Yes, and letting you know that…that without you to share it with, it means nothing.”
Her breath caught. She coughed abruptly and violently, and clutched at her shoulder where her almost healed wound now throbbed.
“Are you all right?” He leaped to pour her some wine.
She nodded and took a sip from the glass he thrust into her hand. “Thank you. Sorry.” Her voice was choked. “Whatever I’d expected you to say, it wasn’t that.”
“Why else do you think I had you come to Brookford?”
“To bring Beth?”
“If I didn’t have time to fetch Beth myself, I have many trustworthy servants to perform the task.” Kneeling before her, he rubbed the cat’s wide belly. “No, I wanted you to see that I have all you want. I have a house in the country. It’s not a cottage, but you said you like it and if you wanted, I could build you a cottage. I have cats. Barn cats and house cats. You could take a kitten as a pet. Or two kittens. As many kittens as you want. I own dogs. Greyhounds, good dogs, they have the run of the house.” He gestured outside. “I have a beautiful garden. Flowers. A rose garden. Lots of books to read, and for you, all the time in the world to read them.”
Confusion buffeted her. Nothing about this day, nothing at all, was as she expected. Groping for understanding, she wanted to be absolutely clear about his intentions. Cautiously, she asked, “Am I to assume you are renewing your suit for my hand?”
“I never withdrew my suit for your hand!” His haughty indignation went ill with his supplicating position on the floor. Then he caught himself. “I just never knew I would willingly beg you to marry me.”
She watched him absentmindedly pet the cat as he tried to make himself appear humble. He was very appealing like this. Not particularly believable, but appealing.
When he realized she wasn’t going to answer, he said, “Although I know you don’t need any of my things, I will bribe you if that will convince you to marry me.”
“Do you think I’m the kind of woman who would marry a man for his possessions?”
“If you were, you would have taken me the first time I proposed.”
She liked that he realized the truth.
“But there are other reasons for us to marry. Not that I want this in any way to influence your choice, but…I think that you might be going to have my child.”
“Of course,” she breathed. Of course. Somehow he’d discovered she was expecting and he thought…he thought what? That she would have to marry him? If that were the case, he’d be clomping about, arrogant and proud, demanding his paternal rights.
“Of course? Does that mean yes?”
Her hands fluttered to her waist. “Yes.”
His eyes grew large, and he asked, “Would you excuse me for a moment?”
Bewildered, sh
e watched as he stood, went to the window, tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat—and grinned. Foolishly, broadly, as if he couldn’t help himself.
After a moment he swallowed, put on a serious face, and came back to kneel before her. “Forgive me.” His hands flitted over her and finally settled, one on her shoulder and one over her hands. “I know that sometimes women don’t feel well when they are increasing and you might not be particularly happy knowing that if all does not work out well between us you will bear a child out of wedlock, but—I have dreamed my whole life of having a child…with the woman I love.”
Oh. Oh. He’d said he loved her. When he looked at her like this, and she felt the slight tremble of his fingers over hers, she thought…she felt…well, euphoric.
When she didn’t reply at once, he said, “I know that might be hard for you to believe. My reputation is not good and your experience with your father doesn’t incline you to believe me—”
“You’re nothing like my father,” she said. She might have lately mourned her father, but she suffered no illusions about him. She knew very well that if her father had gotten one of his mistresses with child, he would have left nothing behind but a trail of dust.
“I’m not. I can assure you of that by telling you I have known several women in the biblical sense, but I have no children, because I always, always use a sheath. I didn’t with you. Never. Not even the first time.” Kerrich moved closer, crowding her knees. “Do you know why?”
“No.” Her lips formed the word, but she made no sound.
“Because I knew you were going to be difficult. I knew I would need every weapon in my arsenal to keep you, and if that included getting you with child, then I was willing to use it.” She tried to jerk her hand away, but he threaded their fingers together. “Despicable, I know, but you’re everything I’ve always been afraid of.”
She had no idea what he was talking about. “Afraid of?”
“You’re what every man is afraid of. And what every man wants. You’re so clever that it doesn’t matter that you’re beautiful. When I kissed the ill-favored Miss Lockhart that first time, I told you I was testing you, checking that you hadn’t fallen in love with me and so would present yourself naked in my bedchamber.”
Rules of Engagement Page 30
