Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress

by Louise Allen

  ‘Goodness, no!’ There was the spark of the Meg he was used to. ‘My own education was sadly lacking in everything except sewing, accounts and Bible studies. I speak Spanish and Portuguese—and much of that not repeatable in polite society—and very poor French. I could assist a housekeeper or perhaps be a nurse-companion to an invalid or elderly person.’

  Mrs Fogarty, the housekeeper at the Court—he could not think the word home in connection to the place where he had grown up—was a sour-faced, bitter woman. His younger brother, Giles, had been her favourite and she had always disapproved of Ross, for some reason he had never been able to understand. Perhaps it was simply because she didn’t like most boys and he had been a fairly wild example and not an attractive, handsome specimen like his brother. Looking back, Ross could not count the times she had sent tales of his various misdeeds to his father, but she had earned him a goodly number of thrashings. After Giles’s accident her antipathy had changed to outright hostility, and that he could understand.

  Her name had still been on the list of staff the lawyers had sent him. She must be in her early sixties now and probably looking forward to seeing him with about as much pleasure as he felt at the prospect of the reunion. It would be like having a dark spirit lurking in the corner, knowing Agnes Fogarty still controlled the household.

  ‘You do not look like any housekeeper I have ever met,’ he told Meg as the mooring lines were heaved over the side and the ship nudged up to the quayside.

  ‘No?’ She managed a half-smile and Ross felt something twist inside him.

  He did not return the smile. ‘No. You look too young,’ he said flatly. She would be all right, surely? She was practical and hardworking and sensible and she did not want his help. ‘They have let the gangplank down. Come, I will help you find your luggage.’ He limped away before she could reply, or tell him to slow down. At least he would not be fussed over any more, he told himself, crooking a finger to a reliable-looking porter with a barrow as his feet hit solid land.

  ‘That bag there,’ he said, pointing. ‘You will go with this lady, wait while she makes some visits and then be sure she gets safely to a respectable inn. Do you understand?’ He passed the man a coin as he spoke. ‘Make sure you find her something suitable.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ The man tugged his forelock, pitching Ross back years to his childhood with just two words in the soft Cornish burr.

  ‘Thank you, Major. That is most thoughtful of you.’ Meg spoke formally, as though they had not spent nights together in the same bed, as though she had not flown into his arms for comfort, lifted her lips for his kisses. ‘I trust your leg heals well and you find your way home safely.’ She turned to the porter and then swung back, her face animated with concern. ‘Do take care of that wound. And please—give yourself time to adjust. It will all be well, you will see.’

  And then she was gone before he could answer her, walking away over the cobbles, talking as she went with the porter, who was nodding and steering his barrow towards the steep street to the town.

  Ross stood and stared at her slender back, the brave set of her shoulders as she walked off into the unknown. Courage and humour when surely she had as much to dread from this landfall as he had. More, for he knew what he was going to. She was adrift in her own country with only a few guineas to her name.

  ‘Porter, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked at the man. ‘Take my luggage to the Red Lion Hotel.’ When he had left, that had been the most exclusive inn in the town. ‘I’ll follow you.’ He glanced back and saw that Meg had vanished. As though she had never been there. Off to a new life as a drudge to some invalid or to a post as a housekeeper before she set off, not knowing what awaited her when she got to what had once been her home. ‘No, wait.’ The man stopped, resigned to the whims of the gentry. ‘Wait one moment.’

  ‘This one along here’s where my sister got her post as a cook,’ the porter said, trundling his barrow along in the roadway while Meg walked on the flagged pavement. ‘She said it was a fine, smart place. Made her nervous to go in, because they only serve the real gentry there. No shop assistants or maids of all work.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll try it first, then.’ Meg stopped outside the office and studied the shiny dark-green front door with its brass knocker. The plate read, Empson’s Employment Bureau. She struggled for calm composure, despite her anger and panic over the stolen money. Just a few weeks, she promised herself. I won’t need so very much, I can earn enough for the stage. ‘It looks very—’

  ‘Genteel, that’s what our Kate said,’ the man confided. ‘She got a smart lawyer to cook for. An Honourable, she says he is. And they don’t grow on trees.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ Meg agreed gravely, turned the handle and went into a square room with a row of upright chairs along one wall and a desk set across the far corner. An odd assortment of people waited in silence on the chairs. The man sitting behind the desk raised his head from a ledger and placed eyeglasses on his nose as she crossed the boards, conscious of every squeak of her shoes on the surface. Genteel. How on earth am I going to learn to look genteel? I must not look too desperate, however I feel.

  A wiry young man with highly polished shoes glanced up at her from the book he was reading, then politely looked away, but the plump woman with a vast bonnet stared openly and the neat woman in black next to her watched her from the corner of her eye.

  Valet, cook, governess, Meg guessed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good morning. I am seeking a position as an assistant to a housekeeper or as a nurse-companion.’ Meg placed herself before the desk. A sign on it read Eustace Empson, Proprietor.

  ‘I see.’ Mr Empson opened a ledger, picked up a pen, dipped it in the standish, peered at the page, then sharply up at her. ‘Name? Experience?’

  Meg set herself to make the very best of her somewhat chequered past, editing the details heavily. ‘…and I am told I read aloud to invalids most effectively,’ she finished. ‘Oh, yes, and I speak Portuguese and Spanish fluently.’ Behind her the doorbell tinkled.

  ‘Hah! Not a lot of call for Portuguese housekeepers in Falmouth,’ Empson said sourly. He scribbled on a form, handed it to Meg and gestured at the chairs. ‘Wait your turn there. Mrs Empson may have some nurse-companion positions. You have your references, I trust?’

  ‘Of course,’ Meg lied, inwardly cursing. She had never thought of that. References? Where was she to get those from? ‘At my lodgings.’

  ‘Did you say Portuguese-speaking housekeeper?’ a deep voice enquired.

  Meg dropped the note and her reticule and scrabbled for them on the floor. It cannot be… But it was. Her gaze, ascending from her crouched position, travelled up scuffed boots, salt and smoke-stained uniform trousers to a broad chest and a very familiar, very forbidding face.

  ‘Indeed, sir.’ From Empson’s voice he was a trifle uncertain as to the status of this latest arrival. Ross Brandon sounded like an officer and a gentleman; he hardly looked like one as he loomed over the desk with her crouched at his feet. ‘A Mrs—’ he glanced at his ledger ‘—Halgate who has just registered is so qualified. You seek such a person?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ross said, standing in the middle of the immaculate, prim office like a prize fighter in a vestry.

  ‘Er…I see.’ Mr Empson, in the absence of any further explanation, patently did not see. ‘I believe you are not registered with us as seeking staff, Mr, er—?’

  ‘Lord Brandon,’ Ross said and Meg stood up so abruptly that she banged her elbow on the edge of the desk. Lord Brandon? ‘Very well, I will register if that is required. Brandon, Trevarras Court. Do you need anything else?’

  ‘No, my lord. Indeed not.’ Mr Empson was on his feet, washing his hands together in an ecstasy of delight at having secured a titled client. ‘May I offer my condolences on your recent loss? A great man, hereabouts, your late father.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ross said, his voice frigid enough to stop Empson’s gushing dead. ‘And the ho
usekeeper in question is where, exactly?’ He gazed past Meg, who stood rubbing her elbow and trying not to gape.

  ‘Here, my lord. Mrs Halgate stands before you, my lord.’

  The black eyes travelled up and down as though assessing her plain gown and modest bonnet. As though he had never seen her before. A perfect example of an arrogant lord, the clever man. Or perhaps it was not pretence. Perhaps this really was Ross. ‘Very well. She will do.’

  ‘We have not yet seen Mrs Halgate’s references, my lord,’ Mr Empson blurted, prudence finally overcoming his desire to offer his noble client immediate gratification of his needs. ‘We cannot guarantee…The reputation of the agency requires—’

  ‘If she turns out to be inadequate or dishonest, or her Portuguese grammar is faulty, I will return her to you.’ Ross sounded profoundly uninterested in Empson’s worries. ‘Mrs Halgate? We may discuss terms later.’

  ‘I believe you also require a valet, my lord.’ Ross, Empson and Meg all stared at the wiry young man who had got to his feet and was addressing Ross.

  ‘I do?’

  The young man blinked in the face of Ross’s full, intimidating, attention, but stood his ground. Brave man, Meg thought. ‘If your lordship has a valet at present, may I make so bold as to observe that he is not doing his job.’

  ‘And you can do better?’

  ‘Most certainly, my lord.’

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Perrott, my lord.’

  ‘Perrott was with the late Mr Worthington,’ Empson hurried to intervene. ‘A local gentleman of the dandy persuasion, if I might be so bold. A follower of Mr Brummell in his own way.’

  ‘And you think you can make a dandy of me, do you, Perrott?’ Not a line of Ross’s face indicated the slightest amusement at the prospect.

  ‘I would venture, my lord, that you would suit the severity of style advocated by Mr Brummell. That or uniform.’

  ‘I’ll take them both.’ Ross might have been referring to two new pairs of gloves. ‘They can come with me now to the Red Lion Hotel. We will travel to the Court this afternoon. Good day to you, Empson.’

  Meg stared at the young valet, who looked back with a decided twinkle in his eye. What on earth was Ross about? He knew she needed employment: proper, paid employment. He might indeed require a valet, but his home, the name of which she had only half-heard, must be fully staffed already, surely? She was not going to take his charity.

  And Lord Brandon? Why had he not told her that?

  ‘After you, Mrs Halgate,’ the valet said. ‘We must not keep his lordship waiting.’

  Lord Brandon—would she ever get used to it?—was indeed waiting for them, radiating the impatience he seemed able to convey despite his outward calm. He clicked his fingers at her porter and set off with his small entourage straggling behind him.

  And he was walking far too fast, his limp getting worse as he ignored the need for caution, or, presumably, the pain.

  ‘My lord!’

  He stopped, turned. ‘Yes, Mrs Halgate?’

  ‘Would you be so kind as to proceed more slowly, my lord? I have wrenched my ankle on these cobbles.’ Meg managed a pained smile.

  Ross narrowed his eyes at her, then turned and walked on at a more moderate pace.

  ‘He’s going to be a challenge to dress,’ Perrott observed out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I don’t suppose I can persuade him to stay with the uniform. He’ll be selling out, I have no doubt.’ He walked on, studying Ross with frank professional interest. ‘At least I won’t have to pad anything.’

  No, Ross certainly did not suffer from spindly calves, narrow shoulders or a pigeon chest. ‘You’ll need to talk him into a lot of shopping,’ Meg murmured back. ‘He hasn’t a decent shirt to his name.’

  It did not take the expression on the young valet’s face to make her realise her error. ‘You know him already?’

  ‘I came over on the same ship from Bordeaux,’ Meg confessed. ‘I have nursing experience and I dressed his leg when he first boarded—that is a nasty bullet wound.’

  ‘I see,’ was all Perrott said. Meg hoped profoundly that he did not, and that he would keep his mouth shut about whatever speculations he had formed.

  ‘I had no idea he had a title,’ she added, hoping that made the acquaintance seem even more remote.

  ‘His father was the third Baron Brandon,’ Perrott told her as they picked their way around a spilled basket of herring. ‘A big man with a nasty temper, very hot.’

  ‘Well, his son is very cold,’ Meg said. ‘From what I have seen,’ she added cautiously. ‘There was an incident on board and he dealt with it ruthlessly and with all the heat of an ice house.’

  Perrott gave a snort of amusement, then sobered. ‘He doesn’t seem too worried about the existing staff. His old lordship must have had a valet and there’s definitely a housekeeper in residence. What is he going to do with them?’

  ‘Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.’ Drat him—now she felt guilty as well as confused. Ross was proving nothing if not autocratic; he did not appear to have given the question of the existing servants any thought at all. Surely he would not just arrive and turn them out?

  He came to a halt in front of a long, low white-washed building with a statue of a red lion projecting out over the street. ‘Where are your possessions, Perrott?’

  ‘At my lodgings, my lord, not ten minutes away.’

  ‘Then fetch them. We leave at one.’

  Meg followed Ross inside, her porter at her heels, to find him already ordering a private parlour and a noon meal. The landlord quite obviously realised who he was, from the obsequious my lords that peppered every sentence.

  ‘Toadeater,’ Ross snarled before the parlour door had quite closed on them. ‘Well, Mrs Halgate? And why are you looking at me as though I’ve grown another head?’

  ‘Because I am so confused, you may as well have done! You really are the most outrageous, arrogant man, Ross Brandon.’ Meg put down her reticule and stood right in front of him. ‘I say goodbye to Major Brandon and the next moment Lord Brandon is taking over my life. Has it not occurred to you that there will already be a valet and a housekeeper and that she will not be best pleased to have some unknown assistant wished on her? You have no idea if I will be halfway competent to run whatever sort of establishment you are dragging me off to, and neither do I, come to that. I told you I would not accept money—’

  ‘I did not drag you.’

  ‘Well, I could hardly stand there in the middle of the employment exchange and say, “This is so sudden, my lord. One moment we are sleeping in the same bed and the next you are employing me”, now could I? I expect I will be back there tomorrow looking for a proper position, so I needed to leave with some dignity. Why make me go through this farce when you know I need to earn some money quickly? And why,’ she added, recalling another grievance, ‘did you not tell me you are a baron?’

  ‘Because I do not want to be a damned baron,’ he snapped back. ‘And because I want you.’

  There was no chance to step back and no hope, once Ross’s hands had banded on her upper arms, of pulling free. She was lifted up on her toes as he bent his head and then he was kissing her as though to bend her to his will by sheer force of his sexuality. His tongue was possessing her mouth, his hips were thrust against hers, leaving her in absolutely no doubt that he was more than ready to simply toss her on to the couch and take her, and the deep growl that vibrated through her spoke of nothing but a savage need that he was barely containing.

  Chapter Seven

  Ross showed no sign of needing to draw breath. Hanging in his grasp, Meg was afraid, outraged and shockingly aroused. Somehow she got her hands up, clenched her fingers into the cloth and buttons of his uniform jacket and clung on while he ravaged her mouth. He wanted no tender give and take, that was the only thing that was clear to her reeling brain as he freed her arms, clasped her buttocks and lifted her against the rock-hard ridge that was so exciting her.

&
nbsp; Yes, yes, yes, the words chanted in her head as the taste and smell and heat of him overwhelmed every other sensation, every coherent thought.

  There were coloured lights against the darkness of her closed lids, a strange buzzing in her ears. Air. She needed air or she would faint. Meg pulled back her head just enough to breathe and with the air came reality.

  This could only lead to one thing. The clamouring voices in her blood still shrieked yes, but she fought them, got her mouth free, dragged down more air and managed to say, ‘No.’ It was a whisper, hardly audible above the thud of her pulse. How could she trust her instincts after last time, after James? How could she risk entangling her life with another man when her future was so precarious?

  Ross did not seem to hear her, but buried his face in the curve of her neck, his big hands sliding round to cup the weight of her breasts. The touch felt like naked skin on skin. ‘No,’ Meg said again, on a sob, and hit him, hard, on the ear.

  Any other man would have reeled. Ross merely lifted his head and looked down at her. ‘No?’ He must have seen the conviction in her face, for he opened his hands and stepped back. ‘Meg, I am not playing with you. Won’t you be my mistress?’

  ‘No! Of course not. What are you thinking of? What am I thinking of?’ she added distractedly. ‘I am not your mistress, I do not want to be your mistress.’ Meg hit him on the chest with her clenched fist, a thump for every sentence as though she could make herself believe her own protestations. Ross was silent, accepting her blows without trying to parry them. ‘You stalked me from the quayside, caught me in a position where I could not refuse to come with you. You know I need money—’

  ‘No.’ He spoke at last, frowning as her final, half-hearted blow faltered and she stood there, one hand on his chest, her breath coming in sobs. ‘It was not like that. I realised, suddenly, that I could offer you a position, one where you would be safe.’

  ‘Hah!’ Meg snatched back her hand. ‘Safe?’ She was not safe from her own desires, let alone Ross’s.