And so, apparently, had Lind. Heaven help her, she’d just thought of him in the same terms his friends used. The formal distance created by his title had drowned in wine, brandy, and heady kisses.
There was another temptation she shouldn’t have allowed herself to succumb to, but the way he’d looked at her as he’d run his finger along her neck, sending a hot jolt of need through her belly…
At one time, she’d longed for Lind to look on her thus, to take her in hand and show her the mysteries of what passed between male and female in secret. The sorts of things her older sister giggled over with her friends behind their fans. Whispers of what married ladies did to get with child.
But Lind had never paid her the smallest whit of attention when she was younger, and the unveilings of such mysteries had fallen to another. Her education had comprised more of disappointment than delight.
Still, for a few stolen moments tonight, she’d almost believed in the delight again. Her body still hummed with the thrill of Lind’s hands on her breasts, his lips on her throat, and the anticipation of more, always more.
Until the butler interrupted.
No doubt the story would be all over the servants’ hall by tomorrow about how his lordship had been caught tupping the governess in the passageway. To the devil with Lindenhurst’s strictures against gossip. In the future, Cecelia wouldn’t be able to look Mrs. Carstairs in the eye, for more reasons than one. As long as Lindenhurst didn’t sack the lady for failing to properly instruct the maids.
With a last longing touch, she laid the gown carefully aside, stripped off her chemise, and donned a night rail. The cotton should have been crisp and soothing against her skin, but her nipples still ached for Lind’s touch, and the fabric irritated more than it calmed. As she sat at the tiny dressing table and removed the first pins from her hair, her glance landed on a small square of paper.
Oh, yes, the letter. Smithers had delivered it earlier, but in the rush to dress for supper, she’d laid it aside. She had time for it now. And who would have found her here, when she hadn’t even informed her brother of her whereabouts?
Her pulse ticked faster. Why hadn’t she thought to look at it while Alexander was still here? When she might have asked him what he knew about it? Assuming he knew, but then she was merely speculating. No one could have traced her here. It was one of her reasons for taking the position. In this far-removed section of Cornwall, she’d thought herself safe from speculation. She’d thought herself safe from discovery.
At her wayward thoughts, she nearly laughed aloud. She was being silly. It was a simple note, nothing more.
And yet it was addressed in her name, Miss Cecelia Sanford, care of Viscount Lindenhurst.
Fingers trembling, she broke the unfamiliar seal. A terse sentence or two scrawled across the page. A highly familiar scrawl. How many times had he summoned her in this very hand? But the words she deciphered now were no summons. They were more of a threat.
You thought you could hide from me, but you thought wrong. You know what I want. Lindenhurst cannot protect you any more than Anstruther could.
—A.E.
Chapter Nine
Noises echoed in the corridor—rushed footsteps, muffled whispers, the sounds of the household staff hurrying to set about their duties. Cecelia ignored them all. She continued to stare at the ceiling, the way she had for the past few hours as the shadows in her room lightened from black to gray. And while she stared, she stewed until her mind was thoroughly muddled with questions.
How had Eversham found her? That one was foremost, and she didn’t like the conclusion she’d drawn. He’d been watching. Closely. Perhaps even following her movements and waiting for a vulnerable moment. Vulnerability, after all, was a particular specialty of his.
He’d certainly timed his message well, for she could not go to Lindenhurst with this problem. Not after all the conditions he’d laid out when he hired her. Impeccable morals, which meant no gossip, no scandal, no lies. Her entire history with Eversham involved nothing but dark rumors and more than enough scandal to keep her aunt in on-dits for the next several seasons. No doubt Lady Epperley would already be gleefully circulating all she knew but for the fact it involved a family member.
As for the lies, she’d carried herself off as an innocent, but her relationship with Eversham had been anything but.
And as for what he wanted, she could no more restore it to him than the last time he’d demanded his trinket. She’d long since returned it to its rightful owner.
No doubt his next move would involve contacting Lindenhurst himself to let him know in excruciating detail just what sort of governess he’d hired. And then Lindenhurst would turn her out, if indeed he wasn’t already planning on it after last night. But until that point, she’d have to do the best job she could. In spite of what Eversham held over her head, she could still prove her usefulness to her brother.
In fact, she could do so twice over. She’d teach Jeremy as much as she could in the time remaining to her, and find out the source of Lind and Battencliffe’s difficulties. Not that she could allow Lind to catch her snooping again or give any hint she’d discussed such things with the servants, but with a little careful investigating, she might still find something worth passing on.
No gossip.
But if Lindenhurst discovered she’d acted as Alexander’s inside source, it would hardly matter. Not in comparison with what Eversham could tell Lindenhurst.
With a heavy sigh, she threw back the covers and opened the curtains. The morning sunlight stung her grainy eyes. A beam cut through dust motes to land on a swath of pink. The gown she’d borrowed last night. She’d have to see it restored to its proper place as soon as possible. But the touch of the smooth fabric reminded her of another, more insistent touch.
More masculine.
Lind’s palms on her breasts, kneading, igniting a fire in her. His very gaze making her feel beautiful. Desired. Wanted for herself, not what she could do for him.
No doubt it was all an illusion. Eversham had done a credible job in making her feel womanly and desirable, as well—in the beginning. Before long, their relations had turned to what she could do for him. The very idea made her skin crawl as though an army of spiders were marching up her spine to nest in her hair. She shivered. Good Lord, the mere thought of the man made her crave a bath, but she had no time for such luxuries now.
She must dress and start her day. As for the rest, she had no choice but to put it out of her mind for now. Despite a sleepless night, she had too many other things to take care of. Unfortunately, they all involved appealing to Lindenhurst’s sense of fairness.
—
Lind pushed his untouched cup of tea aside and studied his latest reports. Boff had outdone himself this time. The man may look unassuming and nearly comical, but when it came to collecting information, when it came to goading key people into action, he was more than efficient—which could only mean his methods were less than aboveboard. Lind never questioned how his man of affairs accomplished what he did. He merely accepted Boff’s uncanny ability and basked in the results.
In this case, Boff had convinced several more of Battencliffe’s creditors to demand payment. If the latest reports on the bastard’s accounts were correct, he was nearly bankrupt, which meant it was time—time for Lind to put the final phase of his plan into motion.
Battencliffe would have to sell the rest of his holdings or find himself spending Christmas in debtor’s prison. Not only this Christmas, but the next and the next and the next. His hole would be dug so deep, he’d never climb out. He may as well consider it his grave.
The thought was nearly sufficient to wipe the sour taste from Lind’s mouth, a bitterness resulting from overconsumption of spirits and the obligation of firing yet another servant. And his day had only just begun. Before the sun set, he’d be sending Boff to the newspapers with advertisements for a new housekeeper as well as a new upstairs maid.
Damn it all, he’d hoped
to have seen the last of the problems with the staff, but apparently no one in service was able to observe a few simple rules. He turned his gaze to the ceiling, where several inches of wood and carpeting separated him from Lydia’s old bedroom. “I only ask that they keep things as they find them,” he muttered, whether to himself or his wife’s spirit, he wasn’t sure. “To clean and nothing more. To keep those things spotless. Surely that’s not beyond the bounds of reason.”
A knock on the door interrupted his musings. “Come.”
The handle turned, and his housekeeper trundled in. “You wished to see me, my lord?”
“I did, along with Miss Sanford. Has she been summoned?”
“Not that I am aware, my lord.” Completely adequate, that reply. Completely even-toned, as he’d come to expect.
To the devil with it. Why now? The woman had acquitted her duties to his satisfaction for years. On top of everything else, he didn’t wish to begin a search for another housekeeper. He’d have to explain a few of his expectations to a new one. Mrs. Carstairs, on the other hand, understood him perfectly. She’d been with him since his marriage. Since before the accident that had taken Lydia from him.
But that was exactly why the housekeeper should have known better.
“While we’re waiting, I might inform you that Grant has been let go.”
He watched carefully for a reaction, but all he got was a frown and a furrowed brow. “Has she not suited?”
“I daresay—” He would have gone on, but a movement behind Mrs. Carstairs caught his attention. “I see Miss Sanford has deigned to join us at last.”
Chin high, Cecelia sailed into the room. The modest cut of her bodice looked far more appropriate to her station but it only served as a reminder of what she’d bared to his gaze last night. His palms tingled at the memory of her nipples tightening under his touch, and he thought he could still taste the sweet remnants of their kiss.
Cecelia straightened her spine. “Smithers gave me little choice in the matter, but just as well.”
Lind held up a hand before she offered him another generous portion of her sharp tongue. Time to take charge. “I’m sure you both can guess why I’ve called you here.”
He fixed his glare on the housekeeper, but his peripheral vision still held a glimpse of Cecelia. Enough to note the puffiness about her eyes. So she hadn’t slept, either. A dull throb at his left temple reminded him of the reasons sleep had eluded him. A healthy dose of Miss Sanford downed with too much wine and unsatisfied lust was enough to keep any man awake, even someone who had shut down those needs long ago.
“My lord, if this is about the maid—” Mrs. Carstairs began, but Cecelia interrupted.
“What maid?” But her eyes narrowed, as if she’d already guessed.
“I was obliged to let Grant go this morning.” He tapped his fingertips together, while studying their reactions. “I was wondering what either of you had to say about that.”
The color drained from Mrs. Carstairs’s fleshy cheeks. “Nothing whatsoever. You have always had the final say when it comes to the staff.”
He leaned forward in his seat. In his army days, he had preferred to hold interrogations with his victims standing at attention, eyes fixed straight ahead, the better for him to discomfit them by pacing. They never knew from which angle his next attack would come. His injury had robbed him of that ability, but he hadn’t lost the power of his voice.
He lowered it to nearly a whisper, forcing Mrs. Carstairs to attend him. “Best you remember that.”
“If this is about the gown, kindly say so.”
Damn Cecelia. Damn her for seeing through him and damn her for ruining his intimidation tactics. For that matter, damn her for her tempting mouth and sinful curves. Most of all, damn her for getting under his skin so easily.
Mrs. Carstairs’s complexion went the color of chalk. “What gown?”
“You cannot blame Mrs. Carstairs for what happened last night.”
What happened last night was he’d lost control. Years of careful discipline had unraveled in a wash of rose-pink silk, a gown Cecelia had no right to touch, let alone wear. The devil take it. He wouldn’t allow himself to lose control like that again. “Last night Miss Sanford appeared at dinner dressed in one of Lady Lindenhurst’s ball gowns. Upon questioning the maids, I have already determined Grant was the one who trespassed. She has been dismissed. I’ve yet to decide whether Grant is to be the only casualty in this instance.”
“Please, my lord.” His housekeeper’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. “Please, I’ve no other prospects at my age.”
“None of this is her fault,” Cecelia insisted. “She knew nothing of Grant’s doings.”
“It’s true, my lord. Cook had a last-minute disaster in the kitchens. I needed to help her sort it.”
“And you know I came down late. Mrs. Carstairs has nothing to do with this.”
“Does she not?” Lind drummed his fingertips together. “One of her responsibilities is to train the maids to my requirements, wouldn’t you agree?” Tap. “Therefore Grant should have known certain things in this house are not to be touched.” Tap.
“She knew, my lord. She knew not to disturb your wife’s things.”
Cecelia stepped in front of the housekeeper like a human shield. “You cannot sack Mrs. Carstairs.”
“Can I not?” Tap. “What of my dictates against gossip?”
He expected the women to exchange guilty looks. Instead, he got a heady dose of Cecelia Sanford’s lips stretching into a most irritating smile—the sort of smile a person might don when she felt victory at hand. “Good heavens. When I imagine all the duties a housekeeper undertakes in the course of a day. When would she have time to gossip?”
“When, indeed? Do you deny she discussed the boy with you?”
“That was not gossip. That was information vital to the performance of my duties. Information, I might add, that you could have provided. You demand your requirements be fulfilled. I was merely seeing to that. Are you not satisfied with my performance?”
The way his mind honed in on fulfilled, satisfied, and performance, on the sultry note in her voice, Mrs. Carstairs might well have disappeared, leaving the two of them alone. “That remains an open question.”
“Can we at least agree your housekeeper is not at fault in this matter?”
Agree. As if he required her approval in his household. And yet he couldn’t move past the fact that the damned chit had convinced him. “Carstairs, you will make certain the next maids you hire understand that under no circumstances are they to disturb Lady Lindenhurst’s things.”
Mrs. Carstairs dropped into a curtsey. “Yes, my lord. And I’ll remind the rest of the staff today without fail.”
He gave a curt nod. “Dismissed.”
Mrs. Carstairs cast a grateful look at Cecelia before exiting as though her skirts were on fire. His governess, however, remained stubbornly on the spot. Damn it all, it was nearly time for Boff to come scuttling in. They were due to continue their inspection of his estate, since their last visit had been cut short.
The memory of how that had come about caused him to scowl. The very reason his last ride had been interrupted stood before him. His brows sank farther over his eyes.
She returned his gaze directly and with fire, her hands folded in what she must consider a demure pose, but he knew better. The very air about her floated with the anticipation of her asking for something. He had the unfortunate impression that she wasn’t about to beg him for more kisses, however. Not that a man in his position ought to even consider such a thing, especially when he required the highest of moral standing from his staff.
“As long as I’m here, I was wondering if we might discuss something,” she began.
“Does this involve the boy?”
“Naturally it involves Jeremy.” She put undue emphasis on the name. “He is in my charge, and you’ve asked me to educate him. And for that, I need a few things.”
&nbs
p; “If you mean more paper and ink and such so you can teach him to write, ask Mrs. Carstairs for whatever you need. As you’ve been doing.”
“I did not come to ask you about writing materials. I shall need something else.”
“Indeed?” He raised a brow at her. “I was not aware that the position of governess entailed you bankrupting me.”
“If you wish the boy”—was it his imagination or had she stooped to mocking him?—“to receive a practical education, it is my informed opinion that he ought to learn to ride, and for that, he needs a pony.”
“How do you propose for him to learn to ride when he can barely walk three steps without tripping?”
“Why, much the same way you manage it, my lord. I believe you have trouble walking yourself, but you ride across your grounds readily enough. Regan informs me a clever horse is able to compensate for his master’s affliction and make the ride smoother if necessary.”
“Indeed?” It was all he could say without giving voice to a spate of curses. Had Cecelia always possessed such cheek? He cast about his memory, but he hadn’t paid enough attention to the chit before, when he was still close friends with her brother. Too many years separated them, and she’d seemed like little more than an annoying tagalong when he had more important interests to pursue.
“Indeed.” She mirrored his skeptical expression and raised her own brow. Damn it, she was mocking him. He ought to toss her out on her shapely arse, but then he’d have to go to the trouble of finding a new governess. “And once he’s competent enough in the saddle, he can accompany you on inspections of your property and learn firsthand what being a responsible landowner entails.”
He settled back in his seat. Along with the persistent throbbing in his head, his leg was plaguing him this morning—in fact, it had been flaring up consistently for the past few days. Ever since he’d refused her aid and made his slow, aching way back across the grounds on his own. “So you have it all worked out, do you? And who do you suppose is going to give riding lessons to the boy? Or have I overlooked you being an expert equestrian?”
What a Lady Demands Page 9
