‘Wh-who are you?’ she gasped.
‘Who did you expect?’ he asked, his faintly hostile gaze running with insulting familiarity over her figure.
‘G-Greville,’ she stuttered again. ‘Greville Anders. This is Blenhem Hill manor, is it not? He—he manages that estate for Lord Englemere.’
‘Not any longer,’ the tall man said curtly. ‘Lord Englemere discharged Mr Anders. Almost a month ago.’
For a moment she blinked stupidly at him. ‘Greville…isn’t here?’
‘No.’ His implacable gaze held her motionless, mesmerising her like a python regarding its prey.
Greville. Discharged. Not here. In her dazed and exhausted mind, syllables detached themselves from words and meaning, echoing down into her empty belly, up into her dizzy head. Images swirled before her eyes: the rain-swept road, her stiff cold fingers, her empty purse.
She felt as if she were swaying in a high wind. The disapproval on the face of the tall man by the hearth was the last thing she saw before the images dissolved and she slipped into blackness.
Chapter Four
C onsternation tempering his irritation, Ned hastened to catch the girl before her head hit the wooden floor. As he gathered her up, glancing about him to determine where to deposit his soggy burden, he realised his first impression had been wrong.
Before she fainted, he’d noted little more than large dark eyes, a determined little chin and the fact that she was dripping all over the carpet. But though her body was short and slender, this was no girl he held in his arms, but a woman. The firm soft mound of her breasts pressed into him as he cradled her inert form, while a lingering hint of some exotic perfume mingled with the scent of rain and sodden wool.His sleepy body roused abruptly to full attention.
Muttering a curse at that distraction, Ned turned to Myles, who was motioning him to lay the senseless girl—nay, woman—on the couch. ‘Who the devil is she?’
‘Said she was Mr Anders’s sister,’ Myles said, pouring a glass of brandy while Ned seated himself beside her, rubbing her hands to try to revive her. ‘At first I thought she be another of Anders’s women, but none of ’em ever arrived this late and soaked through.’
Abandoning his thus-far ineffectual efforts chaffing her hands, Ned delivered a smart slap to her cheek. Her slack body tensed and she gasped, her eyes flying open.
She gazed up at him, her dazed look barely focused, seeming completely unaware of where she was and with whom. Just as Ned noticed the chill emanating from her and realised how icy were the hands he’d tried to chafe, she began to shiver, violent tremors that set her teeth chattering.
‘She must be frozen through,’ he muttered. ‘Myles, hand me that glass, please,’ he asked, nodding towards the brandy before looking back at the woman still reclining in his arms. ‘Miss…Mrs—’ Ned looked to the butler.
‘Mrs Merrill,’ Myles supplied.
‘Do not be alarmed, Mrs Merrill,’ Ned said. ‘You are at Blenhem Hill. I’m Mr Greaves, Lord Englemere’s estate agent. Here, have a sip of this brandy to warm you.’
He coaxed her lips—plump, in a pretty bow of a mouth, he noticed unwillingly—open and poured some brandy in. After choking a bit, she swallowed, her fingers coming up beside his to steady the glass. The tremors eased, then stopped.
He inspected her as she sipped, her hand absurdly small and delicate beside his. That pointed chin was set in a heart-shaped face with a pert nose and large dark eyes of a hue impossible to determine in the shadowy firelight. A soggy bonnet masked her hair, but her travelling cloak had fallen open when he’d set her down, revealing a graceful arc of neck and shoulders above full, rounded breasts. Chilled she certainly was, for even through her gown, he could see the peaked nipples.
His mouth watered to taste them.
He stifled a groan as his body hardened further. A fine cosy armful, if she was indeed Anders’s fancy woman. All sweetness and curves with a subtly intriguing scent, fresh as a new-mown hay meadow, that tickled his nose over the aromas of mud and damp.
Ned could think of a number of ways to warm her more effectively and much more pleasurably than brandy. Unleashed like hounds eager for the hunt, his thoughts tumbled over themselves, conjuring up images of firm white thighs straddling his, those small hands stroking and teasing as she coaxed him within, bare slender legs locked around his waist as she rocked him hilt-deep.
Heat flooded him and sweat broke out on his brow. Damn, he should have lingered in London long enough to visit Mrs McAllen’s Emporium. It had been way too long since he’d bedded a woman.
With a ferocious will, he jerked his lascivious thoughts to a halt and leashed them. She might be a doxy, but ’twas just as likely she was Anders’s sister. Which meant she was Nicky’s cousin, however distant. Regardless of what her brother had done, Nicky would expect Ned to treat any connection of his like a lady.
At that moment she pushed the glass away.
‘You told Myles you were looking for Mr Anders—your brother?’ Ned said.
She nodded, her eyes finally turning alert.
‘How did you happen to arrive here alone in the middle of the night? Soaked as you are, you must have driven in an open gig. Is there a driver waiting? Can I have Myles fetch your things?’
Opening her lips, she hesitated, looking stricken. ‘I…I don’t have a gig,’ she said after a moment. ‘There’s no driver. I…walked.’
‘You walked from Hazelwick?’ Ned asked incredulously. ‘Alone, in the dark?’
Ignoring that query, she placed a hand on his arm. ‘Did…did I hear you aright? Greville…isn’t here?’
Whoever she was, she must have been desperate to come so far on foot, at night and through the rain. Despite his loathing for what Anders had done, Ned couldn’t help feeling a certain sympathy for her. ‘No. I’m sorry, ma’am.’
She swallowed hard. ‘Do you know his direction?’
Ned looked over at Myles, who shook his head. ‘No, ma’am.’
Two fat tears welled up in her eyes before she clapped her hands over them. ‘Merciful Lord,’ she whispered brokenly into her fingers, ‘what am I to do?’
For a moment he watched as she struggled for control. Admiration stirred in his chest as, with a ragged breath, she mastered her emotions and swallowed the tears.
‘Nothing tonight,’ Ned said, infinitely grateful for her courage. He’d rather battle a plague of rabbits in the kitchen garden than deal with a woman in the midst of a weeping jag. ‘Myles, rouse Mrs Winston and see if she can turn up some dry clothes for Mrs Merrill.’ Looking back to the woman, he said, ‘Did you have dinner before you…left Hazelwick?’
‘I…no.’ she admitted.
No wonder she looked fragile enough to shatter, walking all that way on no sustenance. Studying her suddenly down-turned face, Ned would bet that wasn’t the first meal she’d missed on her travels. ‘See if Mrs Winston can heat up some of the stew from dinner,’ he told Myles.
She looked up at him then, eyes huge in her drawn face, her lips pressed firmly together.
Lush, plump lips he’d like to kiss, he realised irritably as she cleared her throat.
‘You’ve been very kind. I don’t know how I can thank you—’
Ned lifted a hand, silencing her while he absolutely forbade himself to think of the many and delectable ways she might show her appreciation. ‘We’ll speak of it in the morning, after you’re warm, dry and rested. Ah, here is Mrs Winston.’ He looked over at the housekeeper. ‘We’ve an unexpected visitor, as you see.’
‘Aye, sir,’ the housekeeper said, giving Mrs Merrill a hard scrutiny before, reluctantly, she curtsied.
Mrs Merrill sat up abruptly and swung her feet back to the floor. Ned felt the loss of her curves against his body with an inward sigh of regret as she rose to return the housekeeper’s curtsy.
Ned stood up as well. ‘Mrs Winston will fit you out with some dry things and see that you’re nourished before you retire. I shall see you at breakf
ast. Goodnight, Mrs Merrill.’
She offered him a nod from that pointed little chin, then dropped a curtsy graceful enough to please a patroness at Almack’s. If she was a fancy woman, she’d been well trained.
‘Goodnight, Mr Greaves. Mrs Winston, I’m indebted for your kindness.’
Thoughtfully he watched her follow the housekeeper—who must be thinking who knows what to be charged with caring for a half-drowned woman arriving unannounced in the middle of the night. What catastrophe had befallen her that she’d come here alone, on foot, probably penniless? he wondered.
As Anders’s sister, she’d been a lady born, if not a highly ranked one. No gentlewoman of good reputation would travel as she had.
Maybe she was Anders’s doxy, his lustful imagination suggested hopefully.
Perhaps, he returned, though she had that indefinable look of quality about her bearing and carriage.
Since, as he’d told her, there was nothing more to be done tonight, he might as well go to bed. Absently he walked around the room, snuffing out the remaining candles.
Somehow, knowing the delectable Mrs Merrill dozed somewhere under his roof, he didn’t think he was going to get much sleep.
After tossing restlessly, Ned rose the next morning with a feeling of expectation swelling his chest. Considering the mountain of work awaiting him on the dilapidated farms at Blenhem, as he surfaced to consciousness he was wondering why such a sense of excitement exhilarated him when he remembered—Mrs Merrill. This morning he would hear her story and sort out what was to be done with her.After dressing with care—for he ought to garb himself as a gentleman when there was a lady present—he inspected himself in the glass. Even Harrison couldn’t find fault with his appearance this morning.
Ah, Ned Greaves, what a handsome bloke you are, he thought with a chuckle. Not rich like Hal nor sporting as fancy as title as Nicky, but a fine figure of a man. Maybe fine enough to entice his unexpected guest into his bed if she should prove to be less than a lady.
He hastened to the small salon where Myles brought his breakfast. He’d just taken his first sip of coffee when the door opened and, in a soft rustle of skirts, Mrs Merrill walked in.
He rose, intending to greet her, and the words died on his tongue.
Those great dark eyes under expressive arched brows were green, he realised—the deep green of the velvety moss beside a woodland brook that invited one to sit and listen to its throaty chatter. And her hair! Hidden last night by the bonnet, haloed now by the morning sun, it was an intricate arrangement of auburn braids that glowed bright as a copper penny.
Though the soft green morning gown had a modest neckline, the scrap of ribbon under the high waist nonetheless managed to emphasise her breasts. For a petite lady, the top of whose head would scarcely touch his chin, they were deliciously full.
His hands curled into fists, itching with the desire to cup them.
One by one he catalogued her other charms: graceful curve of neck and shoulders, slender arms, narrow wrists, those delicate small hands.
Warm, dry and dressed, he found her even more alluring than he had by firelight.
‘Good morning, Mr Greaves,’ she said at last, startling him into realising he’d been evaluating her as blatantly as if she were Haymarket ware in a theatre box.
Maybe she is, a little voice murmured in his ear.
Well, probably she isn’t, he growled back. ‘To you, too, Mrs Merrill,’ he replied. ‘Please help yourself to the dishes on the sideboard. Should you like coffee?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Ned nodded at Myles to pour and waited for her to fill a plate. She sat, taking small delicate bites as if she were savouring each mouthful…while he savoured the play of those tempting lips against her teeth and tongue. Ah, the wickedness he could imagine inciting them to!
Thanks to years of ingrained breeding, he needed but a tiny portion of his brain to carry on a polite conversation. However, her open, apparently honest answers to his slightly disjointed questions about her home, her growing up with her brother, her sojourn in India—that must be the origin of the exotic spicy scent that clung to her—and subsequent marriage slowly began to curb the ravening lust in his brain with the unhappy conviction that she most probably was exactly what she represented herself to be: Greville Anders’s sister, thus Nicky’s cousin, thus beyond the touch of his lecherous imagination.
That still did not explain how she’d ended up dripping on his doorstep at midnight.
Regardless, he’d better stop contemplating naked assignations in the moonlight and start thinking of and reacting to her as a lady, he concluded, squelching a niggle of disappointment.
He waited until they had both finished their meal, asked Myles to pour them each another cup and dismissed him. Now to discover what she’d been about.
‘So, Mrs Merrill, how did you come to arrive at Blenhem Hill last night?’
She gave him a pained smile, a slight flush colouring her fair skin. ‘Humiliating as the details are, after your hospitality to a total stranger, I suppose I owe you the truth.’
‘As you wish.’
She looked away, a troubled expression on her face. He sat silent, reining in his impatient curiosity and waiting for her to continue.
‘My husband was a soldier, as I already told you,’ she began at last. ‘About a year after our marriage in India I—fell ill. Fearing for my health, he insisted that I return to England. Later I learned that he himself had succumbed to a fever. As…as his family never reconciled themselves to our marriage and I had not the funds to voyage back to India and my father, I was pleased to accept a position as a governess. My employers, Lord and Lady Masters, spend most of the year in London or visiting the country estates of their friends, while their daughters reside at Selbourne Abbey in Hampshire.’
Hampshire—gently rolling hills, corn, cattle and sheep, he thought. ‘A lovely county,’ he interjected.
She looked up. ‘It is indeed. I was very happy there. Until…until my employers returned.’
Her flush deepened. ‘There’s no genteel way to express it. Lord Masters pursues every female within reach, whether they encourage his interest or not. I most certainly did not encourage him, but he…he kept after me anyway. Despite my continual vigilance, he managed to corner me in my chamber, where Lady Masters discovered us in a…compromising position. She expelled me from the house that very night.’
Twisting her hands together, her face averted, she continued in a low voice, ‘With little money and no references, I could think of nothing else to do but come here to Greville. Encountering delays at every turn, by the time I reached Blenhem Hill my resources were exhausted. So…I walked from Hazelwick. And now you know the whole.’
Her cheeks still rosy, she lowered her eyes and studied her hands, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him and perhaps see censure in his eyes.
If it was a performance, it was masterful. She appeared every inch a wronged and virtuous lady. Except…except for those plump, bite-me lips and those lush, fondle-me breasts.
Even if her story were true, Ned felt a stir of sympathy for Lord Masters. Here was a tasty morsel to dangle in front of a rake.
Only a bit, however, for he considered a man who preyed upon women, particularly a woman dependent upon him, to be beneath contempt.
Had Lord Masters preyed upon Mrs Merrill? Or was this gentlewoman with the body of a temptress a temptress indeed? Either way, what was he to do about her?
If she had been dismissed for wantonness, he could understand her deciding to throw herself on her brother’s mercy until some more promising pigeon came along. Her shock at discovering Anders was no longer at Blenhem was genuine enough that Ned felt certain her sudden appearance had not been part of some devious scheme devised by the two of them.
If she were in fact Greville Anders’s sister, and it appeared she was, then she was also cousin to Lord Englemere. Though she appeared despairing of her future, Ned knew that Nicky would
never turn away a connection of his—and warm-hearted Sarah would probably delight in helping her settle somewhere.
But he couldn’t in good conscience send on to them a woman who might be a doxy.
How could he tell for sure?
At the moment, she was entirely dependent on him. Suddenly a means to test her veracity occurred to him—a scheme that revived his lustful thoughts with a guilty zing of excitement.
With her brother beyond reach and only Ned at hand, if her morals were less than they should be, she would probably, with only a token protest, be amenable to accepting an arrangement that would be profitable for her and pleasurable for them both.
Not that he really intended to make her his mistress, but if he made advances that she accepted, he would know not to burden Nicky with responsibility for her welfare.
In such a case, a plump purse with coach fare to London and enough to live on until she found herself a new protector would be sufficient to fulfil whatever obligations Nicky might owe her.
She still sat, silent and head bowed, as if in deep contemplation. As he gazed at her loveliness, his body protested against the decision not to avail himself of her charms, should she respond to his lures.
Impatiently he dismissed that weakness. Upon occasion he’d taken his ease with ladies of the profession, but he’d never set up a mistress, being neither venal enough to corrupt an innocent, rich enough to tempt the discriminating palate of a courtesan or willing to settle for a woman of broad experience. Though he didn’t insist on planting his seed in virgin soil, neither did he wish to farm for any length of time what had previously been common ground.
Indeed, he’d always hoped—although as yet that desire had not come to fruition—that eventually he might permanently sate all his carnal desires in a wife’s embrace. Though after his most recent foray into the briar-filled field of courtship, he intended to stick to husbandry of the agricultural sort for the foreseeable future!
Even so, he had to shut his ears to the wheedling argument that said if she were of easy virtue, there was no harm in taking her for a quick tumble before he sent her on her way.
From Waif to Gentleman's Wife Page 5
