Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction

by Jayne Fresina

  Blind to a great many things.

  She’d even begun to wonder about the provenance of her “angels,” those two young parson’s daughters supposedly from Aylesbury and sent to her by Mr. Hobbs. Was anything in this town ever what it appeared to be?

  That evening at dinner, Molly went through the motions without hearing a solitary word anyone said. She knew she had to do something about this. Better take charge of the situation—of him and of her heart—as best she could, before he sneakily took all the control out of her hands.

  Fifteen

  She strode boldly up the front steps of Danforthe House the next afternoon and tugged hard on the bell cord. Richards opened the door and almost toppled backward to see her standing there at the main entrance.

  “I’ve come to see the earl,” she said calmly. “I trust he’s out of bed by now.”

  “Robbins, you cannot just—”

  Molly pushed her way by him and into the house. “Please fetch him. I’ll wait in his”—she turned slowly, considering—“his library.” And with that, she marched into his lair, leaving a complaining, irate Richards in her wake. As she’d said to him before, let the sullen butler pick her up and toss her out into the street. If he dared. She knew his back would never take the strain.

  The library curtains were open, afternoon sun streaming across the earl’s empty desk. A faint scent of candle wax, old leather, and wood smoke lingered.

  Her gaze rummaged over the shelves of books with their gold-patterned spines. So many words of wisdom. Had he read any, or were they only for show?

  It seemed a lifetime had passed since she stood before him in this room, her boots leaking, her feet wet, asking him to sign her contract. Trying her damndest to ignore those pangs of desire for him. Thinking they might go away.

  The fireplace was dark today; an embroidered screen was set before the hearth with a hunting scene leaping across it. Above the mantel was a painting of the earl’s mother, a handsome woman with copper curls the same as her daughter’s. She looked down at Molly, a very slight smile lifting her lips, green eyes hard and bright but not very warm. The background was full of sweeping strokes and not much definition. One got a sense of a nervous, rushed artist hurrying to capture that face, as if he knew his subject was too impatient to sit for long.

  Behind her, the door opened, and she turned.

  “Why did you do it?” she demanded at once.

  He stood inside the door in his shirtsleeves, evidently fetched in haste and sparing no time to put on a jacket. Slowly, he closed the door. “Do what? What am I accused of now?”

  “All those things for my neighbors. I know you gave Mrs. Lotterby money for repairs, and you bought my painting from Frederick Dawes.” She paused. “Perhaps you got rid of Arthur Wakely too.” She wouldn’t put it past him. “Where is my painting? What have you done with it?”

  “Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

  “Come with you where?” She straightened her spine.

  He laughed and shook his head. “Trust me, I’m not going to corner you in a dark cellar.” His eyes gleamed with a sudden flame. “Not today, in any case.”

  Striding to the bookshelf, he pressed one of the fat tomes, and there was a sharp click. A small door opened to reveal a secret chamber beyond. All her years in that house, and she’d never known of its existence.

  “This is where I keep my treasures,” he said. “A man has to have some place to keep his secrets and go where no one can find him.”

  He led her into the little room. It was shadowy, dusty. Since he had no candles, the only light came from the library window, and that barely reached. But there she saw her picture. It took her a moment to be sure it was her, but she recognized the old gray pinafore first, and the pincushion tied around her wrist. The face did not have much likeness at all, she thought. The expression was quite mischievous and naughty. Not at all serene and sensible, as she’d expected—or as she saw herself. Mrs. Bathurst was right; it was unsettling to see how differently she was beheld by others.

  “As you say, he’s quite talented, your painter.”

  She looked at Carver. “He’s not my painter.” How small her voice sounded suddenly.

  He bent his head toward her, and she thought he looked vulnerable, younger. “Good.”

  Molly felt her pulse fluttering wildly. She swallowed, stared at his lips, and murmured, “Why did you buy the painting? He told me you paid a great deal of coin.”

  “Until I can have the person herself, the image must suffice. It was some comfort.”

  Slowly she opened her reticule and took out the folded contract. The one he’d amended. His gaze drifted down to the paper in her hand and then back up again. “Is that—?”

  “Hush.”

  A slow smile lifted one side of his mouth. “Margaret—”

  “I didn’t say I signed it, did I?” She had to let him know he couldn’t have it all his way. Since watching his lips tempted her own to misbehave, Molly looked instead at his flannel waistcoat, at his hands, his shoulders—anywhere but his face. “What happened to Arthur Wakely?” As much as she disliked Arthur, she wouldn’t want to think anything too desperate had occurred.

  “He’s enjoying an extended stay at a sanitarium on the coast of Kent. For his foot.”

  “Oh. How clever of you to know.”

  “I’m much more clever than I look. And you’re much less stern than you look.”

  Molly glanced again at her picture. Was that really her? The woman in the portrait was very composed and sure of herself. “I don’t see any other treasures in here,” she remarked. “Is this all you have?”

  “I threw the others out to make room for you. You are the only treasure I need.”

  She tried not to be too pleased. Remember, Moll, this is how he seduces women. He’s good at it, well practiced. Don’t think this is anything out of the ordinary for him.

  But how funny he was with his little secret room. It reminded her of Mrs. Bathurst with her “magpie’s nest,” as the landlady called it. After a few moments, her eyes grew sore from staring in the dim light, and Carver led her back out into the library.

  “I’ve done many things in my three and thirty years that I shouldn’t, Margaret,” he said softly. “Let me have this one thing I needn’t regret. This one good thing in my life. You.”

  There was nothing she could say to that and, fortunately, the contract would suffice as her answer, since words failed. She put it slowly into his waiting hand.

  Carver didn’t open it immediately to see whether she’d signed his amendment. Instead, he clasped her fingers, drew them to his lips, and kissed her knuckles. “Whatever your reply to me, Margaret, my feelings for you, my desire for you, will remain.”

  It was still unbelievable to Molly that he should feel this way for her. But why did she think herself undeserving?

  She was no longer a girl; she was a woman free to make decisions, free to look at all the colors in the clouds. And she had a heart that persisted in wanting above her station, inconvenient as it might be.

  Suddenly Carver put his hands around Molly’s face and lifted it for a kiss so full of want that the battered remains of her virtuous shield crumpled.

  ***

  He’d known she would come to him sooner or later, to argue about his “meddling” again. She was too clever not to realize he was behind it all eventually. Never before had he put so much effort into a seduction, but he liked doing things for her, and he wanted to keep doing them.

  Her sweet lips parted tentatively, and he slipped the tip of his tongue inside until it touched hers. She did not withdraw. Her eyes were closed, dark lashes fanning her cheeks. Her skin was warm silk under his palms. Slowly he moved one hand to her shoulder, spread his fingers, and slid them down to the front of her gown. He heard the hitch of her breath, felt a slight tremble, and then he closed his hand over her left breast. Her heart was beating so hard, in unison with his.

  A slight arch of her spin
e pressed her shape into his hand, and he squeezed gently, cupping the firm apple through her gown and stays. She was small, but a perfect fit for his hand. Heat stirred his blood, raw need mounting quickly, but he must be patient.

  She’d come this far, and he didn’t want to chase her away again.

  Reluctantly his lips left hers. He drew his fingertips slowly across her bosom and up over her lace fichu to the hollow at the base of her throat. Her neck was so slender. He kissed her there, beneath the line of her jaw, and caught a taste of sweet perfume—rose oil if he was not mistaken.

  They did not say another word. What was there to be said? They communicated with their lips, their eyes, their hearts.

  When she was gone, he unfolded the contract and looked for her signature beside his amendment, where he had drawn a line through her “No Tomfollerie” clause.

  And there was the sweet sight of her name.

  Margaret.

  ***

  “What can I possibly wear that won’t make me look like a former lady’s maid?” she demanded of her assistants.

  Emma ran to the storeroom and brought out the buttercup gown once rejected by the Baroness Schofield. The two girls held it up to her, and before she could make any but the feeblest of protests, they had proclaimed her, “Perfection.”

  Back at the house, when she announced that she’d received a formal invitation by messenger to dine with the Earl of Everscham, she expected a barrage of questions. Instead, she received eager donations from all the female residents. Mrs. Lotterby, after an anxious lecture about being sure to eat well and not drink too much wine, was kind enough to loan her the use of the hipbath in the scullery and some perfume distilled by her own hand from rosemary, sage, and damask rose petals. Mrs. Slater dressed Molly’s hair for her, and Mrs. Bathurst happily contributed the finishing touches from her cupboard of treasures—gloves, fan, and a shawl that smelled only faintly of mothballs.

  “’Tis a pity you have no diamonds to wear,” the lady whispered as she helped her into the gloves, which were a little big for her slender arms. “But I daresay he will give you those in time.”

  “I cannot think what you mean, Mrs. Bathurst,” she replied. “It is only dinner.”

  “There is no such thing, my dear, as only dinner, not with a man like the Earl of Everscham.”

  A little knot of panic tightened in her stomach. When she tried opening the fan with one flick of her wrist—the way she’d seen it done before—she not only snapped a strut, but somehow managed to jab herself in the eye. Her gloves kept dripping down her arms, and she couldn’t get accustomed to the weight of hair piled up on her head. A simple, braided knot was far easier to manage, but this arrangement made her feel unbalanced and top-heavy. The treacherous slither of pins already warned that her sophisticated new style was not long for this world.

  “You must talk to him of current events,” Mrs. Bathurst advised. “Try to avoid politics and religion, however. No man wants to talk with a woman about those subjects. Do you play or sing, Miss Robbins?”

  She shook her head.

  Mrs. Bathurst looked aghast, and then shrugged in resignation, “Well, I daresay you are resourceful enough to think of some way to entertain him. Good luck, my dear. Come and see me in the morning. I long to hear all about it.”

  She wanted to ask so many other questions, but there was no time.

  When the carriage arrived, sent from Danforthe House to collect her, she stepped up and glanced back over her shoulder. The three women clustered under the old lantern in the doorway, watching as if she was royalty. As Frederick had pointed out, all the residents in the house had benefitted from the earl’s interest in her. She felt quite a responsibility not to let them down now. It scattered her nerves quite dreadfully.

  What did one do with a man? The most knowledge she had of men and what they wanted from women came from observing and eavesdropping on her brothers growing up. But they were always very mysterious, deliberately speaking in terms she did not understand. Once they’d gone to a fair in the neighboring county and paid a shilling to watch a gypsy dancer in a tent. As far as she could make out, they’d watched her spinning about with seven veils, which they’d enjoyed immensely, but to Molly, it seemed an awful lot of nothing for a shilling. And she didn’t have any veils.

  Good thing she wore her best silk drawers, she thought as the carriage sped away, taking her into the gathering dusk. She certainly needed them tonight.

  ***

  The footman who opened the door to her was new, and therefore did not recognize her as a former servant in that house, but Mr. Richards, the butler, knew exactly who she was, of course. His haughty, forbidding demeanor trebled with every step as he led her across the tiled hall, opened the drawing-room door, and announced her name in cold, dispassionate tones. Evidently he didn’t mean to look at her at all, and when she said, “Good evening, Mr. Richards. So nice to see you again,” he tripped, stubbing his toe. His eyes flashed down at her, and his lips bent in a half sneer, but he made no reply.

  Molly entered the room and found Carver standing with his back to the hearth, waiting for her.

  “Thank you, Richards,” he said. “Please tell Mrs. Jakes we’re ready to eat.”

  Behind her, the door swept closed with a soft thud, shutting out her old life, and with it, her innocence.

  ***

  Miss Margaret Robbins was a vision cast in gold, a goddess.

  The moment he heard the bell, he felt the beat of his heart quicken, and when she appeared, air left his lungs too rapidly. It took him a moment to recover.

  She wore a stunning yellow gown that flowed softly around her figure, defying the trend for wider skirts. The color made her skin glow, bringing a sunny summer afternoon into his house at seven in the evening. Her soft brown hair was piled up in gentle curls, some of which meandered down the side of her neck and lay upon her shoulder. Which he intended, very soon, to kiss.

  “You came.” What a stupid remark, he thought instantly. For some reason, his tongue had lost its smooth wit when she walked into his drawing room. He must remember he was in control tonight. He had gone to a great deal of trouble for this singularly difficult young woman, and she’d better appreciate it.

  “I might have known,” she muttered, looking around the drawing room. “Are there to be no other guests?”

  “I need no others.” Carver strode to where she stood, took her hand, and raised it to his lips. Her gloves were wrinkled, falling down her arms. Apparently she did not use her earnings to buy items for herself very often.

  “I must congratulate you on the acquisition of your new shop, Miss Robbins.”

  He heard her heavy sigh. “I knew the rent seemed impossibly low, but Hobbs was so convincing!” She sounded nervous.

  So was he, and unaccustomed to the sensation. Carefully, he slipped the loose glove down her arm and off her hand. When he lifted her fingers to his lips this time, there was nothing in his way. “Why did you call off your wedding and come back here?”

  “You asked me before, and I told you,” she replied, breathing hard as he let his mouth play over her bare fingers. “I came back here to pursue my dream.”

  “Is that all?” He had to know the truth, had to hear it from her lips. “Margaret?”

  She swallowed, and a small sound, part sob, part cry of anguish came out of her. “You know, of course. You said yourself you are much more clever than you appear.”

  He pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “Tell me.”

  When he felt her trying to tug her hand away, he tightened his grip and moved his kisses to her wrist. The hunger inside him grew in leaps and bounds, but his appetite was not for Mrs. Jakes’s dinner. Carver had no idea how he was going to make it through five courses before he might enjoy a sample of his new dish. The anticipation of all that was to come had set his blood on fire.

  “Tell me,” he urged again, his voice hoarse.

  Her eyes were large, darkened by his shadow as he
leaned over her. “I came back here to follow my dream. But…” She closed her eyes, sighed, opened them again. “I came back here…for you. To be near you. Any way that I could. I hope you are happy now you made me say it!”

  It was all he needed to hear. Carver lowered his mouth to her trembling lips and kissed her, greedily drinking down the sweet honesty of that reply, claiming it ruthlessly.

  Bare hands pressed to his shoulder, she pushed back. “Richards! I hear his footsteps.”

  A second later, the drawing-room door opened again, and the butler announced cheerlessly that dinner was served. Apparently the Mouse had good ears, he mused. Of course she did.

  She took Carver’s arm and let him lead her across the hall and into the dining room. At his orders, it was set intimately—two place settings facing across the width of the table instead of at far opposite ends. There were minimal flowers, but an extravagant array of candles, because he knew how her eyes were strained in poor light. She wouldn’t wear her spectacles in front of him. Fool woman!

  He held a chair for her, and she sat.

  “I did have a few questions about the contract,” she said suddenly. Then she smiled up at him. “Don’t worry. It will be painless. Just some items I would like clarified.”

  Painless? That’s what she thought. He was already hurting.

  Stiffly, he walked around the table and sat. After the soup was served and the wine poured, he gave the footmen a signal to retreat. “And your questions?”

  “What do you mean by the word exclusive?”

  “It means none other.”

  “I know what the word means. I just wanted to be sure that was what you meant. I didn’t want to misread it.”

  “Of course.”

  “But I know your reputation. So is this word only for me, or for you also?”

  “Certainly. For both.”

  She frowned.

  “You have my word, Margaret. I want no one but you.” Damn woman! She made him say it. Forced it out of him, just as he’d forced her to admit why she came back to London. To him.