"Excuse me?"
"I'm offering to shave you, if you like. I shaved my father many times and never so much as nicked him. I'm most experienced in these matters, I assure you."
Stephen looked at her, aware that amazement must be written all over his face. Shaved? By a woman? It was unheard of. No one other than his valet had ever taken a razor to him. It was unthinkable. His aristocratic upbringing rebelled. A marquess would never allow it. But I'm a tutor now, and I'd best remember that.
The more he thought of removing his itchy whiskers, the more welcome the thought became. "Are you certain you know how-"
"Positive. Come along, and you'll be beardless in no time." She walked from the room, and Stephen followed, not at all convinced but willing to see where she was headed.
"You've been staying in my father's room," she said over her shoulder as they approached the door to the bedchamber. "His shaving things are in his armoire. I'll fetch some water and be right back."
Without being exactly sure how it happened, Stephen soon found himself reclining in a massive chair, a sheet of linen protecting his clothes and Hayley standing over him, briskly whisking a shaving brush in a porcelain cup to create a thick lather. When he saw her pick up a straight-edged razor and run its edge over a leather strop, a sharp wave of doubt washed over him.
"Are you sure you know how to do this?" he asked, eyeing the razor with more than a little trepidation.
She smiled at him. "Yes. I promise I won't hurt you."
"But-"
"Mr. Barrettson. I went to a great deal of trouble to save your life. I'm not about to slash your throat and ruin all my hard work. Now, just close your eyes and relax."
With lingering reluctance, Stephen did as he was bid, finally deciding it would probably be better not to watch.
"What the hell is that?" he yelped, sitting bolt upright as something warm touched his face.
"It's merely a cloth soaked with warm water to soften your whiskers," she said, her amused exasperation evident. "Now I must request that you lie still, or I fear I may very well slice your throat. Quite by accident, you understand, but the results would prove no less painful."
Swallowing his doubts, Stephen lay back and allowed her to apply the warm, moist towel to his face. She replaced it several times, and Stephen had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that her ministrations felt good. All right, damn good.
He kept his eyes closed while she spread thick lather over his cheeks, jaw, and throat, enjoying the feel of the brush stroking his skin, and the clean scent of the soap.
"I'm ready to begin, Mr. Barrettson. Do you promise to hold perfectly still?"
"Do you promise not to cut my throat or slice off my ears, Miss Albright?" he countered. He opened his eyes and gazed directly into her luminous aquamarine depths.
"I promise if you do," she agreed with a smile.
Stephen closed his eyes again, feeling strangely soothed by her soft words and the warmth he read in her eyes. "I promise."
"Excellent."
Placing two fingers under his chin, she applied gentle pressure. Stephen obliged by stretching up his neck and turning his head slightly sideways.
She worked in silence, the quiet broken only by her soft instructions to move his head, and the soft shush from wiping the razor after each stroke.
The tension slowly left his body. After the first few swipes of the razor, it was clear that Miss Hayley Albright did indeed know how to shave a man, a fact he found oddly disturbing. Until this very moment he'd never realized what a personal, intimate act shaving was. Every time she leaned over him, he caught the soft scent of roses surrounding her. His valet Sigfried certainly didn't smell like flowers. Her lulling voice, her gentle hands, her sure strokes, left him relaxed and almost sleepy.
Until he opened his eyes.
Her face was only inches away from his, her brow furrowed with concentration as she carefully scraped the whiskers from his upper lip. Her full lower lip was caught between her white teeth, another obvious sign of her attention to the task at hand. Her warm breath touched his face and the fragrance of cinnamon surrounded him.
She reached across him to grab a clean towel, and her breasts pressed against his upper arm, eliciting an immediate quickening in his loins.
He tried to force his eyes closed, but could not. He was transfixed by the sight of her, the feel of her, the scent of her.
When she finished wiping the last of the lather from his face, their eyes met. She regarded him for a long moment with a steady expression that made him feel as if his skin was suddenly too small.
He cleared his throat. "Are you finished?"
She nodded and his gaze dropped to her mouth. She really had the most luscious mouth he'd ever seen. Those full, pouty lips seemed to beckon him, and he imagined himself leaning forward, covering her mouth with his own, touching his tongue to hers. His thoughts were interrupted when he felt her palm touch his now smooth cheek.
"You're extremely handsome," she whispered. Her fingertips glided gently over his face, like those of a blind person memorizing each feature.
Stephen watched her, entranced. Many women had complimented his looks in the past, but he always brushed off their flattery, knowing it was simply a way to attempt to wrap him around their feminine fingers. Or get something from him. Every touch he'd ever received from a female was practiced and calculated.
Until now.
He knew without a doubt that Hayley wasn't behaving flirtatiously. She had a look of near reverence in her gaze that humbled him. Her touch was sweet, gentle, and unpracticed. He'd noticed how generous she was with touching. The loving way she ruffled the boys' hair even as she scolded them. And the gentle way she brushed Callie's curls back from her forehead. He knew how to react to a sexual caress, but he found her innocent touch decidedly unsettling. She couldn't possibly know what it was doing to him.
Or could she?
Stephen's eyes narrowed. Perhaps Miss Hayley Albright wasn't as innocent as she seemed. Could any woman truly be so totally without guile? Stephen's experience told him such a thing was doubtful.
He broke the spell between them by sitting up and running his hands over his smooth face. "You find my face appealing?"
"Oh yes, Mr. Barrettson. I believe you're quite the handsomest man I've ever seen." A blush accompanied the smile tilting the corners of her mouth. "But I'm sure many people have told you that."
Stephen's eyes bored into hers, looking for the familiar signs of female deception. He found none. "Several, I suppose, but I never believed them."
"I always try to be truthful."
"Then you're the first person I've ever met who does."
"How sad for you, Mr. Barrettson. My parents taught us that honesty is extremely important… perhaps the most important quality a person can possess."
"Indeed? My parents, my father in particular, taught me to trust no one." A bitter edge crept into his voice. "And I cannot recall the word honesty ever passing his or my mother's lips."
Her eyes softened with obvious sympathy. She perched herself on the edge of his chair and touched his hand. "I'm so sorry. But surely you can see that you do trust people. Your parents' unkind teachings could not overshadow your better nature."
He attempted to hide the sardonic twist pulling at his lips. "How on earth did you arrive at that conclusion?"
"You trust your friend Mr. Mallory. And you trust me."
"I do?"
"Of course." A teasing gleam lit her eyes. "If you didn't trust me, would you have allowed me to hold a razor to your throat?"
How had she managed to turn a serious conversation into lighthearted banter? "That wasn't trust-it was desperation. Those whiskers itched like the devil." Stephen frowned as he spoke, but he was having a difficult time keeping a straight face.
She planted her hands on her hips and raised her brows. "So, you're saying you do not trust me?"
Stephen thought about teasing her, but he suddenly realized that in
spite of her jesting tone, he detected a serious note in her voice. Did he trust her? Hell no! He didn't trust anyone. Well, except perhaps Justin. And Victoria. But Hayley? Why, he hardly knew her!
He opened his mouth, but immediately snapped his lips back together. She had saved his life. She had no idea who he was-she thought him a mere tutor without wealth or connections. She had no reason to help him other than the kindness and goodness of her heart. Certainly she did not stand to gain anything for herself. What was the word for such a person? He racked his brain and finally came up with the unfamiliar word he sought.
Unselfish.
She was unselfish. And trustworthy.
For the first time in his life, someone other than Justin or Victoria-and a woman in particular-was treating him with sincerity, warmth, and kindness, and expected nothing in return. Something that had never happened to Stephen Alexander Barrett, eighth Marquess of Glenfield. But it has happened to Stephen Barrettson, tutor. The realization hit Stephen like a bolt of lightning, rendering him speechless. How extraordinary that a commoner would have something a marquess didn't.
"Please forgive me, Mr. Barrettson," she said, her quiet voice breaking into his reverie. "I was only teasing, but I've clearly made you uncomfortable with my question." She raised serious round eyes to his. "I'm sorry."
"On the contrary, Miss Albright. It is I who should apologize. You've shown me nothing but the utmost kindness. You are obviously most trustworthy."
He could not help but notice the pleasure that washed over her face at his words. Another blush bloomed on her cheeks.
"Well, now that that is settled," she said with a nervous-sounding laugh, "I must take my leave. I have quite a number of chores to attend to before the children return."
"Of course. Thank you again for shaving me. I feel almost human." He ran his palms over his smooth cheeks. "And it appears I'm not bleeding and my ears are quite intact and still attached."
She flashed him a grin. "As promised." She turned and headed toward the door.
"Miss Albright?"
Hayley paused in the doorway and turned. "Yes?"
Stephen wasn't sure why he'd called her. "I, er, I will see you at dinner," he said, feeling foolish.
A dimpled smile lit her face. "Yes, Mr. Barrettson. At six o'clock. I suggest you rest until then." She left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Damn it all, he couldn't wait until six o'clock.
SHAPE * MERGEFORMAT
Chapter 8
After Hayley left him, Stephen tried to rest, but his mind was too full, his thoughts too active for him to doze off. He attempted to formulate a plan to trap his assassin, but the task proved impossible. His mind was occupied by something else.
Miss Hayley Albright.
Much to his annoyance, he couldn't stop thinking about the woman. And for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why. She was attractive, but he knew many women who were far more beautiful.
And it definitely wasn't her madcap household that drew him. Their behavior stopped just short of appalling, but it certainly would not be in his best interests to point that out to his hostess.
Restless, annoyed, and thoroughly out of sorts, he paced around the room. What the hell was it about her that stirred him so? He irritably recalled how the mere feel of her breasts brushing his arm had made his loins throb to life. He paused, trying to remember the last time he'd had a woman. With an exclamation of disgust, he realized he had last visited his mistress nearly three weeks ago. It was highly unusual for him to abstain for such an extended period. No wonder his body had reacted to Hayley. It was starved for release. The sooner he got back to London and his mistress, the better.
Physical release. Yes, that was all he needed. An extended sexual romp.
Yet even with images of lovemaking swirling in his mind, Stephen could not conjure up his petite blonde mistress's beautiful face. In his mind's eye, he kissed a tall, slim, chestnut haired woman who looked at him through incredible aqua eyes. Stephen imagined the feel of her full lips beneath his, the warmth of her body pressed against him.
Uttering a savage oath, Stephen shook his head to clear it and willed his body to calmness. He would be leaving here within a few weeks. Hayley Albright was nothing more than an on-the-shelf spinster. With eyes a man could get lost in, and a caring, compassionate heart she apparently opens to everyone. A teasing smile and a delightful, unexpected blush. Not to mention a lush, curvaceous body that begs to be touched…
Letting loose another growl of disgust, Stephen headed toward the door. If he stayed in this bedchamber for another minute with nothing to do but think of that, he was going to go mad. He made his way slowly down the stairs, and seeing no one about, he headed for the library. Perhaps reading would occupy his mind.
Once there, he studied the books and was about to select one when he spied a stack of magazines half hidden in a corner of the bottom shelf. The title caught his eye and he bent down. Apparently Captain Albright had subscribed to Gentleman's Weekly. This notion struck Stephen a bit odd as he didn't imagine it was the sort of periodical a sailor would enjoy. He picked up the top copy and contemplated it with surprise. It was the current issue, so clearly it didn't belong to Hayley's father.
Tucking the magazine under his arm, he continued looking around and discovered a set of crystal decanters. He poured a fingerful of what he fervently hoped was a decent brandy, although at this point even a horrid brandy would help, and tossed it back. The potent liquor coated his insides with a glowing warmth and he sighed in contentment. It was very good brandy indeed.
Pouring another, he settled himself in an overstuffed wing chair next to the fire and propped his feet up on a matching ottoman. He took another sip of brandy and opened his magazine.
It seemed like only several minutes later when he heard a knock. "Here you are," Hayley said with a smile, opening the door and entering the room. "I was about to give you up for lost. Are you not hungry?"
"Hungry?" Stephen looked at the mantel clock and was astonished to discover it was nearly six o'clock.
"I went to your bedchamber to see if you still wanted to eat downstairs, or if you preferred a tray. I thought you were resting," she said in a mildly scolding tone.
"I couldn't sleep, so I decided to take you up on your offer to borrow some reading material." He glanced at the empty snifter in his hand. "I also enjoyed some of your excellent brandy. I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all. I want you to make yourself at home. My father loved brandy and only kept the best. It's wonderful to have someone enjoy it." She plopped herself down in the wing chair opposite him. "What are you reading?"
"The latest issue of Gentleman's Weekly." He watched her gaze shift to the magazine opened on his lap, and her skin paled, a reaction he found most curious. "I must admit, I was surprised to find a stack of current issues in your library."
Her gaze snapped back to his. "Surprised? Why is that?"
"I cannot imagine Winston or Grimsley reading this magazine, and it certainly isn't a publication for women to read."
"The, ah, boys enjoy it."
He raised his brows, intrigued by her sudden nervousness. "The boys? Don't you think it's a bit sophisticated for them?"
Color rushed into her pale cheeks. "Nathan and Andrew are very intelligent, and there is nothing scandalous about Gentleman's Weekly."
"No indeed, but you must agree it is meant for men, not boys." Before she could comment he continued, "I read it faithfully myself. I particularly enjoy the serialized stories they print."
Her color heightened further, but her gaze remained steady on him. "Indeed? Which stories do you like the best?"
"There is a series written by a gentleman named H. Tripp called A Sea Captain's Adventures. Every week he tells a different tale about the voyages of Captain Haydon Mills, an old salt who's always in one scrape or another. Mr. Tripp's writing isn't the best, but the unique nature of the stories makes up for his lacking literary s
kills."
Her brows nearly disappeared into her hairline. "Lack of literary skills?" She planted her hands on her hips. "I believe H. Tripp is a fine writer, an opinion shared by many others based on the popularity of his stories."
He couldn't hide his surprise at her belligerent tone. "And what would you know of H. Tripp's stories, Miss Albright?"
"I've read every single one of them. And I've thoroughly enjoyed them." She raised her chin a notch, clearly challenging him to comment on her improper reading habits. Amazed though he was, he chose not to accommodate her, but at least he now understood her crimson blush.
Adopting a mild tone, he commented, "I see. I didn't think most women cared for adventure stories."
"I … I'm afraid I am not most women."
"You sound sorry about that."
She shrugged. "Not really, although I must admit that sometimes I wish I could be more like the other young women in the village-carefree and more social."
Stephen studied her over the rim of his snifter, assessing her and her words. She single-handedly cared for an entire brood of children and a bizarre household, saved stranger's lives, and was highly intelligent. Not to mention witty, honest, warm, and friendly, and she could shave a man's face without so much as a nick. And the fact that she could ride astride and read gentlemen's magazines fascinated him as much as it appalled him.
"No, you aren't most women," he said softly. And believe me, that is a grand compliment.
* * *
Dinner that evening was an event unlike anything Stephen had ever experienced. He'd taken lunch with the family yesterday and had been surprised to see the younger children eating at the table with the adults, but decided such a breach of social rules must just be for the informal noon meal.
Because he'd eaten dinner in his bedchamber on a tray last night, this was his first evening meal with the Albrights. To his surprise, Andrew, Nathan, and Callie joined the adults at the table. But his jaw nearly dropped to the floor when he realized that Winston and Grimsley also ate with the family. Hayley presided at the head of the table while her aunt Olivia sat at the foot. The chatter was lively and constant, something he was most unused to.
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