“Nothing.” She stepped off the stool and dragged it to the next portrait. “She is merely teaching me my duties.”
He could well imagine how Devon was teaching her.
Very rarely did he question his own actions, but now he had to wonder. Had he made a mistake bringing her into his home? Sentencing her to a year or more with himself and Devon at Westborough? God knew, neither of them were easy to work for. Devon alone had gone through four servants in the last three months, with her sharp tongue and exacting perfectionism. And he, well, it had been said that he often demanded more than he gave. Perhaps he’d inherited more of his mother’s traits than he wanted to acknowledge.
Still with no friends and no family to rally around her and protect her, Faith was undoubtedly better off with him than if he’d left her on the streets. At least she’d have a warm bed to sleep in and decent food in her stomach.
Besides, she owed him. Greatly.
His conscience mildly appeased, he told her, “I’m certain that you’ll catch on quickly.” He crossed the room and removed the contents from the safe hidden behind a portrait of the second Baron of Westborough. Troyce had inherited his father’s piercing gray eyes, passion for the undiscovered, and a crumbling estate built on a foundation of debt, but little else.
“Is that your father?”
“Aye, it was. Troyce de Meir, second Baron of Westborough.”
“You were named for him, then.”
He nodded and Faith watched him shuffle through the papers in his hand, as though searching for one in particular.
Troyce. His name filled her mouth, rich, smooth, like a warm chocolate pastry. It was a strong, strapping name, one a man could wear with dignity. “Why does no one call you Troyce?”
He paused and grinned at her. “You just did.”
And Faith’s stomach colly-wobbled. She kept waiting for the baron to mention the night before in his chambers, to taunt her with the power he’d wielded over her, but he didn’t. The longer he avoided it, the more relieved and anxious she felt. He acted as if neither of them had stripped before the other—or at the very least, as if it was of no importance. No doubt it meant nothing to him, but she was not accustomed to a man seeing her nude, and part of her couldn’t help but wonder what he must think of her.
Hell, why did she even care? She’d gotten along just fine for twenty years without his opinion, and she’d get along another twenty. “You didn’t answer my question. Why does no one call you by your Christian name?”
He shrugged. “They did in America. Here, you’re recognized only by the title you bear, so with the exception of my intimates, I am called West or Westborough.”
That struck her as sad, though she couldn’t explain why. It probably meant nothing, just some oddity of the upper class he belonged to; nobles had lists of social etiquette as long as the Thames. He didn’t seem particularly troubled that no one called him by his Christian name. Yet there was something in his tone of voice, an edge of bitterness, that made her believe that few were allowed close enough to this man to be awarded such a privilege. Or maybe it was the way he diverted conversation with quick-witted quips. Almost as if he used humor to keep himself aloof.
So who was Troyce de Meir? The unconscionable gaoler? The charming rogue? The reluctant nobleman?
She strolled down the line of portraits, each one framed in burnished brass, as much to put some distance between them and collect her slowly fizzling thoughts as to discover what kind of man she was working for. The gallery boasted likenesses of ladies in high-collared, wide-panniered gowns, and gentlemen with stiff cravats choking their necks. “Is this the rest of your family?”
“Aye. Most of them are distant relations on my father’s side—aunts, uncles, cousins. We hardly know one another, but my mother always insisted on putting them on display for company.”
He sidestepped, closing the gap between them until their shoulders were nearly touching. The scent of him surrounded her, potent, inviting. She barely heard the names he recounted.
“And this stodgy old goat is mon grandpère,” he said, pointing to portrait of a stern but distinguished gentleman with familiar gray eyes. “Oliver de Meir, sixth Viscount of Beckham and first Baron of Westborough. He was once a French merchant, you know.” At the surprised lift of her brows, he went on, “It’s true. He came to England when he was a young man—only a few years younger than I—and earned himself the barony for service to King Edward; later, he pleased the king again and became a viscount; the barony, as his subordinate title, was given to my father at his birth as a courtesy.”
The baron hailed from common stock? She never would have guessed! Why she’d been under the impression that the Westborough aristocracy had been in existence for centuries she couldn’t say. Perhaps it was the pride in which the baron carried himself, or the way he seemed to blend so well with the upper class, as if it was in his blood. “What was your title at birth?”
“I didn’t have one until my father died six months ago, then I inherited his and became the third Baron of Westborough. And when the old man dies, I will no doubt be cursed with the superior dignity of becoming the seventh Viscount of Beckham.”
“How dreadfully confusing.”
“I agree wholeheartedly. Quite unnecessary, too.”
She envied him the ability to trace his lineage back through the generations. He knew his father and his grandfather. He knew his cousins and uncles and the rest of his family. She knew far too little.
And far too much.
“If you hate the titles so much, why don’t you just refuse them?”
He looked amazed that she would ask such a question. She probably wouldn’t have been so bold in her curiosity if his disdain for his lineage wasn’t so obvious.
“It doesn’t work that way. Once earned, the titles are passed down from generation to generation, except in rare cases when our Sovereign is feeling generous and creates a new one. It is the obligation of a nobleman to care for those under his protection.”
“Where I come from, we take care of ourselves.”
“Ah, so that explains why you sent off your friend—to protect yourself.”
The mention of Scatter—by indication if not by name—caught her off guard. She’d tried not to let herself think of him, of how she’d left him behind, of how much she missed the pesky little beggar. “Of course. He’d have only landed me in prison.”
“Instead he landed you here.”
Aye, he did, Faith thought. And at the moment she didn’t know whether to thank him or strangle him.
Orders being barked outside the study served to remind Faith of her purpose in the room. The last thing she needed was for the duchess to catch her idle. Nothing she did seemed to please the woman as it was; not that she’d ever tell the baron that. . . .
She reached into the basket and withdrew a square of oilcloth, then positioned the stool just below the stern visage of the sixth Viscount of Beckham. As she climbed upon the stool, the baron moved to her side and reached for the drape.
“Let me give you a hand with that.”
“I can do it myself.”
He pulled the cloth toward himself. “It will go a lot faster with my help.”
She pulled the cloth back. “As you so kindly remind me, I am the one working off a debt.” And the faster she could get that done, the sooner she would have her freedom back.
Again he pulled on the cloth. Again she pulled it back. Back and forth they went, each jerking the oilcloth away from the other until one solid tug threw Faith off-balance. She floundered on the stool, waving her arms like a duckling to keep from falling.
In the end, it served no purpose.
She fell against him, throwing him off-balance, and both tumbled to the floor. With the wind knocked out of him, it took Troyce a moment to realize what had happened.
What he’d made happen. A yearning to feel Faith’s body against his had been haunting him ever since she’d bared her naked body to him t
he night before. Perhaps the accident hadn’t been such an accident at all.
He knew the instant Faith had come to the same conclusion. Her body stiffened, her brown eyes darkened. “You did that on purpose!”
He couldn’t help it. He grinned.
Anger sparked in her eyes. She struggled against him. Reflex took over. His hands tightened on her upper arms. “Faith, wait—”
Whatever he meant to say lost its importance when she fell back against him. Desire slammed through Troyce’s midsection like cannon fire. One look at her startled expression told him that she was as shocked by the contact as he.
Her hair had come loose from its tidy coiffure and fell on either sides of their faces, creating a shield of filigree amber and gold, fire and ice. Her eyes, seconds ago hard and flat, grew soft and round. The air simmered. He felt himself growing warm, stuffy in his jacket, his collar choking him. God, those eyes, that face. Was there ever a maid so pretty?
She had the most beautiful skin. Not pallid like so many English misses, but smooth and golden and nearly flawless, save for the purpling bruise on her jawline. The sight of it in the broad light of day sent another stab of anger. He didn’t believe her story last night any more than he believed her claim of being Queen Victoria. There was also a scar above her lip, a tiny lightning bolt that made him think of stormy nights and sultry air and sweaty skin. He rolled his lips inward. His chest went tight.
And when her gaze dropped to his mouth, the self-control he’d always prided in himself slipped another notch. Her brows dipped with puzzled curiosity, as if she’d never seen a mouth before. Troyce heard the warning go off in his brain but ignored it as, of its own volition, his hand moved toward her cheek and his head lifted off the floor. Just one kiss, was all. Just one taste . . .
“Is this a private party, or can anyone join?”
Troyce and Faith snapped toward the inquisitor in the same second his best friend’s grinning face appeared mere inches from his own. Troyce let his hand drop, and the back of his skull thumped against the carpeting and he cursed the oblivion that enshrouded him from everything but Faith. “Damn it all, Miles . . .”
His grin widened. Crouched on all fours beside them, he inclined his head toward Faith, who remained atop Troyce, her features frozen in shock. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Snapped from her spell, Faith scrambled backward off Troyce. Her knee caught him between his thighs. Troyce gasped, cupped himself, and swung one leg over the other as pain ricocheted through a stiff and highly sensitive portion of his anatomy.
Faith cried out and instantly crawled to his side while Miles, the damned scoundrel, fell back on his arse and burst into peals of hilarity.
“Quit laughing, you buffoon!” Faith scolded him. Turning to Troyce, her hands fluttered above his lower half, but she didn’t seem to know where to touch him. “Oh, God, Baron, did I hurt you?”
Spots danced before his eyes. Beads of cold sweat broke out on his brow. He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe. Struck with a sudden and all-too-realistic insight of how a horse might feel being gelded, Troyce could do no more than singe the air with dockside vulgarities.
“Damn it, stop swearin’ and answer me! Are you all right?”
Her concern penetrated the painful haze befogging his brain. “Quite all right, cherie,” Troyce assured her through gritted teeth. “Just give me a moment.”
“Ah God, what a lark!” Miles roared with laughter.
Faith glared at him. “I cannot believe that you think this is funny!”
He only laughed harder.
“Faith,” Troyce said, “that guffawing jackanapes over there is Lord Miles Heath, my soon-to-be former best friend. Miles, this is Faith. She has recently joined my staff.”
“Indeed?” Miles said, bringing his mirth under control. Cobalt blue eyes that had melted female hearts all over the world glittered with lingering amusement as he leaned over and took Faith’s hand in his own. “You always did have impeccable taste in servants.”
A becoming flush rose in Faith’s cheeks when Miles lightly kissed the tips of her knuckles, and an odd sense of possessiveness gripped Troyce’s insides. “And you’ve always been notorious for your bad timing.”
Irritation made his tone harsher than it should have been. In truth, Troyce supposed he should be grateful that only Miles had caught him and Faith in such a scandalous position. Anyone walking by could have seen him flat on his back in the middle of his study floor, Faith atop him, her skirts hiked up to her knees like a common tart. Rumors would have flown, and the chance he’d wanted to give her for a respectable living ruined. And it would have been all his fault. What the hell had he been thinking?
Kissing Faith, that’s what he’d been thinking. If he were honest with himself, he’d admit that he’d been thinking about a whole lot more than kissing her. What man wouldn’t, with the lushness of a comely woman’s breasts crushed against his chest, her shapely legs entwined with his, her sweet lips mere inches from his own . . . ?
Heading off the thoughts before they spun into a direction best not traveled again, Troyce forced himself to sit. A cramp seized his gut; his world went from pitch-black to blinding white. In that instant, he didn’t see how the morning could get any worse.
Then Devon walked in.
Chapter 6
“Troyce, I simply must speak to you about that—good heavens!”
Three sets of eyes turned as one toward the doorway where Devon stood, Lucy behind her, both wearing identical expressions of shock.
“What is going on here?”
Troyce knew how it must look—himself sprawled on the floor, Faith, hovering over him, her hair mussed, her cheeks flushed, and Miles all but slobbering over her hand.
“A small mishap, Devon, nothing more.” He rolled to his side, pushed himself off the floor, and struggled to his feet. At least his stomach had settled and the sharp throbbing in his groin had subsided. There was still a lingering tenderness, but his equipment didn’t seem to have sustained any permanent damage. He was lucky he hadn’t been crippled. “Faith, perhaps you should see if Millie needs any assistance in the kitchen.”
Nodding vigorously, she marched past Devon, out of the study. As if sensing that her presence was not required, either, Lucy followed, leaving himself, Miles, and Devon alone in the room.
The air went thick with tension. A near-violent electricity swirled between his sister and his best friend, a storm of disquiet. The two shared a past, he knew, as childhood friends and sweethearts. There was a time when he even thought they’d marry. But their parents had had more influence over his sister than he’d thought. Neither Devon nor Miles had ever discussed the events of that night eight years ago, nor had he ever pressed for details; whatever had happened between them to drive Miles to America and Devon into the arms of Miles’s older brother was between the two of them.
But neither had been the same since.
The dense silence finally broke when Devon hissed, “What is he doing here?”
“Miles is here at my request.”
Her face went ashen, and betrayal glittered in her eyes, so brilliant and wounding that Troyce had to look away. It was hell when a man was forced to choose between his best mate and his only sister. “Was there something you wished to discuss with me?”
“Another time, perhaps. This room has developed a decidedly foul odor.”
And she followed in Faith’s wake.
“She’s hasn’t changed a bit, has she? Still has her nose so far up in the air that she’d drown if it rained.”
Troyce would have disagreed if it wasn’t so true.
“I appreciate you coming by on such notice, Miles,” Troyce said.
“If I’d have known you had feisty beauties falling from the ceiling, I’d have been over much sooner. I’ve always fancied strawberry blondes.”
Realizing from the description that he was referring to Faith and not Devon, Troyce turned to his friend. Lord Miles H
eath boasted much to interest the ladies. Blond good looks, a sizable bank account, and more charm than devil on his best day. It was not uncommon for those of the fairer sex to make utter fools of themselves to gain his notice. “Cast your eyes elsewhere, mate, she is far out of your league.”
“Oh-ho, so that’s the way of it!”
“The way of what?”
“You’re taken with the chit yourself.”
“Don’t be absurd. She’s a servant.”
“Since when has that stopped you?”
Troyce thought of his short liaison with Lucy a decade ago, and of other dalliances with chambermaids during his misspent youth, both in England and abroad. His mother had been horrified by his womanizing, but his father had seen no harm in it. Nor had Troyce. Sowing oats he’d called it. But those women were different, they’d played the games before and knew the rules. Faith didn’t have that advantage. Aye, she was a servant, and considering his history, it probably shouldn’t make a difference to him. Yet the thought of indulging himself with her to satisfy his own sexual appetites seemed somehow—sacrilegious. “She’s an innocent.”
“She didn’t look so innocent a few minutes ago.” Miles dropped into the seat of a Hepplewhite chair, hooked one leg over the arm, and folded his arms behind his head in a typically ungentleman-like pose. “Where on earth did you find such a gel?”
“Outside Jorge’s. The cheeky chit picked my pocket.”
After pouring fresh coffee from the server and spiking both cups with a dose of brandy, Troyce went on to tell his friend of the meeting with Feagin, up to and including his nasty abuse of Faith and her young companion. It never occurred to him to hide his activities from Miles. They’d known each other since birth; their coastal properties joined on the westernmost tip. Miles had accompanied him to America after that last horrible row between him and his father and grandfather. With the exception of what had transpired between his friend and his sister, there was nothing the two didn’t know about each other, no secret that hadn’t been shared, no adventure that hadn’t been experienced together.
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