As if her frightening encounter with the viscount wasn’t enough, it had been followed almost immediately by that kiss with Trevor. If one could even call what had happened a kiss. She had the distinct sense that the categories of meanings she had been attaching to certain words were, in fact, falling short of reality. A kiss, she’d thought, was the touching of one’s lips to someone else. In ascending order of scandalousness, that would mean someone else’s glove, skin, or even lips.
But when she’d imagined the act, she’d never understood the sensations it would contain. She hadn’t known a kiss could feel so…urgent.
Later, she had been so proud to show him all her work. And she had worked unceasingly, always holding in her mind’s eye the image of what she imagined he would like—a place that was luxurious but not prim, rich but warm. She’d been nervous to show it to him, then so enormously relieved by his approval.
And then, out of nowhere, the anger. She’d known the hotel was important to him, singularly important, even. But she had erred by not appreciating the full extent of his sentimental investment in the place.
The worst part was he had been right. This wasn’t her home. What had possessed her that she thought she could just invite a crowd of people over while he was away? And this after he’d entrusted her to look after the place, she having shown up on his doorstep a mere two days prior? She would have been angry, too. Every time she thought of it, of his face when he picked up the spectacles, the shame washed over her anew, making her tongue taste like metal.
Then there was Mrs. Clark. Perfectly nice, perfectly polite Mrs. Clark. She even seemed to love her daughters in a way that many women of the ton did not. She’d talked about them with such animation, describing her marital ambitions for the two oldest, about to make their come-outs, with palpable affection and hope.
It would be an ideal situation. Much better than any she’d had before.
So she should just roll over and go to sleep.
The problem was Trevor. The thought of his lips on hers and his hand roaming along her waist would have been enough to inspire a night of tossing and turning. And these things were indeed haunting her.
But at the moment, her sleeplessness was more about the fact that the man would not be still.
He was pacing above her head. The sample room was one floor below his apartment, and he’d been walking the uncarpeted floors above her for at least two hours. She’d thought when she was up there working on the library that the vast expanses of hardwood could use the visual—and, it turned out, functional—softening of some carpets. But of course she would never presume to make any substantive changes to his personal quarters.
With a sigh, she threw back the covers. Overheated, she didn’t bother with the wrapper she’d ordered from the modiste and marched out the door clad in her night rail. If she was going to be up all night, she could at least make herself a tea tray. She’d been too upset to do more than push her food around at dinner. The prospect of life with the Clarks combined with being the focus of Trevor’s angry and unbroken regard had chased her appetite away.
But now she was hungry. Pattering down the stairs, she thought about the lemon biscuits. About making them with Emily, to be specific. It sounded like an adventure, like something friends would do. But once she was governess to the Clark girls, that would be the end of that. She almost laughed—imagine the idea of a governess spending her half day making biscuits with a countess! It was too absurd!
Still, a lemon biscuit would be just the thing right now. She’d have to settle for plain old bread and try another batch of biscuits in the morning. For tomorrow’s version, she would experiment with adding more butter.
Once in the kitchen, she set about cutting a few slices of rye, still taking satisfaction in how well organized and tidy the room was in response to her efforts these past days.
“Can’t sleep?”
“Ah!” As she jumped, the knife she’d been using nicked the outside of her first finger. She stuck it in her mouth and turned. Trevor had been utterly silent in his approach. Was there no escaping this man and his ever-present scrutiny?
He closed the distance between them in a few strides, tugged her hand loose from her mouth, and pulled it to his chest, gathering a handful of his fine linen shirt and wrapping it around the wound. It was rather like they were holding hands, but with a clump of linen in the way.
“You’ll ruin your shirt!” She tried to pull away, but his grip was iron.
“I don’t care.”
The silence between them drew out, becoming uncomfortable, charged with something she couldn’t identify. Was he going to do anything besides hold her hand and stare at her? It seemed important not to look away—to do so would have felt weak somehow, would have betrayed her unease.
Oh dear heavens, he was going to do something else. He lowered his head. So slowly—so agonizingly slowly. Another kiss would complicate matters, possibly beyond saving. But she couldn’t bring herself to stop him. In fact, she was rather shamelessly lifting her mouth to meet him, her breath growing audible.
Just as his lips—finally!—were about to touch hers, he made a detour, and placed them next to her ear. The huff of his breath against her skin made her shiver. “You never answered my question,” he whispered.
Her mind, still reeling from the shock of having misjudged his intentions, struggled to catch up. “Yes. I mean no, I couldn’t sleep.”
Another short exhale next to her ear. “Not that question.”
She pulled back against his grip again, and this time he let her take a step back, but he did not surrender her injured hand. That step back might have been an error, for although she was out of range of those dangerous whispers, now she was forced to look into his knowing eyes.
“Before I left town, I asked you if you wanted to be a governess. You never answered. And now Emily says you do not.”
“I said no such thing to the countess! I’m enormously grateful to her for vouching for me with the Clarks.”
“You still haven’t answered the question.”
He was a snake charmer, commanding her with those blasted eyes. She never could lie to Trevor. As children, the pair of them had lied to anyone and everyone in service of their schemes. But she’d never been able to lie to him, not even long enough to play a proper jest on him. Though she tried to prevent it, the truth bubbled up through her throat, across her tongue. “No.”
“Well then.” He released her hand, and it seemed to cut the cord between them. The flame went out in his eyes, and they, too, released her. She heaved an involuntary sigh, passively letting him move her hand so he held it next to a candle. He bent to examine the small cut by the light of the flame. It had stopped bleeding. “There. That’s fixed. Now to fix the rest of it.”
She laughed, but it sounded too gay, forced, even to her own ears. “You’re very kind, but there’s nothing to fix!”
Ignoring her, he went to the counter and picked up the abandoned knife. “But first, we eat. I’m bloody starving.”
…
Why hadn’t he thought of it before? It was the obvious solution to Lucy’s employment problem, even if it was an enormous risk. He watched her tidy up after their midnight meal. She moved with grace and efficiency, putting things to right with as little fuss as possible, looking like she’d spent a lifetime at work in this kitchen. The arrangement that was taking shape in his mind would benefit him, too, despite its potential danger. In fact, he had a feeling it would be just what the Jade needed.
“Sit,” he said, when he decided she’d moved from legitimate tidying to fussing-fueled avoidance. She obeyed, but he could tell she was apprehensive by the way she pressed her lips together and looked a little too intently at him. She did that when she was nervous—she probably thought it made her appear undaunted, but he saw through it. It was oddly satisfying to know someone well enough that you could see their subterfuge. “I have a proposition for you.” He cleared his throat. “But first, an apol
ogy. I acted horribly this morning. I’m sorry.” He hoped they could leave it at that.
“No, I’m sorry. Of course I should not have had people here.”
He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal, wanting to forestall a spiral of competing apologies. He had, of course, meant his apology to cover everything: his explosion of temper, yes, but also their ill-advised interlude in the garden. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to address that part of their day directly and could only hope that what he had said—and would say next—would smooth over everything. “Now, the proposition. I think you should work here.”
She recoiled slightly, frowning. “Just because I don’t particularly relish the idea of another post as a governess doesn’t mean I want to be a maid!”
“Give me a little credit, Lucy! I’m not asking you to be a maid. I want you to be in charge. Like a housekeeper—or perhaps steward is the more apt analogy. Or manager—I think that’s what other hotels have. We’ll call it whatever you like.”
“Trevor, you’re very kind. But you can’t just—”
“Look what you’ve done in less than a fortnight here. This place was not ready to open. It still isn’t, but it’s a great deal closer now, thanks to you. And I believe this sort of work suits you in a way that perhaps your governess duties did not. You’re always ready to take on anything, you seem to enjoy solving problems, and you have a talent for details I lack. It was always that way, wasn’t it?”
She smiled. With luck, that meant he was winning her over.
“There was the Great Cake Heist of 1795, which you so recently referenced. You had the raid on that bakeshop well planned,” she said, “but you forgot to bring anything to transport the cakes in.”
“Ha!” And he’d thought he had no happy memories from those days. “My point exactly. I’d been accustomed to stealing those biscuits, which were much less bulky. You showed up with a cart and saved the day.”
Her smile disappeared. “It wasn’t right—all that stealing.”
He reached out to touch her hand but stopped short. He had to stop touching her. She was not for him, so it was time to adopt some of the ton’s blasted honor. So he simply said, “I know.” He thought about adding that they’d stolen because they were hungry, that the true crime was a society that let its children starve. He might also have reminded her that the spoils of the Great Cake Heist of 1795 were enjoyed by a dozen hungry families—it was almost like they were a pair of Robin Hoods. But she had become so serious in the years they’d been apart, and he wasn’t sure she would appreciate the distinction.
“My point,” he pressed on, “is that, yes, I can hire staff. But I need someone in charge, someone to keep all the moving pieces in mind, oversee the deliveries, the accounts. Someone to…make sure things are right.”
“And shouldn’t that be you?”
“No. It should be you. You’ve a knack for it. You always were so logical, so analytically minded. And I have to travel with some regularity.” He paused, tasting the bitter truth in his mouth. “You saw what I was like this morning. I’ve told you, I’m not rational about this place. It should be just another investment, but…”
“But it’s your home,” she finished softly.
All he could do was clear his throat. To agree made him too vulnerable.
“Trevor, be reasonable. I can’t let you do this. You have said that your investors are conservative men. They won’t appreciate a woman managing their hotel, much less…”
She spoke the truth, but he was decided on this course of action, despite its inherent danger, so he came back with a jest. “Much less a woman who parades around town whipping governesses into a frenzy of reform based on the ideas of that hoyden Mary Wollstonecraft?”
She smiled, but he could tell she still wasn’t convinced.
“The way I see it, you working here solves your problem and my problem.”
She was silent for a moment before asking, “Would I have authority over the staff?”
He bit back a triumphant laugh—he was winning her over. “Yes.”
“Open, acknowledged authority? Even though I’m a woman? What about your investors?”
“Presumably you’re not going to stride around wearing breeches, bullying the staff in order to get what you want. I will introduce you as my agent, empowered to make decisions on my behalf, but I’ll expect you to conduct yourself with decorum and subtlety.” He took a deep breath. Here was the hard part. “But there is one condition.”
“Which is?”
“There can be no meetings of your society here.” He hated to forbid the thing she seemed to hold most dear, but there was no way around it. “None. Not a whisper in this hotel about Mary Wollstonecraft. As you’ve noted, it will be difficult to get the investors to accept your mere presence. They cannot know about your inclinations toward reform. I won’t take needless risks.”
She pressed her lips together, but she nodded. “I understand, but I won’t give Mary up forever.”
He was about to protest, but she held up a finger and continued. “You are correct in the sense that the sort of work you are offering me is much more to my liking than governessing. I will agree never to breathe a word about my political beliefs here, but you can’t stop me from doing what I like when I’m not working.”
Again, he tried to protest, but the finger, still held aloft, floated higher.
“I understand the risk you speak of,” she went on. “I’m not naive—anymore. I learned the hard way with my last two posts.”
He still wanted to know the name of her former employer. When he’d caught her running as if frightened by something—or someone—combined with a few cryptic remarks she’d made about her last situation still had him wondering if there was something there. “You learned the hard way. What does that mean, Lucy?
“Nothing.”
“Who was your last employer?”
She just shook her head. “The point is, I promise not to do or say anything in public that would endanger the hotel. But in private, I can say what I like to my friends—my friends who certainly share no social bonds with your investors.”
He sighed, about to acquiesce, for she was right: he couldn’t reasonably control what she did in her time off. But it seemed she wasn’t finished talking.
“I will remain in your employ long enough to ensure that the hotel opens and is running smoothly—say six months. That’s sufficient time to get the hotel running properly. It will also give me enough time to gain the necessary experience to obtain a position as a housekeeper in a great house. If you will write me a character reference, I’m sure I can find a permanent position more suited to my constitution than governessing.
“It’s better this way,” she added, smiling at him with what he thought might be a tinge of sadness. “After I’m gone and the hotel is operating successfully, you can hire a completely uncontroversial, completely male manager to replace me, and then you won’t have to be looking over your shoulder all the time as it relates to your investors.”
He couldn’t argue with her logic. In fact, she was proposing exactly what he’d been trying to do since she arrived—what he had always tried to do: propel her up and out of the gutter, into the life she deserved. He could see her in his mind’s eye as the housekeeper of a great house. Held back no longer by anything—or anyone—from her miserable past, she would have her own empire. She would excel, thrive.
She would he happy.
And before she left, she would ensure the Jade was a success. It was the perfect plan. So he swallowed a lump that had lodged in his throat. “Six months, then.”
“Six months,” she echoed.
Lucy and Trevor, together again. He’d never been a believer in providence, preferring instead to put his faith in hard work and self-determination. But why else was she here, when the likelihood of either of them surviving, much less of them finding each other again, was so low as to be nonexistent? Suddenly, irrationally, it felt as though Lucy had arrived
on his doorstep that rainy night precisely for this reason. So he could save her, and she could save the Jade.
He stuck out his hand for her to shake. If, after she extended hers with a smile, he lingered a bit longer than was appropriate, memorizing the feel of her small, warm hand in his, it was only because he wanted to remember it when she was gone.
Chapter Eight
“My apologies for making you wait,” Trevor said as he entered the kitchen. “I got lost in some ledgers. I hope everything isn’t cold.”
Lucy set down the shears she’d been using to trim some peony stems. She’d hardly seen Trevor the past week, he’d been so busy working upstairs in his apartment.
“What is all this?” he asked, sweeping his hand over the piles of flowers and branches she had laid out on a work table.
“I’m trying to learn flower arranging.”
“In all your free time?” he teased, moving over to the domed dishes that were the point of his appearance in the kitchen.
“Self-improvement projects are important,” she said, aware of how prim she sounded. “It’s what I always told my pupils, and the best way to teach is by example.”
He quirked a smile. “And what other projects have you embarked upon?”
She thought of the lemon biscuits but didn’t say anything, because she wanted them to remain a surprise. “I used to spend a great deal of time translating.”
“Mary’s works?”
“Oh, no, those would be too ambitious. Smaller, less dense prose. Often I would work with my young ladies to translate nursery rhymes into French.”
“Translation, I can see. But flowers? What’s the point?”
“There needn’t be one. Self-improvement for its own sake is a worthy pursuit. Mastering skills bolsters one’s self-respect.” She brought forks and knives and set them on the table. “However, in this case, I would argue that there is a point. The hotel will have to have flowers.”
“Touché,” he said, lifting the lid of the dish nearest him. “This smells wonderful.”
The Likelihood of Lucy Page 9
