Her face the picture of fury, she cried, “I will never speak to you again!”
He laughed, a rich, full laugh echoing in the room. “As if you could. You work for me, if you’ll recall.”
With a cry, she stormed from the room, slamming the door to the library behind her. He chuckled to himself. He rather enjoyed her fit of temper. She would come around. By this time tomorrow, she would be talking to him again, and given a little time, she would come to like him. Strange, how much he wanted Lexie to like him. Not just desire him—women always seemed to desire him—but like him. Care about him. He really did regret his behavior tonight, but she would forgive him. Women always did when he tried to charm them. He pushed the idea away that, perhaps, Alexandra Markland was different.
Turning his thoughts back to Lexie’s choice of reading material, he decided to find out what it had been. Going over to the stack of books lying scattered on the floor, he was startled to find not only the Engels tome among the pile, but also a book on English history, another on fairy tales, and yet another one of poetry. She might have been reading any of them. Intrigued, he plucked the poetry from the stack, and it fell open to a dog-eared page.
Lord Byron. He had always thought this poem a bit much, considering it was about a woman. He had always thought no woman worthy of such praise, even the fairest. It was overly dramatic stuff, but that didn’t mean he had been above quoting it to one—or several—of his conquests. But he read the lines again, and they made him think of Lexie. She really was beautiful like the night, so beautiful he thought of little else. If Nicholas hadn’t known better, he would have sworn such a poem had been written for Lexie, with her midnight hair and eyes, light and dark meeting in the aspect of her perfect features.
As he closed the book, he noticed the watermarks, the pages still damp from her tears. He had to smile—she hadn’t been reading Engels after all. She might have read it before, but not tonight, and the plight of the proletariat hadn’t caused her to weep. This poem, praising the very real beauty of a woman, had done that. He smiled.
His Lexie had a romantic heart, after all.
Chapter 4
Maybe Nicholas thought she would come around in a day, two days at the outside. If so, he thought wrong.
Lexie kept her head down when he addressed her, nodded to show she understood, but she never met his eyes. It was hard to do—she loved the planes of his face, the way his turquoise eyes glittered with mischief and good humor. Still, even when he chatted with her amiably, she said nothing. She didn’t meet his gaze or even look at him.
He was undeterred by her silence. Nicholas Wetherby didn’t accept defeat, gracefully or otherwise.
He told jokes, and she had to work to keep a straight face. He made outrageous, suggestive statements, and she struggled to stop herself from shouting at him. He seemed to make an effort to be around the house, forgoing his usual escapades at the gambling hall, and was constantly underfoot. He was everywhere she went. In the kitchen, the library, the study. The sitting room. The porch. The stables.
Twice she encountered him wearing nothing but his britches after she’d been assured he would be out for the day. She’d been so startled to see him in such a state she had bumped into the wall and spilled the contents of her bucket all over herself. Mortified, she nearly stammered an apology before she’d fled. Luckily, shock took precedence over good manners.
His booming laugh had followed her down the hall.
If she had the ability to erase the sight of him, damp-haired and shirtless, water glistening on his skin and in his golden hair, she would. Instead, the image haunted her days and her nights, leaving her both agitated and breathless. Seeing him day in and day out made it impossible to banish him from her thoughts.
A week into their domestic battle, Lexie came into her room to find a brand new silk gown on her narrow bed. It was a dark, rich emerald, and she was a little embarrassed to note it was not only suited to her tastes but also precisely her size, too, as if he knew her mind and had memorized the contours of her body. The gown was beautiful, intricate in the small details, the clothes of a wealthy woman. In no way should she accept this.
She put the dress in his wardrobe.
The following day, she came into her bedroom to find not only the green gown, but also a navy gown, with flowers of the palest pink sewn into it. The neckline swept off the shoulders, trimmed with a fine bit of lace, expensive and romantic. And Lexie, who never had the money to purchase much of anything, was not immune to lure of finer things. Even so, both gowns were in his wardrobe within an hour.
Every day for five days, she found a new gown on her bed. She never confronted him. She just sneaked into his room to return the gown. She’d never seen him enter hers. When, on the fifth day, she found a scarlet silk on her bed, in addition to the navy, the green, the black, and the purple, Lexie found herself laughing at his antics. She sat on her bed among the sumptuous fabrics, stroking each of them in turn, laughing at the unexpected turn of events that had led her here. But she understood what needed to be done, so she gathered up the gowns and sought out her employer. She found him in the study, reading the paper.
“Come to apologize for disturbing me in my state of undress, Miss Markland?” he asked without looking up. She impatiently stamped her foot to get his attention, and he raised his gaze to her face, hitting her with the full force of his unusual turquoise eyes, and her heart danced in her chest. He studied her for a moment before gracing her with an insouciant grin. “Ah. No, I guess you haven’t. Found my gift, have you?”
She fought to suppress the smile springing to her lips. Never had she met anyone quite like him—someone unrepentant about who he was. Though she hated to admit it, she enjoyed their little game. He was a man who could get under her skin. Once there, she’d never be able to let him go.
She frowned to cover the smile, put the gowns on the back of a chair, and gave herself a mental shake to remind herself she needed to stand firm. So she stared at him in stony silence.
“I hoped you would wear the navy. I think it would be quite becoming on you,” he said, unperturbed. His bright turquoise eyes swept over her appreciatively, and something in his expression gave her the impression he enjoyed their game as much as she did. She lifted her chin and fought a silly, silent war with herself over whether to tell him what he could do with his opinions. He began to chuckle. “What, still not speaking to me? Hardly a way to repay my generosity.”
Nicholas laughed again as she notched her chin higher and stalked from the room, her back straight and stiff, the vision of a woman too proud for her own good. He had seen the way she bit back the comments rising to her lips at his teasing, the way she swallowed the smile he thought he’d seen quirking the corners of her mouth.
By God, he’d get her to talk. If he needed to be charming, he would do that. If he needed to bait her into yelling at him, he would do that, too. Either way, she would talk to him again. He found he rather missed the sound of her voice.
Later in the evening, he put the gowns back in her room.
Yet again, he found them in his wardrobe the following morning.
The day after, while she did her chores, he sneaked into her room and placed a silk nightgown of the palest pink on her bed. So sheer it was almost transparent, it was both gorgeous and dangerously scandalous. He imagined seeing her in this gown, lying in his bed, beckoning to him. He entertained the thought for a few moments before the lust began to consume him and he had to force himself to think of taxes and horses just so he could leave her room upright.
The next day, he found that nightgown on his bed. Too bad he hadn’t found her there, too.
To annoy her, he removed her clothes and replaced them with maid’s uniforms. Those, he noted with wry amusement, she wore with pride the following day, going so far as to twirl brightly when he entered the room, showing off. He laughed, and remarked she was beautiful even in a maid’s uniform, and the embarrassed flush she gave him before she
turned and fled delighted him. In his presence, she wore nothing else, even after he returned her clothes and the gowns. She did it strictly to vex him.
As for Nicholas, he had no idea how he would charm her back into her voice.
Not that she had really lost it, he admitted to himself. She talked fondly to Mrs. Ferguson, who delighted in her company. She spoke to the gardeners, the carriage drivers, and the stable boys. She sang while she worked when she thought he wasn’t watching. To his exasperation, her father was right on that count as well—she had a voice that made the very angels weep. It chafed she spoke to everyone except for him.
Within a short span of time, she had charmed everyone in the entire household. Stable lads came to her aid and offered to accompany her on her errands. Mrs. Ferguson constantly sang her praises. If she could to charm old Mrs. Ferguson, who had always been somewhat territorial of Nicholas and his household, he shouldn’t be surprised she could charm him, too. After all, he had always been a sucker for a pretty face. But Lexie Markland was so much more than that. She was a bright ray of sunshine spreading through his house. He had lived here for almost a year, but for the first time, it felt like home.
One morning, he came into the foyer as the post came with a letter for Lexie, the first to arrive in her short tenure. Plucking the envelope from Mrs. Ferguson’s fingers, he said, “I think I saw her in the study. I’m headed that way.”
His housekeeper pursed her lips in disapproval. “You’ll take it to her straight? You’ll not be tormenting the lass by withholding her mail?”
“What do you take me for?” Nicholas asked, examining the letter. Strong penmanship, a man’s hand. No return address. He hoped it was from her father and not some other man he didn’t know about.
She put her hands on her round hips and frowned at him in a motherly fashion. “Whatever ye did must’ve been bad, because she won’t talk to ye. She doesn’t even want to talk about ye. She’s not for ye, so leave the poor lass alone. But I know how ye are. She’s a challenge ye just can’t resist.”
“That’s quite enough, Mrs. Ferguson,” he said, annoyed to hear Lexie didn’t want him when he wanted her. He had never found a woman he couldn’t beguile.
“I know ye don’t want to hear this, lad, but ye need to,” she said, pointing a chubby finger at him. His housekeeper had never been one to scold him like a boy, especially since he paid her well and she’d always been amused by his antics before, but that was precisely what she was doing. Chastising him. “I’ve been with ye since ye landed in California, what, four years ago? I’ve seen how ye behave with women, and I’ve not once judged ye for it. I know ye think ye can charm Lexie back into your good graces. But I promise ye, I won’t tolerate ye breaking her heart. She doesn’t deserve that, not after all she’s been through. Seems to me she’s been surrounded her whole life by dishonorable men, and the way ye got her here—”
“Enough,” Nicholas warned. He didn’t need to be reminded of the dishonor in winning a girl in a poker game, or that his honor—such as it was—had been largely absent the day he claimed her. He should have declined to take her with him and returned to court her—would have if he had been an honorable sort. But the selfish part of him hadn’t been able to, because on some level, he knew Alexandra Markland would never be his, no matter how adept he was at wooing. He’d had to claim her for his own and force her to abide by his presence.
“Ye didn’t let me finish!” Mrs. Ferguson exclaimed, not backing down from her argument. She seemed to think he wouldn’t fire her for her insubordination, and his anger deflated the instant he realized she was right. He’d never fire the woman, no matter what she said. He recognized a good thing when one came his way. “Lexie is a good woman, an honorable woman, but I think maybe sheltered, too. I’ve seen the way ye look at her, and she’s fair of face for sure. And since she’s made it plain she’s not for ye, ye simply must have her, right? So you’ll pursue her, and, because she’s an innocent and a woman, she’ll fall for ye—because they always do, don’t they, Mr. Wetherby? But if ye treat her like one of your women, you’ll ruin her.”
“Mrs. Ferguson, I will not discuss my private life with you. But you can rest assured you don’t need to worry about Miss Markland’s heart.”
She glanced at the letter in his hand and shook her head. “I wish that were true. Lexie is a fine woman, and ye know, son, for all of this, ye are a fine man.” She motioned to his body with her hands, and he found himself irritated that she had motioned to all of him, as if he were just fine as long as one did not consider his looks, his personality, or his money. “Ye can be worthy of a woman like her, if ye set your mind to it.”
Nicholas gave his housekeeper a hardened stare before stalking to the study. He didn’t like the implication he wasn’t worthy of Lexie—she was his servant, after all. How dare the women of his household judge him and find him lacking? He had done Lexie a favor by bringing her here. He didn’t beat her, she had enough to eat, and he tried to ensure her comfort. He thought of all the ways he had made Lexie’s life easier, and had attempted to make her life easier still, though she refused his offers. He had money, he was handsome, charming and witty—why wouldn’t he be worthy of someone like her? He had, after all, successfully wooed women in better circumstances than Lexie. Shouldn’t she be flattered by his attentions?
And then he stepped into his study and caught sight of her in her maid’s uniform, on her hands and knees polishing the feet of his mahogany desk, humming happily to herself. Something about the way she looked forced him to think of who he actually was. A man who had a way with women and wasn’t above seducing them and discarding them. A man who won a woman in a card game, and later claimed her because he’d been...bored. A man who had never been able to give his heart to a woman.
Hell, he wasn’t even sure he had a heart to give.
He should have refused Markland’s offer. He realized what he had done to Lexie’s reputation the day he’d claimed her. She must have known, too, but she had come with him anyway, deciding to honor the debt owed by her father, and she worked without complaint. She accepted her position in his household with grace, but when he caught her reading in his library, he cornered her, tried to seduce her, and insinuated she was no better than a doxy. Hell. Maybe he wasn’t worthy of her. He pushed the thought aside.
“Miss Markland.”
With a startled cry, she jumped to her feet. He saw the question in her eyes, but knew she had no intention of speaking—not now, perhaps not ever. He wondered if anything would bring her back to her voice.
He sighed. “You received a letter,” he said. He thought about making her ask for it, but his honor hissed that he didn’t need to be petty. Better to win her voice than to steal it. He extended the letter to her.
Lexie frowned at him. She never liked having him this close to her—it played havoc with her emotions. Honestly, she enjoyed how he attempted to get her to talk to him, either by charming her or irritating her. More than once, she had stopped herself on the verge of saying angry words to him, and caught him smiling as she did so. His attempts to bait her into talking to him were all just another part of the game. Yet he offered her this letter without any strings. It told her more about his character than she cared to know.
Accepting the letter without a word, she turned her back to him, opened it and began to read.
Dearest Lexie,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am well. Mr. Buchanan has agreed to provide me with an additional allowance so I can keep the house running. I trust Nicholas Wetherby has not taken liberties with you. You are engaged to be married, and I hope you remember the goodly morals your mother taught you and how important it is for both our futures that you maintain those high standards. A man cannot and will not abide by a woman who has allowed herself to be sullied. I know you are pure of heart, Lexie, so I have no cause to worry. I assured Mr. Buchanan of this.
Yours,
Father
Lexie re-read the
letter again, the knot forming in her stomach. The first letter from her father, and he wrote to remind her she shouldn’t fall for her new employer, assuming her virtue could so easily be won, as if the only reason a man would want her around was for cleaning and intercourse. He didn’t ask about her welfare, or say a single word about how Nicholas had procured her services. No apology had been offered, and Lexie was pretty certain none would be.
Bastard.
She had wasted far too much time on her father, cleaning up his messes, caring for his house, being confronted with his creditors. Still, all her efforts and sacrifices would never be enough. With shaking hands, she crossed over to the wet bar, poured herself two healthy fingers of brandy, drained the glass, and looked back at the letter. The knot in her stomach intensified, so she poured herself another. When she moved to pour herself yet another, a big hand covered hers, and she turned to glare up at Nicholas.
“I think you’ve had enough.”
Just like a man to think he knew more about what she needed than she did. Sneering silently at him, she reached for the decanter again, but he pulled it from her grasp. Enraged, she gave a cry.
“You don’t need this, Lexie.”
She almost snapped, What do you know? before she remembered she wasn’t speaking to him and swallowed her words. They built up in her chest, the pressure mounting in her throat as she struggled to silence her own voice. She fought a bitter battle against the pain and the anger and the hurt. And lost. With a cry of rage, she hurled her glass against the wall. Hurled away her bitterness at her father, the frustration of a life that hadn’t turned out as she’d planned. Hurled away Nicholas’s kisses and lazy smiles in the shattering of breaking glass. Silvery shards scattered along the oak floor.
The Marker Page 5
