Determined to see the onerous task over and quickly, Olivia swept down the long hallway, cringing when a bit of wall plaster dusted her dress when Jacks approached, his arms laden with refreshments, and she stepped aside.
“This bodes well, do ye think?” Jacks halted to ask.
“What? That she wanted to be alone with Mr. Tanner? Aye, I do. Tell me, Jacks, is our remaining guest still situated in the study?”
Jacks gave a brief shake of his head. “Asked if ’e could stretch ’is legs a bit when I came for the Tanner gent. Believe ’e’s out back, walkin’ the garden fer a spell.”
“Very well. Carry on.”
“You’ll see to ’im then?”
See him off, he meant? “That I will.”
Olivia proceeded toward the stairs, thinking, and not for the first time, how this old, neglected home could shine if only someone would devote some tender love and thoughtful care to it. Much like yourself?
And where had that come from? Juliet was the one who’d instigated the Marriage Scheme. Olivia just wanted the whole ordeal over and her friend happily settled.
At least, that’s what she continually told herself. On-the-shelf companions weren’t considered marriage material. Far from it. And the sooner she quit contemplating otherwise, the more content she’d likely be.
Upon reaching the landing, she mentally chanted three, eleven and seventeen. Three, eleven, seventeen. Those were the ricketiest treads, the ones they all took pains to avoid. Beneath the board nailed over it, tread four had a boot-sized hole gouged in the baluster side, compliments of Jacks the day upon their arrival.
But the flocked amaranthus paper lining the opposite wall had an aged grace Olivia found charming. Truth be told, despite its sadly neglected air and propensity toward rot (thanks she was sure to the splintered roof tiles and resulting leaks) Olivia found the old house charming.
Especially the gardens.
Not nearly as overgrown as one might expect given the state of the structure they surrounded, the grounds still retained a glimmer of their former sparkle. Safely bypassing the last questionable stair, Olivia side-stepped a chipped tile in the entry and headed for the massive front door, wrenching it open after only two attempts. Better at weather predictions than any soothsayer or trick knee, the wood always swelled when rain approached.
The verdant, lush green of a spring in full bloom greeted her, lent a lift to her spirits, and Olivia fairly skipped over the flagstone path that circled the old manor. She was intent on intercepting their errant applicant before he came back inside. Bad news was best broken under a sunny sky, or so her mama had always claimed. Olivia spared a quick glance upward and decided a cloudy sky would have to do.
Rounding the second corner, her feet came to an abrupt halt. Her breath hissed inward. Her eyes nearly bugged to Bedfordshire and back.
And her heart? That hurly-burly organ took off like a galloping horse—stealing away with her common sense perhaps?
Because, instead of swooning or shying away, instead of yelling loudly for Jacks, Olivia stood, happily, hungrily in place. She stood stock-still and she stared at the sumptuous sight, watching the play of muscle across a strong, bare back as applicant twenty-five (for who else could it be?), completely unaware of her presence, wielded a Dutch hoe in one corner of the weed-infested herb garden. But most notable of all? He was dressed in nothing more than black tall boots and tight black breeches.
Obscenely tight breeches.
Well now. And to think, Juliet had complained there wasn’t anything of value remaining on the grounds.
Olivia begged to differ.
Neither did she make a sound to inform him of her presence. She might have been trained to teach proper behavior and exhibit it herself, but she knew enough about life and death, about expectations and disappointments to know opportunity didn’t often knock. Especially opportunities for observing and admiring a strong, sweaty man wearing absurdly tight breeches.
So she watched. And her dratted throat betrayed her, making some sort of begging, yearning noise that had her unexpected treat jerking upright and whirling around.
“Oh!” was all he said, a gruff sound of surprise.
Oh was right. Oh great day in the gloomy afternoon, she’d never seen such a handsome man. With his shirt off.
And staring right at her as though he liked what he saw.
Her.
Well now. Mayhap this wouldn’t be such an onerous task after all.
Zeus allowed his posture to relax and stepped aside when Lady Juliet’s servant brought in a tray laden with sweets and a steaming teapot, the advice—or admonishment, he hadn’t quite decided which—delivered by the daffodil on her way out still ringing in his ear: “She possesses more brains than sense, but it comes with a heart of gold. Be gentle with her.”
Gentle? What manner of treatment had this cautiously audacious lass been subjected to?
The burly man placed the tray on the table before turning to address the screen. “Milady?”
“That will be all, Jacks, thank you. Close the door and please see that we’re not disturbed.”
“Milady?” The request obviously surprised him. Which pleased Zeus to no end. So she wasn’t in the habit of secreting herself away with suitors? Realizing he was an exception, a surge of male pride stroked his ego. Made him all the more eager to stroke something of hers. Sultry lips, perhaps? Dainty feet? Everywhere in between?
“Ahem.” The man coughed loudly, making no effort to disguise his concern. “Alone, milady? Are you cer—”
“Quite. You may relax your vigil, dear Jacks,” she insisted, and Zeus fancied he heard a blush in her voice. “Leave your post. Enjoy the rest of the day,” she all but ordered, “before those encroaching clouds drench out the remaining sunshine.” Proving she could see him—him and the darkening sky through the window beyond.
The manservant cut his eyes toward Zeus, who gave a confirming nod, appearing more assured than he felt—or so he hoped. “Your lady shall come to no harm on my watch, of that I can promise.” It wouldn’t harm her if he did away with that pesky partition, now would it?
“Very good, milady.” With a diffident nod, and a slight narrowing of his gaze toward Zeus, the man quit the room by way of a reluctant backward walk.
After the door clicked shut, Zeus stood there in the stillness, curiosity—among other things—aroused. “What manner of topics shall I expound upon now? Or are you finally ready to emerge from behind your shield?” Before I rip it away?
“Partake of a scone, please,” the melodious voice demanded.
“And if I do not care for a scone?” he countered, wanting some say in this deuced lopsided encounter. But also wondering how long she intended to hide and curious how she intended to progress things from here.
She huffed, and he could just see her hands compressed in her lap, knuckles white with frustration. Although any irritation with him was completely absent in her tone when she added, “If you will please partake of a scone and a cup of tea, upon their completion I shall explain the reason behind it.”
An alarming thought struck him. “They aren’t poisoned?”
“You think—?” This time, the muffled snort sounded more like a choked gurgle. “You think, after inviting you here, after offering my hand in exchange for your money, I plan to send you out on six men’s shoulders?”
His own chuckle rumbled forth. “Put that way, I suppose not.”
“Certainly not, I assure you! I hold the men who exert themselves responding to my advertisement in the highest regard, at least until they prove themselves undeserving of said regard. Nevertheless, I would not wish to so precipitously end their existence! Poisoned scones, indeed. Shame, Mr. Tanner, for thinking such.”
“No, shame on you for hiding once these initially estimable men arrive,” he grumbled as he eased onto one of her ugly chairs and tried not to flinch when it creaked. Then creaked again when a massive bundle of marmalade fur jumped onto his lap and
sunk its claws into his buckskins.
Zeus ground his teeth against the knifepoints piercing into his leg. “Who have we here?”
“Henry!” she exclaimed in astonished tones. “Mr. Tanner, count yourself among the exclusive minority who have received his approval!”
While the cat made mincemeat of his breeches, Zeus brushed one hand over its back and retrieved a scone off a horridly elegant tea service with the other. Hoping to lure her out—so he could take his measure of her exterior—he queried at his most cultured, “Would you not care for one, my lady?”
“Mayhap later. Do eat it now, please, if you would.”
Taking care with the fragile pastry, Zeus brought it to his mouth for a sizable bite.
Instead of the warm rush of buttery bliss he expected, a salty chunk of grit met his tongue.
Straining to keep his expression bland, he chewed and chewed again, trying to work up sufficient saliva to swallow the field of dirt dwelling in his mouth. Finally, fearful of choking to death, he coaxed the bite down, placed the remainder on a napkin, and took a sip of hearty tea. Returning the cup to a saucer smaller than his palm, Zeus straightened. “Er…ack…delightful.”
His thighs had gone numb, which the marmalade monstrosity made up for by standing on his hind legs to butt Zeus’ chin with his purring head before jumping down.
“Do you not seek to finish the scone?”
No he did not. He hacked into his closed fist then looked up and attempted a game smile. Despite her assurances to the contrary, was she in truth trying to kill him? “Would it please you were I to do so?”
Kick the bucket or finish the scone, Zeus was no longer sure what he inquired after.
“Very much so. Complete the scone and tea, and an explanation shall be yours.”
“I’d rather have the sight of your face, the taste of your lips,” he told the embroidered waterfall, surmising she blushed beyond.
When a small gasp was her only response, Zeus steeled himself, picked up the silt pile, and took a second briny bite. Gnashing past the Sahara, praying again for saliva, he wondered what manner of woman lurked beyond fearsome footmen, stubborn solicitors and dusty dainties?
Was she, too, as dilapidated as her home? As tattered and worn—his eyes drifted to the other chair—as her surroundings?
He braved another swallow, managed not to sputter dust, and shifted upon his uncomfortable perch. Was she as unyielding as her furnishings?
The third bite made its way to his tongue, and as his mind drifted toward pleasant, favorable thoughts, so his salivary glands followed.
Or was she, perhaps, the opposite of everything around her? Impeccable, immaculate, and…yielding? As soft and welcoming as her prickly, affectionate cat? As ready to sit upon his lap?
The next bite went down easier. He opened wide for the remainder, ready to finish the task for the reward she’d promised.
Would her taste beguile him, as did her peculiar laugh? More raspy rooster than girlish giggle, the sound wound through every lonely, belligerent corner of his soul each time he heard it, infusing the dark, scorned patches with light…and hope.
Damn, he wanted to see her, touch her. Taste her.
As if he lived for parched, salt-dunked scones, Zeus swallowed and smiled, his lips anticipating their first taste of the lady and the laughter behind the curtain. After a cursory brush with a napkin, he held up empty hands.
“Bravo! I am delighted!” She applauded.
He reached for the remaining tea. “That I ate a,” sorry-arse, “scone without choking?”
“That you did so without spewing crumbs nor spittle down your shirtfront!”
Tea abandoned, he gained his feet. “That was the test? What manner of barbarian do you take me for?”
“Not you, Mr. Tanner, never you.” The assurance didn’t mollify him until he heard the sigh of relief she expelled. Damn. Ole Lecherous had been worse than Zeus had suspected. For the first time, he started to think he’d been better off disdained.
“Now…” she continued. “You have the remaining character I requested? On your person, I assume?”
The abrupt switch surprised him.
“The one from my former mistress?” The only one Hastings hadn’t scrutinized, saying everything else looked to be in order and a man’s bedroom proclivities should remain private. It was about the only thing the two of them had agreed upon. “Aye. I have it.”
But Zeus made no move to retrieve the missive from his pocket. Let the secretive chit ask for it. Better yet, let her come and fish it out.
“Bare your chest for me, please.”
“What the—” While Zeus’ tongue floundered, his lower body speculated whether she’d desire buckskins be eliminated next. Wayward loins!
Not that he minded disrobing, not when the urge struck him. Which it hadn’t. Not here, in this dismally cheerful room with its sweetly shabby furnishings and appallingly intriguing owner.
On second thought… “Why, if you please? If I’m to disrobe in front of someone I’ve yet to see, much less been formally introduced to, I’d like to be given a compelling reason.”
And he hoped she supplied a damn good one because his fingers were now itching to reach for the buttons on his waistcoat.
“I would… I would see the chest of the man I think to take as husband.”
Up to this point, only one person had been in control of everything—Lady Scandal. By way of Hastings, she had his name, his references, his financial worth…everything but the bloody measurement of his drawers. To be frank, she had his ballocks in her grasp, and what did he have in return? Only her deuced advertisement and the anticipation of Amherst. And an insatiable curiosity about the woman, one just begging to be appeased.
So she wanted to see his nude torso? “As far as reasons go, it’s not the strongest,” he mused, fingers tapping along buttons, “but I could be amenable to an exchange of forfeits.”
“An exchange?”
Zeus contemplated. There were four items of clothing to be discarded before his chest was bare. What might she be willing to relinquish for each of them? “I’ll remove my tailcoat in exchange for one of your slippers.”
After an expectant moment, one dainty slipper sailed over the partition and landed at his feet. His fingers flew in their haste and his tailcoat met the back of the settee.
“Your other slipper for my waistcoat.”
“Ahh… I have but the one.” She replied in a whisper that only raised more questions than it answered.
“One slipper? Or…” Something he’d not considered… “One foot?”
Chapter Three
Applicant Twenty-Four Bares All (Or Nearly So)
“Two feet!” Several giggled snorts then a full-out gust of jocularity burst free, the sounds twisting something in his gut. “I assure you!”
Curious. “Then…your stocking in exchange for my waistcoat.”
Silence.
Too bold?
Nay. For there came the light rustle of skirts being lifted, of silk descending…the envisioned sight of a creamy thigh…
Then victory, as one pale pink stocking soared gallantly toward him. His right arm shot out to halt its journey, rough fingers snagging on the delicate treasure.
Zeus wound his arm in a flying arc, twining the silk stocking over the back of his hand and leaving his fingers free to make short work of his waistcoat.
Once off, he flung it beside his discarded tailcoat. Eyes narrowed, he stared at the damnable screen, wishing he could see the vexing prize beyond. Debating just what he’d ask for next.
For though he could easily put an end to their little game, dispense with her vexing show of mystery, Zeus found he more than liked the idea of a potential wife being willing to indulge in a bit of risqué bawdiness. It bode well for their union.
If you can convince her to wed a bastard.
His fist tightened on the sultry stocking, trying to strangle out the nagging voice of reason. If she’ll have
you, once she knows all.
There was the rub, he realized, as the words of the great, doomed Hamlet rang like a gong against his conscience. To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub.
Did he dare dream she’d have him?
Juliet never dreamed a man such as the one before her would respond to her advertisement. Just a fraction shy of haughty, a shade away from arrogant, his confident stature and striking countenance attracted her mightily. She stroked her newly bared toes across the wood floor, her gaze transfixed on the man in shirtsleeves breathing hard in the center of her sitting room.
When he’d first strutted into her sanctum, in no way could she have anticipated how her interview with applicant twenty-four would go. As it was, she feared she might be half in love already, given his oft-impertinent yet altogether candid replies. He certainly wasn’t one to quibble or evade. Nor did he balk at conversing with females. That alone nigh earned him a spot in her heart.
And now…now viewing his bare chest was but a garment or two away, she realized as a streak of awareness settled between her thighs, causing her to again squiggle in place.
She awaited his next proposed forfeit exchange, the thrilling thrumming he created in her growing. “Mr. Tanner?” she prodded. “What shall we trade next?”
“Have you another stocking on?”
“Nay.”
The strong column of his neck worked when he swallowed. “Petticoats? A shift? Stays?”
“Aye.” Though how will I get the last off by myself? “Which would you like to claim in exchange for your neckcloth?” Then to preserve modesty she wasn’t feeling but knew she ought, Juliet added, “Although just because you request it may not make it so. There must remain some level of uncertainty even between courting couples, wouldn’t you suppose?”
He threw back his head and laughed. And laughed. When he was done, his gaze again speared her through the screen. “Is that what we’re doing? Courting?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Very well. Courting.” Though his lips still quirked with humor, his voice was as solid as a mountain. “To answer your question, I would not choose to have any measure of uncertainty between myself and my spouse. Uncertainty nor screens nor unnecessary clothing.” He brought one hand to the simple knot at his neck. “What do I want for this? Ahh…let me think.”
Lady Scandal Page 4
