by Lily Maxton
Kitty’s eyes widened. “Occupied, how?”
“Not like you are thinking,” Cassandra responded as disturbing images of kissing and tangled limbs filtered through her mind. “I’ve been…reading to him.” She didn’t mention she read to him in German. Kitty didn’t need to know all of her personal business.
“Reading to him?” Kitty repeated, somewhat incredulously.
“Yes, Kitty, the marquess enjoys literature.”
“And men enjoy tupp—”
“Kitty! That is entirely inappropriate. The marquess is your employer.”
The girl’s lips pinched together before she said, “Doesn’t matter if they’re lords or servants,” with color sweeping her cheeks.
Cassandra suddenly had a startling suspicion. “Have you had…attentions…forced on you?”
Kitty shook her head.
“This is important, Kitty,” she said softly. “If it happened here, I need to know about it. If it was one of the footmen, he’ll be dismissed.”
“And what if it wasn’t one of the footmen?”
Something inside Cassandra turned to ice, became almost eerily calm. “Are you accusing Lord Riverton?”
“No,” Kitty said.
Cassandra stared at the girl, wondering what was going on in her mind. She took in the rigid set of her shoulders, the almost obstinate set of her jaw. Something had happened. Whether it was here or elsewhere was impossible to determine.
“If it was Lord Riverton,” Cassandra said, making her voice sound calm, even though everything in her twisted in horror and disbelief at the idea of Lord Riverton accosting Kitty, “I could help you find a position in another house.”
“That won’t be necessary, ma’am. No one has forced his attentions on me.” Kitty’s tone contained an edge of bitterness Cassandra didn’t quite understand.
“If you wish to speak to me,” she said, “I am always willing to listen.”
Kitty nodded and backed out of the room, leaving Cassandra to stare blindly around the storeroom, her hands trembling as she smoothed down the front of her dress, simply for something to do.
With dread in her heart, she realized she couldn’t ignore this. She would have to bring the matter to Lord Riverton’s attention.
And hope to heaven he had no clue what she was talking about.
Chapter Nine
Five years ago, Cassandra Davis had applied for the housekeeper position at Blakewood Hall and had been invited for an interview. After her husband Robert’s death a few years earlier, she’d moved back into her parents’ home, but she’d known she couldn’t stay there forever. Even though she’d grown up there, she felt out of place, in the way that clothes which once fit perfectly became, in time, a little too tight, a little too coarse.
More importantly, she didn’t want her parents to watch her with worry when they learned she had no plans to remarry.
She hadn’t expected anything to come of the interview. Her letter of reference was from her sister—now Mrs. Blakely—which sounded very respectable and proper, but she had no professional experience in housekeeping. She’d just thought to try, at least. She’d helped her mother run a household of eight children, after all. If that didn’t qualify her, she didn’t know what did.
The former housekeeper, who was retiring, had interviewed her first. And perhaps it was that stroke of luck that had secured her the position. Somehow, they’d gotten on the topic of laundering, and Cassandra had told the woman exactly how she’d removed stains from the white shirts of very active and messy boys, and that had led to meal preparation and budgeting, which had been second nature in a family so large and with such modest means.
She was honest with the older woman—she’d never been a paid housekeeper before, and her reference writer was somewhat biased, but she thought she could do it. She thought she’d be good at it. No, she knew she would be. She could read a housekeeping manual as well as the next person. She could learn, if given the chance.
The woman must have thought so, too. A few minutes later, Lord Riverton had stepped into the study and sat down at the desk. He’d cast that intelligent, unswerving gray gaze at her as the sun had turned his blond hair to gold, shifting through the window panes to flirt with his cruelly beautiful features, afraid to shine on him fully.
Ridiculously, a bible verse had flooded her mind.
How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning…For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God…
He was the epitome of how she’d imagined Lucifer would look when she’d first read that verse—cold and beautiful and arrogant, unyielding to the point of destruction.
He sat in his chair, spine erect, watching her without speaking. “You are younger than I expected.”
“Seven and twenty, my lord.”
His lips thinned. “I didn’t ask your age.”
Oh. She supposed he hadn’t. Under the desk, she flexed her hands nervously against her legs.
He glanced over whatever the housekeeper had written down on the parchment in front of him. “A widow.” He looked at her.
She remained silent.
Something flashed in his eyes then, but what, she couldn’t say—amusement, more annoyance, grudging respect? His face remained impassive, nearly cold.
“You have no real experience, and yet, Mrs. Johnson seems to think you are the best candidate for the position. Why is that?”
There, a question. But what kind of answer did he expect? She’d already gone over everything with Mrs. Johnson and she assumed it was all on the paper in front of him. He didn’t seem like the type of man who needed to be told something twice. “Because I am,” she finally answered, praying she hadn’t misjudged.
“Because you are,” he repeated softly, almost mockingly. He glanced toward the door and then stood, and she followed suit, wondering if he’d just dismissed her. It had gone so well with Mrs. Johnson, she’d begun to hope. But she’d learned long ago that hope was a fickle thing.
“Mrs. Johnson will get you situated,” he said. His eyes drifted past her, as though he was bored with the conversation, though they’d only been talking for a moment. “We won’t see much of each other. Mrs. Johnson will help you with your duties until she leaves. I’ll only need to confer with you directly when I’m expecting guests. Otherwise, I leave my house in your capable, inexperienced hands.”
Her mind was a little slow to comprehend his meaning. And that last statement…had that been a joke? She truly couldn’t believe him capable of it. He was already walking toward the door, finished with their conversation, when she managed a hasty, “Thank you, my lord.”
He didn’t acknowledge her gratitude, only closed the door softly behind him and left her standing there, startled and strangely jittery.
He was true to his word. They spoke maybe once every couple of weeks, more if he was expecting guests and wanted specific meals and activities planned, and otherwise he left her alone. Which, she supposed, meant he trusted her to run his house without his interference.
Or, that he was too bored and too much above such things to bother.
But their brief conversations always left her feeling odd.
He was so in control of himself, so beautiful, so smart, and so cool. He looked at her just as he looked at all the servants—polite and entirely disinterested. They were there to serve him, not to be real people.
Just once, she’d wished…she’d wished he would look at her and…
But she’d known it was a foolish, reckless wish. Her employer was brilliant and sharp—a diamond that glittered, throwing out dazzling light. A jewel that burned like ice in one’s palm, fine and perfectly safe to admire from a distance, but if one got too close…well, then she deserved the pain of the cutting.
But if he was beginning to look at her now and actually see her, she was beginning to see him more clearly, as well. Yes, he was hard; yes, he was brilliant. But he was no diamond.
There was give to him, a softness buried deep.
She almost wished she hadn’t noticed. Ignorance made life so much easier.
This morning when she knocked on the door and he called for her to come in, she stepped inside and then halted, staring at the empty bed.
“Guten Morgen,” Lord Riverton said. She followed the sound of his voice to the window, where he stood, his body angled toward the glass but his head turned toward her.
He was wearing a long velvet dressing gown. Stockings covered his feet.
He was tall. At least a head higher than her. Somehow, she hadn’t remembered how tall he was.
“My lord,” she said, curtsying. “Did Mr. Faulkner give you leave to wander about the room?”
“No,” he answered.
“Then perhaps you should get back into bed.”
“Is that where you want me?” he asked, lifting his eyebrow innocently.
Yesterday morning, she would have brushed off the remark. In their short time of being pupil and tutor, she was already becoming accustomed to his comments—some of which bordered on rude. She had the suspicion that he enjoyed trying to provoke a reaction from her, though she couldn’t figure out why.
But today, the remark wasn’t so easily ignored.
She glanced away. She’d never once thought of Lord Riverton as a man who would attack a woman. Yes, he was used to getting what he wanted, but that wasn’t the same as being violent.
“Schau mich an.” It took her a few seconds to remember the words, and when she did, it didn’t feel like much of an accomplishment. Look at me.
Her fingernails bit into her palms. The man was a tyrant. He said things just to provoke her. He commanded her as though he had a right to.
Which he did…but only up to a certain point. And that remark was well past it.
She should feel outraged.
Instead, her heart wanted to wrench out of her chest. Why did he have to be the one she had this unwilling fascination for? Why couldn’t it have been anyone but him? He was the complete opposite of her husband—fair hair to her husband’s dark, cool confidence to her husband’s open friendliness, demanding where her husband had been easygoing.
This interest was a betrayal.
Oh, Robert, she thought. She’d been without him far too long. She was too lonely. This was what happened to people who were lonely…they began to want things that were dangerous for them.
And impossible.
She squared her shoulders. There was nothing for it. Everything in her might war at the idea that Lord Riverton would be violent towards a woman, but perhaps she was fooling herself. She knew something bad had happened when his mistress, Julia Forsythe, had stayed here, though she didn’t know what. And she couldn’t let Kitty suffer simply because she didn’t believe him capable of it.
She squared her shoulders. “Did you accost one of the maids?”
The silence in the room stretched between them. “What?” he asked, his voice low.
“Do I need to repeat the question, my lord?”
“How dare you ask me that?” He moved away from the window to step closer to her. He shouldn’t have felt threatening—his arm was still in a splint, half of his face was still bandaged—but something about the way he moved was feline and predatory.
She took a step back involuntarily, her heart in her throat. “Why shouldn’t I ask? Something happened to one of the maids, and I am trying to determine who is at fault.”
He looked down his nose at her. He was so close she could have reached out and put her hand on his chest through the velvet of his dressing gown. Lord, what was wrong with her? Even now, her senses spun at his closeness.
“And I immediately come to your mind? As what? A man who accosts maids? A ravisher of innocent women?”
“You come to my mind as a man who’s always had everything he’s ever asked for, and perhaps doesn’t take well to being denied.”
His face turned implacable. “I do have some modicum of self-control, though you seem to doubt it.”
Agonizing hope fluttered in her chest. “So, it wasn’t you?”
He gave a swift jerk of his head. “No.”
As relieved as she was, she willed her body not to relax—there were still answers she needed. “And what about Julia Forsythe?”
His teeth ground together so hard that a muscle in his jaw twitched violently. “What about her?”
“What did you do to her?”
“Ah,” he said bitterly. “She wrapped you up in her spell, too, didn’t she? What is it about the woman that makes people jump to her defense so quickly?”
“Perhaps because she’s a kind person. A warm person.” Cassandra didn’t intend for her voice to sound so abrasive, so confrontational, but it came out that way, regardless.
“I’m well aware that for all the admiration bestowed on me, I’m not well-loved, and that Julia Forsythe is a paragon of compassion whom everyone loves the moment they meet her. God forbid anyone, anywhere, might do something to upset her.”
“Did you?” Her voice was edged with anger, but at what? Was it that he might have hurt Julia? Or was it the knowledge that Julia was just one of a long string of beautiful mistresses—sophisticated women who seemed more important for how they reflected on him than for any true feelings? That she didn’t know which bothered her more, made her even angrier.
“Even if I did, I’m certainly not answerable to you, Mrs. Davis. You are only my housekeeper.”
He delivered the words so calmly that at first they didn’t cause any pain. The hurt seeped into her slowly, the way liquor did, spreading out from the center in waves, until it consumed her whole body.
“You are correct, my lord. I am only your housekeeper.” She turned to go, but a grip on her elbow stopped her. Her head moved slowly, looking down at his bare hand wrapped around her sleeve. It was the first time he’d ever touched her. His grip was hard.
“Where are you going?” he snapped.
“I’m leaving, my lord, to attend to my duties.”
“No, you are not. We have a lesson.”
“And if I don’t wish to stay?”
His lips pressed to a thin line. “This is part of your duties now.”
In other words, her wishes didn’t matter. And what kind of fool was she to think they would? He was not her friend. He wasn’t even a friendly acquaintance. He was her employer—her demanding, unyielding, aggravating employer.
She pulled her arm from his grasp and moved to sit in the chair by the bed. She cracked open her book in a slow, careful movement, although with fury writhing inside her, she felt more like wrenching it open.
He stayed by the window for a moment, studying her without saying a word. Eventually, he moved back to the bed. She tried not to notice how slowly and gingerly he crossed the room and lowered himself to the mattress. If she did, she might feel sorry for him, and her sympathy would be wasted.
He didn’t sink down onto the mattress as she expected him to. He stayed sitting, perched on the end of the bed, closer to her than she would have liked.
He waved his good arm vaguely. “Lesen.” Read.
She took a deep breath and began to read. And embarked upon a silent mutiny—she kept her head down, eyes fixed on the page. She read in a monotone and answered his questions in a monotone. She could tell he was growing frustrated—his voice became tighter and more impatient with each passing minute. Her chest filled with spiteful satisfaction.
“Nein,” he snapped. “It’s a feminine noun, not masculine.”
Yesterday she might have complained that the feminine and masculine were completely random, and it wasn’t easy to remember them. But today she simply kept her gaze on the book and corrected herself quietly.
She feared she’d pushed him past his breaking point when his voice suddenly changed. It went from sharp to soft and silky. “Language is a wonderful, perplexing thing. Do you know what my favorite word is, Mrs. Davis?”
She hesitated. Whatever
it was, she was quite certain she wouldn’t like it. “No, my lord.” She drew a breath to continue her translation, but he beat her to it.
“Fuck.”
She nearly dropped the book. She forced her voice into a semblance of chilly calm. “Indeed?”
“Do you know its origins?”
Her hands weren’t quite steady. Dreadful man—he was probably enjoying her discomfort. “No.”
“Fuck,” he said, drawing out the word, as though he relished the taste of it on his tongue. “From the Dutch fokken, which means to breed.”
“How fascinating,” she said, even as his words conjured up completely inappropriate visions. Visions that made heat sweep her body. Sweat and skin and writhing bodies and her nails trailing down his back, leaving scratch marks—not in violence but in ecstasy.
She gave herself a firm mental shake. Under no circumstances should she equate those sorts of images with the marquess. Breeding was what cattle did, and horses…sleek arrogant stallions…agitated mares… Heel, she commanded her unruly imagination. Heel!
“Oh, indeed,” he said cheerfully. “Another one of my favorites is cun—”
“My lord!” she said swiftly, glancing up at him. She found triumph in his expression when she met his gaze. Annoyance shot through her when she realized she’d done exactly what he wanted her to do.
Her eyes strayed lower and she saw his robe had fallen open slightly, revealing a dusting of golden hair along a surprisingly contoured chest.
She quickly met his smug gaze again—which was still better than being caught ogling his chest. “You cannot shock me as though I were a virginal maiden. I was married, you remember.”
“I remember,” the marquess said. “But I don’t think your husband said words like that to you, did he?”
No, he hadn’t.
And what in the world was wrong with her? She should have been insulted that Lord Riverton used them in front of her, not pressing her thighs together beneath her dress to stave off the hollow ache those vulgar words had created in her body.
“My husband respected me,” she said.
