Stephen picked up his goblet and touched its rim to hers. His eyes met hers, and he could not help but read the warmth and acceptance in them. He looked around the table, his gaze taking in all of them.
"Thank you," he said, surprised by the lump lodged in his throat. The others all picked up their goblets and toasted him.
"Whose turn is it to say the dinner prayer, Hayley?" Pamela asked when everyone was once again settled.
"I believe it's Callie's turn," Hayley replied with a smile at her little sister, who sat on Stephen's other side.
The child held out her hand to Stephen. He stared at the small palm blankly.
"We join hands for our dinner prayer," Callie said solemnly.
He stiffened. Bloody hell, did these people touch each other all the time? Clearly the child sensed his hesitation because she leaned closer to him and whispered, "Don't be afraid, Mr. Barrettson. I won't hurt you. I don't squeeze tight like Winston does."
Somewhat reluctantly, Stephen took her hand and was amazed how tiny it felt nestled in his own large one. Just then he felt a gentle touch on his other arm. He turned and saw Hayley smiling at him, holding out her hand.
He lifted his hand from his lap and placed it palm up on the table. Without the slightest hesitation, Hayley slipped her hand into his, giving his fingers a reassuring squeeze.
"Thank you, Lord, for giving us this meal, and for giving us another day," Callie said in her high, little girl voice, her chin bowed in prayer. "Please bless Hayley, Pamela, Andrew, Nathan, Aunt Olivia, Grimsley, Winston, and Pierre. Please take good care of Mama and Papa in heaven and tell them we love them." She raised her head and stole a quick peek at Stephen. "And please bless Mr. Barrettson, too, because he's part of our family now. Amen."
Everyone echoed "amen," dropped hands, and began eating. Stephen could still feel the warm imprint of Callie's tiny hand in his palm, and the tingle left by Hayley's touch on his other hand. For some reason his throat tightened, and he brought his goblet to his lips in an attempt to hide his confusion.
"That was a lovely prayer, Callie," Hayley said with a smile.
"Thank you." Callie looked up Stephen, her aqua eyes that were an exact match of Hayley's studying his face in minute detail. "Where did your hair go?" she finally asked.
Stephen suppressed a grin. "I shaved it off."
"Why?"
"Because it itched."
She nodded. "My Papa had hair on his face. I don't know if it itched him, but it itched me whenever he kissed me."
Stephen wasn't sure how to reply. How did one talk to a child? Especially a child who was speaking of her dead father? A swell of sympathy for this small girl who had lost her parents and would never be kissed by her Papa again suffused him.
Callie ate a forkful of peas, then leaned toward Stephen. "Hayley kisses me all the time, and it doesn't itch at all," she confided in an undertone. "Does that mean she shaves her hair like you do?"
Before Stephen could even think of a reply, Hayley interrupted. "Tell me what you did in the village today," she asked the table at large. Everyone began talking at once and Stephen couldn't keep up with the dialogue tossed about the room. Is this how ordinary people took their meals? In this loud, disorganized manner?
Andrew, amid numerous interruptions from Nathan, told about their visit to the bookshop. Pamela related her visit to the dressmakers, and Callie told excitedly about the sweet she'd bought and eaten on the way home.
"And how about you, Aunt Olivia?" Hayley asked, raising her voice slightly. When the woman continued to eat, showing no signs of having heard Hayley, Grimsley nudged her with his elbow. Her head popped up in surprise.
"How did you enjoy the village?" Hayley asked her aunt in a loud voice.
"Heh?"
"The village—where did you go?"
"Why, yes, dear. I'd love another potato," Aunt Olivia said with a beaming smile. Hayley grinned and passed a tray of potatoes down the table.
"Aunt Olivia accompanied me to the dressmakers," Pamela said. "She did her needlework while I picked out several things."
Aunt Olivia put another potato on her plate and then fixed her attention on Stephen. "Your appearance is much improved, Mr. Barrettson," she said with a twinkling smile. "And I see you now have some clothes that fit properly."
"Yes. I—"
Before Stephen could say another word, the door to the dining room burst open, admitting a short, dark-haired man wearing a long cook's apron. A chef's hat sat askew on his head and some sort of green leaves clung to his skin and clothing. He appeared enraged.
"Sacrebleu!" He stomped into the room, dropping soggy leaves to the carpet with every step. "Zat cat has got to go! Look at Pierre!" he shouted, indicating the sorry state of his clothes with shaking hands. "I cannot cook with zee beast underfoot. Mon Dieu, I nearly broke my back tripping on zat creature. Zee cat go, or Pierre cook him into a soufflé!"
He pointed an imperious finger at Hayley. "Mademoiselle Hayley, zee keetchen is a shambles. If you do not get rid of zee beast, Pierre will get rid of zee beast. Either way, zee beast is gone!" Leaving that ominous threat hanging in the air, the little man turned on his heel and stalked from the room, dropping several more leaves from his clothes.
It was all Stephen could do to keep his jaws from swinging open with shock. He couldn't perceive of a servant speaking in such a manner. If such an occurrence had taken place in his household, the servant would be summarily dismissed without so much as a reference. Yet the entire Albright family seemed to accept the insolent cook's words without batting an eye. He literally had to bite his tongue to keep from giving the outrageous cook the dressing down he so richly deserved. I am Stephen Barrettson, tutor. Not the Marquess of Glenfield.
"Did we mention our cook, Pierre?" Hayley asked, clearly fighting to suppress a grin.
"Callie mentioned him, but I hadn't had the, er, pleasure of meeting him."
"That was him," Nathan said unnecessarily.
"So I gathered," Stephen replied dryly. "Will he be joining us for dinner?"
"Pierre is welcome to eat with us," Hayley said, "but he only joins us occasionally. He says the constant frivolity during our meals gives him dyspepsia." She sent an arch sideways glance at her brothers.
Stephen instantly decided that whatever Pierre's shortcomings, the cook was clearly not a fool. "What cat was he talking about?"
"We have a tabby named Bertha. Her favorite place in the entire house is the kitchen. Unfortunately she's rather mischievous. Pierre threatens to 'cook her in zee pot' several times a week."
Stephen cast a quick glance down at his plate and breathed a sigh of relief. Beef. It was definitely beef. Thank God.
"Don't worry, Mr. Barrettson," said Callie, touching his sleeve. "Pierre really loves Bertha. He'd never cook her."
"That's good news," Stephen said. "For myself as well as Bertha."
Everyone joined in the laughter, and the meal resumed. Stephen answered questions when asked, but he primarily kept quiet, listening to the conversations going on around him. To him, the table resembled a great debate. Hayley acted as moderator, making sure everyone got a chance to talk. She forestalled squabbles and introduced new topics of conversation in the rare instance of a lull. Stephen was hard-pressed to decide if he was more entertained or horrified by the casual, noisy atmosphere. One thing he was sure of—by the end of the meal, his head was throbbing from all the noise.
"Are you feeling all right, Mr. Barrettson?" Hayley asked, a frown marring her brow. "You seem rather pale."
"I fear I have a bit of a headache," Stephen admitted.
"You've had a hectic day," she agreed at once. "Would you like me to prepare a draught for you?"
"No, thank you. I'm sure I just need some sleep." He rose and bowed. "Thank you for the meal. It was most, er, interesting."
Hayley smiled. "We're so glad you joined us. Sleep well, Mr. Barrettson."
"Good night, Mr. Barrettson," everyone echoed as Stephen
left the room.
He paused in the doorway. "Good night."
Once in his chamber, Stephen flopped down on the bed without so much as removing his boots. His head ached and his shoulder and ribs throbbed. Yet in spite of his weariness, he couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he saw a smiling young woman with chestnut curls and aqua eyes … and long legs … and kissable lips. His pulses leapt to life and his manhood stirred.
He groaned and looked at the clock. Only nine p.m.
Damn.
It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 9
« ^ »
At eleven that evening, Hayley slipped silently down the stairs. She didn't risk lighting a candle until she'd closed the door to her father's study behind her. She didn't want to have to make up excuses for her presence in case someone awakened.
Once the room was bathed in soft light, she sat down in the worn desk chair. She didn't know which she loved more, the library or this room. All her father's personal belongings remained exactly as he'd left them. His pipe lay in a heavy glass dish on a cherry end table, and his maps were neatly stacked next to the hearth. She ran her fingers over the parchments, imagining the fresh scent of tobacco and sea air that had always clung to Papa.
The only changes in the room were the addition of Callie's artwork, which Hayley had framed and nailed to the paneled walls, and the new contents of the huge mahogany desk. In addition to Tripp Albright's personal papers, the drawers now held Hayley's secrets.
She pressed her fingers to her temples and rubbed at the dull pain throbbing there. Dear God, she was tired. Her eyes felt gritty, and she wanted nothing more than to lie down and rest.
But first she had work to do.
Reaching in her pocket, she withdrew a key and unlocked the drawers. Then she pulled out a stack of papers and touched the top sheet. A Sea Captain's Adventures, by H. Tripp.
The work I love, the work I hate, she mused, preparing her writing materials. If she wasn't so weary, she would have laughed at the irony. How she enjoyed writing these stories! Spinning the seafaring fictitious adventures of Captain Haydon Mills based on tales her father had regaled the family with, brought her a great sense of accomplishment and personal satisfaction.
But it also broke her heart. She hated lying to her family, but if anyone were to discover that a woman was the author of the swashbuckling tales serialized in England's most popular magazine for gentlemen, her only source of income would vanish. A shudder passed through her at the mere thought. The boys would be forced to gain employment and forfeit their education. She envisioned Pamela as a governess or nanny, throwing away her youth and chances for marriage. And what would happen to Callie and Aunt Olivia? Not to mention Winston, Grimsley, and Pierre. The family's financial situation rested on her shoulders, and if lying was necessary to provide for her family, then lie she would.
The only person who knew she was H. Tripp was her publisher, Mr. Timothy, and he demanded her silence. As far as Mr. Timothy was concerned, a secret was no longer a secret if more than two people knew of it. Her stories provided him with a tidy profit he was too greedy to refuse and too smart to risk.
Of course, if Mr. Timothy had known H. Tripp was a woman, he never would have purchased her first story. When he discovered the truth, the blood had drained from his thin face. The only reason he continued employing her was because the circulation of his publication had risen with each new story. They both understood the risks to his company and her family's financial security should she be found out. Hayley was determined not to jeopardize her income.
Settling herself in, she set to work and spent the next two hours writing steadily, lost in the action-filled world she'd created. When she'd finished the next installment, she locked her papers in the bottom drawer and blew out the candle. She rose and stretched her aching back, then walked to the French windows leading to the patio and looked out at the night-darkened sky.
The full moon cast a soft glow on the gardens, filling her with a strong urge to go outdoors for a few minutes. Her body and eyes were weary, but because her mind remained active with thoughts of her story, she knew sleep wouldn't come easily.
She opened the French windows and stepped outside. The sweet scent of roses assailed her senses. Unable to resist their heady fragrance, she headed down one of the stone paths.
Breathing deeply, she allowed the cool night air to fill her with a sense of peace. She loved this garden. Mama had planted it years before, and she and Hayley had spent many hours together, lovingly tending the flowers. While she always felt closer to her mother in the gardens, she also felt her loss more deeply here among the flowers and shrubs Mama had loved so much.
She wandered along, her fatigue forgotten as she enjoyed the peaceful serenity of the night. She loved strolling through the garden while the rest of the family slept. Her days were always so hectic, so filled with the children, their needs, their lessons. She savored these quiet moments alone.
When she came to her favorite stone bench, she sat down, looking at the house. A sigh escaped her. The roof needed repairing. Maintaining a house the size of Albright Cottage was expensive, as she had quickly learned after her father's death. Even by closing off many of the rooms, just keeping the main house in reasonably good repair required a sizable sum.
Hayley judged that the payment she'd collected from Mr. Timothy on her visit to London last week should hold the family over for the next several months. She had even been able to set aside some extra money for new dresses for Pamela. She wanted to make certain that Pamela had every advantage possible to attract a suitable young man and not become a spinster like herself. A girl as lovely as her sister deserved a family and children of her own.
And unless her intuition was wrong, Marshall Wentbridge, the local physician, was very fond of Pamela. Hayley noted with amusement that whenever her sister came within twenty feet of Marshall, the young man's ears turned red, his face grew ruddy, and he stuttered and stammered.
For all his shyness, however, Marshall was a good man. He's kind, thoughtful, and quite handsome too. She hoped that Marshall would soon begin courting Pamela.
Heaving a sigh, Hayley realized that Marshall Wentbridge was not the only handsome man in Halstead these days.
There was also Mr. Stephen Barrettson.
As handsome as Marshall was, he looked like a toad compared to Mr. Barrettson. She tried to force her thoughts away from her attractive houseguest, but failed miserably.
Never in her life had she seen such a man. He appeared to be perfect in every way. Tall, handsome, intelligent. All those things were appealing, yes, but there was something else that drew her to him.
He was lonely.
And somehow vulnerable.
She wasn't sure how she knew it, but she did. Perhaps it was the shadows lurking in his eyes that hinted at a troubled soul. She sensed that Mr. Barrettson's life was not particularly happy. The poor man had no family, a fact that filled her heart with sympathy for him. She could not imagine a sadder fate than not being surrounded by people who loved you. He was guarded and kept his feelings and thoughts to himself. She couldn't help but notice the surprise that frequently registered in his eyes when he spent time with her family. He was, after all, a tutor and no doubt accustomed to quiet, scholarly pursuits. Her boisterous household could be quite startling.
Then there was the matter of his effect on her senses. Every time she looked at him, her breath stopped and her pulses galloped away. No man had ever affected her in such a way, and it was most disturbing. Stephen Barrettson had been supremely attractive with a beard, but clean-shaven, he was nothing short of devastating. She recalled leaning over him when she'd shaved him, their faces only inches apart. If she had moved, just a little bit, her lips would have brushed his mouth—
"Miss Albright, what are you doing out here at this time of night?"
The deep voice startled Hayley from her musing. Pressing her palm to her chest as if her hand could calm
her rapid heartbeat, she jumped to her feet. The very object of her disturbing thoughts stood before her.
"Good heavens! Mr. Barrettson! You frightened me."
Her sudden urge to flee surprised her. Normally she considered herself quite fearless, but this man severely disrupted her usual calm.
He walked toward her. "Forgive me. I was merely wondering why you were out-of-doors in the middle of the night."
Hayley prayed the furious blush she felt staining her cheeks did not show in the moonlight. "I often stroll through the garden after everyone is asleep. I enjoy the quiet after a noisy day. But what brings you out here? You really should be resting."
"I awoke a short time ago, and could not get back to sleep. I thought a walk in the garden might relax me."
"It appears we shared the same idea," Hayley said with a smile. "Shall we walk together?"
Stephen hesitated. Before him stood the very reason he had been unable to fall back to sleep. He had awakened over an hour ago from a very pleasurable, very sensuous dream prominently featuring Miss Hayley Albright. It had required a Herculean effort to rule his throbbing arousal away. A walk alone in the moonlit garden with her was probably not the wisest course of action. He opened his mouth to refuse, but the words died in his throat when he noticed her attire.
She wore a white lawn shirt and dark riding breeches.
Breeches? What the hell sort of woman wore breeches? His gaze traveled down the length of her, taking in every curve and hollow accentuated by the skintight pants. In all his experience he could not recall a more erotic, scandalous sight than Hayley encased in breeches. The way those pants clung to her, she might as well have been naked.
Jesus! Why couldn't this woman follow simple rules of fashion? In fact, it seemed her entire household operated without benefit of rules of any kind, a fact that was incredibly glaring to him—a man whose entire existence was based on the dictates of Society. She threw him off balance and he didn't like it.
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