He arched a midnight eyebrow.
And for the first time since she entered his office, she gave thanks for the dim lighting that hid her burning cheeks. “That is, my lord,” she said weakly, dipping a belated curtsy. “I brought you coffee and pastries.” She pointed over at the silver tray, giving thanks for the hindsight she’d had to bring along that offering. He followed her stare and, then again, met her gaze.
Bridget braced for the deserved fury from him. She’d no place touching, snooping, or interfering in his business. Mayhap, he’ll sack me. And for a sliver of a moment, instead of the terror that prospect should raise, there was a fledgling hope. For then, Archibald would have no use for her and she might not have the fortune from the Chaucer tome but she’d have freedom with Virgil and Nettie in their small corner of Leeds. Archibald will never let me be free. The truth of that stung like vinegar in her throat.
Lord Chilton rolled his shoulders. “Well?”
Oh, God. Memories of her father’s harsh, cruel dressing-downs ran through her mind. The vicious cries of one maid as Archibald had struck her across the cheek. “It will not happen again,” she said on a threadbare whisper. “I’d no right approaching you while you slept. I…” She swallowed hard. “It won’t happen a-again.”
The baron folded his arms at his broad chest. Sans jacket and attired in nothing more than his stark white shirtsleeves, it revealed the broadness of his chest and the faint wisp of midnight curls exposed there. Her mouth went dry. Look away. It is shameful and wanton staring as I am. But then, mayhap she was just like her younger sister who’d often cavorted with stable boys and footmen, for she could no sooner tear her gaze away from Lord Chilton than she could pluck out her eyelashes.
Then, slowly, he unfurled to his whole six-foot, four-inches, towering over her. The momentary pull of madness was shattered.
She took a hasty step back, but he merely turned on his heel and continued around the other side of the desk. Bridget watched in abject confusion as he crossed to the front of the room and picked up that small pot she’d brewed a short while ago.
The tinkling clink of porcelain touching porcelain, followed by the steady stream of liquid as he poured himself a cup, filled the room. That porcelain cup looked dainty in his large grip. He took a small, experimental sip, revealing nothing. Then, freeing one of his hands, he passed his fingers over the tray.
Which would he select? One could always tell much about a person by the sincerity of their smile…their eyes…and the dessert one selected.
Lord Chilton settled on a Banbury cake, the simplest of all those elaborate treats. Then, cup and dessert in hand, he moved to the center of the room and stopped so they were directly across from one another. Quickly dusting off that small cake, he downed his coffee and set his cup down on a side table. “I referred to the book,” he finally said.
Bridget shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
He nudged his chin at the Shakespearean tome. “You’ve again demonstrated an inordinate interest in my collection and I wondered what you thought of that piece.”
She eyed him suspiciously. Invariably, in the rare times Archibald came ’round, whenever he presented questions to her, there was a trick contained within them.
The baron chuckled, that deep rumble easy. “I assure you, this is no test. Sometimes, a question is simply a question.”
“Yes. But sometimes, it is more, too,” she pointed out.
His lips tipped up in the right corner into a heart-stopping half-grin. “This is not one of those times.”
“It’s a beautiful book,” she gave him the words he, as a bookseller, hoped for. But she could not offer half-truths in this. “Although…not an original.” She winced, waiting for an explosion of fury and thunderous questions.
The smile melted from his lips. “Beg pardon?”
What does it matter whether he believes he’s in possession of an original text? And yet, no self-serving aficionado on books could dare let such a truth slide. “Here.” Not bothering with permission, she collected his gold-handled magnifying glass and held it out.
Lord Chilton joined her at the desk and collected that fine piece in his hands.
“As you know, until the eighteenth century all molds had the same design.” She drew the proverbial rectangle with her fingers. “And there was the widely-spaced, vertical, wooden ribs with a chain wire lace to the top of each and…”
Pausing in his examination, he looked at her through baffled eyes.
Bridget coughed into her hand. “Ah, yes, laid paper. You know it was all laid paper with a latticework pattern that—”
“Revealed a watermark,” he finished, turning his glass back upon that page.
“Exactly. A watermark.”
Lord Chilton shifted the lens back and forth. “This has the requisite one.”
“But not the one,” she pointed out. “The vertical stripes have a graduated shadow.” Bridget held her palm out. “May I?”
The baron eyed her palm a moment and then turned it over…when surely any other nobleman would have turned her out for her insolence. Nay, when any other gentleman wouldn’t have even asked for her opinion in the first place. Encouraged by his silence, she placed the magnifying glass at the center of the page and leaned close. “Do you see how it’s lighter down the middle but darker at the edges?”
He dropped his head beside hers and eyed the watermark in silent contemplation. “This is antique laid paper that came along when mold designs improved,” she explained. Unnerved by his silence, she folded her hands before her.
What was he thinking?
Given his body’s response to his housekeeper, Vail had intended to keep his distance from the enthralling young woman.
He’d gone through the week seeing to his business, doing an admirable job of carrying on as he always had with his affairs, confident that he was not at all like the father who’d sired him.
Then he’d caught the lady hovering over him as he slept. Or rather, as he’d feigned sleep. After she’d come around his desk, he’d awakened, but he’d been too damned intrigued by her boldness to question just what she was up to.
And then she’d moved his arm in an attempt to make him comfortable as he’d slept; in a gesture that was so tender, it went against the very life he lived and the business he conducted. He’d been so frozen by that tenderness that he’d almost forgotten his pretend bid at sleep.
Now, for his earlier resolve, he could not put distance between them for altogether different reasons.
Vail whistled through clenched lips. “By God, I’ve been swindled.”
His skin pricked with Mrs. Hamlet’s eyes on him. He looked away from the book and met her gaze. She eyed him with a world’s worth of wariness. He frowned. What had put that look in her eyes? “I’m sorry,” she said softly. She did not, however, attempt to assuage his ego or doubt her own opinion. She rose in his opinion for that honesty and self-confidence.
Setting down the glass, he crossed his arms before him. “I’d believed the extent of your knowledge was of the care and keep of antiquated books.”
A droll grin curled those bow-shaped lips, revealing a flash of even, pearl-white teeth. Desire ran through him, as all manner of wicked thoughts whispered forward. “Because I’m a woman?”
His neck went hot and he ripped his focus away from her mouth. I’m a depraved letch. “Because I, apparently, was given to two miscalculations this evening.” He waved a hand lazily between the book and her. He inclined his head. “I apologize for both.”
The lady stared at him as if he’d sprang a second head. “Apologize?”
“Are you unaccustomed to a gentleman apologizing?” he asked, curious about her life before she’d entered his household.
“Actually, I am. I—” She abruptly cut her words off and he cursed that small glimpse she’d been about to provide.
Eyes weary from a night of poring over that damned volume, Vail scrubbed a palm over his face. He droppe
d his arm to his side. “So now that I’ve discovered you in my office, again examining my works, what are we to do with you, Mrs. Hamlet?” he asked, pushing away from the desk. He took a step toward her.
Mrs. Hamlet backed up. “D-Do?”
Vail continued his approach. “I hired you as a housekeeper. Are you not content in that role?”
“Yes. No. Yes.” The young lady’s eyes formed round saucers in her face.
His lips twitched. “Which is it, Mrs. Hamlet?” he murmured. Detecting her quick retreat, he stopped.
“I’m content,” she said quickly, continuing to back away from him, anyway.
“I’m afraid, though you do brew a tremendous cup of coffee, the role of housekeeper is not one you’re entirely suited for.” Vail folded his hands at his back. “I’d have you take on some of the responsibilities overseeing my inventorying.”
Her breath exploded from her on a noisy gasp. “What?” She backed into the wall. That abrupt movement knocked her chignon loose and several crimson-kissed strands tumbled over her shoulder. The whispery hint of a country garden clung to her skin and that delicate scent wafted about his senses, intoxicating in its innocence, and so wholly different from the sharp, cloying fragrances used by the women he’d taken to his bed. Shock brought her mouth open. “You would turn such important tasks over to a housekeeper?”
“If she was as capable as you are, then yes.”
“But…” She again shook her head.
“Your services would be entirely wasted dealing with mutton and perfumery.” He paused. “Unless, you otherwise wish to deal with them.”
“No.” She shook her head frantically. “The altered assignment would be…is perfect,” she whispered. He may as well have gifted her the task of caring for the Queen’s crown for the reverent awe there.
He opened his mouth to offer some glib reply, but she touched a hand to her heart, bringing his gaze back to those loose strands. Vail clenched and unclenched his hands several times, at war with himself.
In the end, the temptation proved too great. He caught one of those curls in his fingers, and rubbed the satiny soft tress between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ve never met a woman who was so adept at antiquated books,” he said softly, puzzling through the mystery that was his new housekeeper.
Her lips parted and a soft whispery exhalation slipped forward. She fluttered her lashes.
The muscles of his stomach clenched as a wave of hunger took root and held him frozen. “If you do not leave now, Bridget, I am going to kiss you,” his voice emerged hoarse to his own ears.
His shameful admission should have sent her fleeing. Instead, she wetted her lips. “Wh-what if I wanted you t—?”
Vail swallowed the remainder of that question, taking her mouth under his as he’d ached to since she’d first entered his household. She hesitated, and then lifted her palms between them. For an agonizing moment, he believed she’d push him away. Instead, she gingerly twined her fingers about his neck and melted into him.
With a groan, he took her lips under his again and again, exploring the plump contours of that generous flesh. She boldly met his strokes and a little moan filtered from her. He slid his tongue inside and laid claim to that moist cavern. She tasted of chocolate and mint, and he was enthralled by the innocence of her.
Bridget collapsed against the wall and he went with her, anchoring her between his arms. He broke contact with her lips and her little protesting cry filled the room; it echoed off the soaring ceiling in an erotic melody.
He kissed the corner of her mouth and moved lower, exploring all of her, until he reached that graceful column of her neck. Vail found the place where her pulse beat hard.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, cutting across the thick haze of desire that had dulled all logic and reason. He wrenched away from Bridget and she slumped against the wall. Their chests rose and fell in a like, desperate rhythm.
He backed away, as a slow, dawning shame replaced his hungering for this woman.
I am my father.
Riddled with the horror of that truth, he spun away from her, putting space between them—
Just as Gavin entered, his lips wreathed in a perpetual smile. “Vail,” he greeted, “I’d forgotten to bring you coffee and—oh.” He stopped abruptly as his gaze landed on Bridget. “Mrs. Hamlet,” he said cheerfully. “Whatever are you doing here this late?”
An awkward pall descended on the room. Vail, who’d dallied with any number of wicked widows and unhappily married wives and ballet dancers, found himself unable to utter a smooth, deflective reply.
The high color on the lady’s cheeks deepened and she looked helplessly to Vail.
Gavin’s smile dipped and he glanced about. His stare landed on the empty coffee cup. “Oh, how good of you to remember.” He glanced to Vail. “She makes far better brew than I do,” he said on a loud whisper, as though it was a secret he intended to take to his grave.
Avoiding Vail’s eyes, Bridget dropped a swift curtsy. “If there is nothing else you require, my lord, I will leave you to your business.” Without seeking or awaiting permission, the lady darted around his shoulder and bolted past Gavin.
“And she’s quick,” Gavin said with rounded eyes. “I suspect she was quite good at blind man’s bluff.”
Vail’s shame deepened. As innocent as his brother was, he could not see the truth of the depravity that had gripped him moments ago. “I suspect you’re right. Gavin, going forward, given Mrs. Hamlet’s skillful knowledge of books, her responsibilities of the stores and perfumery are to fall to another.”
Four lines creased the younger man’s brow. “But…but…you’ve just hired her.” Whenever Gavin’s usual household routines were altered, he demonstrated confusion and worry.
“I’ll have Edward find someone to take on the tasks,” he said in calming tones, when inside he was still in tumult.
Some of the tension left Gavin’s wiry frame and he again smiled. Without so much as a parting word, he spun on his heel and left.
As soon as he’d gone, Vail unleashed a streak of black curses. By God in heaven, he’d kissed her. Nay, he’d backed her against a wall and passed his mouth over her skin, exploring her…and he would have continued had Gavin not interrupted.
Filled with a restiveness, he claimed a seat beside the fraudulent Shakespearean book…the one Bridget had brought to his unknowing eyes and attention. Given that, he should be focused on his fury with Lord Aberdeen and frustration with his own mistake.
Instead, desire gripped him still and a hungering to know more of the clever young woman who could identify a fake from a real antiquated book, and who smelled of a countryside meadow.
This inexplicable pull she had went against every moral standard he held himself to. Vail gave his head a hard, clearing shake, determined to dispel her from his thoughts.
He returned to his work. All the while, shame ate away at him and left a hollow, empty void inside.
Chapter 7
The next day, seated in one of Lord Chilton’s Collection Rooms, Bridget hummed a discordant tune as she oversaw her new responsibilities. Charged by Vail’s man-of-affairs and brother with inventorying a complete set of Dante’s Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso, she recorded the dates and cover condition of each volume.
Over the years, she’d found occasional work evaluating the authenticity and worth of certain documents for a book buyer in London. In a world where women were remarkably without options, she’d appreciated that small gift. Tucked away in the country, with Virgil and Nettie, that existence had been the best she could hope for—for all of them.
As a young woman, she’d never dared allow herself the dream of a husband or children. One of the only talks she recalled ever having with her mother had been a bored, quick explanation about the fate that awaited deaf women: husband-less, child-less, and purpose-less. That future, the late marchioness had insisted, was even more bleak for one with a crescent-sized, crimson birthmark marring one�
�s face. She’d been told so many times by her kin that no man would ever want her, that she’d simply believed it as fact.
Until Vail.
Bridget paused in her writings. Her lips burned still with the memory of his kiss. Dropping her pen, she raised trembling fingertips to her mouth. He’d kissed her. It had been the most erotic moment of her entire seven and twenty years. One she’d thought to never know. And as he’d kissed her, exploring the curve of her neck and the sensitive flesh of her earlobe, she’d understood, at last, why women tossed away their reputations and virtues. Vail’s embrace had been a potent spell that she’d gladly have traded a sliver of her soul to know more of. She briefly closed her eyes. Only, it hadn’t been solely his kiss that had this eddying effect on her senses. He’d implicitly trusted her judgment over his own. Why, even Mr. Lowell, whom she’d sought out all those years ago on the one trip she’d taken to London, had resisted hiring her for several days. She, with her brother’s strong-arming as a marquess, had ultimately earned the position, but she’d had to continually prove herself. How very different Vail was even of all others she’d ever known. He was the manner of man Virgil had deserved as a father…
Giving her head a little shake, she returned to the task at hand. A wistful smile played about her lips as she set aside one canto and, with her gloves donned, she reached for the next. She picked up the heavy leather copy of Inferno. With slow, meticulous movements, she laid the book on the velvet cloth before her and opened it, turning to the year of publication.
Comento di Christophoro Landino fiorentino sopra la Comedia di Dante Alighieri Venice Pietro di Piasi
Her fingers trembled at the significance of the date. It was the first fully illustrated print edition. A book older and more valuable than anything she had personally owned, and in Vail’s possession. It was just another mark of his wealth and influence…only—distractedly she turned another page—he was not one of the powerful lords who collected these treasured works.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 150
