“Then I don’t understand what...” Her voice petered out as he slammed the bedroom door.
* * * *
Alasdair didn’t understand what, either. He didn’t know why he needed Starling’s attention when he had the full attention of Lavender, the woman he had wanted for years. He didn’t know why he thought he had a responsibility to be gentle with his hireling, to rehabilitate her so that she could experience the pleasure a man could give her. He didn’t know what he wanted of her, what she could do during the day, or how she could be convincing in her masquerade.
He strode to the library and slammed the door behind him. After grabbing the daily newspaper, he dropped into a chair by the window and leaned back, closing his eyes. He’d gone from bad to worse in days.
He wanted to test her and he didn’t know why he wanted to test her. Perhaps because he himself had failed—failed to think this situation through clearly. Failed to tell the truth when he’d had a chance. Not only that, he’d expected too much of her. Ladies filled the tedium of their days with luncheons, gossiping, and visiting, and he’d expected Starling to do the same. But not having a background as a lady, she had no acquaintances to visit and, other than Mary and Lavender, no friend with whom to gossip.
He opened the paper wondering if perhaps he wanted her to fail. If she couldn’t keep up her façade, he could be done with the pretense and get rid of her. However, if she passed he would have to continue on with the farce. The paper dropped to his knees. He didn’t know why he wanted to continue when, if he ended this fake marriage right now, he could have the woman of his dreams.
Then again, he didn’t want the woman of his dreams to know she could so quickly call him to heel.
* * * *
“Now that you are here as the mistress of the house, I’m thinking we need more live-in maids,” Mrs. Brighton said, smiling at Starling. “At this stage we make do, but a bachelor’s establishment doesn’t need as many staff as a married couple. We have plenty of room upstairs for more girls. And there’s another room off the stables near Will’s and Derry’s if need be for male staff.”
Starling adopted a thoughtful expression, assuming Mrs. Brighton was discussing this with her because as Mrs. Seymour she was expected to make a decision. She couldn’t, of course, and she would again fob the woman off. “Once all the guests have left, we’ll have a better idea of the staff we need,” she said with what she hoped was an efficient and knowledgeable voice.
“The laundry’s the main problem. I’ve been helping with some of the ironing in the past week but it’s getting beyond me. I still have the running of the establishment...unless you take over as mistress.”
Starling nodded. She knew how the ironing could get the better of a person. At the orphanage she had burned her hands on the irons so often that she had grown immune to the pain. Also, she didn’t see how the regular staff of Alasdair’s house coped with the laundry. At Saint Matthew’s, every orphan had needed to work in the laundry. Each one, from the age of eight, needed to do the ironing and starching because all were taken into service by the age of fifteen.
Starling had expected to leave then, too. She knew her letters and numbers and she had basic reading skills. Had she not heard one of the home’s sponsors say that if the girls had a better education they would be hired by superior establishments, she would have gone at that age, too. However, she knew if she had a better education, she wouldn’t choose to be in service. Nor would most of the other girls.
Soon the orphanage buzzed with the idea that well-spoken girls could find higher paying jobs, which would attract higher placement fees for the orphanage. Laundry duties continued to be as much a part of an orphan’s training as scrubbing, polishing, and mending, but within a year a nun had begun teaching grammar and pronunciation. Starling, showing a knack with the younger girls, was kept on to help teach the clear speech she had adopted herself so easily.
On her eighteenth year, Starling put her name down at Seymour’s to be taken on as a shopgirl. When her nineteenth year loomed with no notification from the emporium, she assumed she would not be one of the chosen few. She left, determined to make her way alone. Teaching in the orphanage benefited a few, but running a business would benefit more.
With no money and no job, she contacted Meg, a former orphan who had been jobless herself until she had taken what she called “the easy way.” Not recommending this for Starling, Meg got her a job in the laundry of the Star Inn. Six weeks later, Starling had her summons from Seymour’s Emporium.
Five days after, she met Mr. Seymour and she was now here listening to the explanation of the running of the kitchen. Mrs. Brighton was telling her about not only the daily tasks, but also the weekly and monthly ones. The organization of a large household was not as new to her as Mrs. Brighton imagined.
She glanced over the four deep shelves holding sheets and pillowcases. Herbs sat between, adding fragrance. “For now, I think I’ve seen enough. I promised to go to the Burdons’ to visit Tammy today.”
“Mrs. Trelevan made ginger cake for her...if you don’t mind.”
“It’s a lovely thought. I imagine the credit is due to you.”
“I do what I’m paid to do.” Mrs. Brighton inclined her head. “As Mr. Seymour’s wife, you will naturally add your own touches.”
Starling shook her head. “Mr. Seymour told me that his house runs perfectly without my input and I’ve seen how true that is. Everyone has his or her place and, fortunately, I know mine. Now, I must go.”
She collected the cake from the kitchen. Seeing no need for a hat and gloves for the quick trip to the house next door, she put her shawl around her shoulders and hurried to the front door.
“Starling!” She turned.
Lavender appeared in the doorway of the sitting room dressed in her signature color. With her blond hair dressed in ringlets at the sides and her shawl beautifully draped to add elegance to her figure, she could have only appeared more lovely had she worn a color that added warmth to her skin. “Are you going for a walk? I’m so bored. Perhaps I’ll come with you.”
“I’m going next door to visit Tammy. If you’d like to come, too, I’m sure she’d be delighted to meet you.”
Lavender stepped backward, wrinkling her pretty nose. “What on earth could you have to talk about with a child?”
“Come with me and find out. You might be as entertained as I am.” Starling didn’t want Lavender with her, and she was as surprised by her words as Lavender seemed to be.
The other woman dropped her ennui for a moment and looked relieved. “Any distraction is better than sitting here by myself. Mary’s going over some accounts of Dare’s in the library, though I can’t imagine what use she thinks that might be. My father said women don’t have heads for business and that they should be pure decoration.”
Lavender’s attitude annoyed Starling. Somehow, the lady had overstepped the patience limit of almost everyone. The servants worked around her in tight-lipped silence, and Paul and Mary, although scrupulously polite, found ways to avoid her. Alasdair was the only person who saw anything other than outward beauty in Lavender.
Forcing a smile, Starling held the door open for Lavender. Named Lavender, dressing in that color, and perfumed by the flower wasn’t ingenious, but its very lack of subtlety suited Mrs. Frost.
Smothering her ungenerous thought, Starling walked in silence with the love of Alasdair’s life down the slate path to the gateway. The gardener was cutting the spent blooms from the roses on either side.
“Afternoon.” Derry pushed back his shabby cap. As tall as Alasdair—more than six feet—but younger, Derry had broad shoulders, a manly build, and a square jaw. His curly fair hair gave him the appearance of innocence, and his bright ingenuous eyes supported that impression.
“Good afternoon,” Starling said. “What a lovely day.” As if in confirmation, a host of chattering honey eaters swarmed through the scented air.
“T
hey think so,” he answered, grinning at the little birds. “They been waitin’ to give their opinion.” His admiring gaze settled on Lavender and stayed. He seemed not to breathe for a moment.
“I love your...” Lavender lowered her eyelashes, “...flowers. I wonder, would you mind picking a posy for me? These pink roses. I’d love some in my bedroom. Don’t wait, Starling. I’ll be along later.”
“Are you sure?”
“I adore roses. If the young man doesn’t mind, I’d appreciate a tour of the garden, too.”
“The name’s Derry, ma’am,” he said as Starling turned back to the gateway. “Mr. Seymour’s got some of them camellia trees out the back. Would you like to see them?”
Starling presumed the answer would be “yes.” She hurried to the Burdons’ house, glad Lavender had found something she preferred to do.
* * * *
Alasdair, with Paul behind, stepped into the front hall, shutting out the late afternoon sun. The three women chatted companionably in the sitting room. Alasdair greeted Mary and smiled indulgently at Lavender, who sat arranged in a carefully casual pose on the chaise longue under the window.
“Did you enjoy your day?” Starling moved toward him and held out her hands for his hat.
“I did. Did you manage to find something to do?”
“Been busy,” she mumbled.
“I’ve been busy,” he said with a frown.
When her warm brown eyes filled with pure satisfaction, he realized she’d been teasing him and for some days, too. He didn’t need her to say, “Thought you might have been,” to know that her grammar and speech needed no correction.
“Wretch! I’ll pay you back for this, see if I don’t.”
“Can’t.” Her smile challenged.
“Can.” Without thinking of anything other than the impudent curve of her lips, he swooped one arm around her waist and arched her against him. Bending his head, he kissed the mouth that had taunted him and fooled him into believing he’d hired a poorly educated, compliant female. She could only pretend to be meek. Forthrightness came more naturally. Her lips softened under his. Unable to stop himself he continued with a kiss that lingered until he heated. Only her hand pushing gently on his chest brought him to his senses. “Did,” he murmured as he lifted his head.
A touch of embarrassment tightened his collar. Knowing he shouldn’t have been inveigled into kissing this woman in front of others, he glanced toward Mary and Paul, who were giving each other told-you-so looks.
Lavender sat, arms crossed, an expression of chagrin on her lovely face. He couldn’t remember a previous occasion when Lavender had demonstrated jealousy. “Perhaps I ought to warn you,” he said to Starling. Unlike the other ladies, she still wore her day gown. “We have an important guest for dinner tonight.”
“Who?” Mary asked.
“You’ll find out.”
“I should change.” Starling’s expression turned serious.
He smiled sardonically as he escorted her from the room. “You should, indeed.” She could stop being so damned easy to be with, for a start.
He sighed deeply as he walked upstairs behind her.
Before searching out his evening suit, he rang for Ellen. While he waited, he idly fiddled with papers in his desk, trying not to watch Starling trying not to watch him. “Bring water for a bath,” he said when the maid arrived.
“Yes, Mr. Seymour.”
“And four towels.”
Ellen shut the door behind her.
“If you are going to bathe, I’ll change quickly and go back downstairs,” Starling said, stepping toward the door.
“We’re going to bathe together but not simultaneously. If you and I both get into the bath, there’ll be no room for water, which would somewhat negate the reason for the bath. I’ll use the screen if you still think we need it.”
While he bathed, silence filled the room. “Are you there?”
“Yes.”
He rose to his feet, dripping water, and reached for his towel. “You can come behind the screen. I’m respectable.” He wrapped the towel around the lower half of his body.
She hadn’t even begun undressing, annoying him with her false modesty. “Come here and I’ll undo you.”
She presented him with her back. In a few seconds, he had freed her from her gown and strolled to the window. He wanted to watch her, and he could have because the screen had been arranged to hide the view of the bath only from the bed. “Wash your hair,” he said, irritated with himself for conceding to her every wish.
“I washed it three days ago. Why are you suddenly in a bad mood?”
“Get me out of it.”
“Don’t suppose I can.”
“And I don’t suppose I can,” he said tersely. He relaxed a little when she laughed. “I’m somewhat tense. When you’re out of the bath, I’ll dry your hair. Perhaps that will give me a chance to unwind.”
“Perhaps you ought to hire a cat.”
The sound of surging water told him she had arisen. He wanted to see what she had to hide that made her presume she was so damned different. “I hired the next best thing. Are you covered?”
“Yes.”
He turned around. She had tied her hair in one towel and had wound the other around her. Damn. She looked dewy soft. “Don’t dress. Bring your comb to me.”
“The towels are wet.”
“They’ll dry on you in this weather.” He walked to the bed, sat, legs astraddle, and patted the area of coverlet between his legs. “Sit here.”
After handing him the new comb from her dressing set, she settled with her back to him, dipping forward to remove the towel from her head. She flicked back wet curls of hair. “I hope you’ve done this before. I don’t want my hair pulled out.”
“As with everything else, I’m an expert. I had a mother and a sister, and they both liked having their wet hair untangled. Put your arms on my knees. It’ll give you balance.” And him an opportunity. Her skill at making herself into a separate unit was a skill he didn’t appreciate. He wanted to get to know her, not intimately, of course, but to understand how a sweet young thing like her could have managed to sell her body to men without letting her experience color her language or show on her face. Other than her impression that all men were the same, she seemed to have skimmed through her six weeks of prostitution, and treating her roughly or implying her body might be for hire would only bolster her low opinion of men.
After untangling her curls, he combed the shoulder-length mass back from her face, resisting the urge to lift her hair and rest his lips on her white, unprotected neck. Wanting closer contact with her, he sucked in a breath, knowing he lied to himself—perhaps he loved Lavender, but lately he had centered all his erotic thoughts on Starling. He wanted a more intimate connection than her tentative hands on his shins and he imagined untying her towel and enjoying the weight of her breasts in his eager palms. “Turn around.”
He slid one knee from beneath her arm and, given space, she swiveled to face him. She gave him a careful smile. “Who is the important guest?”
“Hamilton Fredericks,” he said, his breath short and his blood pounding. “We saw him at the club today, and if I hadn’t invited him to dinner I think he would have invited himself. Lavender has that effect on most of the male population.” He had managed a casual voice, but he moved and her breast touched the inside of his bent knee.
She immediately moved back.
He breathed out. To support himself he rested a fist on the bed beside her opposite hip, leaving him chest to chest with her.
He stared at her mouth.
She stared at his shoulder.
“A kiss,” he murmured softly. “You owe me for untangling your hair.”
Her cheeks pinked. Her eyes focused on the arm that held him and then her attention slid to his hand on the bed. She cleared her throat, a noise that seemed to echo in the silent room, and concentrated on his chin.
He waited, leaving his mouth within reach. Her breath warmed his cheek. She raised her chin with acceptance.
With a careful expression on her face, she placed a hand on his shoulder and her soft lips on his.
Chapter 10
Within two seconds, Starling found herself stretched out on the bed. Alasdair’s hot mouth played with hers. Tingling with pleasure, she combed her fingers through his damp hair.
He lifted his head, stared into her eyes, and slanted soft kisses over her mouth, exciting her so much that she dug her fingers into his back. When his hand curved around her bottom and lifted her into his hips, she relaxed. Nothing could be more enjoyable than his hard body rocking against hers.
Nothing could be tawdrier if the woman had been hired to fool the man’s sister, especially if the man loved another woman. She stiffened.
His mouth wandered over her face, her throat, and the swells of her breasts. His lips lingered and lifted. “What is it?”
She turned her face to the wall. “You’re the expert.”
He took a deep breath, placing his hands on either cheek to turn her face to him. “You like kissing, I can tell, and you haven’t minded when I’ve touched your body. You haven’t minded, have you?” He flattened his palm on her rib cage and massaged as he had when easing her corset aches.
“I haven’t minded.”
“You can stop me any time. As soon as you don’t like what I do, tell me and I won’t do it.”
“I think you shouldn’t do anything.”
“Don’t you owe it to yourself to find out what you might enjoy? You’ll never know if you don’t give pleasure a chance.” He dropped a kiss across her mouth and, lifting his head, he stared into the depths of her soul.
She wavered. He dipped his head again, covering her mouth.
The kiss asked questions and gave answers at the same time. He queried her appreciation of his lips, and she answered by placing her hands on his shoulders. He questioned her need to return his kiss, and she answered by doubling her elbows around his neck and increasing the soft pressure from his mouth.
Starling Page 10
