Marrying Mischief

by Lyn Stone

  Nick laughed. Then he drank down the rest of his coffee, tossed his napkin beside his plate and got up.

  At first she thought he would simply leave her sitting there without another word, but instead of heading for the door, he marched to her end of the table, leaned down and kissed her fully on the mouth.

  Heat engulfed her as his mouth met hers. He tasted of coffee and something sweet that hinted of cloves. His lips and tongue were warm and insistent. The hand that held her chin up caressed her throat. Heaven.

  Before she was ready for him to, he released her and stood back, his hands resting on his hips. “You amaze me,” he said, seeming quite amused. Then he shook a finger as if admonishing her. “Sometimes you even scare me. Is there anything in the world you will admit you cannot accomplish by yourself?”

  Emily slowly shook her head, still entranced by the kiss, wanting more and knowing she should not, hardly hearing what he said to her.

  Again he laughed. And then he did leave. If her knees had not turned to mush, she might have stood and run after him. But once the flash of heat inside her cooled, she was infinitely glad she had not.

  What he had asked her finally registered. Oh, yes, she would fully admit there was one thing she could not do alone. But that thing was best left undone, given Nick’s propensity to do it with other women. She would bet her last farthing Rosie had not been the first, nor would she have been the last.

  She suddenly realized that she should be angered by that impudent kiss. Apparently, Nick would say anything, do anything, to get a woman into his bed. He had almost convinced her that she should surrender and forget all he had done. He had the right to expect her to do so, but Emily could not relent just yet. She knew that every time he made love to her, she would wonder who else in their household was enjoying his favors. Even Rosie might, given her past with Nick.

  No, he was not to be trusted, and until she knew she could trust him, there could be no true marriage between them.

  Upton appeared soon after Nick departed. “The staff is gathered in the hall as you requested, madam.”

  Emily almost jumped up, then recalled her station. She ignored him as she finished her last bite of jam and bread, washed it down with the remainder of her coffee and wiped her lips with her napkin. She made a point of glancing down at the watch pinned to her shirtwaist, then over at the head butler. “I believe I specified nine o’clock, Mr. Upton.”

  “So you did, madam,” he replied with a haughty lift of his chin. “It is now ten of the hour.”

  “I am fully aware of the time. You may go and await me with the others.”

  He turned on his heel without another word. She might have made an enemy there, she thought, but Upton had radiated disapproval from the moment he had gotten over his shock at meeting her last evening.

  Come to think of it, he had not shown Nick much in the way of respect, either. Those pinched frowns and that haughtiness of his did not bode well for his future.

  The man was the old earl’s hire and obviously clung to that particular loyalty. If he could not adjust, he might soon find himself retired.

  Emily poured herself another cup of coffee, her third and last, and sipped it slowly. She purposely waited for eleven long minutes before leaving the table to assume her morning duties.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nick was in no mood to suffer any foolishness when he returned to Kendale House that evening. He only hoped things had gone better there than where he’d spent his day.

  His meeting with Lord Chalmers only succeeded in convincing Nick of how useless had been his career of intelligencing for the government. Chalmers and his associates had paid scant attention to Nick’s dire warnings on the rumblings of mutiny in India. They’d seemed much more interested in how to solidify and expand English rule. Nor had they wanted to hear anything regarding problems with the Dutch and Italians who were rapidly gaining proprietary footholds in trade areas that were considered British domain.

  What the hell had he been doing these past few years but wasting time and energy?

  As a result of the wretched conference, Nick had formally resigned his position, naming the man he had trained to assume his duties. Poor Stryker would have to come to his own conclusions about working for politicians with minds attuned only to prestige, money and power. As for Nick, he meant to see what he could do about that from his seat in the House of Lords.

  He later visited his solicitors who would begin necessary negotiations for the sale of Kendale Shipping. He would retain two ships only, those of his own private enterprise, to continue the lucrative trade in the West Indies.

  God knows, he had enough wealth now that he could sell those, too, but he liked to keep a hand in. Besides, he had built that business on his own, wholly independent of his father’s credit and influence. Pride demanded he take it as far as it would go. By relying on trusted representatives he could do that without leaving the country.

  When he arrived home, Upton greeted him grumpily at the door, accepting Nick’s coat, hat and cane with pointed impatience. “My lord, at last you are here.”

  “Is something amiss, Upton?” Nick asked, his own tone brusque.

  The butler cleared his throat, then smirked. “This morning the countess insisted we embark upon a complete inventory of the entire contents of the dwelling, my lord. Each and every item, down to the salt cellars.”

  “Her prerogative, I believe,” Nick retorted. “She is mistress here.” Had Emily already set the household on its ear? This accounting would better have waited until the Bournesea people had departed and the remaining staff had settled back into their old routine. However, he had to support her decision, precipitously made or not.

  Upton huffed. “There was a complete accounting made only eight months ago. If you will permit me to say so, this exercise seems an unnecessary inconvenience to all and indicates a mistrust of those in your employ. An insult, if you will.”

  Nick stared him down for a full minute. “Are you contemplating employment elsewhere, Upton?”

  The rheumy eyes flew wide. “Absolutely not, sir!”

  “Then be advised. My lady has given an order, not made a request to be cleared through me. Follow it.”

  “Yes, my lord. Consider it done.”

  And done reluctantly, Nick thought with a carefully concealed sigh. He had no wish to begin the time in London chastising his new bride about household matters. Especially after the day he’d just spent. He needed to compose himself before speaking with her about that or any other thing.

  Before he could mount the stairs, however, she appeared out of the study. She had that stubborn chin up and fire flashed in those beautiful blue eyes. The set of her shoulders indicated someone had best be prepared for battle.

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” she said, greeting him with a somber expression as she closed the door behind her. “Shall I order tea?”

  Tea? Upton stood just behind him, taking in the exchange. It was scarcely four o’clock. Rituals were not the same here as in the country, but Emily could not know that if no one had told her.

  However he realized he could scarcely advise her of it before a servant, especially one who already seemed determined to think the worst of her. It mattered little to Nick what anyone thought of him, but he did not want his wife diminished in the eyes of her own servants.

  “Yes, thank you for remembering my request to have it early,” Nick replied, adding a forced smile. “I am quite famished after such a full day. We shall have it in the morning room.” He had added the place in the event she might unknowingly choose another. “Something simple, yet hearty, if you please.”

  She nodded and disappeared down the hallway without even noticing the arm he extended to escort her to the room where they would partake. He almost groaned. A bellpull had hung within her reach and a servant stood not six feet from her. Yet she had headed toward the kitchens to give instructions herself.

  He could swear he felt the butler’s disdain perm
eate the room.

  Without turning around, Nick advised him, “Say one word and it shall be the last you utter within these walls.”

  Upton obviously understood, for silence reigned as Nick headed for the morning room to await a premature tea and a visit with Emily that he knew he would not relish.

  It occurred to him in the meantime that he might avoid conflict by beginning his instruction with Emily’s maid, Rosie, instead of Emily herself. She might find it less embarrassing to accept advice on town customs from someone closer to her.

  Emily obviously knew Rosie well since she had chosen her from all the others. It would serve two purposes, their talk. He could list the responsibilities of a lady’s maid and see whether Rosie would be appropriate for the position in a long-term capacity. Hopefully, she was bright enough to realize her opportunity and be willing to learn the duties she did not know how to do.

  Emily arrived ahead of a maid who was bearing a large silver tray. “Set it here on the table, Polly,” Emily instructed, “and you are excused. I shall pour.”

  Quite proper, Nick thought, pleased until he saw Polly give Emily a broad wink and a wide grin. He glared at the little upstart, troubled by her forwardness and also with Emily’s smiling response to it. He said nothing until Polly had gone and closed the door behind her.

  “Why did you permit that?” he asked, seating Emily and dragging out a chair for himself so that they sat facing one another.

  She looked up, her brows raised in inquiry. “Permit what?”

  “Polly has no business winking at you.”

  “Oh, that,” she said with a dismissive flap of her fingers. She lifted the cozy off the Limoges teapot and prepared to pour. “Cook recalled your favorite biscuits when you were a boy and made them for you. Polly was only signaling me that she knew you would be pleased with our choice.”

  “You discussed biscuits in the kitchen with Cook and Polly?” he asked, attempting to keep his tone light so as not to anger her with what was coming.

  “Yes. They are orange-flavored. Try one.” She appeared defiant as she passed him the bone china saucer and cup filled with steaming tea. “Sugar?”

  Nick shook his head and proceeded carefully with his admonishment. “You must have a care how you go on, Emily. If you do not establish yourself in command here, they will take advantage. Servants do not work well if you treat them as friends and equals.”

  “A proven fact, I suppose? Have you ever treated one as a friend and equal?”

  The little minx. She’d issued an open invitation to a confrontation. “I have, of course, but I was not an earl at the time. As countess, you should—”

  “Aha, the voice of experience speaks!” she interrupted, nodding sagely as her lips formed a provocative moue. “Tell me, when were you a countess, Kendale? How do you know how I must go on?”

  He hauled in a deep breath, struggling to unearth his last vestige of patience. “You mistake my intent, Emily. This is not a reprimand. I merely wish to offer you a bit of advice since you have not dealt with a large staff before and I have. Not as an earl, granted, but I have observed—”

  “Your father in action,” she interrupted, completing his sentence.

  He absolutely hated when anyone put words in his mouth.

  Nick clenched his teeth together in a bid for control. If he lost his temper with her, she would do everything wrong in the future only to spite him, and would therefore damage her own consequence.

  He remained silent, reached for his tea and drank most of it with one determined gulp, ignoring the burn to his tongue. Then he carefully helped himself to several rolls of thinly sliced ham and a small wedge of Gruyère.

  The challenge in her eyes tempted him more than the orange-scented biscuits, but he resolved to resist both temptations. He wanted a heated exchange of words with Emily even less than he wanted to open the box of memories associated with his early life here in Kendale House. Either one would only put the cap on a thoroughly wretched day. He had another ordeal to face tonight that was likely to serve that purpose.

  He removed the linen napkin from his lap and tossed it beside his plate as he rose.

  “May I ask where you are going?”

  “Out,” he replied, and without looking at her, continued. “Henceforth I should like tea at precisely six o’clock, and kindly inform your maid that I would like her to present herself in my study at nine in the morning.”

  “Rosie? What for?” She bit off the words. He’d been right. She was spoiling for a fight. “What for, Kendale?”

  Nick opened the door and paused, half-turned toward her. She had pushed him to the limit of endurance. “If it had to do with you, madam, I might give you an explanation.”

  “Nevertheless, I will require one!”

  But he did not give it. Instead he left immediately, figuring that he might as well have done with the onerous task of speaking with Dierdre’s father now instead of later in the evening. His mood wasn’t likely to improve by delaying it.

  Afterward he would have time to make the acquaintance of his father’s old club on St. James. He had a feeling he would shortly need a place to retreat when his temper needed cooling.

  By damn! Emily was a strong-headed female. Over the years he’d forgotten how willful and tempestuous she could be at times. Maybe he should have kissed her again. That was about the only thing that guaranteed him the last word.

  Unwilling to dwell on kissing Emily when the opportunity had passed so ignominiously, he turned his thoughts back to his evening.

  Nick hoped he would also find his old friend Duquesne at the club. Guy would be there if he’d received the message Nick had sent ’round by the footman.

  If anything went on in London, Guy Duquesne had ways of finding out about it. The man had contacts here in all strata of society that the best of inquiry agents would envy. Hopefully he would have a suggestion as to whom Nick might hire to investigate the carriage incident. Wrecker would be checking on whether Julius Munford had shipped in any time lately.

  In addition to protecting Emily and himself from any further harm and settling the matter of a fake betrothal with Worthing, Nick supposed he would have to make time later tonight to think how he would deal with Emily’s almost belligerent defiance.

  Something had sparked her ill will since breakfast this morning. And while it could not have been his own doing, he knew he must deal with it when he returned. He needed her cooperation if she was to become accepted, both at home and in public.

  Solving the problems of England in the House of Lords seemed a relatively simple challenge in comparison with all the other matters on his plate.

  Where the devil had he gone? Emily wondered as she watched Polly collect the remnants of the brief and unsuccessful tea.

  She swished aside the stiff bombazine skirts of the countess’s elegant gray gown she was wearing and plopped down upon the brocade settee.

  If Wrecker would agree to accompany her, she could follow Nick. How unseemly would that be, for a countess to go dashing about after her wayward husband? And what if she should find him in one of those unmentionable places where men went in the evenings? She’d read about them in novels, those wicked, sinful dens in the bowels of London where loose women enticed men away from their fortunes and morals. What would she do then?

  She looked out the window that gave such an excellent view of the gardens. But it wasn’t yet dark, she thought.

  Upton appeared in the doorway and offered her a negligent bow. “My lady, his lordship’s cousin has arrived. Are you at home?”

  Emily blinked. “Of course, I am at home. You see me sitting here, do you not?”

  “Very well. Will you receive him here?”

  “Yes, show him in.”

  Upton stepped to one side and gestured to someone standing in the hall. A handsome young man with longish blond hair and a sleepy-eyed smile entered. “Lady Emily, I doubt you will know me. I am Nicholas’s cousin—”

  “Mr. Holl
ander, of course.” She smiled in welcome.

  “I arrived the day you and Nick were married, but Nick refused me entrance,” he said petulantly. “I had to hear of the wedding the following day in the village. Me! Nick’s family.”

  Emily hesitated only a moment before answering his accusation. “It was a private ceremony. I do apologize for his seeming rudeness, but there was sickness at Bournesea then, and we did not wish you to risk contagion.”

  “Sickness?” His sandy brows lowered in consternation and he plucked nervously at his collar. “Of what sort?”

  “Nothing to trouble yourself over.”

  He cleared his throat and his worried gaze darted about for a minute before resting on her again. “Well, one can’t be too careful, y’know. Typhoid?” He paled further. “Not diphtheria!”

  “No, neither,” she assured him. “It’s over and done, so let’s not speak of it. You also visited Bournesea with your mother when you were a lad, did you not? We were never formally introduced, but I do remember you attending my father’s services with Nicholas. I believe you snored throughout.”

  Quite recovered with the change in topic, he pulled a face, then laughed merrily. “I must have done, for I recall none of what he preached. Probably some long-winded sermon warning the young off keeping late hours. I was wont to do that, you know.”

  “Were you?” Emily pointed to one of the chairs facing the settee. “Do sit down. Kendale is not here at the moment. Would you care for tea?”

  Carrick grimaced. “No, but I could do with a spot of brandy.” He turned to the maid, who stood entranced by him. “Would you mind, Polly? You know where it is.”

  Polly put down the tray she was holding and hurried to oblige. Carrick could almost be called beautiful, with dark blond hair, dove-gray eyes, patrician features and a slender, graceful build. He bore no resemblance to Nicholas at all, other than the fact that they were both very attractive men who radiated self-confidence. But this man held no candle to the sheer power and masculinity of her husband, Emily thought.