by Anne Gracie
Dominic was about to refute the charge indignantly, but paused as he realized it was true. And if it disturbed Sir John so much . . . he could but fan the flames.
He inspected his nails and said in a bored voice. “Pretty little thing. I was curious about her origins. She seems an unlikely type for a companion.”
“She is.” Sir John fixed him with a glare. “I forbid you to go near that girl! You’re betrothed to my daughter, dammit!”
“Your daughter had better get used to it then, hadn’t she?” Dominic said in a hard voice. “What was it you said about a man chasing every skirt in town except the one he has at home? If you insist on forcing this marriage, that will be your daughter’s fate. Sleep on that, Sir John.” He bowed and left the room.
DOMINIC CAME SLOWLY DOWN THE ANCIENT STONE STAIRWAY. SINCE Greystoke had pointed out the dips worn in the stone, he noticed them every time. It was one thing to know his ancestors had lived at Wolfestone for that long; it was another to place his feet in the exact same place where they had trodden. It made him feel . . . connected, dammit!
It would have been better, or at least easier if he’d never come here in the first place.
“’Ere, ’Enry, give us an ’and, will you?” a male voice called from below. A piercing feminine shriek followed. Dominic raced down the long curve of the stairs, taking them three at a time, then came to an abrupt halt at the sight below him.
The hall was full of people. There was a man on a ladder, using a straw broom to sweep cobwebs away.
“Watch who you be knockin’ spiders on top of, Jem Davies!” a woman exclaimed indignantly. That explained the screech, Dominic thought.
Apart from the spider hunter and his victim, there were two other women applying scrubbing brushes to the floor in the far corner. Banging and shouting noises came from the room on the far side of the hall.
“S’cuse us, m’lord.” Dominic pressed himself against the stone balustrade as two men carried a large, dusty, three-legged dresser past him down the stairs and out of the house. He ducked as a young boy came hurtling eagerly after them, clutching a pile of long curtain rods and the other leg of the dresser.
“Watch out with them poles, young Billy!” one of the women shrieked, but it was too late. As the boy angled himself to exit, one of the long rods slipped and hit a narrow table on which sat a china bowl filled with roses. The bowl shattered and roses and water went everywhere.
Dominic stared at the roses. He could smell them from here. The scent took him back. He was seven years old and in Naples . . .
“Ye clumsy young—!” one of the women began, but Billy gathered up the errant pole and fled before retribution could be carried out.
Dominic descended the rest of the stairs in a cold temper. He had made it more than clear that the staff he had taken on were to do no more than make the place habitable for his current uninvited visitors. He might be restoring the estate to some semblance of order, but he did not want the house restored in any way!
As he descended, the activity in the hall stopped. The women rose to their feet and faced him, clutching their rags and scrubbing brushes to their bosoms. The man on the ladder snatched off his cap and stayed motionless, above eye level.
“Where can I find Miss Greystoke?” Dominic addressed the room in general.
One of the women bobbed a nervous curtsy. “I wouldn’t know, not to be sure, sir. She might be in the kitchen.”
“Or up in one o’ the attics, mebbe—she’s been goin’ through things up there.”
“Has she indeed?” He stalked out in the direction of the most noise.
A Tickel girl shrieked after him. “Tell her me mam has sent more lemons and they’re not to go to Mrs. Stokes this time. They’re for miss! Personally!”
Dominic ignored her. He did not carry messages for rustics or servants.
By the time he found Greystoke he’d visited almost every room in the huge, sprawling, old house—rooms he’d never intended to enter—and he was more furious than ever. Everywhere he went he saw evidence of the way she’d flouted his orders.
When he discovered her on the second floor, her arms were full of sheets, and she was in the company of two Tickel girls, Billy Finn, and three burly men, each carrying an item of furniture. None of them had experienced the least difficulty finding her, he noted. The blasted servants had conspired to protect her from his wrath, he realized.
He announced his presence in arctic tones. “Miss Greystoke!”
She turned and said brightly, “Yes, Lord D’Acre. What can I do for you?” There was a smudge of dust on the tip of her nose. Her hair was a mess and contained several threads of cobweb. She wore an old-fashioned apron covering her dress and it was far too big for her. And her eyes shone with excitement and the smile she gave him was dazzling.
“I need to speak with you,” he told her in a clipped, cold voice.
“Very well, in a moment, then. I just need to get this organized.” She turned back to the three men, much to Dominic’s annoyance, and said to them, “I think we could use all of these chairs. Start with the ones that need least mending. Take them all downstairs. Tilly and Tessa, you dust them and then, when Jake has mended them, I want them well polished with beeswax. There is nothing like the smell of beeswax to make a house feel homey and clean.” She watched as the three men and the two Tickel girls carried a motley collection of chairs from the room, then turned back to Dominic. “Now, what was it you wanted to say?”
“If you recall our conversation of—” Dominic began.
She turned away again, saying, “Oh, Billy, I’d almost forgotten you.” She smiled warmly at the young boy, oblivious of Dominic’s silent indignation. She had apparently forgotten who owned this house. And who was an uninvited visitor and a paid companion.
“I’d like you to collect all these curtains and take them down to . . . Hmm, who can I get to wash them?” She frowned.
“Me mam could,” Billy said shyly. “Takes in washing, Mam does.”
“Excellent!” she exclaimed. “Take them to your mother then, and as soon as they’re ready you can bring them back up to the house.”
The boy scooped up the enormous pile of folded fabric and staggered out. And finally they were alone.
She gave him a bright smile, laced with rueful mischief. “Sorry to cut you off so uncivilly there, but if we’re going to squabble, I think it’s best to do it in private, don’t you?”
“Squabble?” Dominic frowned at the word. Children squabbled.
“Yes. Was I mistaken? You looked like you came here to squabble with me.”
“I never squabble,” he said haughtily.
She gave a relieved sigh. “Oh good. I was afraid you were cross about something. So, what was it you wanted to discuss?”
She gave him one of her dazzling smiles and a moment later he found himself saying, “One of the Tickel girls said her mother had sent lemons for you. But that’s not the point—”
“No indeed, I didn’t ask anyone for lemons. I wonder why they keep bringing me lemons. Thank you for letting me know.”
She started to walk down the corridor.
He clenched his fist. The interview was not going as planned. “I don’t care about the lemons!”
Over her shoulder she gave him a warm, entirely spurious smile. “No, neither do I. Though they’re very good for sore throats, as long as you have honey, which we do, so if you’re planning to shout at me, it’s nice to know that we have plenty of lemons and honey on hand.”
He thundered down the corridor after her. “Don’t walk out when I’m talking to you. And I am—” He moderated his tone and finished with quiet dignity. “I am not shouting at you.”
She gave him another deceptively sweet smile. “No, of course you weren’t—you just don’t know the strength of your own vocal chords. You have splendid vocal projection. If you ever wished to go on stage—not, of course, that you would, I suppose. Barons don’t generally, do they?” Her eyes were
dancing.
He glowered at her in silence. How had the conversation slipped out of his control to such a ridiculous degree?
She gave him a sympathetic look. “Now, don’t look so glum. I know there’s a lot of noise, but there’s a great deal of work to be done, and it’s all going beautif—”
He scowled. “What do you mean, a great deal of work to be done? I don’t want anything done to this place, bar the bare necessities.”
She stopped, her mouth an O of surprise. “Why, Lord D’Acre, you know you don’t mean that.” And she whipped around a corner and disappeared into a small room lined with shelves and stacked with linen.
He followed her in. “I do mean that. I mean exactly—!”
“Here, take the end of this, and do as I do while we’re discussing. They are really too big for me to manage by myself.” She handed him one end of a bedsheet, indicating he was to fold it with her. Bemused, he found his hands clutching the ends. He glanced at their surrounds. She really should not have enticed him into a linen room.
She hurried on. “Surely you can see there is a great deal of cleaning and sorting out to be done? I know men don’t usually care about such things but I assure you—yes, that’s the way, now fold it first this way . . . and then like this. That’s very good.” She gave him an encouraging smile as if he were a child.
He glowered at her and, unruffled, she batted her eyelashes at him. “I assure you it will be over in a trice and then the house will be lovely and homey.”
Her assurance was amazing. He preferred her . . . ruffled. “I don’t want the house made lovely and homey,” he grated. “Clean is quite sufficient.” Homey was more than he could stand!
She took the folded sheet from him, laid it on a shelf, and sent him a smile that was meant to hoist him on his own petard. It only made him more aware of their close proximity. The linen room was small, cozy, and smelled of lavender and clean linen. Bed linen.
“Is this about Mel—Miss Pettifer?” she asked. “Because if it is, why don’t you sit down and talk to her about it. Believe it or not, she’s not very happy about this state of affairs, either.” She handed him the end of a bundled second sheet. “If you expect Miss Pettifer to feel comfortable here, you need to make this place more of a home.”
He found the corners and shook the sheet out with a snap.
“I don’t care if Miss Pettifer feels comfortable here or not. Wolfestone is not a home. It’s not her home, it’s not my home, it never has been, and I don’t want it to look like a home! It’s not anyone’s home and it’s never going to be!”
He glared at her and folded the sheet with military precision. The smell of sweet, clean linen reminded Dominic irresistibly of bedrooms. Bedrooms and close proximity to Greystoke . . .
This time when they folded the sheets, he kept possession of the ends and moved closer to her. One step, two. Suddenly he had her pressed lightly against the wall, just a folded sheet between their bodies.
Her mouth dropped open in surprise and she looked suddenly flustered. A state he much preferred her in.
“You know, you shouldn’t do that,” he said conversationally.
“Do what?”
“Look at me with those big, wide eyes and your mouth just so.” And before she knew what he was about, he lowered his mouth to hers.
The moment their lips touched she opened to him. He kissed her slowly, savoring the tastes of her, the shifting textures, the spiraling hunger that he sensed she shared.
He planted kisses from her mouth along her jawline and in a slow, glorious exploration down the creamy column of her neck. His silken-skinned beauty. Her head was thrown back, her eyes closed, crescents fringed in dark gold. He kissed her eyelids and slipped one hand between them, to cup her breast.
It was slight and firm, the nipple aroused. He rubbed it gently and she shivered and pressed herself against him. He was hard and hungry and he wanted her, wanted her.
The room was small and private. They could—ouch! His elbow hit a shelf, jerking Dominic to an awareness of where he was and what he was doing. He released her and stepped back, his breath coming in great gasps, as if he’d run a marathon. She looked flushed and flustered and beautiful. He wanted to take her here and now.
No, not here, not now.
When he finally took Greystoke to his bed, he wanted it to be perfect, not a hasty coupling in some cramped little linen room. He folded his arms to stop them reaching for her again and said abruptly, “Don’t you have people to organize? Lemons to receive.”
She visibly struggled to gather her composure.
He frowned. “What were they for, by the way? The lemons. She said they were personal.”
“None of your business.” She put her nose in the air and eased warily past his body. “And while I am left to organize people, I shall do it in whatever way I see fit. For, while you might not care about Miss Pettifer’s comfort, I do.”
She paused in the doorway and looked back at him with mischievous awareness. “Thank you for helping me with the sheets. It was never so . . . interesting when I used to fold laundry with my sisters . . .”
The minx. He watched her go, enjoying the sway of her rounded hips as she hurried away. Now, what had he been going to do before he got sidetracked? Oh, yes, ride to Ludlow.
She had people scrubbing all over the place and they had a tendency to fall silent and gape at him, which was irritating, so he decided to leave by the western door instead. The west wing was in the worst condition and most of the current activity was at the other end of the house.
But when he slipped out the side door, he found five men outside. Three were swinging scythes in a rhythmical line, turning the knee-length grass back into something resembling a lawn. Two more men were clearing weeds and rubbish from a rocky, circular mound that appeared to contain roses—or at least one man was working and the other, the elderly Tasker, appeared to be supervising from a position of sleep. Dominic walked quietly past, hoping not to draw anyone’s attention.
“Hey! Yer Lordship!”
In retrospect, silent gaping wasn’t too bad. He pretended not to hear and kept walking.
“Yer Lorrrrrdship!” the man bellowed as if Dominic were a mile away instead of only a couple of yards.
Dominic stopped. “Yes?” His faint hauteur was lost on the man.
“What’ll we do with this, m’lord?” He brandished what appeared to be a broken stone cupid. “Shall we fix it? Might be able to with a bit of mortar or summat.”
“I don’t care.”
Indifference was lost on the man, too. “And what about the roses, m’lord? It be a bit early to prune ’em, but they need to be shaped a bit. Will I shape ’em up?”
“I don’t care,” Dominic repeated. “Do whatever you like. Or ask Miss Greystoke.”
“Prefer not to take me orders from a woman, sir, if you don’t mind.”
Dominic gave him a cold look. “Then you’d better learn to like it, for without Miss Greystoke you would have no employment.”
He moved off, but an elderly voice called after him. “Yer mam planted them there roses, yer lordship. With her own fair hands, she did.” Dominic swung around.
Grandad Tasker had woken and was eyeing him with a cunning expression. “This was ’er special bit o’ the garden. Designed the whole thing ’erself.”
“How do you know?”
The old man let out a rusty cackle. “A’cos I was the one what ’elped ’er, a’ course. Did all the digging for this, I did. Put the stonework in an’ all. She told me what she wanted and showed me the drawings she made—quite the artist she was.”
It was true. His mother had loved to draw and paint.
“I did all the heavy work, but when it came to them roses, yer mam set every blessed one o’ them in the earth with ’er own hands. Loved this spot, she did. Came here every day and sat on that there seat.” He pointed to a broken stone seat. He added softly. “A lonely little lass, your mam. Them roses was ’er compa
ny, I reckon.”
Dominic didn’t say anything. There was a hard lump in his throat. He could picture it.
“This was a pretty place once,” the old man continued. “When yer mam ran off, yer pa destroyed it. Destroyed a lot of things. A fearsome temper, ’e ’ad. Smashed them statues and ’er seat to bits, ’e did. Slashed the roses to the ground.” He gave a toothless grin. “But ’e never managed to kill ’em. Roses might look delicate but they be powerful tough plants. Your mam’s roses came back—with a little ’elp.” He winked. “Flowered every summer since, they ’ave.”
Dominic hadn’t known about the rose arbor. His mother had always adored roses. When he was a little boy, trying desperately to bring a smile to her face, he would find her a rose from somewhere and bring it to her. Sometimes she would give him a ravishing, joyful smile, and he’d feel like a knight of old, ten feet tall. But on other occasions she’d take one look, her face would crumple and she would weep, inconsolably. He used to think it was his fault, that he’d brought the wrong sort of roses . . .
“Be grand to put yer mam’s garden back t’way she made it, eh, yer lordship?”
“Please yourself,” Dominic said finally. “I don’t care.” But his voice cracked as he said it.
Chapter Nine
What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: The sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
ROBERT HERRICK
GRACE PICKED UP A BOX OF ASSORTED BRASS OBJECTS AND WALKED slowly down the stairs, thinking about the kiss, kisses in the linen room. She hugged the box to her, smiling. Her whole body tingled with awareness, with excitement. It felt as though her very blood was fizzing gently, like champagne. And that was just the aftermath . . .
Of course it was wrong of him to be kissing her when he was still betrothed to Melly, and it was wrong of Grace to let him—not that she’d let him, precisely . . . But deep down, it didn’t feel wrong.
Melly didn’t want him and he didn’t want Melly. He just needed a wife so he could inherit the property. As soon as he and Melly sorted out the mess—if they ever did—he would be free to choose . . . someone else.
