Desire?
Yes.
And no.
He had a feeling that where this woman was concerned desire would always figure in the equation. But this was something apart from that...something...
Unsettling. But was it good or bad?
His fingers flexed. It could be dangerous.
The thought whispered through him. Gooseflesh lifted all of the fine hairs on his arms.
‘I was expecting a certain...decorum in the photos, with your family being nobility and whatnot, but I wasn’t expecting you to be invisible. I was expecting something...’
‘Something?’
‘Something more. Some show of affection or regard for you. Something of worth!’
Jemima’s face crumpled at her nanny’s outraged tone and Eliza did her best to hush and comfort her.
Sebastian’s stomach churned. ‘I can see why you’d be disappointed.’
‘Disappointed?’
Air whistled out from between her teeth, telling him she considered that the understatement of the century.
‘Better words would be appalled...horrified. I—’ She broke off to stalk back to the baby carrier. She rummaged among the blankets and emerged with a disposable nappy. ‘Your...your parents should be—’ she waved the nappy in the air, evidently searching for a suitable fate ‘—put in the stocks!’
It was fascinating to see her so riled. Energy crackled from her like static electricity. He glanced at her autumn hair, and then at the way her legs barely seemed to contain her outrage—moving back and forth, feet tapping. He swallowed and a pulse kicked to life at the base of his throat. An answering pulse started low in his groin. He shifted, biting back a groan.
‘I wish I could take you home to my parents. They’d make a proper fuss of you like you deserve.’
Warmth flooded through him. Who knew that beneath all that efficiency his PA had such a kind heart?
She stilled. ‘I mean... I didn’t mean that as...’
He took pity on her. ‘I know.’
She glanced around the room. ‘I think I hate this house.’
And then she spread out one of Jemima’s blankets on the Persian rug and placed the baby on top, changing her nappy with a deftness that made him blink. He stared at those hands, imagined them on his body...
He wrenched his mind back to find her dropping the wet nappy in a plastic bag she’d pulled from her pocket. She rose easily, as if dealing with babies and their paraphernalia were the easiest thing in the world. As if it were second nature to her.
He took the baby blanket and plastic bag from her.
‘Eliza.’ He reached out and pressed a finger to her lips. Their softness, the caress of her breath against his skin...the way those lips parted the slightest fraction at the pressure of his touch had him clenching up tight.
With a gasp she took a hasty step back, and his hand dropped to his side. ‘Yes?’
Her voice came out too breathy and too fast. It was all he could do not to reach for her. He clenched his hands to fists and ordered himself to re-establish normality between them quick smart. ‘I...’
He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Don’t let my peculiar upbringing poison any of the beauty you find here. Seeing Tyrell Hall through your eyes when we first arrived—through your highly honed artist’s eyes,’ he teased, his stomach unclenching a fraction when she smiled back. ‘It made me see that’s what I’ve been doing. This house is a masterpiece...set in magnificent surroundings. Just because a couple of reprehensible people happened to live here for a while shouldn’t blind anyone to the beauty the estate has to offer.’
She stared at him and then gave a nod, her chin coming up. ‘You’re right.’
She went to say something else but Brownie bustled into the room. ‘Ms Gilmour, I thought you might like to see your room...freshen up and take care of the little one.’
‘That’d be lovely.’
Not ready to be left alone with his thoughts, Sebastian seized the baby carrier and trailed after them. He smiled when they stopped at the door of the Rose Bedroom. It was the loveliest of the guest bedrooms.
‘Oh!’
Eliza’s eyes went wide when they entered. Very carefully she set the baby on the bed to turn on the spot and take in her room. ‘I’m going to feel like royalty sleeping in here.’
The room had a four-poster bed with a smoky-pink silken canopy, the hangings embroidered with blue, white and yellow roses. The same accents were picked up in the curtains at the two windows. The walls were painted the palest of pinks and a rug of pink and white made a warm contrast to the dark floorboards. Her windows looked north over fields to woodland.
‘It’s absolutely and utterly divine! But—’ She swung around. ‘Mrs Brown, I’m just the nanny. Surely I—’
‘Nonsense! This room rarely gets used. It’ll be nice to have someone in here enjoying it for a few days.’
That was when Sebastian spotted the cot in the corner. He pointed to it. ‘There’s been a mistake. The cot needs to go into the room next door. I’m sharing night-time baby duties with Ms Gilmour.’ He glanced at Eliza. ‘My bedroom is two doors down, which will work out perfectly.’
Eliza planted her hands on her hips, unintentionally directing his attention to how those hips flared gently in the soft woollen trousers she wore. The collar about his throat tightened. His hands itched to trace her outline from neck to waist...and further. His fingers craved to sink into the softness of the flesh of her backside and to—’
‘No!’
His attention snapped back. The colour high on her cheeks betrayed her awareness of his scrutiny. He swallowed. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said no.’
She was saying no to...?
‘You’re paying me to be Jemima’s nanny, and that’s exactly what I mean to be.’
The thread that held him tight released him when he realised she was referring to her role as nanny. He pulled in a breath and tried not to look too relieved.
‘It was an altogether different thing when I was thrust into the role with no warning and then had three sleepless nights. But I’m better rested now.’
But not fully rested.
She lifted Jemima back into her arms. ‘I’ve kept this little monkey awake for a greater part of the morning. And I mean to do the same for the rest of the afternoon.’
He shuffled his feet. ‘But—’
‘And now we have those talking books I expect things will start to fall into place.’
He tried to think of an argument to convince her to let him help.
‘You’ll have oodles of time to play with her tomorrow.’ She shot Brownie a grin. ‘This little miss has him wrapped firmly around her little finger.’
‘Well, she’s such a sweet thing.’ Brownie cast an undeniably hopeful glance at Eliza. ‘If you need any assistance at all, Ms Gilmour, I’d only be too happy to help out.’
‘Oh, that’s kind of you.’
‘I took the liberty of unpacking the baby bag and I’ve made up a couple of fresh bottles. So if you’d like me to take her back down to the kitchen...’
He saw the exact moment Liv registered Brownie’s yearning to fuss over the baby—if only for half an hour. She glanced at her watch. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t mind? I’d kill for a shower.’
Brownie promptly took Jemima from her arms. ‘It’s no problem whatsoever. Why don’t you have a nice long soak in the tub instead? Me and the little one here will have a fine old time getting to know one another.’
‘A bath? Ooh, you’re an angel, Mrs Brown.’
‘You take your time, Ms Gilmour. Master Sebastian, show Ms Gilmour where to find the bathroom and then come down to the kitchen so I can tell you about all the local happenings.’
‘I’ve been away less than a fortnight; I—’ He brok
e off with a nod and a half-grin at the glare she sent him. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I’m timing you,’ she shot at him as she stalked from the room.
‘That was a nice thing to do,’ he said once Brownie was out of earshot.
‘It was nice of her to offer. Besides, she’s lovely.’
‘Still, you could’ve kept Jemima all to yourself and nobody would’ve blamed you. It’s kind of you to share.’
She frowned. ‘Seb?’
‘What?’ He had to resist the urge to move closer to her. Moving closer wouldn’t be wise.
Her frown deepened, countered by the worry in her eyes. ‘I know we both feel a great deal of responsibility towards Jemima, but you can’t forget that she doesn’t belong to us.’
A scowl built through him. He rolled his shoulder. ‘I know that.’
‘Do you?’ Her eyes refused to release his. ‘If we do this right we’ll reunite Jemima with her mother. After that it’s possible we’ll never see her again.’
An unexpected pain slipped in between his ribs.
She tapped a fist against her mouth. ‘I... I just want you to be prepared.’
Never see that little baby again? Never know if she was safe and happy? Everything inside of him rebelled at the thought. ‘How is it possible to prepare for that?’ It took all his strength not to shout the words.
She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and he sensed the same turmoil roiling through her. ‘By believing it’s what’s best for Jemima.’
He pulled in a breath and nodded, tried to regulate his breathing. ‘Yes.’
But what if Jemima’s mother was like his own?
She moved towards the door, but paused beside him. She touched his shoulder. ‘It’s just... I’d hate to see you get hurt.’
The warmth of her hand did strange things to his insides. She pulled her fingers back as if suddenly burned and sent him an over-bright smile. ‘Now, show me where the bathroom is. A long, hot soak is exactly what the doctor ordered.’
He led the way and refused to fantasise for a single moment on what her naked body would look like sliding into a tub of steaming water.
CHAPTER SIX
LIV DIDN’T SEE Seb at breakfast the next morning. Last night they’d sat up going through the documents Mrs Brown had dug out, but they were left none the wiser. The documents and letters hadn’t divulged any deep and dark secrets. She glanced across the rim of her coffee mug. Had the housekeeper provided Seb with those names this morning? Was he holed up somewhere brooding...and haunted?
She set her mug down. He might simply want some solitude from his too-bossy, too-chatty office manager. The thought made her wince.
When Mrs Brown didn’t give her any message from him, she refused to ask his whereabouts. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have plenty to do looking after Jemima. And she really ought to get started on that detailed outline on events for Liz.
She didn’t need to send it yet. Liz didn’t need the worry. But her sister would need to know more than just the basics before she returned.
Liz hadn’t phoned last night as she’d promised either. Liv didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried. She’d sent Liz an email asking her how things were going...and when she thought she’d be coming home.
She was still waiting for a reply.
‘What are your plans for the day, Ms Gilmour?’
Liv snapped herself back into the present. ‘I’m going to take this little one,’ she jigged Jemima who was currently ensconced on her knee, ‘out in her pram for her daily dose of sunshine.’ She took a big sip of coffee. The sooner she was out in the day the better. She felt in serious need of sunshine herself.
‘You should stroll up to the artists’ co-operative.’
Her ears pricked up. ‘Artists’ co-op?’
‘Aye. Master Sebastian had the barn and a few of the other outbuildings converted into studios with spaces for local artists to sell their wares. He wanted to showcase local talent.’
She stared at Mrs Brown, her mug halted halfway to her mouth. ‘Really?’
The housekeeper chuckled. ‘You look surprised.’
‘I...’ She blinked and lowered her mug. ‘I had no idea he was interested in art.’
‘Ah, well, he’s not. Not personally. But a large portion of the estate had to be sold off to cover the debts that had accrued.’
Debts incurred by his profligate parents, no doubt.
‘A great chunk of farming land had to go—land leased to local farmers.’ The older woman shook her head. ‘It was a terrible business. A lot of good folk lost their livelihoods.’
Because of the selfishness of two negligent, unprincipled snobs? Her hands clenched and she had to concentrate on not jiggling Jemima right off her knee.
‘So Master Sebastian, in an effort to help reinvigorate the local community, had the outbuildings converted and offered the spaces to local artists and craftspeople.’
He was trying to make amends for his parents’ lavish spending. He was trying to make a difference. A good difference. He was a good man.
‘Aye, that he is.’
She blinked and realised she’d said the words out loud.
‘The public are invited to drop in during business hours to see the artists at work and to buy what they’ve made. You won’t be disturbing anyone if you go up there. They’re a lovely bunch, always up for a natter.’
It was obvious that Mrs Brown was proud of the initiative and Liv didn’t need any further convincing. She drained her mug and stood. ‘It sounds perfect.’
* * *
Ten minutes later Liv was pushing Jemima’s pram along the neat gravel path that led towards the artists’ co-op. The collection of buildings was located to the north-east of the hall, and as she drew closer she saw that the complex had its own separate entrance from the road and its own small car park, which was already a third full.
She glanced down at Jemima, busily chewing on her teddy bear. ‘This could be fun, Jemmy Jemima Jo-Jo.’
Jemima gurgled her delight and appreciation at Liv’s sing-song silliness.
She’d not had a good dose of arts and crafts in an age. She might not paint herself any more, but it didn’t stop her from admiring the work of others. She regularly frequented the galleries and exhibitions of London to get her fill, by proxy, of creativity, artistic endeavour and beauty. It replenished her in a way that nothing else could.
And as always happened, the closer she drew to the gallery—or in this instance, the artists’ co-op—the lighter she became, as if just being near art freed something inside of her. All her worries temporarily lifted from her shoulders. She glanced up at the sky and smiled. It was almost impossible to cling to her anxiety in the face of such beautiful weather in a rural idyll like this, especially with the promise of such a treat in front of her.
The proverbial cherry on the cake, though, was that she’d been seen coming from ‘the Big House.’ Once it was established that she and Jemima were friends of Mr Sebastian’s, they were welcomed with unstinting warmth that spoke volumes of the high regard Seb was held in by the members of the community here.
The blacksmith and his apprentice snaffled her first to tour their forge in a separate building set slightly apart from the others. They showed her the beautiful cast-iron candlesticks and bookends they made and had proven such a hit with the general public. ‘We’re starting to take orders via our website,’ they told her proudly.
She could’ve stayed there for hours except that the potters bore her off to the main barn building. There she marvelled at decorative glazed tiles and plates, and drooled over the jugs, vases and beer steins. ‘We have a kiln and pottery wheels in a part of the old coach house. It’s ideal.’ She promised to come back if she had time later in the week and try her hand on the pottery wheel.
Between them, the wea
vers and leather workers explained how they paid a nominal rent for their spaces, but that the money wasn’t ploughed back into the estate. Instead it was used to maintain the complex and make any improvements that the members voted on—like the café that was currently under discussion. Liv asked them to put away a woollen shawl and one of the leather-tooled journal covers for her and she’d come back tomorrow with the money. She added a tie-dyed silk scarf in the most amazing colours to her growing list of purchases. ‘It’ll match your hair,’ the dyer laughed.
She moved along to the next studio—a jewellery maker. One glimpse at the wares and Liv came to the crushing conclusion that her own attempts were embarrassingly amateur.
Oh, well. She only did it for fun.
Finally—with the leather worker’s assistance with the pram—she ascended to the mezzanine level to view the paintings and sketches that the three local artists were working on, and the finished artworks they had for sale. Her chest burned when she glanced at an easel complete with a readied canvas just waiting for an artist to start work. But she had no time to brood as Naomi, Helen and Dirk—the artists—introduced themselves.
They fell into an immediate and rapt conversation. She quizzed Naomi on her use of light and shade, fascinated with the effects she’d created among sun-dappled leaves and mist-shrouded tree trunks in her woodland collection of paintings. She and Dirk then became engrossed in a discussion about structure and perspective. With Helen it was modernism and her bold choice of colours that they analysed. It left her feeling alternatively breathless and invigorated. She hadn’t felt this alive in...years!
‘C’mon, then.’ Helen held out a sketchpad with a grin.
Liv crashed back to reality. ‘I...’ She swallowed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t give us that,’ Dirk chided. ‘It’s obvious you’re an artist too. You’ve an artist’s eye, not to mention an artist’s vocabulary.’
‘I... I just love art.’ At their raised eyebrows, she gave up. ‘I don’t paint any more.’ Her heart thumped with bruising power as she said the words.
The three artists exchanged glances. Helen swung back. ‘You don’t have to paint.’ And then she frogmarched Liv to a stool and set the sketchpad on an easel in front of her.
A Baby in His In-Tray Page 9
