He was almost to the staircase before he caught Marie-Elaine’s mutinous retort. “You have to write Lord Wickbury as a hero. And if he loses that perfidious lady because he stands up for what is right, then I say good riddance to the little baggage.”
Samuel knocked at the door of the sitting room that adjoined her bedchamber. For several moments Lily did not move from the couch. He must have seen her in the gallery. Too bad she had not been able to see what he was up to. Or perhaps she didn’t want to know. In any event, Lily was not accustomed to receiving male visitors in her room, although it had been customary in previous centuries, when merchants displayed their wares to the lady of the house as she sipped chocolate or listened to her maid recite the day’s itinerary.
But courtesans also received gentlemen in the bedrooms owned or taken on lease by their providers.
She rose in reluctance and walked to the door, not knowing what else she could do. This was not a housekeeper’s bedroom. Clearly he expected more. But what? How much was she prepared to give? She opened the door, pondering this, and blinked in astonishment.
She was prepared for an indecent proposal but not for the duke in loose shirttails and an unbuckled sword belt riding low on his lean hips. At least that explained the disturbance she had heard from below, if not the lady’s cry of distress. It appeared he had been fencing before an audience.
“Your Grace,” she said awkwardly, feeling an unfair stab of resentment for having played into the hands of a man so beautifully designed that to stare upon him addled her wits.
“May I come in?”
“It is your house.”
He smiled fleetingly. Lily stood unmoving as he shut the door behind him. His house. His housekeeper.
“Is the room to your liking?” he asked, studying the furniture as if he had never seen it before.
She frowned reflectively. “It isn’t what I expected for my position.”
“The housekeeper’s parlor is downstairs.” He pivoted. “Miss Boscastle—”
“You might have revealed who you were when I applied for this post, Your Grace,” she said, her temper flaring. “I would have appreciated being forewarned that we had met before.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do you know how many prospective housekeepers my overworked solicitor would have to interview were it known that a duke sought their services? I’d have unmarried ladies and their mothers offering two housekeepers for the price of one.”
She walked him back toward the chaise. “Not to mention the number of disillusioned gentlewomen in the market for a deceitful cad.”
“I deserved that.”
“I am a desperate woman, Your Grace. Do not underestimate me because of it. Although I have been labeled a lunatic, I understand perfectly well what your intentions are toward me.”
His face darkened. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
His eyes searched hers and she felt herself dissolving. Everything she had believed in until now had proven false, and now here this blackguard stood, insisting that she put her trust in him when . . . when he was dressed like one of her Restoration ancestors. Come to think of it, his costume seemed oddly familiar. He reminded her of someone. Yet the name eluded her. Was he on his way to another masquerade?
“I’m happy to give you the year’s wage we agreed upon and have you placed in another house,” he said gravely. “I have trustworthy friends who would welcome you in their employ. My coach, of course, is at your disposal—”
That was too much. “I shall not travel in that horrid vehicle again,” she said, her voice rising. “Furthermore, I trusted your agent and we have a contract. If you break it, I’ll challenge you in . . .”
In court? In perdition?
The rueful awareness in his eyes mocked her. They both knew she had few resources at her disposal. Yes, she could return to her family. She had chosen to leave. But for now she would have to accept that she was no longer a lady of any standing. She was a source of distress, of shame, to her parents. That did not mean, however, that she would be trundled back and forth to another house like a damaged package.
“I will see to it personally that you are returned to your family,” he said in a subdued voice.
“I don’t want to go home.” She tried to keep the panic from her voice. He was too perceptive to trick, however.
“Why not?” he asked her softly.
“I would think that a man who went to such lengths to employ a housekeeper would have investigated her background more thoroughly. You must know about the incident.”
He inclined his head, acknowledging the point. “Sit down, please.”
His manner was firm.
She obeyed, wondering who he really was. The brash coachman who had embarrassed her at the inn? The profligate duke who had charmed her in a moonlit garden? She had changed roles, too.
“It is obvious,” he said, seating himself at the other end of the chaise, “that I have written our characters into a corner.”
Lily’s brow lifted at his peculiar choice of words.
“I have embarrassed us both beyond repair,” he added.
She refrained from stating that she could not have agreed more.
“But,” he continued, “that doesn’t mean I won’t try to undo this damage.”
Her throat ached as she looked up into his face. “The damage was done before I came here.”
“What, exactly, happened? I won’t break your confidence, but it’s obvious that you did not suddenly become a housekeeper instead of a bride because it was the better choice.”
She looked down. “In fact, it was.”
“How so?” he prompted gently.
He could have demanded an answer. His London agent should have asked. He wouldn’t believe her side of the story, as much as she was tempted to unburden herself to a person whose intellect and audacity she reluctantly admired. “You must know something of this,” she said, her eyes downcast. “I saw my fiancé murder a man in Piccadilly two weeks before our wedding. It happened in the street, and he shot him with a pistol I didn’t even know he was carrying. I ran for help. The footmen, our driver, and his friend searched the vicinity and found nothing but a stray dog. The entire incident was attributed to my imagination.”
His expression hardened. “Indeed?”
“No one believes me.” She shrugged. “Even my own family wanted me to recant what I said.”
“So, for merely witnessing a crime, they cast you in exile?”
“I chose to leave.” She looked up. “You must have read the papers. Your timing seemed to be providential when it came. It was hardly coincidence, however.”
“I read every word,” he admitted.
She narrowed her gaze in disbelief. “And you still brought me here?”
“An intelligent person doesn’t believe everything that he reads.”
She waited for him to say, However . . . followed by a covert smile and the murmured suggestion that five other persons could not have overlooked a body lying in the street. Nor could a dead man have walked away. But behind Samuel’s impassive stare she sensed that he was giving her confession great consideration.
“Is it possible,” he asked at length, “that he was wounded and fled into an area where he could not be found?”
She shook her head, the memory aching like an unhealed scar. “It is improbable. The man fell and didn’t move again. But, you see, Jonathan and Mr. Kirkham insist he did not exist at all, that I made up the story.”
His eyes held hers. “Are you prone to telling lies?”
“No,” she said, smiling wryly. “But as you’re aware, I am known to be a passionate reader of romantic stories.”
His eyes lit up. “And for that reason alone your word cannot be trusted?”
“Well, I am a woman. That is against my favor in a gentleman’s world.”
“Not necessarily. Some of us are partial to women in need.”
“No one believes me.”
H
e expelled a breath. A shadow of anger crossed his face, becoming an emotion too dark, too forbidding for her to examine. “I, too, have disappointed you.”
“I have walked through my vale of innocence, Your Grace,” she said. “As long as you are not a murderer, then I am in a better position than as the bride of one.”
“That is a dismal recommendation of my character if ever I have heard one. And, believe me, I’ve heard quite a few.”
She lowered her gaze. The intensity of his stare reminded her of how defenseless she really was.
“I brought you here,” he said quietly. “I knew what was said of you. You may stay as long as you like.”
“As your housekeeper?” she challenged.
His lips curled. “That is what we have agreed. I won’t deny that I want you.” He took her hand in his. “But I promise you that the choice will be yours.”
Defenseless, yes. But his touch warned her that he still desired her. Sensuality might be one of her strongest weapons, unless—and it was highly unlikely—she could sweep him off his feet with her housekeeping skills. He was magnetic, persuasive, a devious young duke who would be any courtesan’s dream. It would be hard to resist him. Impossible to deny herself his protection, as she had nowhere else to turn.
She was bound to him for one year. She had agreed to the conditions of a contract she ought to have read. What rights had she given him?
His hand slid from hers, stealing around her waist. His scent was irresistible. It would be easy to submit. If only for a night. She tilted her face to his. She was weary. She was in his power. Her body wanted to be taken, filled, comforted by his.
“Are you in fear for your life?” he asked, his hand stilling. “If you are, then I swear that you’ll find safety in my house.”
A moan broke in her throat. Desire stirred darkly, a low, insistent throb. His concern penetrated her guard. No one had thought to ask her that. No one had believed her, let alone considered what risk she’d incurred by telling the truth. Samuel’s other hand stroked the sweep of curls at her shoulder. He kissed her with lingering attention, their pact not quite sealed, she guessed, until she gave him sexual pleasure.
Would she succumb? Maybe so. What he was doing now brought her unexpected bliss.
His lips burned wicked fire down her throat, then back to her mouth. His breath became a warm enticement, his tongue a brand. She knew what his kisses would lead to. She swayed against him. This was her fate.
It was the truth. The part of her that had grown stronger since her failed engagement felt an inexplicable affinity to this man. A rake or a romantic? A radical or a visionary? Who better to offer refuge to a lady who had fallen into ruin? Whom else to turn to but a man practiced in sin? He drew his hand from her waist.
His lips brushed hers again. “A bargain is a bargain, Lily.”
His low voice enthralled her senses. A promise to possess or to protect? She heard herself answer with a steadiness that belied the wild beating of her heart. She felt a surge of sexuality, a hunger to match his own.
“I will honor our contract, Your Grace.”
His eyes lifted to hers. “I will accept all that you offer and hope for more.”
Chapter 22
Samuel sat down at his desk in utter darkness and crossed his arms behind his neck. Propped against one of the bookshelves at his back sat a dented shield and rusty lance, a reminder that dreams came at a cost. So, apparently, did employing his new housekeeper.
He smiled, reliving his interlude with Lily. She had given him a taunting look when he had gathered the control to release her. On the surface she might have been a coveted mistress who could choose any lover in the land. But Samuel knew how one could hide behind a pose.
He had lived a disguise long enough. And for all her beguiling composure, Lily had struck him as a woman lost and doing the best she could not to fall apart. The subdued emotion in her eyes brought out his protective nature.
The delightful Goose-Girl who had enchanted him in London was gone forever. But the golden princess she was meant to become was a poignant mystery and perhaps a temptation greater than he could resist.
It was clear that his infatuation with her was one-sided, a fact that should have dampened his damnable attraction but did the opposite. She might have lost her way, but he would keep his word and take her under his wing. After all, he would have taken her as his wife.
He needed a woman like her in his life. One who would stand up for what was right.
She was forthright and resilient. She had refused to deny the truth, at the cost of her reputation. If Samuel had not fallen in love with her at the masquerade, he would have done so now. He wished he had been allowed to court her. He would have preferred to romance her until she could not resist him.
Was she less valuable because an alleged gentleman had damaged her? Samuel grunted. Whatever guilt he’d felt for luring her here was dissipating. And for the life of him he would swear that the lady had not, as the rumormongers claimed, lost her mind.
Even if she had, the same had been said of him, and she would fit in well with the other staff.
Heaven willing, in time either her appeal would diminish or she would offer him solace for his sexual needs. He had not touched another woman since the night of the masquerade. The closest he had come to a lady’s bed was in Wickbury’s imaginary world, where Juliette had tendered her virtue to a villain in exchange for that dashing do-gooder’s imperiled life.
He glanced down ruefully at his lap. He was as hard as a standing stone. He couldn’t imagine what Lily must think of a man who hoped to seduce her without the courtesy of removing his sword belt. Which brought up a problem even bigger than that of his lingering erection: his other identity.
The Duke of Gravenhurst had vowed Lily could trust him. He meant it. He would cheerfully draw and quarter any person who gave her cause to cry.
But could Lord Anonymous trust her?
He uncrossed his arms and rubbed his forehead. Samuel needed to write, if only to harness his creative demons before they consumed him. Certainly a duke did not have to make a living by entertaining strangers with his dark imagination. Samuel had been penning lurid stories since the age of seven, when his father had sent him away from home one summer with his aunt in search of a cure for his delicate health.
A boy forbidden to play with other children for fear he would catch his death was bound to seek trouble elsewhere. Samuel had lived on to cause all the trouble he could. His family, unfortunately—with the exception of his older sister—had not survived.
He reached toward the desk for his metallic pen and the ever-present supply of blank paper. He often wrote in the dark, lines intersecting, thoughts overlapping so that the next day most of what he’d gotten down was indecipherable. In ten pages he might salvage a publishable sentence. At times he felt immersed in blessed release. At others venipuncture would have been a preferable occupation.
Sir Renwick drew Juliette into his arms and kissed her like a man drinking from a well after an eternity of drought. From the door Lord Wickbury broke free from his guard. Blood trickled down the side of his mouth. He threw himself between Juliette and his half brother, a hero betrayed. . . .
Samuel stared at his pen. Well, what was the point? He was in no mood for self-discipline, with the scent of the woman he desired still fresh in his mind. Softness. Innocence slowly unraveling. Temptation so intense it raked his nerves like hot needles.
He looked out through the window at the moor, attempting to place fragments of information into a coherent plot. Lily had fled from London to escape marrying a man she claimed was a murderer. The scandal had been quickly hushed, no doubt by the influential if infamous Boscastles. If Samuel had not personally manipulated the press so many times in the past, he would not have believed it possible.
He believed her.
And instead of crafting the first chapter in his next book or finishing the elusive last, he would write a letter to Benjamin Thurber in
London, empowering him to renew all means possible to find out exactly what Lily had witnessed and whether or not Samuel needed to take action to protect her.
Lily woke up before dawn, wondering momentarily where she was. And whether she had awakened from one nightmare to find herself in one unaccountably worse. No. It wasn’t worse. Simply peculiar. She would rather live as a duke’s housekeeper than as a stranger’s wife. She could have landed in a harsher fix. She could have ended up in an asylum, instead of a manor house. Whatever happened at St. Aldwyn House, and no matter what impropriety hid in the shadows, she would at least not bear witness to another murder.
The possibility roused her from her comfortable bed. Someone, and she assumed it had not been the duke, had left on the sitting room chaise a freshly starched apron, a blue muslin dress, a cap, and a circlet of brass keys, along with a map of the west wing. This, she noted, would be her domain—the kitchen, housekeeper’s parlor, physic garden, and certain of the outbuildings. She also noticed that from her bedroom window she could see above the walled rose garden to the hillside graves. She closed the curtains, shivering a little.
She went downstairs and soon found the housekeeper’s parlor, her private office. The pleasantly furnished room contained a desk, armchair, small linen-covered table for meals, a clock, and a locked stillroom for the various elixirs and physics she would dispense. She could only hope to learn what she was doing before anyone fell ill.
She proceeded then to the enormous kitchen, pausing in the passageway to examine a small musty chapel. When she was not supervising suppers, she mused, she would be praying to resist temptation. The kitchen was abuzz when at length she arrived, bright with blazing firelight.
Scullions chopped juicy onions and shallots pulled from the fragrant ropes hanging from the oak-beam ceiling. The butler, Bickerstaff, gave her a distracted nod, and engaged her in brief conversation before disappearing into his pantry to spot-polish silver for a party that he said was planned for the end of the month. He explained that the twin footmen, Emmett and Ernest, shared a room off the kitchen, where they cleaned their uniforms, gossiped about guests, and played an occasional game of leapfrog.
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