by Devon, Eva
He snorted. “And yet you chose to come out in it. That is foolish on your part. It has nothing to do with me,” he proclaimed without sympathy.
“My lord, please, give me admittance,” she nearly begged, though she wouldn’t quite allow herself to stoop to that as of yet. “I am Miss Pippa Post.”
He shook his head, beginning to shut the door again. “I have not had an application from Miss Pippa Post.”
But then he stopped, his cup halfway to his mouth as if he was about to take a long swig. His eyes rounded with astonished disbelief.
He eyed her carefully then. “You’re M. Post?” he blurted with dismay. “I assumed that was an initial for your first name, not the title Miss.”
“Yes.” She gave him a forced, apologetic smile. “Well, I might have forgotten to put that part down and assumed you would think I was a Mister.”
“You assumed correctly,” he growled. “I don’t particularly admire deceit. Some say that is a woman’s art.” He all but stared down his formidable nose at her. “I disagree. Men are just as deceitful. Everyone is. Even so, you don’t have an appointment. Now turn around, Miss Post. Go back to your family. I’m sure they will welcome you with open arms, grateful you have not spent your life in misadventure at my house.”
“No, you must not turn me away,” she insisted, ready to say whatever she must to obtain admittance. “My lord, I am most fascinated by Egyptian artifacts.”
“Yes,” he said, his gaze narrowing, clearly unimpressed by what he seemed to think were her idiotic ramblings. “Mummies and all that. I’m sure you are. Many are,” he added with disgust. “I do not have any time for such speculation.”
“I am a linguist,” she suddenly declared. “My resume is true. Everything I put in is correct. I speak French, German, Latin, and Greek.”
“Do you?” he asked, hesitating for a moment.
“Yes.” She locked gazes with him. “I profess that I do.”
“So do many men. What else does a young lady such as yourself have to recommend herself?”
Her whole body began to vibrate with excitement as she desperately searched for the words to convince him. “I am wonderful at organizing. I have organized my father’s library—”
“Ah, how lovely of you,” he cut in with disdain, unimpressed. “In your free time, you organized your father’s library. I’m so glad you were able to keep yourself amused. I do agree with you that embroidery must be rather tedious. Still, I am not interested in the amateur antics of a young lady. I do not have time for such things.”
And he began to shut the door.
Pippa thrust her booted foot forward then thrust her traveling case in the way. The case, wedged between the door and frame, stopped her foot from being crushed.
The door was quite large, and he was rather forceful.
“Please,” she exclaimed, panting. “Give me at least a few moments of your time, and I shall prove to you that I am the most capable person for this position.”
The door remained where it was for a moment, and then ever so slowly, it opened up to reveal a perplexed and intrigued and still ridiculously handsome face.
But, indeed, she thought little of that.
After all, she could barely see his handsomeness underneath his dark, rough stubble.
“Hmm,” he said, gazing at her anew. “Come in, then. You do look terribly drenched. I shall give you five minutes, no more. And that shall be an end of it.”
He took a step back. “You look terrible. I suppose you’d like a cup of coffee.”
She wondered how terrible she did, indeed, look for him to make a comment upon it. He likely could have been as drenched as she and inspire Byron to write verse.
“I’ve never had a cup of coffee,” she admitted.
“Pity that,” he said, all but marching away from her.
She knew she had no other recourse but to follow him, and so she did, trailing a puddle behind her.
She did not mention the lakes she was leaving behind her, lest he turn her out of the house again. She would, of course, after she’d obtained the position, ensure that it was mopped up carefully.
His floor was absolutely beautiful. It was so beautiful, she had trouble tearing her gaze from it to follow its equally beautiful owner.
There were no carpets upon the polished wood surface.
She was quite shocked.
It was the most beautiful inlaid wood she had ever seen, with a pattern so complex she nearly gasped.
“What the devil are you staring at?” he demanded, stopping, clearly irritated at her slow pace.
“Your floor,” she replied honestly.
“Yes, it is quite nice. Isn’t it?”
“Nice? Nice is not an appropriate word. It’s a work of art,” she breathed.
“Do you think so?” he asked with deceptive ease. “Why do you think so?”
She resisted the urge to nibble her lower lip as she studied the floor. “I cannot explain it exactly. The patterns, they’re hypnotic.”
“Good, good,” he observed. “That’s a sign of some intelligence.”
“They’re a mathematical complexity, the patterns,” she continued, hardly hearing his faint praise.
“Mathematical?” he said gruffly. “I’m surprised a lady even knows the word.”
That drew her attention back to his absurdly handsome face, and she pursed her lips. “Please, do not be so hard upon my sex. The only reason we are not allowed to persevere in mathematics and sciences is because of men.”
“Ah.” He took another drink of his coffee. “A bluestocking, are you?”
“Yes,” she said, praying he was not entirely against politically independent women. If so, it would bode most ill for her interview. “Does that bother you?”
“No,” he stated. “I don’t care about such things. All I care about is if a person is capable or not. I do accept your protestations that ladies are rather put hard by. Prove to me you are good at mathematics, and I shan’t argue with you.”
“You are oversimplifying things, my lord.”
“Am I, indeed?” he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
And with that, she knew he was trying to get a rise out of her. He knew exactly what she meant about the difficulties for ladies and the fact that society made certain they were not able to succeed in math or science.
And suddenly, she knew he truly was not going to judge her if she was a woman. He was going to judge her if she was capable.
He clearly didn’t particularly believe in the superior capability of one sex.
“Forgive me, my lord,” she began. “But how many men have you interviewed for this post?”
“Thirty-one,” he replied factually. “Now, come along. You’re dripping everywhere.”
Thirty-one, she thought, gobsmacked.
That was a harrowing number of trained male scholars, indeed.
“Well,” she said, deciding to embrace her boldness, “You won’t need to interview any more.”
“We shall see,” he said, without looking back over his shoulder.
“Indeed, you shall,” she agreed.
And with that, she followed him into his office.
Chapter 3
Marcus Drake, Earl of Roxley, stomped into his office, slammed his coffee cup down upon his polished, ancient black-walnut desk that was covered in papers and books.
He whipped around and gazed upon the young woman who’d had the temerity to lie upon her letter seeking employment as his assistant.
The truth was he admired her for it.
He liked someone with a bit of ambition. She clearly had it in spades, but could she live up to what she said she could do? He had his doubts.
She was small, steely, and her dark blue gaze was unyielding. The fact that she looked as if she’d been dragged in from a ditch did her no favors.
But she didn’t cower, tremble, fidget, or divert her gaze from his.
Those items alone were more than he could sa
y for over half of the male applicants he’d interviewed for the position.
So far, not a single man had proven himself able for the position Marcus had in mind. It was damnably annoying.
Why were there so few capable people? And those even slightly capable seemed to quake in his presence.
He couldn’t have people who quaked. They might drop something.
He doubted she would prove any different, though he doubted she could prove worse.
Still, he wasn’t about to send her off without allowing her to have a say for herself. He wasn’t that sort of man. He did not judge people based upon their sex or appearance, but by their actions and abilities.
So far, she’d proven herself to be quite desirous of the position and willing to go to great, and slightly dodgy, lengths to obtain it.
So he began, “You have a wish to organize artifacts.”
She lifted her rather pointy chin. “Indeed, I have, my lord.”
“Call me Roxley,” he said. “I don’t like to be my lorded at all the time.”
“Roxley,” she repeated.
And the way she said his name, as if she was examining it, struck him silent for a moment. It was as if she was savoring the feel of the consonants and vowels upon her tongue, teeth, and lips. . .
He quite liked the sound of his name as she uttered it.
Her voice was most intriguing.
It was efficient, and yet deep, resonating throughout his office in a way very few people had ever managed before.
Most people seemed to go all mouse-ish in his presence, a bloody annoying thing. She didn’t look as if she was capable of such a thing.
He liked the steel of her spine. One might have made some insinuation about Spanish steel, but a parasol frame seemed more apropos.
Begrudgingly, he asked, “Whatever makes you think I would choose you?”
Without hesitation, she declared, “There’s simply no one able to do the job with as much determination or passion as I.”
“Passion,” he echoed, leaning against the edge of his desk as he studied her wiry frame made all too evident by her soaking garments. “Hmm, what do you know of passion?”
“Well, it depends on the kind of passion you are describing,” she said simply. “If you mean passion of the body, very little. But if you mean passion for history, education, learning, and art, I have it to the very core of my bones.”
“Have you, indeed?” he asked, liking her more and more.
He was not surprised she had not known physical passion.
She did not seem to have a carnal bone in her body. Her hair, a glorious red, an unpopular color for the time, hung in tangles over her shoulders. Her face was not bothered by freckles, as so many redheads were, but was quite pale.
That, in itself, was popular for the time, or so he’d been told, but there was a terseness to her expression, as if she was ready to set him down like a schoolmarm, that was most unfashionable.
That was most intriguing to him.
He wondered what she sounded like when putting a fellow into his place, or if she would dare to castigate him.
He rather thought she would.
As a matter of fact, he found himself somewhat looking forward to the opportunity to see her do it. He might hire her just to see if she’d dare.
And then, of course, he’d be rid of her.
“So,” he said. “You’re passionate about history, are you?”
“Yes,” she declared, her eyes lighting up like an acolyte.
“Why ancient Egypt?” he asked. He felt compelled to make the inquiry in his interviews, but he dreaded the replies. Generally, they were asinine and full of romantic, idiotic drivel.
“Because,” she said. “They were first.”
He blinked, uncertain he had heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
“The ancient Egyptians,” she enunciated as if he had a problem with his hearing. “They were first. Without them, the Greeks would not have been able to accomplish what they did.”
Clearly warming to the subject, she carried on, “Then the Romans would not have been capable of doing what they did. And our entire society is based upon the Roman and Greek systems. If the Egyptians inspired them, how can we not pay great attention to their society?”
Marcus stared at her for a long moment, wondering what the devil was happening.
“Who told you that?” he asked cooly.
She frowned, confused. “Did anyone need to? It’s logical, isn’t it?”
“No,” he countered slowly, amazement and curiosity filling him. “It is not logical. I’ve talked to a good many fellows who couldn’t have put those three ideas together if I’d led them to it by the nose.”
“How terrible for you,” she said. “Those interviews must’ve been very tiring.”
He ground his teeth together. “You have no idea.”
Was she who he had been waiting for? He’d begun to believe it was going to be impossible to find anyone who would meet his requirements, and yet. . . She was most intriguing. And intelligent.
She glanced about his office. “I say, where are your servants?”
He blew out a derisive breath. “I sent them away a few days ago. They needed a vacation, in any case.”
“A what?” she asked, consternation creasing her brow.
He cocked his head to the side. “A holiday.”
She blinked rapidly, still obviously confused. “I beg your pardon?”
“A break,” he ground out, fury at the upper-class bubbling up inside him. “Servants need them to, you know?”
“Do they not have them?” she asked with such innocence, he was stunned.
“My God,” he said. “You’re very educated, but you’ve not been allowed to manage a household, have you?”
“No,” she said. “Not at all.”
“Has it never occurred to you,” he explained slowly, “that a servant needs a holiday?”
“Of course it has,” she defended. “We give our servants holidays all the time.”
“Do you?” he drawled, skeptical.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “A half day, every—”
“Listen to yourself,” he ground out, appalled by the way people simply accepted the lives of servants. Perhaps no one had educated Miss Post. He was happy to do so. “A half day? By God, once a month? It’s criminal. I send them all to the seaside for five days every two months. Can’t stand having them about day in and out anyway. The last chit who dusted my office insisted on taking a pot from Luxor and washing it. It was a catastrophe. She had half of the paint destroyed, and I was in the middle of cataloging it.”
She frowned. “I beg your pardon, but isn’t it just as important to keep the artifacts clean?”
“Yes,” he explained. “But in a very particular way. One isn’t supposed to wash them in the kitchen.”
“That does make a good deal of sense,” she said.
He was glad. Most of the people he met seemed to have little sense when it came to ancient things.
“Miss Post,” he warned. “If you plan to come here to wash things in the kitchen, or drop them as is inevitable by sticky-fingered servants, you may turn about now and leave.”
“No, no,” she assured. “I am happy to learn exactly whatever you require in respect to the handling of artifacts.”
“Hmmmmm.” He folded his arms across his chest, trying to make sense of her. “There are many young men who would insist they were more qualified than you.”
“I’m sure they would,” she agreed without offense, “even if they were not.”
Marcus contemplated her, enjoying her self-confidence. A confidence which few gentlemen had. “Hmmmmmm.”
He rather agreed with her bold statement.
He did find ladies usually were quite capable. After all, they ran a good many things without complaining. Men, on the other hand, seemed to whine at every moment and insist they knew best, even when they did not.
He felt compelled to
point out, “I don’t know if you would enjoy working for me.”
Most people couldn’t bear to work for him. People would quit after a few days. Apparently, he could be far too honest.
She grinned. “I don’t particularly care if I enjoy working for you,” she said. “I’m here to learn history, to see the artifacts of the past, to touch the history that has gone by—”
“Yes, yes. Thank you,” he cut in before she could launch herself further into her love of the past, which. . . he shared. “I understand. You have an abiding adoration of the past.”
Her grin transformed into a beatific smile.
It did wonders.
It wasn’t a smile that made her beautiful.
It was simply a smile so clearly in awe of thousands upon thousands of years of humanity’s achievements that he couldn’t help but be moved by it.
It was more enthusiasm for the history that he so admired than he’d seen in hundreds of young men. He almost hired her on the spot for that alone.
But he had to make sure she wasn’t some little miss who was going to run off the first time he swore.
Marcus cleared his throat. “I have a tendency to use inappropriate language.”
“Inappropriate, according to whom?” she inquired.
He shrugged. “Society.”
“Good.” She gave a terse nod of her head. “I don’t fancy society myself.”
“I don’t like the rules of society, either,” he said.
Her eyes shone as if that was exactly what she had hoped he would say. “So I have heard.”
“I don’t like to wear waistcoats. I don’t like to wear frock coats.” What could he say that would throw her? That might indicate she was not for this position, after all. “Sometimes I don’t like to wear shoes.”
“I don’t see that as a particular problem,” she replied, apparently sanguine at the idea of him roaming about half clothed.
“All right, then. I stay up at all hours,” he said.
“I really am not committed to a schedule,” she informed easily. “And if I am to work with you, I am more than happy to be flexible and work within the bounds of your needs.”
