by Mary Campisi
“You understand what I’m telling you?” I’m going to produce a paper that will ruin your life.
“Of course, I do.” A charming pink slithered up her neck and settled on her cheeks. “You’re Harold’s nephew.”
“Harold?” Who the hell was Harold?
“He always warned the second he retired, he planned to send his nephew to take over his job in the stables. Of course, Harold did more than muck out stalls. He was quite good with his hands.” She brushed bits of straw from her gown and gave him a questionable once over. “Are you good with your hands?”
Douglas let out a strangled cough. Legions of women sighed over his nimble fingers, begged for the stroke of his hand gliding along their bare skin. He considered offering a demonstration of his abilities, but a quick glance at the shovel which remained in lunging distance, changed his mind. “I am told I am very good.”
Her eyes narrowed the tiniest bit as though she were trying to determine if his response were somehow improper. But then she forced a tight smile and said, “I never really believed Harold when he said he’d send you, and I would have taken you for a different sort, but look, here you are.”
She did not sound at all enthusiastic about the arrival of Harold’s nephew. Or maybe it was Douglas she was not thrilled about. They had gotten off to a rather bad start that would turn disastrous once he divulged the true reason for his presence. All he need do was open his mouth and be done with it. Tell her, you ninny, tell her you’ve come to take what is rightfully yours. But when he spoke, the wrong words fell out. “Yes. Here I am.”
She cocked her head to one side and once again, he was the bug and she, the curious scientist. “I don’t recall mention of a nephew from America.”
“Actually—”
“But perhaps Harold chose not to inform me lest my opinion of you be swayed in a negative fashion.”
The little minx had just insulted him again! He could not resist baiting her. “And has this knowledge swayed your opinion of me?”
“No.”
Well, at least he had not fallen in a rubbish pile.
“Had you arrived directly from the king’s court, I would have formed the same opinion.”
Now she was baiting him. He should leave it alone, but of course, he could not. Lively discourse with a female was quite uncommon and despite her rude comments regarding his intelligence and demeanor, he found her rather entertaining. “And what would that be?”
“I thought you a vagrant.”
Douglas Fontaine, future heir to enough tobacco fields to fill the Thames. Twice. Vagrant indeed. “I assure you, I am not a vagrant.” It was bloody difficult to keep from telling her just who he was. Not yet. Soon.
“Well then.” She cleared her throat, obviously convinced he was or had been a wandering, homeless soul. “Did you arrive afoot?” Her frown increased. “I see no horse.”
Because the Duke of Weatherby had insisted Douglas travel in one of his coaches, and while the conveyance and its driver had long since returned to London, another would arrive in a few days to collect Douglas. Of course, he would not divulge this tidbit of information to the woman.
“I don’t know your name. Harold always referred to you as his nephew.” She crossed her arms over her chest creating two most delightful mounds of fabric. “Though I seem to recall mention of a Simon… Simon Schilling, I believe. Is that correct?”
She leaned forward just so and the fabric stretched tighter. “Yes,” Douglas said. Simon. Sebastian. Samuel. What did it matter?
“I’m Lady Madeline Munrove.” She bowed her head and gave a slight curtsy. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Schilling. I do so look forward to utilizing your services.”
Douglas coughed. Utilizing his services? His services had been utilized by scores of females, but this one was speaking of manual labor. Good God.
“…I’ll have your quarters prepared. There’s a room at the back of the house or if you choose to follow your uncle’s path, you may sleep next to Matilda.”
Matilda? He’d known a few Matilda’s in his day, most were big and hairy and not given to flowery speech. This one proved no exception. She filled a good piece of the stall with her broad chest and broader backside. “Matilda?” he repeated, trying to imagine why any human would sleep next to a cow and why this woman thought it quite normal.
“Is she not a beauty?” Madeline trudged toward the animal in those damnable oversized boots, clearly not her own. And clearly not her husband’s since Douglas was certain she did not possess one of those. He stared at the muddied boots. Could they belong to the cheating swindler who had been fool enough to wager a bet he had no intention of honoring?
No one cheated Douglas Fontaine and the spineless worm who had tried would pay once the men Douglas hired had located him. And the worm would be located. One way or another. The sister was an unexpected diversion. Perhaps he would play along with the whole farce and pretend he was this Simon Schilling chap. What was a week or two as someone else? In six month’s time he’d be someone else entirely. A married man.
“Mr. Schilling? Is something wrong? You’ve gone all pasty.”
He’d promised his dying mother when the time came to wed, he would marry an Englishwoman. Well, his father had decided the time had come and shipped Douglas to England to find a bride and a wedding gift. He had the gift, now all he needed was the bride. Fortunately, his valet was in London interviewing potential candidates and narrowing the list to five, a mathematical extrapolation which should provide a cross section of the finest mates England had to offer. Too many people underestimated the value of scientific calculations in everyday life.
“Mr. Schilling?”
She had the most appealing cleft in her chin. He’d like to run his tongue over it.
“Mr. Schilling?”
And a long neck. Perfect for trailing kisses.
“Mr. Schilling!”
“Lady Madeline! My hearing is quite intact.” He rubbed his right ear and wondered why the beautiful ones could not all be mutes. This one in particular. He would make sure he was a good distance from her when he divulged the real reason for his sudden appearance. At present, he would play the role of Simon Schilling. How difficult could it truly be?
“I’ll write out a list of duties.” She paused and turned the most becoming shade of pink which deepened to dusty rose and spread along a delicious column of neck. “Forgive me for the assumption. Do you read?”
At twelve, he’d devoured Homer. By fifteen, Descartes. “A little.”
The pink subsided and she cast him an apologetic smile. “Good. I shall begin a list.”
A list which included outdoor work. With his hands. He was used to numbers and calculations and theories. Douglas glanced at his palms and tried to imagine them caked with dirt. It was not a welcome thought. The picture proved almost despicable enough for him to end the ruse this moment and admit the truth. But then she turned and he caught a glimpse of her backside—firm, rounded, void of the encumbrance of excessive undergarments.
Perhaps he could get used to a little dirt now and then.
“The stalls are in sore need of mucking. My brother does try but with his poor leg, it is difficult to bend adequately to the job.”
“Poor leg? An accident?” Wonderful. He was about to toss out a woman and her gimp brother.
Madeline’s voice softened like warm taffy. “It happened when he was seven. Gregory fell from a horse and it trampled his leg.” Those blue eyes grew bluer. “My father had the animal shot.”
A woman, a gimp, and a sad story, the latter which would undoubtedly grow sadder once she learned the true nature of Douglas’s presence. “My deepest apologies.” For past and pending losses, of which you have no idea. The damnable woman’s smile grew so bright he had to look away. Guilt had a habit of doing that.
“Why thank you, Mr. Schilling. I apologize for misjudging you earlier.”
“How so?”
She tilted her head and black c
urls danced about that most delectable throat. “I thought you arrogant, vulgar, and I must admit, somewhat dimwitted. ‘Tis obvious you have not been exposed to the gentleman’s way of common courtesy and form or you would not have behaved as you did. Ignorance often makes us behave abominably. I forgive you.”
“You forgive me?” Had she just called him dimwitted? Dimwitted and vulgar? Arrogant did not bother him because he was arrogant, he liked being arrogant, but the other offenses? This little bit of baggage in the indecent gown tromping about in a man’s boots would teach Douglas Fontaine, the wealthiest, most educated, most desired bachelor in Virginia, about conduct becoming a gentleman? So that he might aspire to elevate his station? To what? Butler? If only his friends could hear this, they would roll on the ground howling, manure and all.
“Yes, Mr. Schilling, I forgive you.” She nodded and those damnable curls brushed across her breasts in a delicious dance. “If you like, I will offer my assistance and with proper tutelage you might elevate your station to employ within a lord’s home one day.”
Douglas stretched his lips into a smile and raked his gaze over the woman standing before him as though she had just offered him a free pass from Newgate. “I very much look forward to your tutelage and with your careful guidance, mayhap one day I may rise to the position of butler, or if truly fortunate, valet.”
The witch had the audacity to cast him a doubtful look. “I was thinking you might be more suited to carpet beating.”
Chapter 3
Madeline kicked off Weston’s boots and entered Lingionine through the back entrance making note of the broken latch on the gate, the missing hook, and the chipped paint. Oh, but Mr. Schilling would be a busy man. Perhaps she should have discussed payment terms but from the looks of him, he would be fortunate to have a decent bed and a bath. Besides, Mrs. Fowler made the most scrumptious beef stew this side of Cornwall and a man of his size must possess a ravenous appetite. Of course, there was one other factor to consider—Madeline had no funds.
The lack of coin was not a new problem. She had been a mere eight years old when the family packed up the residence in the city and moved to their country home. She had wondered why she could not take along the piano she favored so, or the desk and chair where she practiced her letters. Her father pacified her with promises of a pony. Her very own pony! Oh, but she would have moved to the Americas for such a gift.
Sir Galahad arrived on a spring afternoon and stayed just long enough for Madeline to lose her heart to him. Then one morning he was gone. Her father claimed the animal lost his footing in the nearby hills and had to be put down. Years later, she learned the truth. Jonathan Munrove’s passion for exotic, continuous travel far outweighed his duty to family and thus her beloved Sir Galahad had gone to pay for his trip to the Orient. She later learned her piano and desk had helped finance a Moroccan excursion…
If not for her mother’s skill at bartering and quickness with numbers, they might well have ended up in debtor’s prison. Jessica Munrove took over the household finances and taught Madeline about ledgers and the art of negotiating everything. She cut the staff by half, closed off rooms to save on heat and cleaning, planted her own herb garden which she bartered for butter, flour, and bolts of fabric, and replaced meats with vegetables and soups to carry them through the winter months. Though her mother never voiced a word, her message to Madeline spoke loud and true—a woman must rely on herself.
Logic, dependability, efficiency—they would aid a woman through all manner of difficult times. They were everything her father was not. Unfortunately, Weston became a miniature of his father which placed the debt of the household squarely on Madeline’s shoulders. At eighteen, she had a choice to lessen the financial burden through marriage and forfeit all manner of personal freedom.
She could not do it. The very thought of giving up her independence of thought, action, and speech, made her ill. She devised a plan and struck a deal with Weston. He would assist in making her a most undesirable catch, utilizing subterfuge and a good deal of lies, and in return, she would continue to run the family household, granting him the freedom to gallivant at will.
Only now, Weston had been gone longer than usual and Madeline had opened up her doors to three fugitives. Well, perhaps, not exactly fugitives, but certainly persons of interest whose whereabouts were unknown.
While the issue of coin shortage had been seemingly answered, there was a problem. The coin, or as it were, jewels, were stolen. At the moment, the great stash rested in Madeline’s top dresser drawer, beneath her unmentionables. She would figure out a solution for she could not very well trade illegally gotten diamonds and rubies. Such a bold act would lead authorities straight to the thief, and Madeline had grown quite fond of Regina Stockingham. The girl might possess light fingers and a wicked tongue, but given the choice of selling her body or pilfering the ton’s pockets, Madeline would have done the same. Regina Stockingham might be the by-blow of an earl, but upon her mother’s death, she’d had two choices; take her mother’s place at the bordello or become a pickpocket.
Madeline spotted the little thief stuffing a wedge of lemon cake in her mouth. If only she would subscribe to the value of a fork. And a gown on occasion instead of Weston’s old breeches.
“Madeline? Why such a grin?”
Mr. Schilling’s rather large body came to mind. He could do much with those broad shoulders and muscled thighs. Hauling. Pounding. Pumping. “I’ve found a man for us.”
“What?” From across the room, Lady Annabelle Berrington’s head darted up from her sewing. “There’s a man about? Is he near? Goodness, do you think he’s one of Gerald’s men?”
Poor Annabelle. She had suffered a dreadful marriage to the Earl of Lacroste, riddled with black eyes, swollen cheeks, and a broken nose. Thankfully, the horrid man had a fit of apoplexy after one of his pummeling episodes and keeled over dead. A bleeding and disheveled Annabelle climbed out the library window and escaped her residence on horseback. Two days’ ride brought the exhausted woman to Madeline’s doorstep where she had refused to step out of door for the first week and jumped at every manner of sound. As for an affiliation with the male species, well, the poor thing would sooner dive into a pile of rubbish than speak with a man. “No worries, Annabelle. It’s Mr. Schilling’s nephew. He’s come to help us.” Madeline hazarded a reassuring smile at the fearful woman. “None too soon either. We’ve much to do before winter sets in.”
“He just appeared? From where?” Annabelle crouched low as though the man might spring through the door and swat her out of the chair.
“It’s quite all right. I found him napping in the barn.” Sprawled out like a giant. Covered in muscles. She did not mention the part about conking him with the shovel or how his very large body ended up on top of her.
Annabelle worried her lower lip. “Are you certain he is who he says?” Six weeks and the poor thing still believed her dead husband’s family would locate her and drag her back to his home where she would be forced to properly grieve the beast’s death. Into eternity.
Madeline would load Gregory’s pistol and lodge a bullet in the center of anyone’s belly who tried to harm Annabelle. “He’s Harold’s nephew. I’m certain of it.” Though she had thought the man would be thin and wiry like Harold. And more talkative. And friendlier. And not so hairy. Or…
“Madeline!”
Sarah Jennings rushed into the drawing room, her usual rosy face whiter than Mrs. Fowler’s dinner rolls. “There’s a man outside who looks like Lucien.”
In the five weeks she’d been at Lingionine, Sarah talked of little else but her hero, the handsome, intelligent, wonderful Lucien Chadwick, second son of the Earl of Wyndhaven. Rubbish. Seducing and abandoning a vicar’s daughter was cowardice, even if Sarah believed he meant to return. No worries. The instant Reverend Walter Jennings learned his daughter carried a babe in her belly, he hung a black wreath on the door and announced her untimely death.
Sarah thought Simon Sc
hilling resembled a nobleman? Hardly.
“The bloke thinks you’re dead,” Regina chimed in, wiping her hands on the back of her breeches. “He won’t be looking for you anywhere but the cemetery.”
Regina might be given to spurts of outspokenness but she had a point.
“I will never stop believing Lucien will find me and we shall be together.” Sarah rubbed her large belly and whispered, “And he shall meet his son.”
“Or daughter,” Regina added.
Sarah moved to the mullioned window and gazed out. “Madeline, who is he?”
“Mr. Schilling’s nephew, Simon. I rather think he’ll prove quite helpful over the next several weeks. Of course, we’ll have to write specific lists for him. He says he can read but I’m not certain I believe him. Even so, we’re securing him for his brawn rather than his—” She stopped and stared. Brawn indeed. Mr. Schilling had removed his shirt and stood next to the trough splashing water on his face, his chest, his belly…Good Lord. Her belly tingled at the sight in a most disconcerting manner as though a swirl of butterflies had been let loose.
“If we liked men, we might keep him.” Regina slid a glance at Madeline and added, “For experimental purposes.”
“I’ll never love another man,” Sarah vowed, her hands resting on her belly as a token of affection for her lover.
Why did women grow soft and dimwitted when it came to a man? She supposed they had their purpose, but the negative attributes such as arrogance, selfishness, and disregard, far outweighed the benefits. Which were what exactly? Forcing a woman into all manner of base acts and humiliation so he might take his pleasure, ensuring her none? Planting a baby in her belly so she might stretch to unnatural proportions, and suffer changes of mood and demeanor only to be later forced to purge the child by means of screams, pushes, and blood? Which could kill her? Or leave her seriously maimed? Only to watch said husband take a mistress when he tired of her?
