by Lisa Bingham
Smee hovered like an eager parent, waiting for the slightest sign of renewed fear, as if he thought she would display poor judgment and faint without the benefit of someone to catch her. Stiffening her spine, Chelsea summoned her best governess’s mien lest these men divine even a portion of her previous wicked thoughts.
“No, Greyson, I’m fine.”
“We thought we heard a scream,” Smee murmured, offering her a worried look.
“I heard it, too.” Her eyes skipped from the tall, somber butler to his cherubic companion.
“Master Richard?” Greyson intoned.
“I checked on him when I heard the cries. He’s still sleeping.”
Greyson offered a thoughtful “Mmm,” then added, “Perhaps Smee and I should inspect the grounds.”
Chelsea searched the mullion windows set in the thick wall at the end of the corridor. For the first time, the sparkling glass and the delicate lace curtains made her feel incredibly vulnerable. She felt as if anyone could be watching them. Gusts of wind caused the panes to rattle slightly. Distant streaks of lightning warned of an impending storm. “Wait until morning, Mr. Greyson, Mr. Smee. I’m sure it was nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Very well, miss.”
“Goodnight, then.” Lifting the trailing hems of her gown, she disappeared into her bedchamber, leaving the two men alone.
“What do you suppose made the sounds?” Smee breathed.
“Don’t you mean who?”
“A man?”
“Nigel, Lord Sutherland, resides not far away. In my opinion, that in itself bodes little good. No doubt, the sounds were a result of one of his more … private forms of entertainment.” Greyson shifted, shaking away his gloomy expression. He motioned for Smee to follow him into the nursery. “You’re sure he drank the tea?”
“Every last drop.”
“Fine. The sleeping draft should have done the trick.” The two men crept into the master’s room with the stealth of a pair of criminals. “Did you bring the measuring tape?”
“Yes.”
“Give here.”
Smee slapped the tailor’s twill into Greyson’s hand, then took out a small notebook and a stub of a pencil. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Greyson cautiously approached the sleeping form.
“I feel quite guilty, you know, drugging him like this so soon after he’s gathered his wits,” Smee whispered.
“It’s only for the night.”
“I know that, Greyson, but …”
Greyson peered at him from beneath bushy brows. “We must do whatever is best for Richard, the dowager, and our own Miss Chelsea.”
“Yes, Greyson.”
Greyson lifted the sleeping man’s wrist, then let go. It dropped limply, whacking against the bed frame in a manner that made both servants wince. But the savage didn’t stir. Immediately, Greyson began to take the supine figure’s measurements, calling them out like a costumer’s assistant while Smee copied them down.
Then the two men covered the Sutherland heir with the bed linens and withdrew. While they tiptoed down the corridor, the butler inquired, “Have you finished blacking the horses?”
“Yes, Greyson.”
“And pressed the costumes?”
“Yes, Greyson.”
“Fine.” His square jaw became implacably firm. “Come Saturday, we’ll ride.”
The huge house echoed with an eerie, post-celebratory silence. If Nigel, Lord Sutherland, were to close his eyes, he could almost hear the faint murmur of voices, the ebb and fall of laughter, and the silver-toned glissandos of the long-forgotten band.
The party had been a huge success, his wife was delighted, his guests impressed. But Nigel didn’t think of that now. He couldn’t escape the hollowness that threatened to consume him, the restless tension.
Taking another huge gulp of the brandy, he drank straight from the bottle, not even flinching when the liquid splashed onto his shirtfront. Wiping his lips, he glared at the portrait over his desk and tried to tamp down the burning fury that mixed with the liquor in his stomach.
“You should be in bed.”
The voice melted from the shadows. Turning, Sutherland confronted the slender frame of his secretary. For once, Reginald Wilde was not impeccably groomed. He had abandoned his jacket. His shirt had come untucked from his breeches on one side, his cuffs were unbuttoned and hanging loose around his wrists, and gilded chest hair winked from the strip of skin exposed between the open edges of linen. The legs of his fawn-colored riding breeches were mud-spattered.
“Our guests?” Nigel asked, not moving from where he slouched on the settee.
“They … departed. I arranged for them to be sent to a far better place soon after you left the mines,” Reginald carelessly answered. Striding across the room, he opened the windows and flung the shutters outward, allowing the muggy breeze and the faint trails of washed lightning to spill into the stuffy room.
Quiet reigned for only a few seconds before Nigel slapped the sofa and shouted, “Damn her! Damn her all to bloody hell! She is responsible for this mess. Biddy never would have done such a thing on her own.”
“You have to admire her spirit.”
“No. I damn well … do … not!” But as his words reverberated around him, Nigel confronted the sliver of profile from the painted portrait. His lie hung in the rain-laden air. Little more than a decade ago, he had been drawn to Chelsea Wickersham because of that very thing. Her spirit.
He sprang from his seat and stalked toward the portrait. Grasping the letter opener from the blotter, Nigel circled the desk and lifted the blade to trace the painted curve of her shoulder, the delicate indentation of her spine. The action was a telling threatening caress, vividly conveying that he had once explored those same dips and hollows with his own hands.
“Damn it! Find … her!” Whirling, he stabbed the blade, tip first, into the exquisite wood of his desk, then stormed from the room and slammed the door.
The embedded weapon swayed from side to side. To the man who remained, it represented a symbolic sort of metronome, measuring what little time remained before Nigel Sutherland would have to confront his past, his rival …
His obsession.
At that moment, Reginald decided that he would wait until morning to impart his news: that just before the bodies of their uninvited guests had been tossed into the mines, one of them had summoned enough strength to mutter a single word.
Bellemoore.
Chelsea spent the next two weeks with her charge, trying to find some core of civilization in his makeup. Instead of breaking through to the well-behaved man she felt sure lingered underneath, she found that he was even more uncouth than she had ever dreamed possible.
On their first outing together, she sent Smee and Greyson to serve as guards on the hill and took Richard on a walk through the gardens. Within minutes, he had evaded her completely. She’d found him hours later, perched asleep on the bow of a tree.
After that, she kept him locked in the nursery and tried to read to him. He countered her measures by prowling the room like a caged beast until she thought she would scream.
Nearly a fortnight passed, and Chelsea grew determined to forge ahead in some small way, so she gave Richard full rein of the house, hoping he would explore and begin to come to terms with his new life. Rather than taking advantage of his freedom, he dogged her every step while Chelsea tended to the front rose patch. Needing to give herself a little room to breathe, she had provided him with a pair of shears to help. Minutes later, two of Biddy’s favorite bushes were unrecognizable save for the shorn blooms and branches scattered on the path.
In the following few days, she found that any attempts at formal lessons were of no use. She simply tried to fill his time. But, like a mischievous toddler, he seemed bent upon clinging to her one minute and driving her insane with worry the next.
Stewing the whole night about what to do, Chelsea decided
that perhaps she was taking this assignment from the wrong tack. Richard Sutherland needed to know that he wasn’t a barbarian but a gentleman. For that, he must look like one.
What Chelsea hated to admit was that her actions would benefit her own cause as well. Perhaps by taming his appearance, she could tame her thoughts. She didn’t know why he continued to fascinate her. Was it because he was in essence a savage? Because he reminded her of urges better left forgotten?
Or because he was forbidden to her?
“Greyson? Smee?” Stepping into the empty kitchen, Chelsea frowned. She had counted on having the two men help her with her task, but since Saturday tended to be a day of last-minute chores, they seemed to be off on their own private errands, leaving her completely alone in the house with her charge.
Alone.
Reluctantly, she climbed the back steps and opened the nursery door. Richard lay sprawled on the bed, his back propped against a mound of pillows. His long legs crowded the narrow bedstead. She was thankful he wore his borrowed clothing, but the buttons of his shirt had not been fastened, leaving a too-healthy strip of bronzed flesh to her view. The picture book he held was clearly upside down, but he didn’t bother to right it.
“Master Richard?”
He lazily turned his head to acknowledge he’d heard her but made no effort to rise. Leisurely, he surveyed every inch of her body, making her overtly aware that she had chosen her most staid, unflattering gown and all-encompassing apron.
“Come with me, please.”
He didn’t stir.
Blast. Chelsea did not want to go in. When they shared the same space, the very air seemed to crackle. Her skin became sensitive, her commands scattered.
“Master Richard, come here.”
Still he didn’t move.
Drat it all! If he were any other man, she—The thought came to a screeching halt. If he were any other man, she wouldn’t be so conscious of his bare skin, the copper color of his nipples, the dip of his navel.
Disgusted by her own traitorous tendencies, she marched toward the bed. She tugged at his sleeve until he rose with feline grace.
“Come … with … me,” she ordered again. Releasing him, she left the nursery with the sure steps of a military attaché, offering a sigh of relief when she heard him follow.
Not giving him time to change his mind, she led him to the kitchen and gestured for him to take his place on the bench next to the huge oak table. “Sit, please, Master Richard.”
When he didn’t respond, she stifled the urge to huff in impatience. Really, this language barrier was proving to be quite annoying. It wasn’t that Chelsea didn’t sympathize with his plight or have the persistence necessary to break through their problems in communication. There just wasn’t time to be playing these kinds of games.
Panic laced her veins like a black mist. The list of skills Richard needed to master was enormous. The stakes involved were dear—not only to Biddy but to Chelsea as well. If they failed in their endeavors to restore Richard’s inheritance, she didn’t even want to contemplate the consequences.
The dank foreboding threatened to undermine her usual efficiency, but Chelsea stiffened her resolve. She would succeed. She would teach this heathen what he needed to know if it was the last thing she did. Starting today, she intended to attack her campaign head-on.
Of all their goals, his language skills held prior sway. The rest of their plans would fall neatly into place once she and her pupil shared a common tongue. By all the laws of probability, Richard should be nearly as British as she. His parents—providing they had survived during a portion of his childhood—should have taught him at least a portion of their native tongue.
But Chelsea had no idea if that had happened. Richard’s background was vague. Obviously, the portrait they’d been given had been painted many years before. Looking back, she supposed she should have thought of such a possibility. It had always struck Chelsea as odd that Richard Albert and Julie Sutherland had not had a child for twenty years.
Nevertheless, the date Lord and Lady Sutherland had died and left him alone was a mystery. She could only hope that sometime during the last two decades, his parents had taken an active part in his upbringing. If so, it would only be a matter of jarring loose old memories.
But right now there was the matter of his grooming.
Taking his wrist, she pulled him after her, much as she would a recalcitrant little boy. Ignoring the way the bones beneath her grip reminded her that her pupil was far from immature, she forced him to sit down. “Stay.” Much like Biddy’s spaniel, he obeyed.
Sullivan watched as his governess busied herself as if the task she performed was of the utmost importance. Working quickly, she gathered a tea towel from the pantry, a metal basin, and a pair of scissors. Setting them on the table, she withdrew her own metal comb from the pocket of her pinafore and arranged all of the items on the polished oak as if they were soldiers being prepared for war. Using the hem of her apron to protect her hands, she lifted the tea kettle from the rear of the brick and iron stove and filled the basin.
“Today we shall begin working on your appearance, Master Richard,” she informed him after dispensing with the kettle. “Though I’m sure your … er … current fashion sense is suitable for the wilds of your previous home, most Englishmen have a much more … conservative view on such things as mode of dress and hairstyle.”
Sullivan’s eyes narrowed, and in another quick glance he surveyed the comb and scissors. She meant to cut his hair.
The thought filled him with annoyance, then a burst of frustration at having her force her mores upon him without so much as a show of concern. The fact that he supposedly couldn’t understand English registered only a moment. What caught and held his attention was that she intended to shear him like some blasted, pasty-faced fop, when in fact he needed every last shred of savagery at his disposal to keep his enemies off-guard.
Chelsea looked up from her preparations to find that her charge’s eyes suddenly glowed with an inner light. One that made him appear a little dangerous. Summoning most of the inner mettle she could muster, she tried to study him dispassionately, imagining what his broad shoulders would look like when better defined by a tailored jacket and vest. His calves, bare beneath Smee’s breeches, would be more appropriately garbed in well-fitted trousers. With his hair cut and trimmed more closely to his face, he would indeed appear very much like the titled gentleman. If only she could find a way to douse the gleam that had kindled in his eyes.
“First, we must protect your borrowed clothing. Smee was kind enough to loan you his shirt and trousers, so you’ll need to take care of them properly.” Continuing her running monologue, she settled the towel over his shoulders. “After being so gracious, Smee would be most distressed to discover one of his shirts ruined, don’t you think?”
He didn’t answer. Not that she’d thought he would. He watched every move she made, like a hawk trailing a mouse.
“There are many changes that will need to be made over the next few days, Master Richard. Somehow, we’ll have to find a proper wardrobe so that you can accustom yourself to the current styles. In a day or two, we will work on deportment and etiquette. In my experience, even a gentleman without means can convince people otherwise if he can adopt the proper balance of reserve, discretion, and arrogance.” Wryly, she added, “Judging by some of our past encounters, I fail to see a problem in developing your arrogance.”
Arms akimbo, she continued, “Today, we will deal with a few of the simpler things. We will take you into the garden again for a walk and describe some of the flora, then show you the path up to the moors. But first there is the matter of your hair.”
Reluctantly, she fiddled with the lock that habitually spilled over his forehead. Soft. Silky. She hated to cut the waves. The sensual way the tresses hung to the middle of his shoulder-blades had become the source of fantasies, and she had so few left to cling to, she hated to destroy wh
at harmless imaginings remained. But some things had to be done just because they had to be done. Richard Sutherland couldn’t appear in front of the ton looking like a shipwreck survivor.
The shears awaited her command, reminding her of the minutes that ticked past. Chelsea grasped the comb in one hand and the scissors in the other. She was procrastinating. All because of some foolish nonsense that should have been banished long ago.
“Master Richard, I—”
She had no more than said his name before he caught sight of the cutting implement.
“Don’t be afraid. This won’t hurt.”
But when she grasped a large chunk of his hair, he began to struggle.
“Master Richard, please!”
The blades yawned, and she fought Richard’s hold, determined to cut the locks to prove to him that he wouldn’t be harmed. But when he saw the amount of hair she intended to trim, he roared and sprang to his feet.
There was no time to adjust to his instinctive flight. Chest clashed with chest, hip with hip. Chelsea gulped for breath when the force of the impact knocked the air from her lungs. She felt him push her out of the way and lunge to the side.
Dropping the scissors, Chelsea caught one elbow, clinging to him like a burr to a bucking steed.
“Master Richard! Stop this nonsense at once!”
Growling, he tried to disentangle himself. Fearing that she had frightened him, she wrapped both arms around his waist. “Master Richard! Please. We won’t harm you. We promise. Please!”
He stopped, his sudden inactivity jarring her. The realization of the way she held him, her palms cupped intimately around his ribs, crept into her consciousness like a thief. A war of indecision consumed her. One part of her brain demanded that she wrench free, but a corner of her heart whispered that she should stay.
Before she could gather the wherewithal to react, he dragged her tightly against him. At the intimate meshing of their thighs, an instantaneous heat struck her like a bolt of lightning.
His expression had grown dark. But she knew it wasn’t anger that she saw. Whatever fury he might have felt had been driven away by a more primitive, carnal emotion. One that—no matter how thick her veneer of civilization might appear—Chelsea knew she matched, measure for measure.
