Cheryl Holt (3 page)

He hadn’t shaved, and his cheeks were darkened with stubble. He looked like a dangerous bandit, capable of any nefarious conduct, and a ripple of trepidation swept over her.

Was she dreaming? She was so exhausted, and it was so late. Had she fallen asleep in the parlor?

Discreetly, she pinched her wrist, but the tweak was discernible.

She approached until she was directly in front of him, and though she had a sinking feeling that she’d already gleaned his identity, she queried, “Who are you?”

“I am Michael Farrow, Lord Winchester.”

She winced. “I didn’t mean what I said about Mr. Fitch. He thinks you’re a splendid emp—”

Lord Winchester cut her off with a wave of his hand. “It’s no secret that he loathes me. And with valid reason.”

He scrutinized her, taking a slow and inappropriate journey across her bosom, her tummy, her thighs, and he frowned. “I hate your gown.”

“I’m sorry.” Of her small number of outfits, it was by far the most conservative and unadorned. “I’d thought it would be best for the role I hope to play.”

“What role is that? The virtuous governess?”

“Well . . . yes.”

“I suppose a fantasy could be amusing”—he shrugged—“although I’m not much for games. I fail to grasp how you’ll entice me when you’re attired in gray. Do you know anything about masculine inclinations?”

“Of course,” which was a blatant fib. Her upbringing had been extremely sheltered, her contact with men garnered through her relationships with her father and Reginald.

“I’d advised the interested candidates to wear red.”

“I don’t have any clothes that are red.”

“Miss Barnett, have you any actual experience at this kind of thing?”

“An ample amount.”

“Really?”

“I’m a veritable expert.”

“Surely, you jest.” He raised a skeptical brow.

“I’ve had many previous positions.”

“And were your prior employers
satisfied
with your performance?”

“Each and every time.”

“These references of which you’re so proud”—he chuckled—“would your patrons be anyone with whom I’m acquainted?”

“I’m positive they’re not.” She’d invented the names,
having copied them from gravestones in the Hailsham cemetery.

“Good. I detest having to share my intimate associations with friends.”

Rising, he uncurled from his chair and closed the distance between them. He was so near that his feet slipped under the hem of her skirt, his legs tangling with her own. He towered over her, and as she peered up at him, she felt giddy and wild, and she speculated as to what he intended, but she couldn’t begin to guess. She’d never met another quite like him.

At the placement agency, there’d been some vague remarks as to his being odd, as to his having irregular habits—hence an interview in the dead of night—but Emily had assumed they’d meant
odd
in a normal way, that he let his dogs run in the mansion, or that he smoked cigars at the table.

None of the ambiguous caveats had prepared her for the reality.

She’d never had a beau, so she hadn’t realized that standing next to an adult male could be so invigorating. Her senses reeled; her mind whirred; her pulse hammered with excitement. It was so thrilling to be sequestered with him, to be thrown together in such an unusual setting. She could feel the heat emanating from his skin, could smell the soap with which he’d bathed. There was another scent, too, that was earthy and alluring, and she suspected it was his very essence.

She had the strangest urge to reach out and rest her palm on his chest, and the notion was so bizarre, and so out of character, that she was shocked by her whimsy.
Obviously, her inhibitions were lowered, and she had to proceed cautiously.

“You don’t seem the type who would want to do this,” he was commenting.

“Oh, I absolutely am,” she insisted.

“You’d have to be available at all hours. There’s no telling when I might demand your services.”

“I’m not afraid of hard work.”

“You’d have to do whatever I ask.”

“That goes without saying.”

“I have some very specific tastes,” he asserted.

“Which I’m happy to accommodate.”

“How much would you seek as remuneration?”

“Not much. Just enough to pay my bills.”

“What?” He was greatly surprised. “No pretty baubles? No gowns from Paris? No house in Mayfair? No private box at the theater?”

For a governess?
What peculiar requirements! The other applicants had to be incredibly avaricious. He was wealthy, so perhaps they anticipated they could take advantage of him, or perhaps standards were different in London.

“That would be preposterous. I have very simple needs.”

“Ah . . . a thrifty and generous soul. How refreshing.”

“What about the girls?” She was curious as to the two orphans who’d been delivered into his care. One was sixteen, and the other nine.

As if he wasn’t aware to whom she alluded, he was confused. “What girls?”

“Your new wards.”

“My wards? Why would you inquire about them?”

“Would you permit me to meet them, so you can decide if we’re compatible?”

Mystified, he assessed her; then he vigorously shook his head. “There’s no reason for the three of you to be introduced.”

She was crushed. Apparently, she hadn’t won the post. How had she disappointed him? With her looks? Her clothes? Her mannerisms? Her . . . her . . . getting drunk on the punch?

She was so distraught that she worried she might burst into tears. Couldn’t she succeed at any task? If she couldn’t secure a mere job of governess, what would become of Mary and Rose?

He leaned nearer, as she tipped back, which caused her to lose her balance. Her knees were wobbly, her stomach queasy, and she swayed precariously. She was so fatigued, and it would be so marvelous to rest for a while.

He steadied her, latching onto her waist, her hip. “Are you all right?”

“I’m a bit discomfited by the punch,” she admitted.

“You definitely are.”

“I should go.”

The prospect saddened her. Once she departed, she’d never see him again. These few brief minutes were some of the most exhilarating she’d ever spent with another human being.

“I don’t think you should,” he said, granting her a reprieve. “Not yet anyway.”

He was caressing her arm, massaging the soft section above her elbow. The action made it difficult to concentrate, difficult to focus.

“But . . . but . . . it doesn’t appear that I’m the person for whom you’re searching.”

“I disagree. You might be precisely what I need.”

Her knees gave out, and he responded immediately, scooping her up so she wouldn’t collapse onto the rug.

She was cradled to his chest, and she suffered from an astonishing and capricious impulse to kiss him, which made her conjecture as to whether the punch had addled her. She’d never been kissed before, had never given the deed much thought, but suddenly, it was an endeavor she’d very much like to try. He was staring, too, as if he was considering the same.

Surely, he wasn’t a knave who cavorted with his servants. Or was he? The chamber was so dissolutely festooned, the atmosphere so hedonistic, that she had to ponder the possibility of a wicked scheme.

Was he in the habit of luring unsuspecting females into his web by using employment as bait?

She scoffed. No one could be that depraved.

She gazed at him, probing for signs of evil or deceit, but she sensed no treachery. She’d always been a fair judge of character, and she was persuaded that he had a noble heart—despite the image he projected to the world—but how she could be so certain of his stellar traits was a puzzle she was too muddled to solve.

“I hate to impose,” she told him, “but could I lie down for a moment? I’m awfully tired.”

“An excellent idea. How about if I join you?” He grinned, a dimple creasing his cheek, his blue, blue eyes twinkling with mischief.

“My goodness, no. I’ll catch my breath; then I’ll be on my way. I promise.”

“There’s no hurry,” he declared. “Take your time.”

He moved them behind another curtain and deposited her on a luxurious sofa. As if she were a princess, he tucked a pillow under her head, and arranged a knitted throw over her torso; then he seated himself next to her.

“You’re so pretty,” he claimed, tracing a finger across her lips.

No man had ever uttered an endearment to her, and though it was wrong for him to have said it, she soared with elation. What a vain creature she was!

“You’re a scoundrel,” she scolded.

“As I’ve been informed. On many occasions.”

“I like you anyway. In fact, I believe I’m in love with you.”

He laughed. “You are, are you?”

“Yes.” Why was he so merry? Was she being funny? She was so mixed-up!

“But how could you know so soon?”

“I make up my mind about people very quickly.”

“I can tell.” He adjusted the blanket. “Have your nap, my sweet Miss Barnett; then we’ll see you safely home.”

“But what about the position? Did I get it?”

“It’s not appropriate for you.”

“Please . . . I . . .”

“Hush. We’ll talk about it later.”

He brushed his hand over her eyes, so that they drifted shut, and she swiftly slipped into oblivion, but as she floated away, it seemed as if he kissed her—directly on the mouth—although it might have been a dream.

 2 

Smiling and stretching, Emily stirred. She was warm, cozy, and she wakened slowly, yet as consciousness dawned, she froze and panicked as she tried to recall where she was.

Realization struck with a vengeance.

She was on the sofa where Lord Winchester had placed her, but how long had she lain, oblivious and unaware?

Listening for movement, for voices, she cocked an ear. The only discernible sound was a clock’s ticking, but she couldn’t see the clock, so it offered no help or reassurance. What time was it? The drapes were pulled, the gauze curtains blocking any light, so it might have been any hour. Was she alone? Had she been left to rest and recover what little dignity she had remaining?

As she lurched to a sitting position, her head pounded with such a violent ache that she worried the top might blow off, and she flopped down onto the pillow. Her stomach roiled, her mouth was dry as dust, and at that instant, she’d have killed for a glass of water.

A flurry of memories assaulted her. It seemed as if she’d flirted with Winchester, had perhaps even babbled that she loved him, and she shuddered with dread. Was it possible? How thoroughly had she embarrassed herself?

She had to escape with the minimal amount of humiliation. If she was lucky—which she hadn’t been so far—she’d sneak out without encountering anyone. If she had the horrid misfortune of stumbling upon Mr. Fitch or Winchester, she couldn’t conceive of what she should say. There was no way to muster any aplomb.

Ignoring her nausea, she stood and took a faltering step, then another, when feminine laughter stopped her in her tracks. It was an alluring titter that emanated from the direction of Winchester’s fancy throne.

Oh gad! A woman was in the room. What were the chances? Couldn’t anything go right?

She needed to learn what was happening so that she could plot her exit and slip away undetected. On tiptoe, she went to the curtain and peered around the edge.

The woman was buxom, shapely, with blond locks curling to her hips. She was attired in a silky red robe, and as Emily spied on her, she slithered out of it. From the waist up, she was naked, her breasts exposed, her nipples jutting out. Her bottom was outlined in a pair of frilly drawers that dropped below her knees, her calves covered in lace stockings, her dainty feet balanced on spiky heels.

Emily was transfixed by the sight. She hadn’t known that a female might prance about in the nude. Nor had she grasped that there were such outrageous undergarments in existence. She hadn’t thought that unmentionables had any purpose beyond modesty and functionality.

She couldn’t quit staring.

The woman was sipping on a glass of wine, and she dipped her finger into the liquid and dabbed some onto her nipple. Emily was so shocked that, lest she gasp aloud, she clapped a hand over her mouth.