Authors: Tiffany Clare
“Thank you,” she said weakly, her heated face pressed into his finely made wool jacket.
His cologne was subtle and masculine with undertones of amber and citrus. She inhaled
the scent deeper, wanting that comforting smell to wrap around her, wishing it would
let her forget just how her day had unfolded.
Instead of releasing her when they were away from the road, he continued walking up
the slight incline of the grassy field. A flush washed over her face as she stuttered
for words of admonishment that anyone might see this gentleman carrying a poor, injured
woman in his arms. She didn’t actually want him to put her down, but common decency
demanded it of her.
Gazing at the face under his well-made top hat stopped any further protestations.
She dropped her gaze and stared at his striped necktie tucked neatly into a charcoal
vest.
“You need not carry me. I can find my way,” she said, but her request lacked any conviction.
The sun shone through the clouds once more, shining directly in her eyes and allowing
her to pull away from the power that radiated from his gaze.
His short, close-clipped beard emphasized the strong line of his jaw. Black hair fanned
out a little under his hat, longer than fashionable, but suiting to the rough edge
this man carried.
She could tell that his mouth, though pinched, was full, the bow on top well defined.
The type of lips young ladies tittered and wrote poems about.
“I just witnessed you hike up your skirts well past your shins to run across one of
the busiest streets in London.” His voice was gruff, with a sensual quality that warmed
her right to the very core.
Just as she thought her blush couldn’t get worse, she felt her ears burning from the
blunt observation of what he’d witnessed.
Amelia cleared her throat, realizing she’d been staring at him too long. “I am sorry
you had to witness that.”
He settled her down on a slated wood bench under the shade of an ancient burled oak
tree. “It’s arguable that you did that in a careful manner,” he said.
The gentleman removed his leather gloves, set them on the bench beside her, and went
down on his knees to stretch out her foot to look at the injury she’d done herself.
She tucked her feet under the bench, away from his searching hands. They were in the
open, and anyone could see his familiarity. “I only need to rest a minute. I wish
I could repay you for your troubles, but I have nothing of value . . . ”
When he looked at her—really looked at her—she was struck speechless by the sincerity
of his regard. His eyes were gray like flint and as hard as steel.
Unusual and beautiful
, she thought. But it wasn’t the color that had her at a loss for words. It was the
intensity behind his gaze that made her feel that she was the only person in the world
he was focused on; almost like nothing but the two of them existed on this tiny patch
of grass in the middle of the bustling city.
This perfect man before her, who clearly didn’t have to worry about putting a roof
over his head or bread on the table, held a maelstrom of emotions in his cool, assessing
gaze. She trusted what she saw in his eyes, trusted a man for the first time in she
didn’t know how long.
She wanted to reach toward his face but grasped the edge of the bench tightly instead.
Just how dire her situation was hit her so hard, she swayed where she sat. Her money
was gone, her only picture of her parents taken with it.
And then she cried.
She didn’t mean to. She didn’t even think she had the energy left for such an outpouring.
But she couldn’t stop now that the dam had broken on her emotions. Histrionics didn’t
seem to put her rescuer off, because he only huffed a helpless breath and waited for
her to calm herself, which she tried to do in great gulping breaths.
“Let me get you to a doctor.” His voice was deep and commanding. He would never have
to raise his voice to draw the attention of those around him. It was the kind of voice
to which one was naturally drawn, and it stirred something deep inside her.
She shook her head at his offer.
She needed to loosen whatever spell he had over her.
She felt the command of his stare but did not turn her face up to his again.
“Let me see you to a doctor to ensure it is nothing more than a turned ankle,” he
offered, his voice full of sincerity.
She shook her head again. She tried to explain about the agency, but none of what
she said came out coherently, and her tears fell harder.
Before she could attempt saying anything more, her rescuer lifted her in his arms
once again and strode toward the street.
B
loody women. Why did they have to cry?
Nick called a carriage over to the curb, the inconsolable woman tucked tightly against
his chest. Her sobs calmed only slightly after what felt like forever. He couldn’t
complain about holding on to her, though; she had curves in all the right places,
and his hand squeezed a little tighter than needed around her ribs. He was an ass,
but she felt good in his arms.
He was almost reluctant to slide her into the seat but must needs . . .
Had this woman not had an uncanny resemblance to someone he’d known a long time ago,
he might not have been so quick to cart her back to his home. He’d seen her by chance
as he walked through the park. Then, she’d dashed through the traffic, giving him
pause and causing him to think that she was headed in his direction. His heart had
practically fallen out of his chest when she’d stumbled into the path of a moving
carriage. And before he knew it, he was hauling her to her feet, looking her over
for injury.
With a knock at the side of the carriage, the horse pulled forward, easing into the
busy street with well-practiced precision. Soon, they were clipping at a pace in stride
with the rest of the carriages and carts. The inside of the cab smelled musty, with
a faint trace of tobacco smoke, and while the odor didn’t bother him, the woman across
from him wrinkled her nose. He opened the window a smidgen to allow fresh air in.
Twisting around on the worn leather seat, she looked out the window, wiping the tears
away from her swollen eyes. Even while she cried, she was pretty.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” He took off his hat and tipped it toward her. “Nicholas
Riley, though everyone calls me Nick.”
“Miss Som—” When her voice caught on another sob, he handed her a handkerchief from
his vest pocket. Her fingers brushed against his. It took everything he had in him
not to hold on and pull her over to the bench he sat on.
“Thank you.” She blew her nose. “Miss Grant. Amelia Grant.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure, though I would have preferred introductions under better circumstances.
I will have my physician assess your injury when we are back at my townhouse.”
“You’re far too kind and need not go to the trouble.” When she looked at him, he could
tell she was out of her element, lost. A look he was familiar with. “I have an appointment
I cannot be late for. You may drop me off wherever is convenient for you so I can
be on my way.”
Tenacious. He did love that quality in a woman.
But he would not give her what she wanted. When he’d inspected her in the park, he
had also noticed how delicate she was. She was half a foot shorter than he was, which
made her taller than average for a woman. But her frame was slight, beneath the ill-fitting
plain dress she wore.
“Your accent is not typical of a Londoner,” he said, knowing full well he was ignoring
her request.
Wisps of her hair that had escaped the tight chignon at the base of her hat revealed
the color as a sun-kissed brown. A becoming color next to her fair skin tone, though
the bruise on her cheek stood out in stark contrast.
“I lived in northern England most of my life.” She tucked the stray tendril of hair
behind her ear.
“How did a country girl end up in London instead of married with a brood of her own?”
Miss Grant didn’t seem taken aback by his blunt question and kept her stormy blue
eyes steady on him, though he did notice her curling and twisting the handkerchief
between her fingers. Did he make her nervous?
“You are rather direct, Mr. Riley.”
“A forward approach tends to garner truer words,” he said honestly.
“When my father died, there wasn’t much left of his estate. There are few marriages
open to a woman of gentle breeding when there are no coffers to cushion the failing
estates across England. And there are even fewer jobs available for a young woman.
I came here to teach.” She screwed up her nose. “Which seemed logical at the time,
considering my education.”
Made sense to him. “How long have you been in London?”
“Nearly a month.”
When they hit a rut in the road, Miss Grant let out a sound filled with pain as the
motion jarred her bad foot. Nick wanted to haul her into his arms and comfort her.
That would only frighten her, he realized, so he settled for the next best thing,
because, dammit, he wanted to touch her.
“Here,” Nick said, hiking up her skirts before she realized his intention.
Panicked, she tried to push his hands away, which only confirmed the source of the
bruise darkening by the minute on her cheek. He ground his teeth together. The bastard
who had done that would pay dearly.
He gentled his voice, not wanting to frighten her any further. “You need to elevate
your foot. To alleviate the swelling.”
Pressing himself against the far right of the carriage, he motioned to the vacated
side of his seat, hoping she’d humor him in raising her foot herself; otherwise, he’d
have to insist.
“The carriage is enough to satisfy any momentary pain I’m feeling.” The defiance in
her voice only added to the strong vibrancy of her character. He wasn’t a man who
often gave in to emotion—it revealed weaknesses to those around him—but he wanted
to smile at her stubbornness.
He
liked
Miss Grant. Perhaps more than he should have, considering how little he knew about
her.
This time when he lowered his hands, he didn’t try to lift the soiled hem of her skirts
out of the way. He grasped her booted foot, raised it carefully, and perched it on
the bench next to his thigh. The motion forced her to focus on balancing herself instead
of pushing him away.
“We should arrive at my house shortly.”
“I was telling the truth about my appointment.”
“And what could be more important than seeing to your well-being? I can send a note
along if you tell me where you were headed.”
She pinched her lips together, contemplating her answer. “To an employment agency.”
“Your teaching job did not work out?” He searched her eyes, knowing full well that
the bruise could only have come from her last job.
She looked away from him, confirming his suspicions. His hands curled into fists so
tight that his knuckles cracked on one hand. When Miss Grant flinched, he forced himself
to relax.
Finally, they pulled up to the front of his townhouse. Opening the door, he stepped
out of the carriage and tossed the fare up to the driver. Reaching inside, he gathered
Miss Grant in his arms. He told himself it was because she shouldn’t walk, but he
knew damn well it was because he needed to feel her in his arms again.
As he approached the stairs, his man of all affairs, Huxley, opened the front door.
If he was astonished to see a woman in Nick’s arms, Huxley didn’t give it away with
any sort of facial expression; it was as if it were business as usual.
Many might guess Huxley to be in his midthirties, judging from the lack of wrinkles
on his clean-shaven, pock-marked face, but Nick knew the man was close to fifty. Huxley
was discreet and never gave an opinion when outside of Nick’s company. Though he doubled
as Nick’s valet, they had a much darker, intertwined past, one that had first overlapped
some fifteen years ago. Huxley’s loyalty was unwavering, and Nick trusted him implicitly.
“Huxley,” he said as the door closed behind him. “This is Miss Amelia Grant. Conveniently,
I found her on my way home, and she is in need of employment. She will be our new
secretary. Would you call my physician to the house? By appearances, she has sprained
her ankle but the doctor will need to confirm.”
Some might question Nick’s sanity for taking a woman on for such a task, but his mind
was made on the matter. Nick held tighter to his prize when Amelia wiggled to be put
down. Walking past Huxley, who left to do Nick’s bidding with no more than a grunt,
Nick headed toward the parlor.
He approached the oversized yellow-and-pink floral-patterned sofa; he was reluctant
to release her, but he ceded to better judgment and set her down as carefully as possible.
She pressed her back to the farthest cushion from him and stared at him with furrowed
brows.
“I cannot be your secretary, Mr. Riley.”
“Oh, but you will be. It’s a generous offer, and I have no ulterior motives.” Which
was a lie, but the one thing he wouldn’t do was hurt her. He motioned toward her cheek.
“You will not find that kind of treatment in this household.”
She touched it fleetingly before tucking her hand away and sitting up straighter to
face him, though she fiddled with a crease at the front of her dress.
While the dress had seen better days, it was well-made and only tattered and stained
around the edges. He wanted to see her in silk and taffeta, not the stormy gray material
that draped her unbecomingly.
“We never agreed to terms,” she said.
“If you think I offer this generosity to every woman who falls in my path, you are
mistaken. The offer was not for your sole benefit; I am in need of a secretary. My
paperwork has been in shambles for months, and the applicants who have come to me
were nothing but buffoons. I see you, Miss Grant, and I see an honest woman.”
She blushed, the red a becoming color on her cheeks. “I have no experience in being
a secretary.”
Perhaps not, but she was in need of a protector. Needing to see if there was any other
damage to her, he freed the pin that held her hat in place. She tucked loose bits
of her hair back into the chignon. The bruise darkening her cheek and the cut under
her lip were the only visible signs of a recent struggle. He silently vowed to find
the man responsible.
“Can you write correspondences and organize invitations and responses?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Huxley, the man we passed in the hallway, will settle you in and explain anything
you need to know about my affairs.”
“Is he leaving the position?” she asked.
“Huxley’s time is better used elsewhere.”
“Why would you want to hire me without references?”
A valid question. He couldn’t tell her that from the moment he saw her, he knew that
he had to have her. There was that and the fact that he had a penchant for bringing
in strays. Though he didn’t think she’d appreciate either answer. “I will obtain the
references you submitted for your last job. I assume you were placed through Everett’s
agency for young women.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How could you possibly know that?”
“That is the closest agency in the area where we came upon each other.” It had also
once been his agency, before he’d handed the reins over to one of his mother’s friends.
She lowered her gaze and stared at her lap with a defeated slouch curving her shoulders.
He wanted to wrap his arms around her, tell her that the bruise on her cheek was a
thing of the past, and that he would never harm her. If there was one thing he could
promise her, it was that she would be safe in his household.
But would she be safe from him?
He wanted her with a fierceness that crossed the line of decency.
He would scrutinize both those thoughts later.
A
melia hated to admit anything to her perfect stranger, but he’d find out sooner or
later. And if he was willing to give her a chance at a job, how could she not be honest?
“The agency may not provide references, as I left my last job without notice.”
“Leave it to me to sort out the finer details, Miss Grant.”
Before she could refuse him again, Huxley entered the room, announcing, “The doctor
will arrive within the half hour.”
Mr. Riley nodded his thanks and retrieved a tasseled velvet stool from under the window.
“Once we’re finished with the doctor, Huxley, I should like you to show Miss Grant
where she’ll be working—a tour of the house will have to wait until she is steady
on her feet. She also will require a key to my study.”
If Huxley thought his employer insane for allowing a woman they knew nothing about
to handle Mr. Riley’s day-to-day affairs, he said nothing. She wondered if they would
discuss the matter when she wasn’t privy to the conversation.
“Miss”—Huxley addressed her with a curt tip of his head—“You’ll want refreshments,
so I’ll locate Joshua.” Without further ado, Huxley left the room. Focusing on Mr.
Riley’s intent stare, Amelia wasn’t sure how she felt about being alone with him.
Mr. Riley placed the stool in front of her. Before he could assist, she lifted her
leg and settled her skirts around her so she wasn’t revealing anything but the edge
of her short leather boot. He took a seat across from her and slung his arm over the
back of the ivory-colored Louis chair. She flitted her gaze away from his, unable
to stand up to the scrutiny behind those assessing grays.
“Aside from teaching children, what other skills do you possess?” he asked.
She studied him for a few moments before answering. “How can you even consider taking
on someone who, up until now, has been more or less an encumbrance?”
“It is possible we view a burden as two separate things.”
“I doubt my skills would be useful to you. While I know how to run a household, put
menus together for dinner parties, and teach children a number of topics that include
the rudiments of mathematics, biology, geography, Latin, dance, and piano, I haven’t
the slightest idea what would be required of a secretary.”
“Women often downplay the true extent of their abilities. Running a household is not
as easy a task as you would have me believe. I know this for fact, as I struggled
through it with Huxley for a number of years until we hired Marney, the housekeeper.”
Her mouth opened to argue her point, but a man carrying a large brown leather bag
rushed into the room.
“Mr. Riley,” the newcomer said, slightly out of breath. “Huxley sent for me. He said
it was urgent.”