He nodded, unable to stifle the smile rising to his lips. She looked outraged, but she didn’t leave, and he wondered if a part of her enjoyed their exchange as well. Her face was flushed with either anger or passion, and from the look of her, it may very well be both. He had stoked this kind of heat before—it was all part of the game, and he was willing to indulge her. “So. What are you reading?”
She hesitated just a moment before she notched her chin and squared her shoulders. Her voice firm, she said, “Engels. As if you want to know.”
“Friedrich Engels?” he asked dubiously. He wasn’t sure why he had that particular text, but it hardly seemed to suit her. The way she had been when he walked into the room suggested something closer to the heart. “How very...studious of you. I would have thought you’d been reading love sonnets, with the way you were so...engrossed in the book.”
“Yes, well, you thought wrong. Being a practical woman, I am not interested in matters of the heart, Mr. Wetherby. I’m interested in the plight of the proletariat,” she said with such passion he almost believed her. “I’m interested in the fate of the working class, seeing as I am a
servant
.”
“So, the plight of the working class had you in tears?”
Her eyes widened in an expression of surprise so fleeting he wondered if he had imagined it. Straightening her shoulders, her face a mask of serenity, she said, “Yes. It’s a sad fate to be a servant in the working class. I would know.”
Her words stung more than he cared to admit. “So my library is a means for you to improve your station?” he asked, taken aback by her vehemence. She seemed to enjoy the finer things, and he had finer things. He had looks and money but little else to offer anyone. Those things had always been enough before.
“Indeed,” she said coolly.
“You could always improve your station by taking one of the guest rooms,” Nicholas suggested.
“Bah! I’ll not be taking anything from you. I’ll be advancing my position with my own hard work and sweat. I’ll do it by my own merits!”
Damn him if he didn’t believe her. If she hadn’t been reading Engels, he knew she had in the past. Heady stuff for a woman so lovely, but then, Alexandra Markland was not like any woman he had ever met. Turning the conversation back to something more comfortable for him, he said, “There are much more pleasant ways to advance your position than hard work, though sweat may certainly be involved. I can think of several.”
“You are incorrigible!” she shrieked.
He couldn't deny that, so instead he said, “Let me see the book.”
“No!”
“Perhaps I’d learn a thing or two. Your influence could affect the conditions under which my employees labor,” he mocked, and her cheeks glowed with embarrassment. He was behaving like an absolute boor, and his older brother, had he lived, would be ashamed of his conduct, but drink emboldened him. Alexandra was beyond seduction tonight. Besides, he liked the way her eyes glittered when she was angry, the way her lips tightened into a stubborn line. He never should have sought her out when he was drunk, but even that thought didn’t force him to turn away. He wasn’t sure anything could.
Holding out his hand, he said, “Give me the book.” He wanted to see for himself if the work of German philosophers had affected her to such a degree that she wept.
Her cheeks went red with anger, but all it did was encourage him. She was beautiful when enraged. With a cry, she hefted the book over her head and threw it into a stack of books piled on his desk. The books tumbled and fell in a heap.
He laughed at her show of temper. A fiery heart lurked underneath the polite, formal demeanor she presented to him daily, and he liked bringing it out. “Feel better?”
“You are impossible!”
He smiled at the wrath in her eyes, but he thought he saw the relief in them, too. “Well, now, that was hardly polite. How are you going to repay me for possibly destroying my book?”
“Take the cost out of my salary,” she spat, angrily pushing a long, black tendril from her face. He had the urge to take the lock of hair and wrap it around his finger, to stroke her dark head, and he very nearly did until she continued, “Oh, right, you’re not paying
me.
”
“Hm. I’ll just have to think of something,” he replied lazily. He took another step toward her, but she stood her ground, hands on her hips, obsidian eyes burning bright. She glared at him for a moment, her mouth set into a stubborn pout. Her full lower lip drew his attention, and he could think of nothing else but tasting her again, so he took her into his arms and kissed her.
Her body was tense and rigid when he began kissing her, but within seconds, she relaxed against him, her body melting into his. He hardly had to press her to open her mouth for him, and he would have sworn she leaned into him, pressing her breasts against him, her nipples tightening beneath her thin cotton shift. The heat from her anger dissipated into a different kind of heat altogether. He had enough experience to know she was ripe for the plucking—all he had to do was press her, stoke the fire inside her, and she would be his. More intoxicated by her taste than even the brandy he’d had earlier, he was tempted to do just that.
He broke the kiss to nuzzle her neck, kissing the sweet spot just below her earlobe, and she trembled in his arms. “Nicholas,” she whispered.
He liked the way she said his given name, heard the passion in her voice. But she shook in his arms, either from fear or passion, and he knew her father had been right about another thing: she was a good woman. The thought occurred to him that maybe she was just the thing he needed in his life. His world had brightened in just the few short days she had lived in his household.
He wouldn’t take advantage of her innocence or her good nature. Giving her one last way out and hating himself for doing it, he whispered in her ear, “All it takes is the right man, Alexandra.”
“What?” she breathed, stiffening in his arms as she understood his words. Her face wreathed in fury, she cried, “Mr. Wetherby!” and shoved against him with all her might. He stumbled backwards, surely the result of the brandy he had consumed earlier. He had to admit, for such a tiny thing, she packed quite a wallop.
Smiling wryly, he shook his head at her. “I suppose it takes the right woman, too.” He gave her an appraising look. “I think you might be that woman.” And then he damned himself—why would he not stop baiting her? Maybe because he had more fun fighting with her than he had had doing anything else with anyone else in almost a year. He would have a hard time getting back into her good graces if he kept this up—she was stubborn, his marker. He wondered what it would take to win her affection.
But when he saw the tears standing in her eyes, he felt like a cad. He liked taunting her, but he didn’t want her to cry. Lexie might be a firebrand, but she had a gentle spirit and a tender heart. He would remember that in the future.
“I am not! I am not, nor will I ever be, anything to you! And you may call me Miss Markland when addressing me.”
“Very well, Miss Markland,” he acquiesced.
Putting her hands on her hips, she pointed her index finger at him and hissed, “I told you what would happen if you kissed me again.”
He thought about it, unable to remember what she had told him. “And what punishment are you planning on doling out for my liberties with your person, Miss Markland?” He was interested to find out what she had planned—and to come up with a plan of his own to combat it.
Her face the picture of fury, she cried, “I will never speak to you again!”
He laughed, a rich, full laugh echoing in the room. “As if you could. You
work
for me, if you’ll recall.”
With a cry, she stormed from the room, slamming the door to the library behind her. He chuckled to himself. He rather enjoyed her fit of temper. She would come around. By this time tomorrow, she would be talking to him again, and given a little time, she would come to like him. Strange, how much he wanted Lexie to like him. Not just desire him—women always seemed to desire him—but like him. Care about him. He really did regret his behavior tonight, but she would forgive him. Women always did when he tried to charm them. He pushed the idea away that, perhaps, Alexandra Markland was different.
Turning his thoughts back to Lexie’s choice of reading material, he decided to find out what it had been. Going over to the stack of books lying scattered on the floor, he was startled to find not only the Engels tome among the pile, but also a book on English history, another on fairy tales, and yet another one of poetry. She might have been reading any of them. Intrigued, he plucked the poetry from the stack, and it fell open to a dog-eared page.
Lord Byron. He had always thought this poem a bit much, considering it was about a woman. He had always thought no woman worthy of such praise, even the fairest. It was overly dramatic stuff, but that didn’t mean he had been above quoting it to one—or several—of his conquests. But he read the lines again, and they made him think of Lexie. She really
was
beautiful like the night, so beautiful he thought of little else. If Nicholas hadn’t known better, he would have sworn such a poem had been written for Lexie, with her midnight hair and eyes, light and dark meeting in the aspect of her perfect features.
As he closed the book, he noticed the watermarks, the pages still damp from her tears. He had to smile—she hadn’t been reading Engels after all. She might have read it before, but not tonight, and the plight of the proletariat hadn’t caused her to weep. This poem, praising the very real beauty of a woman, had done that. He smiled.
His Lexie had a romantic heart, after all.
Maybe Nicholas thought she would come around in a day, two days at the outside. If so, he thought wrong.
Lexie kept her head down when he addressed her, nodded to show she understood, but she never met his eyes. It was hard to do—she loved the planes of his face, the way his turquoise eyes glittered with mischief and good humor. Still, even when he chatted with her amiably, she said nothing. She didn’t meet his gaze or even look at him.
He was undeterred by her silence. Nicholas Wetherby didn’t accept defeat, gracefully or otherwise.
He told jokes, and she had to work to keep a straight face. He made outrageous, suggestive statements, and she struggled to stop herself from shouting at him. He seemed to make an effort to be around the house, forgoing his usual escapades at the gambling hall, and was constantly underfoot. He was everywhere she went. In the kitchen, the library, the study. The sitting room. The porch. The stables.
Twice she encountered him wearing nothing but his britches after she’d been assured he would be out for the day. She’d been so startled to see him in such a state she had bumped into the wall and spilled the contents of her bucket all over herself. Mortified, she nearly stammered an apology before she’d fled. Luckily, shock took precedence over good manners.
His booming laugh had followed her down the hall.
If she had the ability to erase the sight of him, damp-haired and shirtless, water glistening on his skin and in his golden hair, she would. Instead, the image haunted her days and her nights, leaving her both agitated and breathless. Seeing him day in and day out made it impossible to banish him from her thoughts.
A week into their domestic battle, Lexie came into her room to find a brand new silk gown on her narrow bed. It was a dark, rich emerald, and she was a little embarrassed to note it was not only suited to her tastes but also precisely her size, too, as if he knew her mind
and
had memorized the contours of her body. The gown was beautiful, intricate in the small details, the clothes of a wealthy woman. In no way should she accept this.
She put the dress in his wardrobe.
The following day, she came into her bedroom to find not only the green gown, but also a navy gown, with flowers of the palest pink sewn into it. The neckline swept off the shoulders, trimmed with a fine bit of lace, expensive and romantic. And Lexie, who never had the money to purchase much of anything, was not immune to lure of finer things. Even so, both gowns were in his wardrobe within an hour.