Evelyn had never been quick to temper. But Geoffrey was testing her patience beyond all measure. In spite of her protests, he’d dragged her up the stairs and locked her in her bedchamber again. She’d wanted to tell that Rafe fellow that he was impossibly rude. Why would he say such a horrid thing? Why would he deliberately attempt to make her feel as though she was nothing?
Sitting at the window, she gazed out on the garden and wondered if the gentlemen were still at the residence. She contemplated tearing off strips of her sheets and fashioning a rope so she could climb out the window. She would march into the library, confront Rafe, and . . . say what exactly?
That he was the most refreshingly honest man there?
That was the thing of it. The other gents had been so . . . oddly behaving. Of course, having never attended any sort of formal—or informal for that matter—affair where lords were attempting to impress a lady, she wasn’t quite certain how they should behave, but she’d thought they’d be more complimentary, more flirtatious, would seek to engage her mind. Instead, it seemed as though they expected her to compliment them, to shower them with praises, to make them feel good about themselves.
All except Rafe. It was as though he couldn’t be bothered with her at all. Perhaps he wasn’t there looking for a wife. He’d certainly made no effort to approach her. Maybe he was simply Geoffrey’s friend, and he’d been in attendance for some other reason.
But if that were the case, why had she felt his gaze on her from the moment she’d walked into the room? It had unsettled her, knowing he was watching as she introduced herself to one man and then another. Was he judging her, considering her, intrigued by her?
She couldn’t tell. What she did know was that he was the handsomest devil she’d ever clapped eyes on. His hair, black as midnight, was unfashionably long, but it framed his face and made his pale blue eyes more noticeable. They reminded her of a frozen lake she’d once walked across as a child. The water that had appeared so blue in summer had seemed faded when peered through a shield of ice. Standing on the frigid banks, she’d shivered, just as she shivered standing before Rafe tonight.
She saw no softness in his features, no gentleness in his manners. She was rather glad she’d not appealed to him. She didn’t want him sending her flowers or reading her poetry or taking her on walks through the park.
Although if she was quite honest with herself, she wasn’t certain that she wanted those considerations from any of the gentlemen she’d met tonight. They’d made her feel as though she were a prized mare they were contemplating purchasing rather than a woman that they wished to woo to the altar.
Perhaps that was how courtship began. She felt so uneducated in that regard. She had not attended a girls’ preparatory school, but had been tutored. Her only friends had been her father and a few of the younger maids. She was familiar with so little of the world beyond the walls of the residence. She knew only that her father had taken great pains to protect her from it, even as he’d sought to prepare her for it with various lessons in etiquette and proper comportment. She understood everything in theory, and so little in practice. She didn’t want to find fault with him, but she did wish he’d seen her settled before he died.
She suspected Geoffrey would see her married to the first man who offered for her hand, rather than determining if he was the man who would make her the most happy.
But then happiness was relative. Being released from this room would bring a great deal of happiness, even if it involved marriage to a man she barely knew.
With a sigh she set her elbow on the windowsill, her chin on her palm, and tried to run through her mind the faces of all the other gentlemen, but each one morphed into someone with coal black hair and ice-blue eyes.
Late the following afternoon, freed from her lovely prison, Evelyn couldn’t recall a single time when she’d ridden in a carriage with Geoffrey. It was odd to have him sitting across from her, staring out the window at the darkening skies. It would no doubt be raining by nightfall. The air felt heavy and damp, as though it were simply waiting to unburden itself. She didn’t even know where they were going, although she recognized the area as they’d not yet traveled far from their residence.
When he’d come to her room and commanded she ready herself for a ride, she’d almost told him to go to the devil. He’d left her to languish all night, wondering if any of the gentlemen had hinted at an interest in her. But she’d been too desperate to leave the residence to chance upsetting him by revealing that she was out of sorts with his behavior and lack of regard for her feelings. So she’d simply donned a black walking dress, matching pelisse, and hat. She hated appearing so docile as to give the impression that she was someone upon whom he could wipe his muddy boots, but the truth was she had so few options.
She had no money to speak of. She supposed she could sell the jewelry her father had given her, but she didn’t know its value or how far it might take her. She was beginning to realize that her father, bless his soul, had done her a disservice in not preparing her adequately for his departure, in making her dependent upon Geoffrey’s kindnesses—of which he appeared to possess so very few.
Wondering how to properly broach the subject of last night’s endeavors, she quietly cleared her throat before taking a stab at it. “Were your friends adequately amused last night?”
Geoffrey’s jaw tightened, his gray eyes narrowed, and she suspected he looked frightening to anyone who caught sight of his features as the carriage rolled along. “Yes.”
Yes? That was it? She wanted to reach across, pinch his nose, and order him to expand on his answer. She squeezed her hands together. “Did anyone in particular express any sort of interest in me?”
“Rafe Easton. We’re off to his residence now.”
So his last name was Easton, was it? Not that it meant anything to her. Why had he been so mysterious about it? “Oh?”
Geoffrey looked at her then. Did she actually see regret in his eyes?
“Is he a good friend then?” she asked.
“He’s not a friend at all. He owns a gambling establishment. I am in his debt.”
“I see.” Only she didn’t. Marrying a gambling den owner would be far worse than marrying a merchant. As a matter of fact, it would be quite scandalous. She was surprised he was allowed entry into polite circles. “He mentioned that he wasn’t titled.”
“He’s the third son of a duke, although he rarely acknowledges it.”
“So he’s a lord,” she murmured. She supposed that explained his presence the night before.
“He doesn’t fancy being addressed as such. You should probably simply call him ‘Mr. Easton.’ At least until he informs you differently.”
It still made no sense. If the man had been resting in a casket, he couldn’t have expressed less interest in her than he did last night. So why would he wish to spend more time with her? “It’s a bit early to be dining. Will we be going for a walk about the park? Will this be the start of his official wooing of me?”
Geoffrey squinted, blinked, squinted again as though his mind were stuttering along, unable to process the words she’d spoken. He returned his gaze to window. “I doubt he has plans to woo you.”
“Then I don’t understand why we’re going to pay him a call.”
“You’ll . . . see after things for him.”
What a strange turn in the conversation. And then it dawned on her—
“You mean I have been employed to manage his household?”
“I am not certain exactly what your duties will entail, but you will see to his needs.”
Why didn’t he look at her? Why didn’t he meet her gaze? Why was he being so blasted mysterious regarding her purpose? Was he embarrassed that he had found her employment rather than a husband—that his own place in Society had not allowed him to do more for her? She didn’t wish him to feel as though he had failed in his promise to her father, but still this was rather odd going.
The carriage turned onto a cobblestone drive. In spite of her best intentions, she leaned over and peered out the window. A grand residence, larger than Geoffrey’s, loomed before them. She could not help but be impressed. “He must be incredibly wealthy to live in a place such as this.”
“Embarrassingly so.”
She heard the resentment then, the anger. Geoffrey had said he owed him. Was she to work for Rafe Easton as a way to pay off her brother’s debts? Surely this arrangement would be only temporary, until someone spoke for her. “How long will I work here?”
“As long as he wants you.”
The carriage rattled to a stop. A footman opened the door. Geoffrey leapt out as though his seat had suddenly caught fire. The servant handed her down.
“Geoffrey, I’m not quite sure I understand.”
“It’ll all be explained. Come along.” He dashed up the wide sweeping steps.
She contemplated climbing back into the carriage, but if she were being paid for her services, she might have the means to see after herself until she could find a proper husband. She supposed the least she could do was listen to the terms of the arrangement. Lifting her skirts, she walked up the stairs. At the beginning and end of them sat the most hideous stone gargoyles. They seemed to fit their owner. Based upon her limited interaction with him, she couldn’t imagine him suffering through cherubs dancing about.
As soon as she reached the top, where Geoffrey waited, a butler opened the door and she glided through, aware of Geoffrey following in her wake. The inside was even more impressive, with frescoed ceilings, exquisite artwork, and statuary standing about. But she saw nothing personal. No portraits. All the paintings were landscapes: stormy seas and dark forests. Everything was arranged perfectly, too perfectly, as though it was all for show.
“Miss Evelyn Chambers to see Mr. Rafe Easton,” Geoffrey said. “She’s expected.”
“Yes, my lord, as I am well aware, but regretfully the master is not yet home. However, I have been instructed to see to Miss Chambers’s comforts until he arrives. Miss, if you’ll follow me to the parlor?”
She’d taken a mere half-dozen steps when she realized that Geoffrey was not accompanying her. Turning to face him, she asked, “Geoffrey, are you not coming?”
“No.”
“You’re leaving me here?”
“Yes.”
“But you’ll be returning for me?”
“Easton will explain everything.” With that, he placed his hat on his head, spun on his heel, and walked out the front door.
When she took a step forward to follow and question his odd behavior further, the butler gently touched her arm. “It’ll be all right, miss.”
He was not terribly old, somewhere in his thirties, she suspected. He had dark hair and kind brown eyes. His clothing, like everything that surrounded them, was immaculate.
“I fear Geoffrey has told me very little. I understand that I’m to manage the household.”
“I have no doubt that all the servants will heed your wishes.”
“What is your name?”
“I am known as Laurence.” He bowed slightly, extended his hand. “Please allow me to escort you to the parlor.”
She gave a brisk nod and followed a half step behind him. “How many servants are there?”
“Twenty-five.”
They walked into a room of burgundy and dark paneling. It seemed Rafe Easton was not one for cheery colors. A large globe rested on a pedestal in a far corner. A low fire burned in the hearth. Suddenly chilled, she went to it and extended her gloved palms toward the small dancing flames.
“May I take your cloak?” Laurence asked.
She rubbed her warmed hands up and down her arms. “No, not yet, thank you.”
“I shall have tea and biscuits brought.”
“Thank you.” She turned, wishing she didn’t feel so unsettled. “When will Mr. Easton return home?”
“I’m sorry, miss, but that I cannot say.”
He left her then, and for reasons she couldn’t explain, she wished she was still locked in her bedchamber. It suddenly seemed a far safer, more comforting alternative.
Lord Tristan Easton stood in the open doorway that led into his brother’s office at the gambling hell. He couldn’t recall ever seeing the door closed. At his desk, his brother poured diligently over his ledgers, his dark head bent in concentration, just as he’d been the first time that Tristan had seen him after twelve long years of separation. Rafe’s giant of a man had been waiting at the abbey ruins and he’d brought Tristan here, to this very doorway.
His grip tightening on the large package he held, Tristan shifted his gaze to the shelves on the far wall where Rafe kept his assemblage of assorted globes. He’d once told Tristan he collected them because they gave him hope of there being a place better than where he was. Tristan was saddened to see that his brother had acquired a new one. After Rafe had helped him right a wrong he’d done to Anne before she became his wife—when he had no expectation of her ever becoming his wife—he had thought they might be on their way to closing this rift between them. But it seemed his hope was as pointless as Rafe’s.
“I hear you’ve taken a mistress.”
Rafe jerked up his head, his eyes—the same crystal blue as Tristan’s—hard, his mouth set in a thin line. “I’ve not seen you in months and that’s how you greet me?”
Tristan almost blurted that turnabout was fair play. After not seeing Tristan in twelve years, Rafe had merely reached back, grabbed a tumbler, poured whiskey in it, and set it at the edge of the desk. His face had held no expression, his eyes had been as calm as the sea before a storm. There had been no surprise, no rising from his seat, no embrace. His first words? Sebastian has yet to show.
“I would have thought you’d learned by now that I believe in getting to the point,” Tristan said, giving his brother what he knew was a devilish smile that would only serve to irritate him. “So who is she?”
Rafe grabbed two tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. He began to pour as Tristan ambled over and took a chair, then pushed the full tumbler toward him. “I don’t see that it’s any of your concern.”
Tristan lifted the glass, inhaled the fumes, and took a small sip. His brother did have damned good taste in whiskey. “Is she pretty?”
Rafe narrowed his eyes. “Thinking of taking her when I’m done with her?”
Tristan belted out a laugh. “God, no. Anne damn near kills me with her desire for me. I could hardly keep another lady satisfied.” He relished another sip. “Besides Anne is everything to me. When you have everything, you neither need—nor want—anything more.”
“Spoken like a poor besotted fool.”
“You don’t believe in love?”
Leaning back in his chair, Rafe took a good long swallow.
Not going to answer, Tristan thought. But then he hadn’t really expected him to. He knew Rafe had yet to forgive him and Sebastian for leaving him behind. They’d had no choice. Separation had been the best chance of ensuring at least one of them survived to manhood in order to reclaim the dukedom.
“Don’t suppose I can blame you. I didn’t believe in it either, not until Anne graced my life.”
“Do take your leave before you begin spouting poetry. I have no stomach for it.”
Tristan disliked that Rafe was becoming more difficult and more of a recluse—at least where he and Sebastian were concerned. He accepted none of their invitations, but he wasn’t yet ready to give up on him.
“You know,” Tristan began, eager to change the subject, “most fellows would at least inquire as to what a man was holding if he walked into a room carrying a large box.”
Rafe shifted his gaze over. “I would have to care to ask. I don’t. It’s your box.”
“Actually, it’s not.” Tristan set it in the center of the desk. “It’s yours. Well, not the box really. But what’s inside. Although you’re more than welcome to keep the box.”
He didn’t know why he was rambling on stupidly. He wasn’t anxious regarding what Rafe might think of his offering. He’d battled the sea, tempests, pirates, and sharks. He had no worries here. Still he watched as Rafe eyed the package as though he thought it might attack him.
“What do you mean it’s mine?”
Tristan wondered once again, as he often did, what sort of life his brother had led since the night they escaped Pembrook. None of them ever talked about their years apart. Sebastian had left half his face on some godforsaken battlefield in the Crimea. Tristan bore the scars of a lash that had flayed his back. He suspected, had always suspected, that Rafe bore scars as well, but that they ran much deeper than the skin, and he had little doubt that made them much harder to heal. “It’s a gift.”
“Why?”
“No reason in particular.” He knew he should have said because you’re my brother and I love you, but the words were as difficult for him to speak as he suspected they would be for Rafe to hear.
Rafe set his tumbler aside and pulled the present nearer. He removed the lid from the box, tipped it cautiously toward him—
Jerked his gaze up to Tristan, who squirmed, feeling a bit self-conscious. “I know it’s not perfect. I carved it during the two years I was at sea, after Sebastian again had his title.”
Slowly Rafe stood, reached in, and withdrew the wooden globe attached to a stand in such a way that his brother could spin the world as he pleased.
“Although I’m not so nimble with a brush, I thought about painting the land masses green and the ocean blue—”
“I like it plain.” Rafe was trailing his fingers over every indention and relief, studying them as though they were of great importance.
“Do you? Like it, I mean?” Tristan asked.
Rafe nodded. “I didn’t know you carved.”
There’s a lot you don’t about me, Brother, and I suspect even more that I don’t know about you.
“One gets bored on a ship. Unlike working here, in a gambling den.”
“It gets boring, looking at ledgers and such all the time.”
Tristan grinned. “What do you do when you get bored?”
Rafe looked at him as though he’d asked if he could fly. “I continue working. Boredom is not an excuse not to work.”
“Do you ever go sailing?”
Rafe returned his attention to the sphere. “No.”
“I’ve started a business of designing yachts, having them built. The first, I just finished, is mine of course, but I thought the second could be yours.”
“I have no need of a boat.”
Tristan fought not to clench his jaw. A yacht was not a boat. Especially the ones he was designing. By God, the luxury built into his own vessel was appalling. “You might be surprised. The sea can bring calm to the soul.”
“If one has a soul, but still it’s not something on which I wish to waste my hard-earned coin.”
“I wasn’t going to have you pay for it. It would be another gift. God knows I don’t need the money, and I enjoy designing something that so closely resembles a ship.”
Rafe studied him. “What are you doing here, Tristan? We’re not friends, acquaintances, or even brothers, really.”
Tristan shoved himself to his feet. “We are brothers.”
“Why? Because we came from the same mother, had the same father? Being a brother is more than that.”
“Why will you not let go of the past? It’s tearing Sebastian up that you’ve yet to forgive him for leaving you at that blasted workhouse. Do you really think he had a choice?”
“We all have choices.”
Tristan knew this discourse was pointless. Rafe was beyond listening. Tristan took some comfort in the fact that Rafe hadn’t flung the globe across the room. He sighed. “I’m going to christen my new yacht in two weeks. I thought you might like to go sailing with us.”
“I shall be too busy.”
“Enjoying your new mistress?”
“She’s none of your concern.”
“Bring her.”
Rafe’s brow furrowed. “You’re joking. She’s the by-blow of an earl. I’m sure her presence would offend the sensibilities of your wife.”
“If you think that, then you don’t know my Anne very well. And I wish you did. She’s a remarkable woman. You’d like her. Anyway—” Tristan set his empty glass on the desk. “—the invitation is open should you change your mind. Two weeks from Friday, be at Easton House at eleven.”
“Sebastian’s invited as well.”
“Of course he is. He, his wife, and his heir.”
“My schedule is full.”
“Your loss.”
Tristan turned on his heel and marched from the room. He wouldn’t give up on Rafe, not yet.
Rafe had never expected to be glad of a visit from his brother, but for a few moments he’d been spared thoughts of Evelyn Chambers. She’d been haunting him all day, and he knew that as of twenty-two minutes ago—if Wortham were punctual at all—she had arrived at his residence. Laurence would show her to her bedchamber, introduce her to the maid—Lila—who would see to dressing her, fixing her hair, and whatever else ladies’ maids did. Servants would assist in unpacking her things. They would see that she was settled and comfortable as she waited for his arrival.
Spinning the globe, he suddenly wished he was somewhere else—someone else. If his brothers ever learned the truth about the sort of man he truly was, they would want little to do with him. He shoved back the rancid thoughts.
Mick, his main man, stepped through the doorway. His slender physique hid a well-toned body that often gave Rafe a good going over when they sparred in the boxing room hidden away downstairs.
“I thought you should know that Lord Wortham has settled his accounts.”
Rafe fought not to look surprised. “Where did he get the money I wonder?”
“I can ask around.”
“No need. It’s not important.” The reckless way he played at cards, he’d be back in Rafe’s debt soon enough. “Has Ekroth made an appearance?”
“About an hour ago.”
As a general rule, Rafe didn’t allow cheating in his establishment. Not from his customers and certainly not by those hired to oversee the games. But sometimes exceptions were needed. “See that the games don’t favor him tonight.”
Mick arched a thick dark brow. While he might have been hoping for an explanation, he knew better than to insist upon one. “I’ll arrange it.”
“You may also inform him that he is barred from spending any time with the girls.”
“He’ll take his business to another club if he’s not satisfied here.”
“I’ll ensure no other club will have him.”
After Mick left, Rafe set the globe on the corner of his desk and gave it one final spin. He’d not relegate it to a shelf. He wasn’t quite certain how he felt about it. Grateful, but not quite comfortable with the gratitude.
It was nearly four hours later before he left his office and made his way to the back stairs at the rear entry of the building. He’d never had a guest at his residence, few knew where he lived. He didn’t know why he had given Wortham his address instead of simply sending for the girl. For some reason, the night before, his ability to think coherently had left him completely for a time. Thank goodness it had returned.
He climbed into his carriage. He was not avoiding what awaited him at the residence. He simply had a great many items at the club that required his attention: bills, deliveries, cheaters.
It was dark, a light drizzle falling, by the time his carriage clattered to a stop in front of the monstrosity that he owned. He didn’t know why he’d bothered to take it for payment of a debt owed, except that at the time he’d wanted it and he’d felt that a man of his wealth should own a residence. Even if he seldom spent any time here.
He preferred his apartments at the club. They weren’t as quiet. The walls thrummed with the activity that took place on the floors below. He could be in a room alone, but not feel lonely. Here, the servants were so blasted quiet that they might as well be ghosts.
Like some ominous harbinger of ill winds, lightning flashed as he stepped out of his carriage and strode up the steps. It was chilly tonight, but he would have a woman to warm him. Already he was reconsidering his misgivings about this arrangement. She would come in handy after all.
Before Rafe arrived at the landing, Laurence was opening the door. Sometimes he thought the butler did little else except stand at the ready to open the door for him. He handed over his hat and coat. He began tugging off his gloves. He wanted to go to his room and remove everything but that would have to wait. “Is she here?”
“Yes, sir. Waiting in the parlor, but I’m not sure . . .”
His voice trailed off. Rafe stilled and gave him a hard glare. “But what, man? Spill it.”
“I’m not quite sure she understands her purpose in being here. She seems to believe she is to manage the household.”
Rafe shrugged. “She can do that if she wishes.”
Laurence scowled. “I am given to understand that she believes it is to be her only duty.”
Rafe swore harshly. Wortham, the stupid little sod, wouldn’t explain things, would he? It was his lack of guts that characterized his losing at the tables. What did she think last night was about?
“She brought her things, did she not?” he asked, slapping his gloves into Laurence’s waiting palm.
“No, sir, I fear she brought nothing save herself. Lord Wortham made quite the hasty retreat. It left her a bit flummoxed.”
“No matter. I’m sure she knows why she’s here.” And that he would be providing everything she required. He headed for the parlor.
“What time will you be dining, sir?” Laurence asked.
“Give us half an hour.” That should be all the time he needed to set things right with her, to lay out her duties, his expectations.
Opening the doors to the parlor, he strode in, staggered to a stop. She was in profile, standing by the window, gazing out on the rain, looking as forlorn as the weather. She turned slightly at his entry. She was wearing black, a hideous color. It made her look ill. He wanted to see her in blue, a deep blue that would enrich the shade of her eyes. It appeared she was baring very little skin, that her dress buttoned up to her chin, but it was impossible to be certain because she was wearing a cloak.
“I see Laurence didn’t adequately see to your comfort, didn’t bother to take your wrap.”
She brought it more closely about her. “No, he offered, but I’ve been chilled, even with the fire.”
“Scotch should help there.” He went to a table in the corner and poured a generous amount into two glasses, concentrating on his actions because for some damned reason his hands were shaking. It had nothing to do with the notion that he would soon be touching her, stripping her clothes from her body, ordering her to lie on his bed—
Later, that would all come later. He’d been fighting all day not to think about it. Lust. It was all lust, animalistic, barbaric needs that a man possessed, that consumed him. He shoved aside all thoughts of what secrets might be hidden from him beneath her clothing, picked up the glasses, and crossed over to where she waited beside a chair near the fireplace. At least she’d moved away from the window.
He could not mistake the wariness in her eyes as she took the glass he extended toward her. She was right to fear him. He wouldn’t abuse her, he would never willingly hurt her, but he had little doubt that eventually he would cause her pain. Even the women he paid for his pleasures suffered some because he gave them nothing beyond the physical, and women, bless them, seemed to need more than that.
He simply didn’t have it to give. Which was the reason that he’d avoided feminine encounters for a good long while now, because he couldn’t stand the disappointment that always seem to punctuate his leaving. He did not hold, he did not cuddle, he did not allow them to hold him.
Taking a chair by the fire, he indicated the one opposite him. Slowly, gracefully, she sank into it. Both her gloved hands circled the glass. Such small hands. He imagined them circling him. He’d barely know they were there. Perhaps—
He forced away the thoughts because his body was reacting and the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her. He sipped slowly on his Scotch while she studied the fire. Finally she brought her gaze to bear on him.
“Geoffrey—” she began.
“Geoffrey?”
She gave him a small smile. “Lord Wortham. I’m afraid I’ve not quite accepted that my father is gone. Anyway, he said I was here to manage your household, but quite honestly it appears to be well managed already, so I’m not quite certain what I could contribute.”
“I’m certain you can contribute quite a bit.” He savored another long sip. “What were his exact words?”
Her delicate brow furrowed, she looked back at the fire. “That I was to see to your needs.”
“My needs,” he emphasized. “Not those of my residence.”
Her gaze swung back to him, the furrow deeper. “I’m not sure I understand. Do you not have a valet to see to your needs?”
“I have a valet.”
“Then I can’t see that I would have much to do.”
She was too innocent, far too innocent for the likes of him. He should send her back to her brother, but unfortunately for Evelyn, he had decided that he wanted her. He wasn’t quite certain when it struck him so forcefully that he did. Perhaps when he opened the parlor door and saw her waiting there. Waiting for him. When had anyone ever been waiting for him?
“What did you think was the purpose of last night’s . . . entertainment?”
“To secure me a husband.”
He nearly choked on his Scotch. The very last thing he would ever contemplate was marriage. If she knew him at all, she’d know that. But therein resided part of the problem: she didn’t know him, and he preferred to keep it that way.
“I was most surprised,” she continued, “to find myself arriving at your residence when I was left with the distinct impression that you found me hardly worth a thought.”
Hardly worth a thought? How he wished that was true. He’d been unable to stop thinking about her since he’d first seen her. She invaded his dreams, inhabited his thoughts, occupied his mind.
“To be quite honest,” she carried on, “I suspect I will not be here long before someone offers for me. I doubt it is worth it to either of us for me to be in your employ.”
While he didn’t relish the thought of shattering her naiveté, he didn’t much like this dancing about either. Best to just get it said. “You’re not to be in my employ. You’re to be in my bed.”
She blinked, blinked, blinked. Opened her mouth, closed it. Blinked again. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your brother was seeking to find a man to take you as his mistress, not as his wife.”
She shook her head slightly as though she were almost frozen in disbelief, as though working out what he’d said was taking all her energy. “That can’t be. He promised Father that he would see that I was well taken care of.”
“Mistresses are often treated better than wives. At least I have no wife on the side, which is more than I can say for a few of the gents who were in attendance last night. As my mistress—”
“You can’t possibly want me to be your mistress. You don’t even like me.”
“I don’t have to like you to bed you. Truth be told, it’s better that there be no sentiment between us.”
She came to her feet in such a rush he was surprised she didn’t stumble. However, she did drop her glass. It fell to the carpet, spilling his extremely expensive Scotch.
“You’re wrong about last night,” she announced, her eyes welling with tears. “About Geoffrey’s intentions. He wouldn’t have brought me here if he’d known what you assumed, what you planned. He promised. He promised Father . . .”
Then she fairly raced from the parlor. He heard the front door slam, could almost feel the walls trembling with the impact. Swearing harshly, he tossed back his Scotch.
He supposed he could have handled that a bit better.