A Scandalous Lady (9 page)

Where was the wild urchin who'd swiped him blind on a London street corner? The intrepid sea monkey he'd rescued from a rose trellis the night before? The malnourished vixen who'd incited his pity and his admiration and aye, even his lust?

At last he recovered his astonishment, and said, “Good morning, Miss Jervais. I trust you slept well?”

“Well enough.”

Taken aback when she strode boldly into the room, a basket of folded white cloths on her arm, he asked, “Is there a purpose to your invasion of my study at such an ungodly hour?”

“Millie told me to drape the portraits and pack your essentials,” she declared with a defensive tilt of her chin.

“Indeed?” He sat on the corner of the desk and bit the inside of his cheek. “Most would request permission from the lord of the manor before barging into his private domain.”

She ignored the reprimand, which amused him all the more. “I don't remember you asking my permission before dragging me from my home.”

“Aren't we in a cheery mood?” he taunted.

“Do I have your permission to enter your lair, Baron Dragon?”

Baron Dragon? He grinned, knowing she hadn't meant it as an endearment. Most gentleman in his inherited social circle would have her flogged for such impertinence, but Troyce liked the fact that she didn't simper around him, calling him Lord Westborough. It made him feel more . . . human. He hadn't felt like that since leaving America. “By all means,
votre majesté,
carry on with your duties.”

Anger flared in her eyes at his continued mockery of their first meeting, and Troyce felt a curious thrill that he could incite such a reaction in her. If she insisted on calling him “baron” in that defiant manner that set his blood to pumping, then turnabout was certainly fair play.

But instead of rising to the bait, she averted her face, and he found himself faintly disappointed. Why did he gain such pleasure in teasing her? Why converse with her at all? She was naught but a servant, working off her debt. And a cheeky servant at that.

He returned to his task of packing the records he would be taking back to Westborough and pretended that she was not distracting him. Not an easy feat when she seemed to delight in creating as much noise as possible. Dragging chairs across the floor. The furious swipe of a cloth. The abrupt clunk of knickknacks.

Troyce hid his grin behind his hand. Something certainly had her riled, and my, she was glorious in a temper. He watched her from beneath his lashes as she mounted a stool near the granite, floor-to-ceiling fireplace. The swish of gray skirts against her bottom as she wrestled with draping a cloth over a picture frame. And what a lovely bottom it was. Not plush and snooty as were many he'd glimpsed in his bachelor years, or low and flat from being pressed against a tuffet all the day long. No, Faith's bottom featured a midway curve that flowed gently from her spine to her thighs, and flaring hips, the perfect width to cradle a man's loins. The ribbons of her apron framed her lower figure like a gift, and he was caught with a sudden urge to tug on the ribbons and slide off the wrapping. . . .

In an effort to redirect the dangerous path his thoughts were taking, he reached for the stationery box on his desk containing his waxes, seals, and quills, and added it to the valise. “Has my sister grown accustomed to you yet?”

She hesitated a second too long. “I have much to learn.”

Troyce didn't miss the troubled expression that flashed across her face before she brought it under control. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” She stepped off the stool and dragged it to the next portrait. “She is merely teaching me my duties.”

He could well imagine how Devon was teaching her.

Very rarely did he question his own actions, but now he had to wonder. Had he made a mistake bringing her into his home? Sentencing her to a year or more with himself and Devon at Westborough? God knew, neither of them were easy to work for. Devon alone had gone through four servants in the last three months, with her sharp tongue and exacting perfectionism. And he, well, it had been said that he often demanded more than he gave. Perhaps he'd inherited more of his mother's traits than he wanted to acknowledge.

Still with no friends and no family to rally around her and protect her, Faith was undoubtedly better off with him than if he'd left her on the streets. At least she'd have a warm bed to sleep in and decent food in her stomach.

Besides, she owed him. Greatly.

His conscience mildly appeased, he told her, “I'm certain that you'll catch on quickly.” He crossed the room and removed the contents from the safe hidden behind a portrait of the second Baron of Westborough. Troyce had inherited his father's piercing gray eyes, passion for the undiscovered, and a crumbling estate built on a foundation of debt, but little else.

“Is that your father?”

“Aye, it was. Troyce de Meir, second Baron of Westborough.”

“You were named for him, then.”

He nodded and Faith watched him shuffle through the papers in his hand, as though searching for one in particular.

Troyce. His name filled her mouth, rich, smooth, like a warm chocolate pastry. It was a strong, strapping name, one a man could wear with dignity. “Why does no one call you Troyce?”

He paused and grinned at her. “You just did.”

And Faith's stomach colly-wobbled. She kept waiting for the baron to mention the night before in his chambers, to taunt her with the power he'd wielded over her, but he didn't. The longer he avoided it, the more relieved and anxious she felt. He acted as if neither of them had stripped before the other—or at the very least, as if it was of no importance. No doubt it meant nothing to him, but she was not accustomed to a man seeing her nude, and part of her couldn't help but wonder what he must think of her.

Hell, why did she even care? She'd gotten along just fine for twenty years without his opinion, and she'd get along another twenty. “You didn't answer my question. Why does no one call you by your Christian name?”

He shrugged. “They did in America. Here, you're recognized only by the title you bear, so with the exception of my intimates, I am called West or Westborough.”

That struck her as sad, though she couldn't explain why. It probably meant nothing, just some oddity of the upper class he belonged to; nobles had lists of social etiquette as long as the Thames. He didn't seem particularly troubled that no one called him by his Christian name. Yet there was something in his tone of voice, an edge of bitterness, that made her believe that few were allowed close enough to this man to be awarded such a privilege. Or maybe it was the way he diverted conversation with quick-witted quips. Almost as if he used humor to keep himself aloof.

So who was Troyce de Meir? The unconscionable gaoler? The charming rogue? The reluctant nobleman?

She strolled down the line of portraits, each one framed in burnished brass, as much to put some distance between them and collect her slowly fizzling thoughts as to discover what kind of man she was working for. The gallery boasted likenesses of ladies in high-collared, wide-panniered gowns, and gentlemen with stiff cravats choking their necks. “Is this the rest of your family?”

“Aye. Most of them are distant relations on my father's side—aunts, uncles, cousins. We hardly know one another, but my mother always insisted on putting them on display for company.”

He sidestepped, closing the gap between them until their shoulders were nearly touching. The scent of him surrounded her, potent, inviting. She barely heard the names he recounted.

“And this stodgy old goat is
mon grandpère,
” he said, pointing to portrait of a stern but distinguished gentleman with familiar gray eyes. “Oliver de Meir, sixth Viscount of Beckham and first Baron of Westborough. He was once a French merchant, you know.” At the surprised lift of her brows, he went on, “It's true. He came to England when he was a young man—only a few years younger than I—and earned himself the barony for service to King Edward; later, he pleased the king again and became a viscount; the barony, as his subordinate title, was given to my father at his birth as a courtesy.”

The baron hailed from common stock? She never would have guessed! Why she'd been under the impression that the Westborough aristocracy had been in existence for centuries she couldn't say. Perhaps it was the pride in which the baron carried himself, or the way he seemed to blend so well with the upper class, as if it was in his blood. “What was your title at birth?”

“I didn't have one until my father died six months ago, then I inherited his and became the third Baron of Westborough. And when the old man dies, I will no doubt be cursed with the superior dignity of becoming the seventh Viscount of Beckham.”

“How dreadfully confusing.”

“I agree wholeheartedly. Quite unnecessary, too.”

She envied him the ability to trace his lineage back through the generations. He knew his father and his grandfather. He knew his cousins and uncles and the rest of his family. She knew far too little.

And far too much.

“If you hate the titles so much, why don't you just refuse them?”

He looked amazed that she would ask such a question. She probably wouldn't have been so bold in her curiosity if his disdain for his lineage wasn't so obvious.

“It doesn't work that way. Once earned, the titles are passed down from generation to generation, except in rare cases when our Sovereign is feeling generous and creates a new one. It is the obligation of a nobleman to care for those under his protection.”

“Where I come from, we take care of ourselves.”

“Ah, so that explains why you sent off your friend—to protect yourself.”

The mention of Scatter—by indication if not by name—caught her off guard. She'd tried not to let herself think of him, of how she'd left him behind, of how much she missed the pesky little beggar. “Of course. He'd have only landed me in prison.”

“Instead he landed you here.”

Aye,
he
did
, Faith thought. And at the moment she didn't know whether to thank him or strangle him.

Orders being barked outside the study served to remind Faith of her purpose in the room. The last thing she needed was for the duchess to catch her idle. Nothing she did seemed to please the woman as it was; not that she'd ever tell the baron that. . . .

She reached into the basket and withdrew a square of oilcloth, then positioned the stool just below the stern visage of the sixth Viscount of Beckham. As she climbed upon the stool, the baron moved to her side and reached for the drape.

“Let me give you a hand with that.”

“I can do it myself.”

He pulled the cloth toward himself. “It will go a lot faster with my help.”

She pulled the cloth back. “As you so
kindly
remind me, I am the one working off a debt.” And the faster she could get that done, the sooner she would have her freedom back.

Again he pulled on the cloth. Again she pulled it back. Back and forth they went, each jerking the oilcloth away from the other until one solid tug threw Faith off-balance. She floundered on the stool, waving her arms like a duckling to keep from falling.

In the end, it served no purpose.

She fell against him, throwing him off-balance, and both tumbled to the floor. With the wind knocked out of him, it took Troyce a moment to realize what had happened.

What he'd
made
happen. A yearning to feel Faith's body against his had been haunting him ever since she'd bared her naked body to him the night before. Perhaps the accident hadn't been such an accident at all.

He knew the instant Faith had come to the same conclusion. Her body stiffened, her brown eyes darkened. “You did that on purpose!”

He couldn't help it. He grinned.

Anger sparked in her eyes. She struggled against him. Reflex took over. His hands tightened on her upper arms. “Faith, wait—”

Whatever he meant to say lost its importance when she fell back against him. Desire slammed through Troyce's midsection like cannon fire. One look at her startled expression told him that she was as shocked by the contact as he.

Her hair had come loose from its tidy coiffure and fell on either sides of their faces, creating a shield of filigree amber and gold, fire and ice. Her eyes, seconds ago hard and flat, grew soft and round. The air simmered. He felt himself growing warm, stuffy in his jacket, his collar choking him. God, those eyes, that face. Was there ever a maid so pretty?

She had the most beautiful skin. Not pallid like so many English misses, but smooth and golden and nearly flawless, save for the purpling bruise on her jawline. The sight of it in the broad light of day sent another stab of anger. He didn't believe her story last night any more than he believed her claim of being Queen Victoria. There was also a scar above her lip, a tiny lightning bolt that made him think of stormy nights and sultry air and sweaty skin. He rolled his lips inward. His chest went tight.

And when her gaze dropped to his mouth, the self-control he'd always prided in himself slipped another notch. Her brows dipped with puzzled curiosity, as if she'd never seen a mouth before. Troyce heard the warning go off in his brain but ignored it as, of its own volition, his hand moved toward her cheek and his head lifted off the floor. Just one kiss, was all. Just one taste . . .

“Is this a private party, or can anyone join?”

Troyce and Faith snapped toward the inquisitor in the same second his best friend's grinning face appeared mere inches from his own. Troyce let his hand drop, and the back of his skull thumped against the carpeting and he cursed the oblivion that enshrouded him from everything but Faith. “Damn it all, Miles . . .”

His grin widened. Crouched on all fours beside them, he inclined his head toward Faith, who remained atop Troyce, her features frozen in shock. “Aren't you going to introduce us?”