Corey McFadden (32 page)

“Then what the devil will you be, may I ask, since you’re too high and mighty to share my bed?” he shouted back. “A valet? A stableboy? A bootblack? Or will you carry chamber pots and feather dusters up and down stairs for the rest of your life?”

She inhaled deeply. They were back to the real problem, the one she had wrestled with since learning she was almost penniless and at the mercy of her aunt.

“I will carry chamber pots if I must,” she declared coolly. “It is more honorable than earning my living on my back as you suggest. However, I had thought to apply for a governess position.”

“Governess?” He was incredulous. “And what are you going to teach the little buggers? To cheat at cards?”

“How dare you!” she fairly shrieked. “I can teach what they need to know, don’t you worry!”

“Ah, and have you a gentlewoman’s ability at needlework?” he asked coldly.

She flinched. He would have to pick on the one thing she couldn’t do at all. Well, she would just have to get better at it fast. She would practice.

“And can you play upon the pianoforte and warble passable tunes, and do watercolors, and
parle Français
and
sprechen sie Deutsch
? And how is your penmanship?”

A sob caught in the back of her throat. She could do none of those things with any skill. No one would hire her on as a governess. Her hands clutched tightly at the maid’s uniform, as if that perhaps would be her last refuge. “I can teach riding,” she said haltingly, the catch in her voice betraying her. “I am an excellent horsewoman.”

He heard the sob in her voice and it tore at his conscience. He had not meant to yell at her, to lose control and hurt her. She had rejected his offer and made him feel small and foolish and he had retaliated by belittling her dreams. Still, they were nothing but dreams. This country-bred, servant daughter of a stable master would not rise to teach the gentry, who were, if nothing else, inveterate snobs. Family credentials were everything. Governesses were the gently bred daughters of impoverished, but respectable, families. Even the merchant class would shun her. She had best know now how limited her options really were.

“Monkey, no one has a female riding master. I have never heard of such a thing. You will not find employment in such a capacity. I do not even think you could get work as a stablehand. It is just not done.” He spoke quietly, his anger dissipated. He watched the struggle in her face. He turned away, looking about the room for the decanter and glasses he knew he would find there. Yes, on a small table by the fire. He stepped over and poured two glasses. Turning back, he noted that she stood very still, her hands still holding the little maid’s dress over her chest, staring into the low flames of the fire.

“Come and sit down.” He gestured toward the small loveseat that was placed before the large fireplace. She moved forward and sat, saying nothing. He placed the brandy snifter into her hand. “Drink this. It will warm you.”

He sat down next to her and stared at the fire. She would understand now that she could put aside her scruples and live as his pampered mistress. They would take great joy in each other. There would be no shame.

“It is not fair.”

She spoke so quietly, he was not sure he heard her at all.

“What is not fair, monkey?”

“When everyone thought I was a boy, I had so many options. I could work in the stables or as your valet. I had the freedom of the streets. I could even, were I so inclined, learn a trade, or be a clerk. As a female I can do nothing, save scour cooking pots or carry chamber pots. Or bargain with my favors.”

He stared into the flames, sipping at his brandy. She was right, of course. No man in his right mind would trade places with a female in this society. And it was no better with the women of his own class. They were nothing but beautiful, or at least well turned out, chattel, bartered away by their fathers if they had money, and begging for a place to live with a relative if they did not. His hand found the back of her neck and he rubbed her there gently.

“I am sorry you feel so trapped, monkey. This is not at all what I had planned for you.” He spoke softly and she leaned back against his hand.

She felt oddly drowsy now, as if all the tumult of the past twenty-four hours had suddenly caught up with her. It was not his fault. She had lied to him from the beginning. He couldn’t understand what an insult it was to Maude Romney to be offered a position as his light-o’-love. He was a good man who had taken care of her and was willing to shoulder full responsibility for her for life, in exchange for nothing more than the favors she had given him for free. No, it was not his fault, but she was damned if she could see how it was hers either.

“I do not know what I shall do.”

She sounded so forlorn, so bereft that he knew he had to allay her fear. “Well, you must not worry about it now. I have misunderstood you from the very beginning, I admit. Although I can be excused for a part of that, considering that I thought I was dealing with a freckled-faced boy most of that time.” He gave her neck a squeeze, then pulled her close. “I am sorry that you were so insulted by my offer. I meant no insult, I assure you. I just want to make you happy and free from worry, and this is the only way I know how to do that.”

That, or marry her. The thought sprang unbidden to his mind. She had mentioned a Lady Radford. Was that what she was angling for, this servant girl from a ditch? To be his countess? No, it could not be. She had never shown signs of seeking grandeur beyond her station. She had never exhibited the incipient greed and ambition he had come to associate with those who had designs on his name and his title. She had made no move to claim his affection; the aggression had all been his. It could not be.

Yet the idea once born would not fade away. Among the appropriate young ladies of his set  he had never met one whose company he enjoyed so much. She was refreshing and quick, with a mind uncluttered by all the nonsense he had learned to associate with the fairer sex. She brought a fresh perspective to their discussions, a rich native intelligence that needed no scholarly enhancement to express itself. She did not bore him; on the contrary, he was interested in what she thought and why.

And she was so lovely.

Why not marry her? As an earl, he was utterly immune to public opinion, barring some grotesque breach of honor or integrity. The low-born wife instantly acquired the status of her high-born husband. History was replete with such matches, and, he had to admit, the noble family was often better off for the infusion of decent peasant blood. And he did not care a fig for the murmurings of the grande dames. They had murmured about him since he’d reached puberty. He assumed they’d never stop where he was concerned.

But what of his Molly? How would they treat her? While he could bear the slight chill, the snicker behind the back, the mocking glance, could she? Or would the wound go deeper for her, feeding the insecurity she would doubtless bring with her to the marriage? It would bear some thought, this novel idea. In the meantime, he would try to ease her apprehensions.

“I will never force my attentions on you, monkey. Nor will I toss you out into the street. If you do not wish to be my mistress, so be it. It will be my loss. But you may live here, free of obligation to me, as long as you wish.”

She turned to him questioningly. “Why would you be so generous to me under the circumstances?”

She sounded genuinely perplexed and he rushed to assure her. “You may not have bothered to notice, but I am a very rich man. Trust me, your keep will not put a dent in my assets.”

“Then I would live on your charity?”

He gave a yank to her red curls. “Why must you put everything in the most negative light? If you were a gentleman of my acquaintance, I would owe you as much for saving my life.”

She stared into the fire. He offered her everything, safety, financial security, her own haven, and he asked absolutely nothing in return. Why was she not deliriously happy that all her problems were solved?

“I still don’t know what to do,” she murmured quietly.

“Do nothing, go to bed. Sleep on it. No decisions must be made tonight.” His hand still moved on her neck, in her hair. The fire burned low. He pulled her back into the crook of his arm. “Shall I leave you alone tonight, monkey? I can go home if you like.” He nuzzled against her neck, smelling lilacs.

He would do that for her. He would leave her alone in this very expensive townhouse, and ask nothing further of her. And she would sleep alone in that large, cold bed, and awaken alone in the morning. She rubbed her head against his chest, her fingers playing against his arm.

“Stay with me tonight, my lord,” she murmured quietly. “Don’t go.”

His lips traced a line down her neck as his hand rose to cup her breast. She sighed as the heat rose in her anew. She brought her hand up to his face, tracing the stubble that appeared on his chin, running her fingers down his chest. Tonight she would do it for love. Tomorrow she would think again about her honor....

Chapter Eighteen

The ninth Earl of Radford awoke with an odd, uneasy feeling. It was not that he was in a strange bed; that was not terribly unusual. Nor was it that a lovely, naked lady graced this bed. That was not unusual either. It was the dream that somehow still lingered, an unsettling dream about this gamine, this bewitching beauty, this servant girl, who for some inexplicable reason, he was strongly considering making his wife.

She had been galloping on horseback in his dream, with him racing next to her, but falling behind with every step. She turned back to him, laughing, her red curls dancing in the wind, shouting, “Pompous prig! Pompous prig!” But in the dream she was no ravishing ladylove; she was not even his boy valet. She was a little girl.

He sat up, careful not to disarrange the blankets that covered her naked form, and gave a lug on the bell pull. It was cold in the room. He had left orders for the servants via Peabody and Peabody that on no account was he to be disturbed, not even to build up a roaring morning fire, until he rang. He looked at the hearth and saw that it was stacked with several stout logs and kindling. There was the faintest glow from the embers in the fireplace. Good. It would not take long to get some warmth into the room once the fire got properly started. He looked back down at his lovely lady, as beautiful in sleep as she was awake and bedeviling him. He willed himself to hold onto the dream. There was something important about it, although he was not sure just what it was. But, like all dreams, the substance eluded him and faded maddeningly with the morning light.

The rich, heavy draperies were pulled back and only a filmy sheer panel covered each window. The room was lightening, a muted sunshine slipping in, making its way across the floor and the covers of the bed. Her skin was rosy in the sunlight. Hers was not the pale, cold beauty so prized among the
ton
. It was a blushing, healthy glow, a look that spoke of outdoors and wind and rain and laughing. Like the dream....

She was a mystery, this unknown girl. The things she said about herself were true and not true. It was utterly plausible that she was the daughter of a country stable master, mistreated by the scion of the household and his mother. It was utterly implausible that she could be so seemingly refined in speech and manner, and have been raised as a mere servant. Even her scruples about his proposed living arrangement had surprised him. Such niceties belonged only to those who could easily afford them.

No, there was a lie somewhere in this tale, perhaps more than one. Once again he considered one of his earlier ideas, that she was the illegitimate daughter of the master of the house. That was the more likely scenario. It would explain the enmity of the mistress of the house on the one hand, and the refinement of Molly’s speech and manner on the other, if the father had been the sort to raise his bastard daughter in the household, with an acknowledged, if socially lessened status. These things were known to happen. Where there was not necessarily enough money to establish a separate household, the illegitimate offspring could be raised at home privately, but not publicly acknowledged, given a tolerable education, with some small, but acceptable, provision made for them in adult years. Many the successful tradesman in the growing middle classes owed his early success to a discreet financial boost and a bar sinister.

But what would explain her remarkable talent with horses? It was not just the ability to ride which she claimed to have—he had never seen her ride, after all—but her intimate knowledge of the workings of the stables. He had seen it for himself—and Frederick had confirmed—that young ‘Mike’ had a way with horses and excellent stable training. It was most unusual tutelage in a woman, servant or upper class. And far odder, how had she come by her waterfront ways at cards? That she knew these tricks, but had an ironclad morality with regard to their use was a conundrum in and of itself. It was certainly a strange household that had spawned his Molly, however she fit into it.

She stirred under his scrutiny. There was an instant of confusion in her green eyes as they opened and beheld his face over hers. Then she smiled up at him, half-asleep still, and burrowed against him for warmth. His arms came around her and he breathed in her lilac fragrance. She was so soft and deliciously feminine. He must have been mad not to have seen what she was. He felt his loins stirring at the feel of her body pressed against his, but willed himself to ignore the urge. There were things he must do, plans to set in motion, if he were going to solve the mystery of this girl once and for all.

“Are you hungry, monkey? I’ve rung for tea and coffee and we can get the kitchen staff moving on breakfast.” He nuzzled in her hair, his hands ignoring his command to be still.

“I don’t think they’ll still be in your employ by luncheon, my lord, if you abuse them by demanding a big breakfast at such an early hour.” She sighed as his hand found her breast and began kneading it.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he whispered into her neck. “Perhaps we should let the poor things have their breakfast first. We could always find something to do other than eating.”