Desire Me Now (3 page)

Mr. Riley stood, motioning toward Amelia. “Miss Grant has taken a fall and twisted
her ankle.”

The doctor knelt next to the stool her foot was perched upon. “May I?” he asked, motioning
toward her booted foot.

She nodded and curled her fingers around the piped edge of the sofa. The doctor hesitated
as he searched through his accouterments, pulling out scissors and then deciding against
them. Instead, he unlaced her boot, careful not to move her foot in the process.

Sucking in a pained breath, Amelia couldn’t help but wince as her boot was tugged
off. The pinch of pain lasted only a moment.

Mr. Riley took a step toward her, as if he would stop the doctor. She watched Mr.
Riley cautiously. What was he about? This time, she intentionally tried to catch his
gaze, but before she could garner his attention, he turned and strode out of the room.

Amelia breathed easier the moment Mr. Riley left her in the care of the doctor. Something
about Mr. Riley’s presence made her feel things she’d never felt before—foreign things
that had her blushing as images of him holding her close in his arms flashed across
her mind. She’d been raised a lady and had respected that upbringing. What she felt
for this man crossed every boundary of propriety that her father had instilled in
her.

With a shaky breath that had nothing to do with the swelling pain in her ankle and
everything to do with Mr. Riley, she looked at the doctor, needing to focus on something
else.

Anything
else.

She guessed the doctor’s age was around forty. His face was clean shaven and his black
suit decently pressed. There were crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, as though
he often found reason for laughter. The kindness she saw there put her at ease in
her strange new surroundings.

The room was grander than any in her childhood home—the ceilings had to be twenty
feet high, making the room bright and airy. Above each of the lead-paned windows,
decorative stained glass was fashioned into the shape of a fan. The walls were papered
with a deep burgundy damask, and the furniture—two sofas and a chair in her seating
section—were a mix of ivory chintz and floral patterns to balance the dark walls and
wood trim. It was a richly appointed room. Every detail looked carefully selected,
and nothing looked neglected, not even the curtains. In the house where she’d grown
up, the curtains had been filled with holes from moths over the years.

“It does not appear as though anything is broken,” the doctor said, drawing her attention
away from her surroundings and back to his kind brown eyes. “May I ask how you hurt
it?”

She bit her lip. It was embarrassing to admit what happened, so she opted for a much
shorter version of the truth. “In my haste to cross a busy street this morning, I
managed to trip over the curb separating the lane and the park. My ankle twisted when
I fell.”

He looked at her silently, assessing her injuries. She knew her lip had a split at
one corner; she felt the constant sting, especially when she talked. Mr. Riley had
confirmed that Sir Ian was successful in bruising her where he had struck her.

“You will need to stay off your foot for a few days, preferably a week if you can
spare the time.”

She needed to work, not laze about like an indulgent cat. “Is there not a salve I
can use to heal it quicker? What if I wrap it so I can better support my weight?”

“I’m afraid neither will be sufficient. You need rest to bring down the swelling,
and time will heal the rest.”

She looked away from the doctor, her vision blurring. She hated the tears that filled
her eyes at her predicament. She was stronger than this. “I’m not in a position to
do any such thing,” she said, hearing the break in her voice.

“You most certainly are.” Mr. Riley spoke from the door, startling her. The tone of
his voice was commanding and brooked no argument. “You will sit at a desk to deal
with my correspondence over the next week, if that’s how long it takes to heal.”

“I could . . . ” She wasn’t sure what she could do. And this was not a conversation
or argument for the kind doctor to hear. She would deal with Mr. Riley in due time.
She ducked her head. “Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice, Doctor.
I am grateful for your services.”

“I am always available when Mr. Riley calls.” He packed up his bag, stood, and bowed
to Amelia. His smile was warm as he placed his hat on his head. “Call for me again
if it worsens, though I think you’re in good hands now.”

She nodded, not sure how to respond to the doctor’s assurance of Mr. Riley’s character.

Mr. Riley spoke with the doctor before he left. They were too quiet for Amelia to
overhear what they discussed before the doctor shook Mr. Riley’s hand and left.

Silence descended upon the room when she was left alone with her rescuer. She understood
cruelty, unkindness. She understood the demands of men bent on humiliating her. Any
of those things she could easily skirt around and make an escape for the nearest exit.
But Mr. Riley bewildered her on so many levels that she was at a loss in determining
her next step. He was kind, and he seemed genuinely interested in helping her.

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder:
Why me?

T
here was an awkward moment of silence as Amelia stared at Mr. Riley. She wished she
knew what he was about. Wished she could grasp the fundamental nuances of his character
so she could understand his determination to hire her as his secretary. What could
she possibly offer him that an experienced secretary could not? Right now, she had
no references for her character or ability. Touching her tongue to the tender part
of her split lip, she assumed her appearance suggested that her background was dubious
at best. That wasn’t to say she couldn’t learn exactly what the role entailed, but
she had not escaped the clasp of one devil to find herself in another kind of hell.

Mr. Riley revealed something in his hand as he walked toward her. She eyed him suspiciously.
He handed her a small glass pot with an amber-colored salve inside. Kneeling in front
of her, he scooped some of the salve onto his fingers and reached for her face. When
she flinched from his outstretched hand, he said, “It will help lighten the bruise
that’s setting in on your cheek.”

“Yes, of course,” she replied and held still for his ministrations. She felt suddenly
shy and vulnerable. Those were weaknesses she needed to guard against. She must remain
strong.

Mr. Riley’s fingers were warm and callused, and he was methodical but gentle in applying
the strong-smelling concoction.

“You said you were released from your duties,” he said offhandedly. “Might I ask whom
you worked for?” There was a hint of danger to his question.

“It does not matter.” She never wanted to think of Sir Ian again, or what he’d almost
done.

The look in Mr. Riley’s eyes said he definitely thought it mattered, but he didn’t
ask again.

Amelia leaned over to put her boot back on. Embarrassment had her ducking her face
in a poor attempt to hide the bruise. She couldn’t stay in this house, and she had
to find a way to pay Mr. Riley for the doctor’s visit.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His question was sharp, almost angry.

“I am beyond grateful for your kindness, but I cannot be an imposition to you further.
I have to go back to the employment agency before they close at the lunch hour.”

“There is no need. I have sent them a note to advise them of your new situation.”

Her fingers frozen midtie on her laces, Amelia opened her mouth to protest but then
closed it again. What could she say? He was domineering and had no right to make any
such decision for her. Yet . . . yet he’d been there for her when she needed help
most. And she hated to admit it, but she was indebted to him, as she had no means
to pay him back for his assistance or for the doctor’s services.

Amelia blinked against the tears forming in her eyes. She didn’t like this feeling
of helplessness. She hated that she had no control over her situation. “Why are you
being so kind when you don’t know if I am even capable of the task?”

“It is interesting that we met, when we both require something of the other.”

“That is not explanation enough. I have already told you that I do not know the first
thing about being a secretary.”

She saw nothing but kindness radiating from his eyes. And she wanted to trust him
on this, because he seemed concerned about her welfare, if his insistence that she
stay was proof of that. But she wasn’t sure she could trust him.

“We will have to educate each other along the way,” he said, “as I haven’t any idea
what I require yet from someone whose sole purpose is served as a secretary. Huxley
is my man of all affairs, but some of his tasks need to be alleviated. I have entertained
the idea of a secretary for some months and I believe you’ll be perfect for the job.
You can start with my neglected correspondence and learn how to keep my schedule.”

“I—”

He shook his head. “No more objections. I will have a warm lunch brought up to chase
away the morning chill and then turn you over to Huxley to review some of your duties.”

Amelia pinched her lips tightly together and stared at Mr. Riley. He was so sure of
himself, so sure she’d do exactly as he bid. But what right did she have to refuse
the very thing that would save her from a far worse fate than working for this man?
And she hated to admit that his concern for her being warm and well fed broke through
the careful guard she had erected when around men.

Then something occurred to her. Something she should have thought of sooner. What
if he wanted the same thing that Sir Ian had wanted? Her heart lurched painfully in
her chest with that realization. Something in her expression must have given away
her thoughts, because Mr. Riley’s focus on her was as sharp and intense as ever. He
reached for the bruise on her cheek, where he’d rubbed in the salve moments go. His
touch was light, and she wanted to turn her cheek into his palm.

That wasn’t right. She shook off the thought.

“You have no reason to fear me, Amelia.” The use of her Christian name caused a flutter
of butterflies in her stomach. She took a shaky breath and pulled away from the comfort
of his touch.

“I believe you,” she admitted, meeting his penetrating gaze, knowing that none of
this felt right. Why did she believe him? Was it because she was at the end of her
tolerance for bad luck today?

“Lunch will be served in here,” he announced before standing and leaving her abruptly.
Had he left so quickly so she couldn’t refuse his offer again?

Taking a steadying breath, Amelia pushed to her feet and made a tentative step with
her injured foot. The pain that shot up her calf was nearly debilitating, but she
soldiered on, refusing to give in. And it was the pain in her ankle that decided her
course. She had no money; her face was bruised, making her unfit to be under public
scrutiny; and she hated to admit, but until she could walk without feeling like she’d
throw up, she was stuck in the care of Mr. Riley.

I
f there was one thing to come of the day thus far, it was that Miss Grant would be
more trouble than he might be willing to handle at present. Well, not precisely. It
was more a matter that she caused him a great deal of moral grief.

He wanted her. But part of that wanting was to protect her from the look of weariness
that clouded her eyes. He knew that look, had seen it in his own mother’s eyes. Not
willing to delve too far into his past, Nick busied himself with reviewing the ledgers
of his shipping company.

Someone, somewhere, was dipping his fingers where he had no right. And while Nick
might consider himself a fair employer, he supposed there were always those who wanted
more than their entitled share. Studying the ledger Huxley had prepared over the last
six months, the wool weights from origin to final docking in London were anywhere
from 10 to 20 percent off. So where in hell were the items being fenced?

He leaned back in his chair, no longer needing the evidence in front of him. He’d
been right all along. His business partner and friend, Landon, had been the one to
notice, since the wool was coming from his farm in northern Scotland.

Huxley joined him in his study, perching himself on the arm of the leather chair facing
Nick’s desk. “We going to weed out the accomplices?” he asked.

“Yes but carefully. This affects our partners too, not just my shares in the sales.”

“I have my eyes on the wharfinger. The man always had an untrustworthy face.”

“Even if it is him, we need to know where he’s selling the goods before we have him
charged with theft.”

Huxley crossed his arms over his chest and gave Nick a level stare. “On to other topics,
then. Miss Grant’s a scrap of a woman. Could use a few good meals to fill her out
some.”

Huxley was fishing for information. And damned if Nick had answers. He couldn’t explain
why he’d offered her a job; he’d just known he didn’t want to let her go.

“That should not be a problem once Joshua sets eyes on her.” Nick flipped through
his appointment calendar, not wanting to discuss Miss Grant with anyone. It was bad
enough he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

“You’re going to pluck her off the street when you know nothing about her? Take her
under your roof, when she could steal off with half the house’s silver come morning?”

Nick almost chuckled at the absurdity of the comment. “I’m not concerned she will
steal off with anything.”

Except perhaps his sanity. Women never held sway over him, yet Miss Grant did just
that with her air of innocence and her stubborn manner. Without doubt, the best thing
he could do to preserve that innocence would be to set her free. But to what fate?
He could protect her while she was in his house and ensure that the mark on her cheek
was a thing of the past. Really, he was unwilling to share her with the rest of the
world.

“She is not up for debate, Huxley. She will remain as my secretary.”

Huxley stood and jammed his hands into his pockets. “What do you want me to show her?”

“Any and all the tasks you don’t have time for. You can start with the invitations
and the appointment book. Make sure she’s familiar with my business associates. When
she is better able to walk, she will attend meetings with me.”

Huxley gave one succinct nod and turned to leave Nick’s study without further objection.

Nick sure as hell hoped he knew what he was doing by offering a position to Miss Grant.

Sitting at his desk, he penned a note to the employment agency, which he had lied
about in order to keep Miss Grant here. He let the agency know that he had stolen
one Amelia Grant into his employ. In closing, he requested a list of the houses she
had previously served in. They’d think he was interested in recommendations, but really,
he wanted to sort out who had dared to raise a hand against her.

Trusting Huxley would settle in his new secretary, he left his letter with the kitchen
boy for delivery. Pulling on his coat and straightening his cuffs, he left through
the back exit of the house so he was less tempted to stop in on Miss Grant.

A
melia made it to the window seat just as Mr. Huxley came into the room with a tray.
Setting the silver dish on a side table close to her, he scrutinized her from head
to toe. His gaze was not possessive, like Mr. Riley’s; she had the feeling he was
measuring her ability and worth.

“I’ll show you to the study once you’ve eaten,” Huxley said.

Instead of leaving her with the tray of food—eggs, sausages, and potatoes—he watched
her eat from where he leaned against the doorframe. His bearing was intimidating,
his size compact but sturdy. His face was pockmarked, and he wore a permanent scowl
that had her shifting constantly in her seat.

She picked at her food, unable to stomach anything when Huxley was staring at her
so coldly, giving her the impression that he disliked and didn’t precisely trust the
newcomer in his house. Not that she could blame him for such a notion. She still wasn’t
quite sure how she felt about being here but had resigned herself to staying for at
least a few days.

“If you would be so kind as to sit with me, I will eat much faster and let you get
on with your duties,” she suggested, hoping he might let his guard down a little so
she could gain his trust at the very least. If her last job had taught her anything,
it was that she needed to make more friends. Had she done so, maybe . . .

She closed the door on the
what ifs
. It was in the past. She was safe now . . . wasn’t she?

“I’ll wait here, if you don’t mind.”

She placed her napkin on the table and turned toward Huxley. “I do mind, in fact.
I feel as though you’re waiting for me to falter. Or to make a mistake I cannot possibly
know I’m making. It is not so hard to guess that you like my presence here as much
as you would like a toothache.”

Instead of the scowl she expected, her comment seemed to earn her a smile. What a
strange man Mr. Huxley was.

“You can tell a lot by the way someone eats,” he said, but he walked into the room
and sat on the sofa she’d vacated after the doctor’s visit, which was close enough
to acceptance for her.

Placing her napkin back in her lap, she continued to eat. “How exactly would one make
out a person’s character by the way she eats?”

“I can tell you’ve never had to fend for yourself, even though, by the looks of you,
you’re a few meals short of content. Though I suspect there was never a missed meal
not so long ago and at a proper table.”

Amelia swallowed her half-chewed eggs and set the fork down on the side of the plate.
“You can tell this, how?”

Huxley crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back into the sofa. He gave nothing
away in his expression. Was he trying to intimidate her? If he was, it wasn’t working.
She raised her eyebrows with indifference.

“Grew up in a small house with seven brothers,” he went on. “Nothing like fighting
over a ration of one loaf of bread meant to last a week, sometimes two.”

“I see.” She looked back at her dish, lifted it, and held it out to Huxley. He grabbed
a sausage and chomped into it with exaggerated vigor and a smile that held no laughter.

She cut a piece of the sausage for herself and nibbled it delicately. “You are right
about the proper table. But it was a poor table, and there was not always enough to
go around.”

There was no harm in revealing that much to this man. She would have to work with
him, and they might as well get along so their days were enjoyable. She finished the
remainder of her meal—even though it was far too much food—because she didn’t want
Huxley to find her wasteful.

Once finished, they walked slowly to the study, and he showed her the appointment
book and where the mail and invitations were stored. Mr. Riley was nowhere in sight.
They didn’t look at the appointments in any great length but went over the engagements
that would keep Mr. Riley away from the house for a few days. Huxley had her write
out a list of tasks she would be responsible for in the coming days.