Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction (25 page)

“You will find the table set in the dining parlor, my lord.”

The servants dispersed rapidly, and he took her down the length of the grand hall, through a wide Tudor door, and into an equally impressive chamber with another fireplace and a vaulted ceiling from which hung an iron wheel full of candles. The long trestle table had been set in readiness for their arrival. Apparently they would dine without service, and she was glad of it. She wouldn’t want to make a pig of herself on the first night and in full view of the staff. Her mouth watered pitifully at the delicious scent of roast beef and thick, rich gravy. Oh…and if her poor sight could be relied upon…Yorkshire pudding. She was ravenous again already. Must be nerves, she mused.

***

There was something satisfying about watching her eat. She’d begun to fill out in a very pleasing way, and Carver was no longer afraid that a strong gust of wind might blow her out of his hands. She consumed the supper with gusto, despite the fact that she must have been tired after their journey. Not to mention unsettled by her strange surroundings.

He supposed he ought to feel shame at the way he dragged her into the country with him, but how else was he to keep her to himself? He’d wanted to take her away from London and the bitter-tongued gossips, and he had to act quickly. No time for thinking. There was a vast deal of confusion in his mind, and the only thing that smoothed out the tangles was to have her in his sights, by his side.

“It’s late now, but tomorrow I’ll take you around the estate,” he told her. Then it occurred to him that he didn’t even know if she could ride. Well, they could always take out the small curricle, or even the steward’s gig. He knew Phipps was anxious to talk with him about repairs to some of the tithe cottages, as well as the main house itself. Why not take her along with him? If he left her in the house, she might start mending and cleaning his garments.

“When was the last time you stayed here?” she asked.

“Last autumn, with Hobbs, but I haven’t stayed for any length of time since I came into the title.” He speared another slice of beef on his fork.

“Why?”

“I prefer Town.”

“Why?” She stared through the candles, her eyes very large and full of wonder. Glad the spark was back, he allowed her to question him, as he never would tolerate it from anyone else.

“More noise, more people. After my father died, this place was too quiet, too large and empty.”

“And I suppose there were too many responsibilities to face here.”

In the process of cutting into his slice of beef, he stopped and glowered at her. “That was not the point.” It was not responsibilities that chased him out, it was ghosts.

“Oh? I thought perhaps it was entirely the point.”

“I face my responsibilities. You have no idea.”

“I don’t suppose I do”—Margaret turned her gaze to her plate—“since you never share your serious thoughts with me, or your problems. I’m not important enough to be told anything.”

Carver reached for his wine and then stopped, fingers curling into a fist on the table. “I suggest you tell me your theory of why I stay away, then. I can see you have one, and I’m on tenterhooks to hear it.”

When her plush lashes lifted, her eyes were warm. “Forgive me, Danny, but I’ve seen you abdicate responsibility over the years—handing it to Hobbs or even to your sister. When forced into action, you can be decisive. Look at us now, for instance.” She waved her knife. “We wouldn’t be sitting here if you hadn’t suddenly decided to drag me off the street. But until it’s an absolute emergency, you do your very best to avoid decisions. And for the most part, it works well for you, because there is usually someone else there who gives up waiting and makes the choice for you.”

He did not interrupt, but let her speak, let her get it all out. Her voice was soft, mellow, very pleasant, and never shrill. He didn’t even mind when it insulted him. Quite possibly he could forgive her anything, he realized, appalled by the thought.

“It’s not your fault that you’ve been spoiled and cosseted, protected from making decisions. You can’t help being born an earl. You are lucky to have blindly devoted, loyal servants like Edward Hobbs in London and Mr. Phipps here. Not to mention a sister who is more than happy to direct your life and would even pick a bride for you, if you let her. I daresay if I was born with people to do everything for me, I, too, would have become lazy and complacent.” She smiled and continued her meal, apparently satisfied with her saucy little speech.

Trouble was, the impertinent madam was right. He had been lucky, and yes, he had escaped responsibility on several occasions, neatly sidestepping to let it land on the shoulders of faithful Hobbs or his meddling sister, Mercy.

“But I mean to change all that,” he said suddenly, making her look up again. “That’s why I’m here now. You’ll see.”

“Will I?”

He cleared his throat. “I have been afraid to make mistakes in my life.”

She put down her fork. “We all make mistakes, Danny. That’s how we learn.”

“Indeed.”

She beamed.

Once again he realized how different she was than any other woman he knew. At times she made him feel…stupid…humbled. And then she lifted him up again, a new man.

He could not remember why he’d ever thought her plain.

“So tell me some of your horrid ghost stories,” she urged, eyes twinkling under her lashes.

“Where should I begin? Shall I tell you about the third Earl of Everscham, who murdered his wife with a wood axe and still chases young maids around the upper floors with his bloodied weapon? Or shall I begin with the story of old shepherd Bob, killed by a savage wolf and left for all eternity to seek his lost sheep in the low meadow whenever there is mist in the valley?”

“Danny! I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Pleased that he managed to amaze her, Carver continued regaling his prisoner with bloodthirsty tales while she filled her stomach with roast beef, eating enough for a woman twice her size.

***

Mrs. Martindale returned with a large candelabrum to lead them up to bed. To Molly’s surprise and relief, she was given her own chamber, a very large one with a four-poster bed and windows that she was informed overlooked the rose garden. Dusk was loosening its grip on the sky by then, and it was too dark to confirm the view for herself, but the housekeeper assured her a very pretty garden awaited below.

“It was the Countess of Everscham’s favorite place,” Mrs. Martindale explained as she moved around the room, lighting more candles. “She spent hours tending those roses. Sadly, I don’t have the time to devote to it, but then I never had green fingers. The gardener, Jenkins—although a capable fellow—is somewhat dismissive of decorative gardening and puts more of his time into the home farm. His expertise, as he will proudly tell you, is in vegetables, for one will never starve as long as one plants vegetables. I’m afraid he sees flowers as less than useful and beneath his dignity.”

Molly answered at once that she would be happy to tend the roses while she was there. The housekeeper looked at her sharply, as if suddenly seeing her in a new light. “Well, that would be most useful, madam. If you’re sure…”

“Certainly. I am happy to help in any way I can.”

For a few moments, as she unpacked her trunk—filled with Lady Mercy’s clothes, which were all too short for her—she was aware of Mrs. Martindale’s stern regard closely observing all her movements. Then the housekeeper asked if she was in need of a maid to help her.

“My girls have not had a vast amount of experience in tending to a lady, for his lordship has never brought a guest such as yourself with him when he visited before, but I’m sure they would be adequate. I can send them up to you, if you desire it.”

“Oh no, Mrs. Martindale I can manage. Thank you.”

“Very good, madam. When would you like to be awakened in the morning?”

Molly had never needed to be awakened by another person in her life. She was usually the first one up and often the last to bed. The only morning heralds she’d known were the pigeons outside her window in London, or the cockerel in the yard outside her family’s tiny cottage in Sydney Dovedale. “I’ll wake myself, Mrs. Martindale. I’m sure I’ll be too excited to oversleep. I’m looking forward to exploring the estate.”

Again the older woman looked at her oddly, inclined her head in a half bow, and then left the room, closing the door with a gentle thud.

Molly tested the bed by bouncing lightly on the edge and found it comfortable but firm. There was a faint odor of mothballs, but she supposed that was inevitable, since she’d been told by Lady Mercy that the house was mostly shut up all year round. A dish of potpourri beside the bed helped sweeten the air, and a fire had evidently been lit earlier in the grate to chase away the damp, for there was a lingering hint of wood smoke. All these efforts made just for her. She was quite overwhelmed by it.

Mrs. Martindale had said he never brought anyone like her to the house. Whatever that meant.

She peered through the drapes at a star-filled sky. The moon seemed larger than it did in London. How quiet the land was too, she thought. Just a soft owl hoot somewhere in the distance. She supposed if she had lived all her life in London and known only the noise and smells of the town, it might have been eerie to hear her own breath and her own heart drumming. But she, of course, was raised in the country. She was not the grand lady of Town that Mrs. Martindale had expected.

A sudden click behind her brought Molly out of her reverie.

Her kidnapper, wrapped in a velvet-trimmed bed robe, carrying a candle, appeared through an opening in the wall paneling.

“I thought you were the lost valet or the third earl with his wood axe,” she quipped, her pulse skipping.

He set his candle on the dresser. “I would hope you’d make more noise and protest than that if it was someone other than me, Miss Robbins, appearing in your bedchamber in the still of night.”

“Perhaps,” she chirped. “Depends how handsome he might be.”

Slipping off his robe, he tossed it to her bed, and she watched the silver drift of moonlight caress his fine musculature. He was very confident in his nudity. Why would he not be? He’d had bouquets of beautiful women sing his praises in bed.

“Turn around,” he whispered, crossing the floor toward her. “Since you have no maid, I must undress you tonight.”

So she let him unhook her gown and untie the laces of her stays. “You are fond of your secret doors,” she muttered. “I suppose you have them all over this house.”

“They are the invention of a previous, very resourceful Danforthe.” She felt his lips on the nape of her neck.

“A house this old must hold many secrets.”

His breath tickled her shoulder. “It certainly always felt that way. As if the adults kept things from me.”

“I suppose, because you were an only child for ten years, you were left to amuse yourself.”

“Yes. There were no other playmates here, just ghosts, secrets, and mysteries. I was always fond of mysteries. That’s what first drew me to you, Margaret.”

She scoffed. “There’s no mystery about me.”

Her clothing fell away, and then his hands slid her drawers down. “On the contrary, you are all mystery, all dark hidden places and buried treasure.”

Molly laughed. “There is nothing hidden from you anymore.” He had kissed and caressed every part of her body. What could there be left for him to claim?

He led her away from the window. “Now I have you all to myself. No work. No other people to interfere—yours or mine.”

She raised a hand and ran her fingers through his midnight hair, just as she’d imagined doing for so many years. “Mrs. Martindale wonders about me. I suppose you can lift a girl out of the servant’s hall and take her upstairs with the fine folk, but she’ll always be a downstairs sort of girl.”

“Only if that’s what she prefers.” As her hand drifted down the side of his face, he turned his head and kissed her palm. “Do you?”

In all honesty, Molly wasn’t sure where she belonged anymore. Here she was, living the superior life with her aristocratic lover, wearing Lady Mercy’s clothes and being waited on. She couldn’t turn her nose up at it. What woman didn’t want to be pampered like a princess in a fairy tale at least once in her life?

“Tonight,” he whispered, “you’re my upstairs lady, and I’ll be your downstairs fellow.”

She chuckled. “Danny, I don’t want you to be my servant.”

“Why not?”

“It wouldn’t suit you.”

He made a wounded face. “I always thought I’d look rather splendid in footman’s livery.”

He would too, she thought, chagrined. “But you’d have to do what people said. All the time. And keep your opinions to yourself.”

A deep crease wrinkled his brow. “Ah.”

“Precisely. Far better you stay as you are and just be…pretty.”

“Pretty?”

Molly struggled to remain solemn. “It is what you do best, your lordship.” She turned and walked to the bed. “
One
of the things you do best,” she added, sliding under the coverlet and holding it for him.

After a slight delay, he followed her to the bed. “So what you’re saying, Miss Robbins, is that I’m little better than a plaything for you.”

She looked at him somberly. “Why would you want to be anything else?”

He paused, shook his head, and then slid his warm hand over her breast. Her nipple pricked instantly to attention. “Since I’m here solely for your entertainment, Miss Robbins”—he bent his head to kiss the little peak—“you’d best make the most of me in the last days we have left.”

“I intend to.” Not that she needed any encouragement, or warning about time passing them by.

His fingers tickled downward, over her stomach. “So tonight I am the servant to do your bidding. Where shall I begin?”

“That’s a good place. Down a little farther.”

“You want me downstairs, my lady?”

She sighed as his hand slid between her thighs. “Yes. Just there.”

Slowly he kissed his way down her body, following his fingers. “As you wish, my lady.”