Tempted (8 page)

Northern stairwell? Bloody hell.

“Come, come,” he said, motioning her to follow him down the stairs she’d just climbed.

And so Mary found herself following a duke, even clutching his elbow when he teetered a bit on one of the steps, Abu strangely quiet inside her traveling bag. But the toff didn’t lead her down the servants’ hallway, instead he led her toward the main living quarters, into a hall that made Mary’s breath catch when they stepped through a double doorway and into a massive area that reminded her of a cathedral she’d once peeked inside of back in London.

“I
knew
it.”

Both she and the duke gave out a yelp that echoed off the high ceiling above, though it was the duke that recovered first. He turned toward one of the windows, toward a body that’d been obscured by a tall, red velvet drape.

“Alex,” the duke said. “What the blazes are you doing there?”

“Waiting for you.” His eyes moved to Mary. “Are you well?”

Her brow knitted in puzzlement.

Alex’s gaze moved back to his sire. “Father, I am appalled.”

“Here now, don’t you go spoiling my amusement.”
Amusement?
Mary turned to the duke and it was then that she noticed the old duke didn’t look quite so old anymore. His stooped shoulders were now straight. His watery eyes took on a crafty brightness. Even his hands had stopped shaking.

“Why, you old rudesby,” Mary said.

She’d been had. By a man who looked to be a hundred years old. Who looked old enough to be put out to pasture, but who apparently still ate wild oats. “You were going to accost me, weren’t you?”

“I was,” he said with a gleeful smile.

Mary almost laughed. Almost. “You old buzzard.” “Hah,” he barked. “Did you hear that, Alex? An old buzzard she called me.” The words turned into a laugh. “Has a mouth on her,” he said to his son. “I like that.”

“Leave her alone, father.”

“She fancies you, you know.”

Mary gasped. “Why I— Whatever gives you that idea?”

“You do,” he said. “What’s more, dear boy, I’d take her up on the unspoken offer.”

“That’s enough,” Alex said, crossing to his side and turning him toward the door. “I wish to speak to Mrs. Callahan alone.”

“What if
I
want to see her alone?”

“You shan’t be given that chance.”

The duke frowned. “Spoil my fun, what, what. Very well, if you insist.” He turned to her. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mary Callahan. I’m only sorry I won’t get to further the acquaintance.”

“I’d have acquainted you with my fists,” Mary said. The beard splitter gave her a slow smile before turning away, but not before he gave her a swat on the rear that made Mary yelp. She turned, prepared to go after him.

A hand on her shoulder stilled her. “Don’t,” he said. “You will only provoke him.”

She turned, her eyes narrowing as she said, “Is it a family thing, this habit of accosting me?”

“When did I accost you?”

“In my room. With your eyes.” “That was not accosting.”

Mary decided not to argue the point. Abu was getting restless as evidenced by the way he shifted about. She covered the motion by shifting the bag to another hand. “You knew the old bloke was going to do this, didn’t you?”

“I was a bit concerned, which is why I hid here. I knew he would move in quickly, before the other servants had time to warn you of his tendency to pounce on visiting staff.”

“You should have bleedin’ warned me.”

“And I beg your pardon for that, Mrs. Callahan. You are correct. I should have warned you.”

It always amazed her the way he could take the wind out of her sails. But her pique was forgotten as a new realization dawned. It made Mary stiffen, made her study him more intently. But it all made sense: The stodgy behavior. The holier-than-thou attitude. The princely airs.

“Why, you poor sod.”

He stiffened like he’d been poked in the behind. “I beg your pardon?”

“
Now
I understand why you’re such an indignant bag of wind. You grew up with The Scarlet Pimpernel as a father.”

“Scarlet Pimpernel?”

But sure as sin it were true, Mary thought. Why, look at him right now. All moral affront. She placed a hand on her hips. “You’re the most arrogant man I’ve ever seen,” she said. “Controlled, you are. And yet a part of you fights that control. You hate the fact that you find me attractive. No, no,” she said, holding up a hand. “Do not deny it, for I know it’s true.”

“You go too far.” “Do I?”

“Yes, damn it, you do.”

“And yet you don’t leave.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I need to apologize, curse you.” “Apologize? For what?”

“My father’s behavior. It was unconscionable and out of line. I should have taken steps to protect your virtue. I did not. And for that I am sorry.”

She drummed her fingers, a bit insulted that he would think her so silly as to be bothered by his father. “My lord. If you think that’s the first cakey old man to accost me, you’ve got another think coming.”

He stiffened, his shoulders tensing in a way that meant her words had surprised him.

“I see,” he said. “I had not thought of that. You are, indeed, uncommonly pretty. I should have realized that that might have presented a problem in the past. But I assure you, you have no need to fear for your virtue here…or anywhere as long as you’re in my employ.”

She didn’t move. Aye, she likely couldn’t have said a word if she’d wanted to, for she was suddenly struck by the notion that he made her feel like a lady when he looked and spoke to her thus. A genuine, blue-blooded, bona fide mort.

“Thank you,” she managed to squeeze past her stupefied lips.

He inclined his head just like she was, indeed, a proper lady. “Would you like me to escort you to your room?”

“No.”

He seemed to color. “Then I bid you goodnight.” But he stared down at her still and Mary found herself wishing…

For what? That you’d been born noble?

She almost winced. Aye. Almost.

Got bats in your belfry, Mary girl.

Likely she did, for there was no sense in denying it. She couldn’t shake a feeling, one that told her beneath the stuffy shirt, beneath the arrogant airs, was a genuinely caring man.

Chapter Seven

The next morning Alex woke to the sound of rain, and a pain in his groin from the dream he’d had of Mary Callahan naked in his bed.

Odd’s teeth. He needed to stop.

He took breakfast in his room (he didn’t want to run into Mrs. Callahan in the halls, though that was hardly likely in an estate of Wainridge’s size). He made sure the stairs were clear before checking with the Runners that all was well, and then with his father’s head groom about the condition of the roads. (Poor. They would be stuck at Wainridge at least another day unless he wanted to risk Gabby taking a chill. Bloody hell.) Next he took himself off to a room he knew for certain Mary Callahan would never enter: the fencing gallery (located in a rectangular room one could only reach by passing through three salons, a ballroom and the
pièce de résistance
—a room with a multitude of game staring sightlessly at anyone who happened to venture inside, certain to turn any lady’s stomach). There he took vengeance on a straw dummy that he pretended had his father’s face, his blade jabbing into it with regular force. This jab for the embarrassment he felt at having to rescue the newest member of his staff. That jab for daring to tell Alex to take Mrs. Callahan for himself. Another jab for the realization that he wanted to.

And so it went, which was why when he heard a feminine voice call out, he missed the hay-filled dummy he’d been thrusting his rapier into and hit the wall instead. His whole arm vibrated from the impact, his blade arcing and then
whaw-whaw-whaw-whawing
as the thing flapped about like a dying fish.

“Bravo, m’lord. A pox on that nasty wall.”

“What the blazes are you doing here?” he asked as he turned.

She wore a different dress today,
was his first thought.
How the blazes did she manage to look so lovely?
was his second.

Unlike some women, Mary Callahan appeared to look good in any light. In fact, the rain-drenched light only darkened the shade of her lashes, making her eyes appear huge, her red hair a splash of color against the room’s marble walls.

“Looking for you.”

And what could he say to that? Except he suddenly had the urge to loosen his cravat, only he wasn’t wearing a cravat. No. He wore a white shirt tucked into fawn breeches that would alert the ubiquitous Mary Callahan to the fact that he found her presence this morning something less than disagreeable.

Hell and damnation.

He turned away, more to hide unwanted evidence of his attraction than to grab the towel that rested on the floor near the dummy. But that towel served two purposes. One, to wipe his face—which he did—for he was suddenly sweating. Two, to make himself look busy, which it did, for he pretended an urgent and industrious need to clean his blade with said towel.

“What is it you need to see me about?” he asked over his shoulder.

“
I
didn’t want to see you,” she said with a lift of her brows. “’Tis your daughter who wants to see you.”

“Does she?”

“Yes.”

“You should have sent a servant,” he said rather rudely before realizing such a demand was hardly gentleman-like.

“My lord,” she said. “In case you hadn’t been noticing, I
am
a servant.”

He stiffened, though he still didn’t face her. But he was sure if he did, she’d be staring up at him with her bloody twinkling eyes. “Indeed you are, Mrs. Callahan. Indeed you are. I beg your pardon.”

She didn’t say anything and for a moment he was almost tempted to turn and find out why, but he couldn’t risk her seeing the overwhelming evidence that he didn’t think of her as a servant, but as a woman. And damned if he knew what to do about it.

“And since, as you point out, you are a servant, you may return to my daughter and tell her I shall be with her forthwith.”

No response. He refused to turn.

“As you wish,” she finally said. “If I can find my way back to her afore the day ends,” he heard her mutter.

He waited for her to leave, but she didn’t.

Leave, please,
he said to himself.
Leave, leave, leave.
“May I be frank with you, my lord?”

He almost cursed. Hell’s fires, just the sound of her voice—

“Of course, Mrs. Callahan.”

He risked a glance over his shoulder.

She was looking up at him, her head tilted in such a way as to make her look even more lovely.

“I know what it is you’re hiding.”

That made him jerk a bit.

“And I know it’s hard.”

Hell and damnation. It was
what?

“But you shouldn’t be ashamed.”

She couldn’t be referring to his erect manhood. Could she?

“It’s not your fault.”

She
was
referring to that. Bloody hell. Very well, if she wanted frankness, he’d give her frankness. “I know it’s not my fault, Mrs. Callahan. My reaction to you is completely involuntary.”

Only when he spun around, her gaze dropped, and something about the way she popped off the ground…about the way she jolted right up off the floor, alerted him to the fact that he’d made a serious tactical error.

“Good lord,” she said, her gaze fixing on his privates. Then her expression changed, her hands going to her hips as she met his gaze. “I mean,
good lord.
No wonder you’ve been keeping your back to me.”

He promptly turned his back again, a blush such as he’d never felt turning his cheeks scarlet. “You weren’t talking about my, ah, my—”

“Whore pipe? No. I was not.”

He closed his eyes. And on the heels of that action came the realization that Mary Callahan always seemed to catch him at his worst.

“Then what, might I ask, were you talking about?” “Your father,” she said. “I was going to say that I know what it’s like to have a relative you’re less than proud of.”

He almost let out a groan. Could he have blundered it so bad?

He could.

“I see,” he said.

“And I was going to say that you don’t need to be ashamed. I’ve been doing some talking to the other servants here and they all agree that you’re a stand-up cull. A man as unlike his father as a boar is from a hound.”

He stilled, her words penetrating the edge of embarrassment. She’d been trying to set him at ease about his father.

“So while I understand how you might think that I was…ah…” she paused and her eyes lit up in that shooting star way of hers, “talking about something else, I can promise you right and tight that it wasn’t me with my mind in the gutter.”

She turned, and Alex couldn’t stop the curse that escaped as she headed out the door, and he wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard…

Laughter.