The Wagered Miss Winslow (10 page)

Which had proved to be a good thing, as it had been Woodrow who had bravely stepped in between Beau and Rosalind once Bridget had tripped off upstairs, one hand to her plump breast, his quick action probably preventing bloodshed.

“Mr. Remington is many things I cannot admire, madam,” Woodrow had declared in his unemotional, precise English, stepping directly in front of Rosalind as Riggs, who knew his own limits, had made a break for it. Miss Winslow had been in a rare temper, she had, which Riggs had breathlessly related to the other servants as he sat trembling in a chair in the kitchens (the cook fanning him with a large towel), where he had retreated after Bridget had released her hold on his throat.

“However, I do not include prevarication among his deficiencies,” Woodrow had gone on. “His birth and breeding are unexceptional. It is his scattered, hey-go-mad upbringing that I deplore, although he has made great strides toward civilized behavior since entering my tutelage. I can only suggest that we disperse now until the dinner hour, at which time cooler heads may be allowed to prevail.”

Beau didn’t know which had made him angrier, Woodrow’s backhanded defense or Rosalind’s apparent submission to the imperious, domineering valet. But she had acquiesced, albeit grudgingly, and Beau had been allowed to move himself into the house—for now.

He sighed, a wave of Irish melancholy crashing over his English soul. It was depressing, that’s what it was, and he felt lower than a barnacle on an anchor that he had been reduced to hiding (at least figuratively) behind Bridget and Woodrow—behind a woman’s apron and a valet’s pressing iron. He would much rather have had it out with Rosalind then and there, explaining in less than fifty well-chosen words why Bridget had addressed him as “Bobby Reilly,” and then silenced any remaining arguments or protests by the simple expedience of kissing Miss Rosalind “How-
dare
-you-sirrah!” Winslow senseless.

“Don’t pout, Mr. Remington,” Woodrow admonished now, standing in front of Beau, holding a basin of warm water. “Only the lower orders pout. You will simply have to go downstairs and make a clean breast of everything, as you did with me before I agreed to take you on. I am convinced Miss Winslow will understand, although all this business of a marriage between you is simply out of the question for the nonce.”

“The oracle speaks,” Beau rejoined testily. “But you may be right. Instead of sitting here, feeling all woeful and sorry for myself, I might be better engaged in knocking your two eyes into one. Yes, I think I’d like that, Woodrow. A good, rousing fight has always been a sure enough cure for ennui.”

The valet sighed, having long ago learned that, while Mr. Remington might threaten him with great regularity, he would never resort to violence. “Thank you, sir, for making my point. We may have succeeded in applying a veneer of civilized conduct and temperament, but we have a long, long way to go, which is why I manufactured that slight fib about a relative in the neighborhood. You were prepared to dismiss me, sir, and I knew we were not yet done with our improvements. Now if you would be so kind as to remove to the dressing table, I believe it is time we were shaved.”

Beau was nonplussed for a moment as it dawned on him, slowly, that Woodrow had come extremely close to admitting that he had begun to feel some slight fondness for his employer-cum-student. “You mean to stick by me, Woodrow?” he asked, rising, then walked to the dressing table and picked up his razor for, no matter how Woodrow protested, he had been shaving himself for many a year and wasn’t about to change his habits simply because he was now filthy rich.

The valet nodded, and Beau smiled, believing he had heard a slight creak in the valet’s usually unbending neck.

“I see in you the greatest challenge in my career of service, sir,” Woodrow went on doggedly. “I could not desert you at this juncture and still consider myself worthy to serve as a gentleman’s gentleman. Tut-tut! We have succeeded in nicking our chin, haven’t we? Here you go, sir—allow me to dab at that blood with a clean towel.”

“Woodrow,” a flattered Beau said as he stood still for once and allowed the valet to do his job, “you fair bid to unman me with your loyalty. Remind me to double your wages,” he added, slightly ashamed of himself, for he had vivid memories of some of the unkind thoughts he had harbored against the man.

“That is not necessary, sir,” Woodrow protested as he stepped back, unwilling to be showered with water as Beau dipped his hands into the basin and proceeded to wash his face with the same enthusiasm a puppy employed in frolicking in his water bowl. “A wise head of household knows that loyalty cannot be bought, and does not so demean himself as to grossly overpay servants in a pathetic appeal for fealty.”

Beau lifted his head from the towel Woodrow had handed him, eyeing the man owlishly. “All right. Remind me to cut your wages by a third, Woodrow. God forbid I should appear to be begging for crumbs of affection from my own servants. Oh, the humiliation of the thing!’

“Mr. Remington jokes,” the valet countered, holding out a fresh shirt as Beau stripped himself to his waist, the bulging muscles of his arms and chest causing Woodrow to turn his head in mild disgust. His employer was too muscular by half, and would never be a credit to his tailor, or his valet—although he did possess a creditably small waist and good, straight, if distressingly powerful,
bulging
legs.

“Mr. Remington jokes,” Beau repeated, buttoning the pristine white shirt and seating himself for the ceremony of the neck cloths—a tedious affair he loathed but endured in the name of fashion. He endured a lot of nonsense in the name of fashion, of respectability, of civilization—but even he had to admit his present condition was far superior to years of bathing catch-as-catch-can in freezing seawater and having his skin chafed by rough homespun shirts. “And I repeat, your wages are doubled as of this moment. Loyalty may not be purchased, Woodrow, but it does nave its rewards. Now, let’s get this over with, if you please, as I have to get myself downstairs posthaste and explain away my checkered past before Miss Winslow and I may post the banns.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Remington, sir!” Woodrow agreed, his face splitting in the first smile Beau had ever seen brighten the man’s face. “We will remember to offer the lady a drink—nothing too brutal, perhaps a glass of ratafia?—and then offer to take her arm to assist her in to dinner? And we will remember our utensils, most especially the forks?”

“We will remember the forks most especially,” Beau agreed, doing his best not to feel like the backward schoolboy he knew himself to be. “We will remember the forks, we will not drink our soup from the bowl, and we will most definitely not eat our squab with our fingers.”

“Oh, very
good
, sir!” Woodrow exclaimed as he knelt to help his employer with his footwear. “We shall make a gentleman of us yet!”

Rosalind always dressed for dinner, even isolated as she was here at Winslow Manor, but never before in her memory had she dressed with such care, choosing and discarding several gowns before Mollie put a halt to the indecision by stating simply, “Unless you’re fixin’ to trip down them stairs in one of your nightgowns, this is the last of them.”

“This” was a lovely jonquil-yellow gown fashioned of softest taffeta overlaid with a thin, transparent fabric of like color. She had ordered the gown from a pattern card sent to her by her modiste in London just six months previously, and its short, soft puffed sleeves were remarkably flattering to her well-shaped arms, while the modest scooped bodice and high waist made her appear more feminine than did her higher-necked morning gowns.

She allowed Mollie to pile her blonde tresses on top of her head and agreed to the placing of a single, small yellow crepe flower above her left ear. The color might be a bit risqué for an English subject still officially in mourning for her late King, but the black-and-white crepe flowers designed to be worn in her hair were left in the drawer, as she knew they were supposedly reserved only for events requiring full court dress.

Tonight’s dinner might be considered to be a vastly important event in Rosalind’s life, but she was determined that Mr. Remington see that she viewed it like any other dinner. Taking up a light paisley shawl—for her shoulders seemed to be embarrassingly bare—Rosalind directed one last, assessing look at herself in the full-length mirror that stood in the corner of her bedchamber, took a deep, steadying breath, and motioned for Mollie to open the door.

Her head held high, she thanked the maid and stepped out into the hallway, prepared to meet with Mr. Beaumont Remington, listen to his explanations, and then summarily order him out of her house.

She had taken only three steps when the door to her father’s old bedchamber opened and her unwelcome boarder emerged into the hallway, his back to her. His evening dress was a marvel of flattery to his tall, muscular body. His dark-as-night, carelessly arranged hair glistened with moisture, as if he had dunked his head under a pump, and his carriage whispered of elegance while his appearance, when taken in total, screamed of raw, barely leashed energy and power.

Rosalind suddenly felt exceedingly small, extremely defenseless, and very, very female.

“Good evening, Mr. Remington,” she said before she could give in to the impulse to retreat into her room and hide there until she was old and gray and past having the thoughts that had come, unbidden, into her head the moment her gaze collided with that area between his shoulders where the fabric of his coat strained to hold together as he lifted a hand to his cravat.

He turned at once and walked toward her, his quick smile reflecting his pleasure, although why he felt happy to see the woman when he was going to be forced to catalog his past for her he could not understand. “And don’t you look lovely this evening?” he commented, holding out his arm to her. He had left his sling behind, refusing to go into battle with one hand effectively tied behind his back, unaware that a wounded man had always held the power to soften feminine hearts. “I believe I heard the gong a moment ago. May I have the pleasure of escorting you down to dinner?”

“You may,” Rosalind answered, slipping her arm through his and wishing, not for the first time, that she was not quite so small, as the top of her head barely reached the tip of his shoulder. “I sent Mollie to inquire as to Miss Reilly’s health, and I’m sure you will be pleased to know that she has not only recovered but is at this very moment partaking of a substantial meal in her chamber. I have always heard that the Irish possess remarkable powers of recuperation.”

Beau smiled as they reached the bottom step of the curving staircase and proceeded into the main saloon. “Still smarting about Bridget coming in and taking over her old room without so much as a by-your-leave, aren’t you, Rosalind? She meant no harm, you know, and as she lived here for nearly five years she probably figures she belongs.”

Rosalind sat on the settee, ignoring his reference to five years, considering it to be a pointed poke at her own length of residence. She watched as Beau went to the drinks table and poured a glass of ratafia for her without asking her preference, then procured a glass of wine for himself. “I don’t ‘smart,’ Mr. Remington,” she told him, taking some perverse delight in declining the ratafia when he offered it to her. “And it is beneath me to take umbrage with servants who are clearly only demonstrating their loyalty to their employer. You are Miss Reilly’s employer, are you not? Or is the relationship closer than that—Mr. Reilly?”

So, Beau considered, bristling, we are not going to be quite as civilized as Woodrow thought, postponing any serious conversation until after we’ve eaten our evening meal. Well, if that was the way she wanted it, he was more than happy to oblige. His mutton would most probably have stuck in his throat anyway. “Now, look here, Rosie—”

“Dinner is served, Miss Winslow,” Riggs intoned politely from just inside the doorway that led to a short hallway and the dining room. “And may I say that it is a particularly delightful menu Cook has concocted for your palate this evening,” he continued as both Rosalind and Beau turned to glare at him. “However,” he squeaked, “if you were to wish the serving delayed, I am convinced that Cook would not mind returning the pigeons to their spit.”

While Rosalind sat openmouthed, trying to reconcile her vision of herself with such a ridiculous appellation as “Rosie,” Beau leered at the butler, saying, “Never mind the pigeons, boyo—I can think of other uses for that spit. Now hoist your skinny shanks and frog-march yourself out of here before I put thought into deed.’

Riggs’ squeal of fright was so amusing, and his rapid flight from the room accompanied by such a furiously funny mincing gait, that Rosalind was momentarily diverted, gifting Beau with a smile, until she remembered that
she
was the mistress of Winslow Manor.

“You’re quite a piece of work, aren’t you, Mr. Remington? she declared, realizing she was in high dudgeon, and with no one to blame but herself unless she resorted to the convenience of attacking him. “You have been at Winslow Manor for less than a day and already you have served to totally upset every last person in the house. Mollie is mooning in her room, believing herself enamored— not that you should refine too much on her soft sentiments, for I assure you, they are quite fickle—you have reduced poor Riggs to hysterics, you have most probably ruined a fine dinner, and you have installed yourself as if you had some right to be here which, I feel pressed to point out, you most certainly do not. And furthermore, my name is
not
Rosie!”

Without knowing precisely why, Beau found himself feeling much happier about his current situation. She had fire, Rosalind Winslow did, and she would keep him on his mettle. Woodrow’s description of well-bred young ladies had cooled any hopes Beau had harbored in the direction of marrying himself to one of his own “class,” but Rosalind could give as good as she got, and he wouldn’t have to feel as if he had to watch his every move, censor his every word, in order to gain her affection.