Violet Fire (4 page)

“Oh, I'm not,” Grace said quickly. He had been so proud, but now he hung his head in response to his father's scolding. She smiled down at him. “And you are?”

“Geoffrey, ma'am.”

“Thank you very much, Geoffrey, for a job well done.”

He squirmed with pleasure.

“You need anythin' else you just ask me or Hannah,” John said as he left, shooing his son out before him.

Grace went looking for the schoolroom, and found it down the hall. It was obviously the nursery. Margaret Anne was there, the image of her sister, except chubbier,
sitting on the floor and playing with a very expensive-looking doll. She stopped playing to look up and stare.

Grace smiled and came forward to kneel next to her. “Hello, Margaret Anne. What a pretty doll. I'm your teacher.”

“It's mine,” she said, hugging the doll tightly. “And I hate school. I don't want to read.”

“I hated school too, did you know that? Especially when I was your age.”

“I hate school,” Margaret Anne said, her eyes filling with tears. “I don't want to read!”

“There is no school today,” Grace said calmly, standing. “But tomorrow we'll get started and I'll show you just how much fun we're going to have together.”

“I hate lessons,” Margaret Anne cried, throwing the doll so hard it skidded across the floor, its head cracking.

Grace stared at the beautiful, golden-haired doll with the broken head.

Margaret Anne screamed and ran out of the room.

Grace sighed, a headache beginning, and started after her.

“Mama, Mama,” Margaret Anne sobbed, turning a corner.

Grace broke into a run. The last thing she needed was the child fleeing to her mother in tears with her not twenty minutes on the job. She turned the corner—and wham! She ran into a solid brick wall of warm, male flesh. Muscular arms enfolded her, pulling her against steel thighs and a rock-hard chest. Her face was buried against a soft white linen shirt, slightly damp with sweat. A heady, musky odor filled her nostrils. Large hands held her hips firmly, intimately, against his. A rich chuckle sounded.

“What do we have here?'”

She came out of her state of stunned immobility.

She was pressed intimately against a man…a strange man. His hands were even more intimate, moving against her hips. Her heart was racing and her knees were weak; something liquid seemed to be collecting deep inside her. And then he laughed again, another warm, rich rippling sound. She pushed her arms up and braced herself away.

And looked up.

She recognized him instantly.

Not because of his gorgeous looks—the beautifully carved cheekbones, the straight, flared nose, the full, sensual lips, the sky-blue eyes and the sun-streaked hair—but because, of all the people who had been at the van Horne mansion that night two years ago, he had been the only one to find her amusing. He had been the one laughing, as if the issue of women's rights was a joke! Not to mention the fact that then, as now, he had handled her as if she were a sack of beans, hauling her out upside down while patting her behind—yes, she remembered that! She didn't know his name, but she knew him.

He was grinning. His eyes sparkled. At the corners of his mouth were two well-formed dimples. His teeth were white and even.

“How dare you!” Grace said.

He lifted a brow. “Oh, I apologize for running into you!”

His Texan drawl was thick and sweet. Grace blushed,
much to her chagrin, for as they both knew, it had been she who had run into him. She squared her shoulders ramrod straight and started to move past, but he blocked her way.

“Don't rush away in a huff,” he murmured softly. “What's your name?”

She looked up, her face frozen in an expression of fury, and said, “Grace O'Rourke.” And then she began to think, frantically.

Did he recognize her? It had been almost two years since their brief encounter and she had been wearing that concealing bonnet. Grace was trying not to panic, but who could forget a suffragette standing on a piano in the midst of a private soirée? If he recognized her, she would probably lose this job. He appeared to be an intimate in this house. Who was he? Brother? Cousin? Brother-in-Law? Oh Lord, let him be a guest—about to leave! She could not lose this job!

“Grace O'Rourke,” he drawled, testing it. He appeared to like it, because he smiled a smile that made her throat tight. She started to push past, panicked. He blocked her with one strong arm, then winked at her, as if sharing some private joke.

“Miss Margaret Anne, do come out,” he invited, looking Grace right in the eyes with silent laughter.

Grace stood stiffly still.

Margaret Anne appeared from a nearby doorway, looking belligerent and red-eyed.

“I believe you're looking for this little culprit?”

“Yes, thank you,” Grace replied.

Margaret Anne glared at Grace and ran to the golden-haired stranger. “She broke my doll! She broke Lisa!”

He lifted her up, high into the air. “Oh no! Poor Lisa! But I'll bet Miss O'Rourke didn't mean it, now did she?” He held her close to his face, nuzzling her affectionately. He was impossible for even a little girl to resist. “I'll bet she feels awful about the accident; and you, princess, are going to be charitable and forgive her.”

“I did not break the doll,” Grace said, trying hard to control her outrage. “She threw it on the floor herself in a fit of temper.”

He looked closely at the child. “Margaret Anne!”

She started to cry.

“Hush now, sweeting,” he crooned, rocking her. “I think maybe we had better get Lisa to a doctor, what do you say?”

“She's broke,” the child sobbed.

He shifted her to the crook of his arm and Grace followed them unwillingly down the hall to the nursery. He set Margaret Anne down and knelt, inspecting Lisa. “Why, it's nothing a good doll doctor can't fix,” he pronounced cheerfully.

“Really?” Margaret Anne asked cautiously.

“Would I lie?” he coaxed, dimpling.

Grace gritted her teeth. He was turning his potent charm on a child of six! And the child, already susceptible, was softening, smiling. “I love you, Rathe,” she said, hugging him.

He laughed, hugging her hard. “And I love you. Now, I'll take Lisa and she'll be fixed up in no time. But I expect you to be nicer to Miss O'Rourke in return. Ladies are always polite and well-mannered, and you, darlin', are a lady.”

Grace was incredulous.

Margaret Anne frowned.

“Don't pout,” Rathe said. “It causes ugly wrinkles.”

He tucked the doll in one arm and turned to Grace. His eyes twinkled. “You shouldn't pout, either.”

She realized she was clenching her fists. This man…this philistine was molding the child into a simpering Southern belle already. Grace felt ready to explode, but because she didn't know who he was and didn't dare jeopardize her job, she remained atypically silent.

“I'm going to go tell Hannah about Lisa,” Margaret Anne shouted, and ran out.

Grace looked after her—it was safer than looking at
Rathe—until she had no choice but to lift her gaze to his. His eyes were searching her from the top of her red head to the tip of her toes, moving very slowly and deliberately along the way. She felt another blush rise—her fairness caused her to blush too easily and too often. She lifted her chin, trying very hard to ignore his blatant assessment of her. The problem was, her body had a mind of its own, and her heart was trying to leap right out of her rib cage. “That child is only six, not sixteen. Wrinkles? Please, don't go putting any more vanity into her head than already exists there.”

“Why not?” Rathe asked easily. “She's a beautiful child and she's going to be a gorgeous woman. Do you have something against flattery, Grace?”

Her jaw muscles went tight. His gaze seemed to be penetrating her through and through; it was as if he was trying to see inside to all her deepest secrets. “It's not flattery I have a problem with,” she replied coolly.

At that, his dimples deepened. “Good,” he said, staring. His gaze had become very warm. His hand came up, slowly. Shocked, Grace realized he was reaching for her glasses and she found herself leaning backward against the wall.

“Because I'm going to take off those ugly spectacles and look into your eyes,” he breathed, his forefinger touching her face. “And then I'm going to tell you just how beautiful you are.”

Grace literally jumped. “Please,” she cried, aware of being breathless, “spare me your chauvinistic attentions.”

That stopped him dead in his tracks, puzzlement crossing his features. “Chauvinistic attentions?”

It was men like this who were responsible for the plight of modern women—men who saw only a pretty face and a warm body to serve their needs. She felt the hot surge of victory for having outmaneuvered him. “I have no need of flattery, not from you, and not from any man.”

“Ah, I see. Independent, are we?”

She flushed, lips tightening. “Yes.”

He stared at her, then smiled slightly. “Are you afraid of me, Grace?”

She was so angry and shocked she was speechless.

“Or are you afraid of a well-deserved compliment?”

She gasped. “I, sir, am afraid of no man and certainly of no words—at least, no words in your vocabulary! But please, let me ask a question.” She was glowing triumphantly. She rushed on, both barrels about to blast. “You, of course, are an expert on which subject—flattery or women?”

He chuckled. “Both, sweetheart, both.”

His nerve made her jaw lock momentarily. “As long as women are treated like inferior, doll-like beings by men like you, sir, as long as we are flattered for being merely pleasant objects to look upon, we will never rise to enjoy all that God has blessed us with.”

He stared, blinked, then grinned again. “Oh, no,” he breathed. “You aren't one of those crazy women agitators, are you?”

She ignored him, although she was red-faced now. “It is men like you, sir, who are responsible for the downtrodden plight of women today!”

“The downtrodden plight…I was only trying to make you feel good, Gracie,” he murmured.

“Flattery doesn't make a man feel good?” she challenged.

“Flattery makes a dog feel good, for that matter. I happen to enjoy petting dogs.” He stared back, hard.

She flushed. “We are talking about men and women, not dogs.”

He grinned. “Let's talk about men and women,” he said, his tone dropping suggestively. “Although talking does get boring—sooner or later.”

She gasped in frustration. “Do you or do you not enjoy flattery, sir?”

“Gracie, you can flatter me any day, any time, right now if you feel like it.”

“I'm afraid,” she said crisply, “the task you set me is impossible, monumental, and insurmountable.”

He had the gall to laugh with obvious enjoyment. “And I thought my appeal was irresistible.”

“We are not all blatant, naive fools,” Grace snapped.

“You have an interesting assessment of womankind—not very
flattering
.”

“I am not a hypocrite.”

He grinned. “Grace, somehow I don't think you're in danger of being labeled that.”

He would never take anything seriously. She turned her back on him abruptly. “I have to go.”

“Wait a minute.” His large hand closed around her elbow, stopping her. Her head turned back to him, she glared and pursed her lips. He was insufferable; he smiled. “So, Gracie, how about a stroll along the river?”

She stared, appalled.

He came closer.

She moved backward.

His dimples appeared.

Her heart raced.

His teeth flashed white against his skin. Her back found the wall. His hands, one still holding the doll, found her shoulders. “Dare I risk it?” he breathed. “You're pretty even with those ridiculous glasses.”

She couldn't respond.

“And you know what?” His mouth seemed to have drifted closer.

She stared into his blue eyes and was barely aware of anything but the man whose breath, tinged with tobacco and brandy, touched hers. He stared back intently, the dimples having disappeared.

She opened her mouth to speak.

He leaned forward, his eyes dropping toward her mouth. “Your mouth…your mouth is beautiful…begging a man's kiss…”

He is going to kiss me
, Grace told herself. She couldn't move.

“Rathe? Darling? Where are you?”

He smiled, with a shake of his head and a shrug, but did not move away. “Damn,” he said softly.

“Rathe?”

He stepped back then, tucking the doll under his arm. “I'm in the nursery, Louisa.” Still his eyes held Grace's warmly. Too warmly. Grace felt herself flushing to the roots of her scalp.

Louisa rounded the corner, looked at them without breaking stride, and as she reached Rathe, hugged his free arm close to her breast. “Darling, John said you were here. I was so hoping you'd come for supper. What are you doing upstairs?”

“Saying hello to the girls,” Rathe said, smiling at Louisa. “And comforting Margaret Anne. She broke her doll.”

“I see you met Miss O'Rourke.”

“Yes indeed,” Rathe said.

“Don't flirt with the help, Rathe,” Louisa snapped.

Rathe laughed. “Don't be a shrew, sweetheart, it's not becoming.”

She stared, her fine nostrils flaring.

He put his arm around her. “What kind of welcome is this?”

Grace felt like an intruder. Something sick welled up inside her as their relationship became clear to her. “Not the kind I had in mind,” Louisa said suggestively.

Grace escaped with a mumbled excuse. She fled to her room and closed the door on the lovers. She was trembling and even angrier than before, if that was possible. The man was not just the worst kind of scoundrel, he was the worst kind of flirt—callous, insensitive, selfish. She detested him.

It just wasn't fair that he was so handsome.