Earl of Scarborough, page 7
What’s more, he seemed to enjoy her company, too. Nevertheless, she knew full well; she must keep things professional between them. In another place and time, they might’ve been friends. Perhaps even something more, for she couldn’t deny he captivated her. In fact, the more she came to know him, the more intrigued she became.
Ansley was singularly the most unusual, enthralling man she’d ever met. Nonetheless, she was a half-American commoner, and he a titled lord. There could, and would, never be anything more between them.
Initially, she had every intention of refusing his offer. Until the humiliating scene in the tearoom. Even then, she had only intended to remain in his employ until she secured a position as a governess.
However, that aspiration had gone up in blistering flames when he’d calmly set a stack of gossip rags before her the next morning when he’d summoned her to his study to discuss the terms of her employment. Heat had scalded her cheeks, and anger had roiled in her middle to discover she and his lordship were frontpage news.
Oh, the disgusting, vulgar, loathsome insinuations!
It hadn’t been Mrs. Smitherman’s snide tattling either.
No, as fate would have it, shortly before her arrival, a trio of London’s worst gossips, Mrs. Crustwroth, Lady Clutterbuck, and Lady Darumple had taken a table but a few feet from Willow and Ansley’s that dreadful day.
He’d revealed that unfortunate fact later. The biddies had eavesdropped on every word of their conversation with Mrs. Smitherman and promptly flapped their mouths like bellows to a flame afterward.
It infuriated her that the gossipmongers had thought the trifling falsehood delectable enough to plaster all over the newssheets. They didn’t give a fig about the truth. God rot them.
It seemed they found the notion of a country nobody becoming the Earl of Sarcasm’s newest paramour—an earl, known for his disdain of society and women in general—too succulent not to spread about as truth.
Willow was equally humiliated that he should find himself within the rumormongers’ target hairs because of an act of benevolence. At that moment, she’d known she would never find a position in England—a respectable position in any event. And for the first time in a very long while, she’d almost buried her face in her hands and burst into tears of self-pity.
“I do wish to go over the menu for Mrs. Twistleton’s visit. She arrives next week.” Mrs. Bloomfield’s chattering reined in Willow’s unpleasant musings. Slightly out of breath, the housekeeper said, “She’s quite particular in her tastes but is a most gracious lady.”
They reached the kitchens, bustling with preparations for the evening meal. The cook and maids offered welcoming smiles but didn’t pause in their tasks.
Mrs. Bloomfield led the way to her tidy office adjacent to Reeves’. She limped to her desk, and with a half-groan, half-sigh, sank heavily into the chair. It was a wonder the woman had lasted as long as she had in her position. Pain and stiffness were her constant companions.
“Now, where did I put my notes?” Donning a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, she ruffled through a short stack of papers before smiling and withdrawing a piece of foolscap. “Come, Miss Harwood.” Over the rim of her spectacles, she glanced at a chair in the corner. “Bring that chair with you.”
Willow had just arranged the chair beside the housekeeper when Ansley poked his head around the corner, his rich, dark hair, slightly disheveled as if he’d been riding, or perhaps playing with his foxhounds.
As always, her pulse foolishly quickened at the sight of him.
Skewing his mouth up on one side, he offered an irresistibly charming smile. He gently shook the letter he held. “My mother has written and insists upon planning a Christmastide party during her stay. I hope to prevail upon you,” his navy-blue eyes brushed over Willow with a good deal more than employer interest, “to organize the details with her.”
One plump hand atop her desk, Mrs. Bloomfield’s cheeks rounded into an exuberant smile, and her owlish eyes behind her spectacles glowed with approval.
“So you’ve agreed to host a gathering, my lord? That’s splendid.” The housekeeper beamed. “Just splendid.”
He had?
“Not an extended house party, mind you.” He gave a slight, self-effacing shake of his head. “That would be beyond me. However, a Friday to Sunday with my closest acquaintances would be acceptable. Guests would arrive the Friday morning prior to Christmastide and depart on Sunday. Christmas is the following Thursday. Mama wants a ball held Saturday night, and she and Nicolette will remain through the New Year.”
The gaze he bestowed upon Willow was boyish in its cautious enthusiasm.
Good Lord. Houseguests? A ball?
Willow would have to plan a ball without Mrs. Bloomfield’s help and expertise? She nearly groaned her dismay aloud. His lordship had assured her he never entertained on a large scale, and less than two months into her tenure, he sprung this upon her?
Mrs. Bloomfield patted her cold hand. “I have no doubt Miss Harwood will manage superbly.”
Well, bully for her, for Willow had enough doubts for both of them. Humongous, gargantuan elephants, performing gymnastics in her tummy doubts.
A deuced ball?
She nearly groaned aloud again.
“What say you, Miss Harwood?” he asked, his manner uncertain.
This undertaking was truly outside the bounds of his comfort. Yet he was willing to try, and she couldn’t help but feel a degree of pride in him for his courage.
Willow drew her shoulders back. “Rest assured. I shall endeavor to please, my lord.”
“My lord,” Mrs. Bloomfield wrinkled her furrowed brow, the folds of her round face pleating like a well-used fan. “I believe it would be wise of you to meet with Miss Harwood prior to Mrs. Twistleton’s arrival to ensure nothing is planned that will be too…disruptive.”
The woman was a master in diplomacy, and her concern that Ansley not tax himself was touching.
“Miss Harwood has time presently.” She exchanged a knowing look with him before turning to Willow.
Why, if she didn’t know better, she’d suspect the elderly woman of attempting to matchmake. Surely she was mistaken. The notion was beyond ludicrous.
“I’m sure his lordship has other things he must attend to.” Willow cleared her throat and drew the menu near, attempting to study the neat penmanship and discreetly put an end to the impromptu meeting.
“Actually, I do not,” he said with a slight shrug of those too wide shoulders. “I’ve nothing scheduled until dinner.”
Wasn’t this his afternoon for billiards? Since when had he begun casting off his normal routines? Actually, since meeting me.
Her stupid heart should not patter in excitement at the prospect of being alone with him. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe they could engage in a tryst, and then he’d offer marriage.
Besides, though she found him undeniably attractive and was drawn to him in a way she couldn’t explain, practicality deemed anything more than an employer-employee relationship preposterous. And right now, her employer required her presence to plan an infernal house party and ball.
“Then, of course, my lord, I am at your disposal.” She rose and made to return the chair to its proper place.
Making a shooing gesture, Mrs. Bloomfield said, “Don’t bother with that. I’ll have a footman put it away later. You go along with his lordship.” She shoved to her arthritic feet. “I’ll just ask Cook to put a kettle on and prepare a tray of refreshments for you.”
Yes, there was a distinct calculating glint in the woman’s rheumy eyes. The interfering, old romantic dear. She’d find her efforts were grossly misplaced and in vain.
Ansley stepped aside and extended his arm. “After you, Miss Harwood.”
With a murmured, “Thank you,” she brushed past him, so close she could smell his spicy, woodsy cologne and feel his tempting heat. An uncanny sensation tingled over her, and she glanced behind, nearly gasping in astonishment.
His sizzling cobalt gaze was trained approvingly on her hips. Gradually raising his focus, a slightly suggestive smile bent his firm lips. At that moment, she realized with a naughty, inappropriate jolt, he wasn’t impervious to her either.
What, exactly, had his intentions been in asking her to work for him?
Could Mrs. Smitherman have had the right of it, after all?
Ansley shouldn’t have smiled at Willow when she caught him admiring the seductive swing of her slim hips. But she had the most deliciously rounded bum, and when she walked… Well, any breathing man who wasn’t blind couldn’t help but appreciate the graceful, tantalizing sway.
And here, he’d stupidly been congratulating himself on his self-control these past weeks. He slipped his hand in his pocket, gripping the worn stone between his thumb and fingers. It occurred to him, of late, the act had become more habit than actual need.
Mayhap, it was time, after two decades, to put the stone aside.
By adhering to his usual routines, which oddly, had deviated several times without causing him a great amount of stress, he’d been able to keep their relationship professional thus far.
Until the household had moved to Fawntonbrooke. He’d been at home much more often since, seeing her several times a day as she went about one task or another, her movements svelte and graceful.
What glorious strawberry-blonde hair was not concealed beneath that hated cap, was silky temptation. She hummed while she worked, frequently swaying to whatever tune ran through her mind, and he couldn’t help but envision her in his arms as they danced. He was an accomplished dancer though he seldom partook.
His yearnings and imaginations mattered naught. It simply wouldn’t do to allow his lust to entice him into doing something he’d regret. Something unconscionable. Impulsive. Rash.
Ansley Cecil Huxley Twistleton, Earl of Scarborough, did not act impetuously.
I offered employment to a woman I didn’t know. One doesn’t get much more impetuous than that.
Truly, he hadn’t retained her for any purpose other than his housekeeper. But he’d also known from that day in the coffee house, keeping his desire in check for this delectable woman would be a bloody challenge.
Willow Harwood was a virtuous woman.
Acutely mindful that should she become aware of his inappropriate desire for her, she very well might give notice, he’d tempered his carnal cravings. Not easily, by damn. She would not encourage an illicit relationship and compromise her reputation any more than it already had been.
She had plans. To save enough money to sail out of his life. To America and become the teacher England had denied her. That knowledge left him bereft. As if a cleaver had hacked his heart from his chest and tossed the organ into a raging fire.
The problem was, he’d been without a woman far too long, and she made his blood run feverishly hot. Nevertheless, that wasn’t a viable excuse. He did not dally with his servants. The logical thing to do would be to slake his lust on a willing partner, but he’d no interest in another.
Never a rogue or philander, he found casual sexual encounters distasteful.
More frequent of late, resisting Willow’s intoxicating allure had proven ever-more difficult. Like an idiot, he’d subjected himself to more torture by consulting her on matters that had nothing whatsoever to do with his household’s operation, simply to be in her presence.
To hear her melodious voice. To inhale her fresh lemon and peony scent. And if he were truly blessed, her incomparable laugh, and see the stars and the moon sparkling in her bright green eyes.
She wants to return to America.
Her heart lay in the United States, and Ansley couldn’t fault her in that longing. He also couldn’t help but hope she’d find contentment beneath his roof. Except, for a woman of her tender age who’d never aspired to domestic service, the prospect probably did not elicit much excitement.
Not pausing in the kitchen to wait for him, she crossed the scrubbed floor, returning along the same path he’d just ventured down minutes before. Acutely aware of the covert, curious glances darted at them as they wordlessly passed through the kitchen, he tensed his jaw and commanded his pulse to a normal rhythm. His staff needn’t see him lusting after the housekeeper, for God’s sake.
Nonetheless, Willow was his employee.
One who held a prestigious position and, to which, a great deal of responsibility would fall when Mrs. Bloomfield left in a matter of days. It was well within his rights to discuss matters with her in his study as he had Mrs. Bloomfield. He’d never made an improper advance and would give Willow no reason to believe he would start now.
But if he should, would she resist him? Slap him? Call him a cad and an opportunistic fiend? She must, he decided. For her own self-respect. Willow was that kind of woman. Virtuous and honorable.
“Miss Harwood, I do not believe the house is on fire.”
At once, she slowed her pace, waiting for him to come alongside her.
“My Lord, is it wise for us to meet alone in your study?” Genuine concern created fine lines at the corners of her eyes. “I realize you’ve done so with Mrs. Bloomfield. But given the disparity between her age and mine, and the ugly rumors which we both know have circulated regarding us, I should think we ought to use the utmost care to snuff any possible further speculation.”
He gave her a considering, side-eyed glance. “Are you suggesting people are still linking our names together in an inappropriate manner? Perhaps, people residing in this household?”
They’d reached his study, and he pushed the latch, waiting for her to enter.
She swept through the doorway and turned to face him as he shut the panel. Hands clasped before her, she appeared to choose her words carefully. “Even the most loyal of servants can sometimes misunderstand a situation.”
He stilled, absorbing her words and their implications.
“Has someone suggested something untoward goes on between us?” By God, he’d not harbor gossips beneath his roof. They’d be given their congé at once.
“No, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.” More than a little starch weighted her words. In her prim uniform and cap, she reminded him of a young novitiate. Only his thoughts regarding her were far from holy.
He crossed to the sideboard and, after pouring himself a generous splash of cognac, glanced her way, the decanter still in hand. “Would you care for any?”
Her winged eyebrows shot upward, and her glorious green eyes rounded in astonishment.
“That’s what I’m speaking of, my lord. You almost treat me as an equal, and that cannot continue. I am not your equal. I would not have your name sullied by any sort of inappropriate association with mine. Furthermore, while I value my position here, I cannot,” she drew her chin up and squared her shoulders, “I cannot risk any further tarnishing of my reputation.”
Not so pixyish today. More Amazonian warrior.
He replaced the decanter, considering her concerns.
It was good, then, that she didn’t travel in the social circles he did, for her name was on many a beau monde denizen’s lips—mainly gentlemen’s. Lauded as the unspoiled country maiden who’d captivated the Earl of Sarcasm with her rare beauty and unsullied innocence.
She needn’t ever know that unsavory tattle, however.
Head angled slightly, Ansley took a sip of cognac. The slow warmth trailing to his stomach was a welcome distraction from the heat simmering in his blood for the delectable minx before him. How many women of his acquaintance would try to entrap him, and here she stood, concerned about his good name and reputation?
“Honestly, Willow, I don’t give a damn what anybody thinks.” He held up his palm to stop her immediate protest. “But I understand why you do. You have much more to lose than I.”
He was rich, titled, an aristocrat with many powerful connections, and was already known for his eccentricities. And for whatever reason, le beau monde had determined the latter made him mysterious. Enigmatic. All the more enticing.
Mysterious, enigmatic, and enticing, indeed. What fulsome rot.
There was no accounting for the peculiarities of the upper ten thousand.
“That is true,” came her soft reply.
Appreciating she didn’t attempt false deference, he strode to the door while flashing her his most engaging smile. A smile he rarely employed. The muscles in his cheeks felt stiff from the unfamiliar usage.
Look at him. Resorting to roguish tactics to impress his housekeeper. He was pathetic. He pressed the latch, then swung the heavy oak wide open. “There. Perfectly respectable.”
“Thank you.” Gratitude relaxed her features. She’d been truly apprehensive.
With a sweep of his free hand, he indicated the square mahogany table situated before the beveled bay window. He preferred to work there rather than at the ancient desk dominating the room. The table’s location provided more light and somehow felt less intimidating.
“I really do wish to discuss the details of the upcoming holiday gathering. My mother is well-meaning,” he said. “But with her flair for the flamboyant, I fear she’ll turn the simple event into a gala beyond compare. Fanfare, feathers, fripperies, and God knows what else.”
With a slight bend of her lovely neck, Willow acquiesced. “Very well, my lord.”
“Could you not address me as Ansley when we are alone?” Such a small, silly thing, but he yearned to hear his name on her tongue. To cover his discomfit, he turned and set his glass upon the stately desk.
Her gaze snapped to his. “You must know I cannot. If I were to be overheard—” She swallowed and averted her eyes. “People would speculate there’s something between us.”
There is. We just don’t know precisely what yet.
At her husky tone, a foreign excitement thrummed through him. If her voice turned him into a rutting stag, how was he to withstand her scintillating presence for weeks? Months? Years?
