Beastly Lords Collection

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  Giving in to an impulse, he sucked her lower lip, grazing his teeth across it as he released her.

  He heard her small gasp. Was it pleasure? Outrage?

  Belatedly, he realized she couldn’t move since the horse was a hairsbreadth behind her. Bother! Maybe she hadn’t liked it at all but was simply trapped.

  Lifting his head, he released her from the imprisonment of being squashed between man and horse by taking a step back. He certainly didn’t want to force her. Far from it. He liked his women willing and bursting with desire, and to his recollection, had never had one any other way.

  Saying nothing, though her cheeks had pinkened, she skirted him, walking away, keeping her back to him.

  The Devil! Had he offended her terribly? After tying up her horse, he caught up with her.

  “Mrs. St. Ange, shall we walk at least once around the basin and then, if you’re ready, we can ride home, perhaps the northern path.” He would even deign to go around the blasted Serpentine.

  Nodding, looking distracted, she didn’t seem to care.

  He desperately wanted to do something for her, anything, to get into her good graces.

  “I noticed you had no footman or butler to hold the horse’s bridle when you mounted. Are you having trouble getting servants?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “Where was your driver today?”

  “I don’t keep him full-time. And I’ve decided not to bother with a footman. What would he do all day? However, I would like a butler. One who is not disturbing in any way.”

  A disturbing butler? Whatever could she mean? “No, of course, that wouldn’t do.”

  “Exactly. I don’t want to feel menaced.”

  Menaced? What manner of servants had she been interviewing?

  “I will make some inquiries. I’m sure I can locate a capable butler.”

  He felt her hesitate.

  “No, don’t go to any bother,” she said, sounding mulish. “I don’t need your help.”

  How quickly her tone and demeanor changed. She needed help but obviously didn’t want his.

  Very well. He would do it anyway and send some likely candidates to her doorstep. She couldn’t stop him from helping. He knew many people and most likely, someone at White’s would have a suggestion. Even if he had to poach another man’s butler, he would find her a suitable one.

  Feeling benevolent, he set about trying to cajole some small measure of warmth from her. And the best way would be to speak of Harry.

  “Your boy reminds me of my younger brother.”

  Again, her steps faltered as if everything he said either surprised or annoyed her.

  “How so?” she asked in that manner she had of saying very little.

  Never had he wanted a woman to speak more than she already did, until he met Mrs. St. Ange. From her, he would like to hear volumes.

  “Peculiarly, Harry looks very like Gabriel, same hair color and eyes. I was six when he was born, so I recall how he was as a toddler, not that I took much interest. As most children, I had my own concerns.”

  After a pause, she said, “Undoubtedly, there are many little boys who look like Harry.”

  And nothing more. He would persist.

  “I also have a younger sister, Camille. She is five years younger than I am. Now that I think of it, she is most likely about to have her coming out Season.”

  No wonder his father was starting to worry over money. Tickets, gowns, and all the trappings and amenities could be financially oppressive. Not to mention setting money aside for a hefty dowry. Though with Camille’s pretty face, he was confident she would find a match to her liking, even if penniless.

  She said nothing, perhaps thinking of her own Seasons.

  “Did you have a Season in London? I’m afraid I don’t recall meeting you at any social events.”

  She didn’t simply hesitate this time. She turned on her heel, obviously walking back to their horses.

  Dammit! She must have had some disastrous occurrence as a debutante. Or perhaps she was shunned by someone at a ball, or maybe her dowry had been a pittance. How was he to know? And how could she still be so affected? After all, she’d ended up marrying the wealthy Mr. St. Ange and landing a large home on Belgrave Square, so why was she practically trotting to get away from him and some long-ago memory?

  Catching up with her, he matched his longer stride to her furious marching until they were back at the horses. She untied hers at once.

  “Assist me,” she demanded.

  “Are you unwell? That is, I can see you’re physically fine, but—”

  Impatiently, she attempted to mount the sidesaddle on her own, getting so far as placing her left foot in the stirrup. However, then she was faced with the task of getting her right leg over the pommel without needing to sweep it over the back of the horse. The apron skirt of her habit made this all but impossible.

  Hopping on one foot, her other still in the stirrup, and the horse now getting agitated and moving, she snarled at him, “Are you going to help me or not?”

  He’d like to tell her to go to the Devil, seeing as how she’d not said a single kind word to him. However, he stepped up, pulled her foot from the stirrup, and waited with his hands clasped.

  She stepped into the cradle of his fingers and let him give an assisting lift. Soon, she was safely in the saddle, and before he could mount his own horse, she was urging hers into a trot.

  When they arrived at her home, he hoped he could persuade her to let him know what had bothered her. However, as soon as they got there, she jumped down from the mount by herself and fled.

  Astonished by her manners, he watched her open her front door, walk inside without a backward look, and slam it shut.

  Indeed!

  Chapter Nine

  It took Ada a day to recover from the callous cad. How dare he ask her if she’d had a Season! She’d simply had to get away from the man to prevent herself from attempting to do him bodily harm.

  She’d hoped to have a pleasant outing during which she would leave him wanting more before refusing to see him for a week. Instead, her plan was in ruins. Not only had she run away from him, she’d been irrationally uncivil, as far as he was concerned.

  If he didn’t ask to keep company with her again, she wouldn’t be surprised. But if he didn’t, then how could she break his heart?

  If he did contact her, instead of not responding for a week, she decided to see him again. But was it doing any good?

  Each time she was with him, she swore she would be enticing and even lovable, but then, as soon as she saw his handsome face, she would remember the entirety of that awful night. Especially how he’d whispered Jenny’s name when he was inside her. And then, the appalling wink, as if they were conspirators in some mischievous endeavor.

  She cursed him in the privacy of her room and then wished she didn’t curse so much. Always over him, and usually daily.

  Vowing to do better, Ada wondered if she should break the pattern of their interactions and be sweet as sugar. Could she do it?

  When she didn’t hear from Alder the next day, she feared she’d ruined everything. And then a surprising thing happened, a man came to her door and said he wanted to apply to be her butler. What’s more, she liked him on sight and even more after they spoke. When he said the salary was acceptable and the butler’s quarters were more than adequate, she nearly hugged him. He was impeccable, except for one thing.

  And it was a rather unusual thing. He was married.

  Had she ever heard of a butler who was married?

  No, she hadn’t. However, at present, he was her best choice, not to mention, her only choice. Moreover, with her servants’ quarters barely inhabited, Ada decided to offer an invitation.

  “Mr. Randall, if you will take the position, then you may start immediately. I know you said your wife lives in Lambeth, but I see no reason why you should be separated, certainly not with the Thames between you. She may live here, too. If the r
oom I showed you isn’t big enough, then you may choose any of the rooms that are empty, though I think that one is the largest.”

  A man of neutral but friendly expression, for the first time, she saw his eyes crinkle with happiness and the smallest of smiles turn up his lips.

  “Thank you, madam. She will be very happy, as am I. However, I believe you are supposed to ask me for my references before hiring me.”

  Of course, he was correct. Reaching into the pocket of his coat, he pulled out a single sheet of paper, which he handed over.

  She recognized the writing at once. Alder!

  Barely reading it—“this man comes highly recommended, yet because of his wedded status, is having a hard time finding placement”—she knew he wouldn’t send someone to her home who wasn’t trustworthy, not with Harry there. She just knew it.

  How odd! She thought him the vilest of beings when it came to his treatment of her, and maybe all women, yet she trusted his judgment in this.

  So be it. She had a butler. When Mr. Randall left to collect his things and his wife, Emily, Ada did a small waltzing dance around her parlor. Maybe she would try to take tea with Maggie and exchange a little gossip.

  Then she realized Lord Alder hadn’t asked to see her again, and like a deflated hot-air balloon, Ada sank onto her sofa.

  Then it hit her like a brick. It was her turn to make an overture. Of course! To thank him for finding her that rarest of all creatures, the perfect butler, she would invite him to dinner.

  *

  Lord Vile was punctual to the minute. She wished she could say she liked that about him, but there was nothing she liked about him. Or, at least, nothing she would admit to.

  Regardless, she’d dressed to dazzle, as Maggie might say, for her friend was the best at dazzling a man of any woman Ada knew. Thinking of Maggie, she selected the rich blue satin over the more demure rose she’d first chosen, and then she left off the lacey fichu for good measure. Let her décolletage dazzle him, too.

  Her new butler announced his arrival and brought him into the drawing room. If she didn’t think Alder was already cock-sure of himself, she would think he’d made a particular effort to look more devastatingly attractive than usual. And he’d succeeded.

  Standing up to greet him, she allowed him take her hand and kiss it. He had a nice way of doing so, with dry lips and the most enticing soft caress of his mouth across her bare knuckles. Then he released her.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said, feeling she might choke on the words.

  “Thank you for inviting me. I see that Mr. Randall is already in residence.”

  She could offer a genuine smile over her butler, and did so.

  To her dismay, Alder froze and backed up a step.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, putting her hand to her throat. Could there be a small piece of lettuce from her light lunch in her teeth?

  “No. It is simply the welcome appearance of your smile. And it’s breathtaking.”

  A small bubble of pleasure floated up inside her at his compliment. She crushed it.

  “A drink before dinner?” she offered. “What would you like?”

  “I’m drinking you in with my eyes,” he said.

  His ridiculous statement, so practiced and insincere, brought her entirely back to her senses. Thank goodness!

  “Nevertheless, is there something you would like to have in your mouth?”

  His eyes widened and a wolfish grin appeared.

  “Now what?” she asked. “Have I done something else breathtaking?” She hoped her tone was as cutting as she felt.

  “There is something I should very much like to have in my mouth, but, undoubtedly, you would find it inappropriate. At least before dinner.”

  Frowning, she considered her words and realized her double entendre, though she still was in the dark as to what part of her he was referring. She almost wanted to ask.

  Instead, she spread her hands, helpless.

  “Since you made no decision, I shall make it for us both. We shall go in to dinner at once and forego any drink ahead of time. We can as easily speak in the dining room over our meal.”

  “As you wish,” he said, with a polite nod, returning to good manners. Then he offered her his arm.

  It seemed beyond strange, letting a man, particularly this one, lead her into her own dining room.

  When they were seated, her staff, small as it was, worked like clockwork, serving the courses that her cook, Mary, had prepared. Ada had simplified from the many courses one normally served to a guest. Firstly, she wanted this over sooner than the normal two hours it took to get through appetizers to dessert. Secondly, Mary was less skilled than she’d indicated at her hiring interview. There’d been a few minor disasters, and Alder was the first guest for dinner.

  A plate of prawns with a sprig of parsley was set before each of them.

  A tad simple, but it looked fine, and Ada ate the first one. She chewed and chewed on the rubbery little morsel, washing it down with a sip of wine. Drat!

  Peering cautiously at Alder, she saw him working his jaws manfully on the overcooked shellfish.

  “So tired of oysters,” she commented and popped another shrimp in her mouth as if it were delicious. Then they chewed in silence.

  After finishing most of them, Alder sat back.

  “I’ll leave room for the next course,” was all he said.

  He was being kind again. She hated that. However, since he had stopped, she could, too.

  Though the timing was a little off when the maid brought out the roll basket before the soup. With tongs, she put a crusty baked bread on Ada’s plate. Unfortunately, when she went to do the same for Alder, it slipped, and by the sound it made hitting the porcelain before bouncing onto the floor, Ada surmised they were more like rocks than rolls.

  “So sorry, madam,” the maid said and bent to pick it up, thought better of it, then used the tongs to retrieve it and slipped it into her pocket.

  Ada was only glad the girl hadn’t put it back onto Alder’s plate. Instead, she carefully gave him another, then set the basket on the sideboard, snatched up their appetizer plates, and hurried back to the kitchen.

  “Did I thank you for sending me a butler?” Ada asked.

  “You did in your note. I’m glad he worked out. And it’s not inconvenient to have his wife here, too?”

  “Certainly not. It seems barbaric when married servants are forced to live apart, or worse, forbidden to marry in the first place. Why shouldn’t they have a private life separate from their employment?”

  He nodded. “Many do not think as you do. Are you a romantic, Mrs. St. Ange?”

  She felt her cheeks warm. She could tell him how she used to be a romantic young miss before a so-called gentleman ripped the veil of starry-eyed silliness from her eyes. Romance was the name for a man’s false behavior up until he lifted a woman’s skirts and got what he wanted.

  He was waiting for an answer.

  “No.” At that moment, the soup was brought in, and she didn’t have to say more.

  It smelled good. She’d asked Mary to make a basic savory soup of chicken. When Ada looked down, she gasped before she could stop herself, for there were bones, some floating and a few in the bottom of her bowl, visible through the transparent broth.

  She wanted to slap a hand to her forehead but feigned absolute calm while surreptitiously looking at her guest to see his reaction.

  His gaze darted to hers, and she tried to look nonplussed.

  “I’ve never seen chicken soup served this way,” he confessed.

  “The bones add to its flavor,” she informed him. “Simply leave them in the bottom.”

  “I assure you, I wasn’t going to eat them.” However, he did pick up his roll and try to break it open. When he couldn’t, he attacked it with his knife, and eventually, it crumbled like toast, with the crumbs flying everywhere across the white tablecloth.

  Ada pretended not to notice and took a spoonful of sou
p. At first taste, it seemed fine, but then the salty flavor hit the back of her tongue and lingered down her throat. It wasn’t what one would call pleasant, more like swallowing glass. The deuce!

  Waiting anxiously for him to dip his spoon into his soup, she wondered if it would be wise to knock the bowl off the table entirely, but she couldn’t think how to do it without it ending up on his lap.

  As he swallowed, she watched his eyes widen.

  A nervous laugh escaped her, which she turned quickly into a cough.

  He coughed, too, obviously due to the soup.

  They both reached quickly for their wine glasses and gulped it down. Trying to recall the next course, she knew she’d told Mary to skip the fish and could only hope the meat was something even her cook could manage.

  Thankfully, when their barely touched soup was taken away, the maid brought in a simple roasted haunch of mutton with creamed potatoes, French beans in butter.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  Of course, the mutton was overcooked to the consistency of shoe leather. Despite that, hungry by this point, they both consumed what was on their plates. The potatoes were astonishingly perfect. Apparently, overcooking them only made them creamier. Who knew? And the beans?

  Ada choked down a mushy and strangely stringy bean.

  By this point, there was no use pretending it was good.

  Opening her mouth to apologize, she stopped when he held up his hand.

  “Don’t say it.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Cooking everything to within an inch of its life somehow adds to the flavor. Is that your contention? Because I can tell you, madam, except for the potatoes, I don’t want any greater flavor to come through, not from this meal.”

  Yet, he ended his complaint with a smile.

  What could she do? She offered him a small smile in return.

  “Actually, I was going to apologize for this disaster. My cook has made a few missteps, such as hard aspic the other day. I can’t for the life of me figure out how she could turn a jellied food quite so solid, but there you are. Anyway, I’m not a fussy eater and hadn’t noticed how bad her cooking is.”