Entangled (A Private Collection)

by Fresina, Jayne

  His teeth nipped the edge of her ear, he squeezed her bottom and a soft groan rumbled through his torso. “We’ll have to do something about this before then.” His hand led hers downward to his rampant shaft.

  She swallowed a mewl of complaint, because before it was fully formed in her throat it had become something else. Something too much like “oh yes” for her liking.

  “Mr. Bailey, must I remind you again that this is to be a marriage in name only?” She tried, truly she tried, but her voice shook, betraying her own desires.

  He reached for the curtains and drew them shut. Bit late for that, she mused, surprised he bothered.

  “Mr. Bailey—”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  She backed along the wall. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

  No answer. His dark, sinister gaze lowered to her bosom, then her waist, then lower. Whenever she dared look at it, his manhood twitched, stretching further in length and even, it seemed to her startled eyes, in thickness.

  “Oh my.” She’d seen shire horses with less equipment. “You’d better put that away,” she said, ruthlessly crushing that slight hint of wistfulness.

  “Can’t. It wants to play.”

  “Not with me it won’t.” Courage in both hands, she ducked under his arms and escaped, scurrying around the brass bed and backing up to the door. “I’m letting you stay only because I need to keep this hotel and it’s too late to find anyone else to play the part of my husband. But don’t get any ideas.”

  He rubbed his chin slowly, devouring her with his eyes. She’d seen eyes like those before, but couldn’t think where.

  “I mean it,” she added. Nothing changed in his expression and she wondered if he was even listening. She’d just have to make it clear. “You see, there’s another man. Me and him— he and I,” she corrected herself, “have an arrangement.”

  Aha! Those eyes, already dark, became almost black now as his brows lowered in a frown. His hand dropped to his side, arm swinging slightly. “Why not marry him if you need a husband so badly?”

  “Because he can’t marry me. It’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions. If he could marry me, he would, of course.”

  A flicker of wry amusement crossed his roughly chiseled features and briefly lightened his eyes. “Is that what he tells you?”

  Now she began to get angry. “We’re in love,” she snapped, resorting to a convenient lie. Perhaps it wasn’t even a lie, she reasoned. Guy said they were in love. One day soon she might feel it too.

  The man across the room smiled stiffly. “He’s a lucky man.”

  One hand scrabbling for the door handle behind her, she said, “Please feel free to take a lover if you wish. I was misinformed about your…state.” Her gaze flickered uncertainly down over his erection yet again. Her tongue suddenly felt too wide for her mouth and she couldn’t swallow. Somehow she got the words out to finish. At times like these, when she needed a burst of courage, she always thought what Lady Westerfield would say and how she would say it. “Now I see it would be unfair to expect you to remain chaste during this arrangement. As long as we’re both discreet, it shouldn’t cause any problems.”

  Opening the door, she escaped through it at last. Her entire body was perspiring. Marching down the corridor, she cursed herself for putting ideas in his head about another woman.

  She didn’t want him taking a lover.

  Daisy came to a skidding halt, one hand on the wainscoting. Now why on earth would she think that? Why shouldn’t he have one? What difference would it make to her? And it wouldn’t be fair to forbid it since she had Guy Westerfield and she was quite content. Well, perhaps sometimes she got the sense that Guy took her for granted. Occasionally he talked down to her, and he had the annoying habit of thinking he could end an argument by sending her an expensive gift. But Daisy, being sensible and level-headed, weighed the good against the bad. She was still partially in awe that he loved her because when all was said and done, he was, after all, the son of a lord. He was wealthy, handsome, well-educated. For a penniless girl sent into service, wide-eyed and eager to get along in life, he was quite a catch.

  Head up, she continued on her way toward the stairs. Her temporary husband could have as many lovers as he wanted. He’d just better be discreet. Convinced that was all she cared about, she broke into a tuneless, determinedly jolly hum. But eventually realized she was walking in completely the wrong direction.

  Chapter Four

  It was a small hotel with eight guest rooms and a separate corridor for the owner’s living quarters. Below were an entrance foyer, dining room, tavern area, kitchen, and small conservatory overlooking a walled garden. The furnishings were shabby, the carpets worn, and the paintwork badly in need of refreshment. It was all, as far as he could see, running rapidly downhill. But the delectable Daisy Wellfleet had taken this burden upon her slender shoulders and was determined to turn things around.

  He had to admire her gumption. Among other things in her possession.

  “It belonged to my grandfather,” she explained later that day when he found her in the office behind reception writing out bills. “A Wellfleet has owned this place for one hundred and fifty years, and I mean to keep the tradition alive.” She told him about her brothers wanting to sell the establishment. “They don’t believe a woman is capable of running a hotel alone. Since the entire world seems to agree with them, I decided to get around that and find a husband.”

  “And that’s where I come in.”

  She looked up, her pen poised over the paper. “Yes.” There was a twinge of uncertainty in her face as she said it, and he strongly suspected Miss Wellfleet was having second thoughts about her plan. So she should, he thought sternly. He’d never heard of anything as outrageous as a young woman choosing her husband in such a haphazard manner. This was why women should never be left in charge of anything.

  He perched on the edge of her desk. “Very clever idea,” he assured her. “Ingenious.”

  Observing his smile, she remained solemn. He particularly liked that funny little moue she made with her lips whenever all those words, clamoring to get out, crowded together at the entrance and she didn’t want to release them for some reason. She tried hard to quell her natural exuberance as if fearing she might one day give too much away. He, on the other hand, struggled to get his words out. He knew he ought to tell her the truth, lecture her against this reckless idea of marrying a man she’d never met, and then reveal his true purpose there. He had another life to get back to and had already wasted enough time here as it was. But whenever he began a confession, he noticed something new about her and was distracted again. First it was the precious little curl at the nape of her neck partially hidden by her ponytail. Then it was the way her tongue peeked out between her lips as she concentrated on the figures in her ledger. Her shirt sleeve was marked with a faded ink stain and the cuff was too long for her, which accentuated the smallness of her hand. When she spoke it only added to the distraction, her rambling words leading him off down winding sunny lanes that took him further from his planned route.

  “While you’re here, you should try to be as unobtrusive as possible. I want people to see you about the place, but I don’t want them asking too many questions about us. As soon as it’s established that I have a husband, I’ll be able to stay here without harassment and get on with my work. It’s quite appalling that I have to go through this, but I’ll play their silly game. Could you pass the blotter? It’s behind you.”

  “Shouldn’t you introduce me to the staff?”

  “What for? I’m running the hotel, not you.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Later,” she muttered impatiently. “There’s only the cook, Mrs. Smedley; Fred the porter; two maids, Ginny and Violet. And a gardener, Mr. Finch, who comes in twice a week and also does the outside windows because he has a head for heights. Oh, and Mrs. Smedley’s niece is ou
r night receptionist when I have an engagement elsewhere. She’s a little dull and never let her start telling you about the time she fainted in the town square, unless you want to be bored to death on your feet.”

  “Engagement elsewhere? With your gentleman friend presumably.”

  She didn’t answer, but her bronze ponytail danced petulantly.

  “Have you managed a hotel before?”

  “No. I was a lady’s maid.”

  “Here in Middleton?”

  “At Abbingdon Manor, of course, with your cousin, Lizzie. I told you in my letter.”

  He touched his forehead with tentative fingers. “I…must have forgotten.” Luke was learning to use that excuse already. She seemed to think he had a head injury, a far worse one than a little knock against a carriage door, and that could be a very useful misunderstanding.

  Her frown eased. “You really should get more rest. You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

  She kept trying to get him into bed. Which might be considered a very good thing, but wasn’t if she refused to get into it with him. He folded his arms. “Abbingdon is…what? Twenty miles or so west of here? Worked there long?” He was trying to figure out how she ever crossed his father’s path. As far as he recalled, the Westerfields lived at Abbingdon Manor and they were far too pompous and aristocratic to socialize with his father. Randolph Blackwood had always delighted in shocking folk like the Westerfields with his eccentric ways and disdain for the rules of propriety. Despite the crumbling appearance of his house and a distinct lack of sartorial elegance, Randolph had been rich enough to do as he pleased. A hard-working, self-educated, self-made man, he could have bought and sold the Westerfields ten times over, for all their grandiose manners. And that was probably another reason why people like the Westerfields had never invited Randolph Blackwood to their dinner parties.

  “I went into service when I was thirteen,” she replied, drying her ink with a firm thump of the blotter.

  “Young.”

  “Yes.”

  He stared down at her bent head and that bobbing ponytail of curls wondering how best to approach the subject of her age.

  “I’m twenty five,” she said, not looking up. “Didn’t Lizzie tell you that either?”

  He scratched his ear and chuckled. “That’s all right then.”

  “What is?”

  “Well, you look younger.”

  Finally done with her books, she set down her pen. “I’m of age to marry, if that’s what you were thinking. And I don’t require my parents’ permission, which is a jolly good thing as I haven’t any parents left.”

  “Ah.” He hadn’t either. About to tell her so, he swallowed it, not knowing if the mysterious Mr. Bailey had any. “And those brothers you mentioned. Don’t they mind their sister marrying a man she never even met before?”

  She stood, lifting a thick book of accounts to the shelf above his head. “As far as they’re concerned, we do know one another.”

  He tried to help her, reaching for the ledger with his own hands, but she refused to let go and so they both placed it on the shelf. “They won’t suspect?”

  “Why should they?”

  With a shrug he replied casually, “I might forget the things I’ve been told about you. My memory,” he gestured again at his forehead, “isn’t what it was.”

  “Then we’ll go over things again.” She patted his shoulder in a brisk fashion, very nurse-like, he thought, amused. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

  Oh yes indeed, they’d be fine together. More than fine.

  They’d definitely need a bigger bed though.

  Before she turned away, he dropped his hands to her waist and settled them there, fingers spread. It was a bold gesture and he waited for some rebuke. None came.

  “You shouldn’t have helped me lift that heavy ledger.” Her voice softened with anxiety. “I know you want to help, but you mustn’t overdo things.”

  Luke realized she thought he grabbed her waist because he was dizzy. He closed his eyes and swayed forward, at the same time surreptitiously drawing her closer. Her fingers touched his hair gently, almost as if they were afraid to do so, yet eager to comfort.

  “I’ll be all right,” he murmured weakly. “In a moment. The room just…began to spin.”

  Now she stroked his head, gaining courage, a natural tenderness winning through that evident determination to keep a safe distance. His head was almost on her shoulder. Her scent was light and powder soft, lavender perhaps. Whatever it was, he liked it very much. Women’s perfumes usually made him choke.

  “So tell me what I should know about you, Daisy Wellfleet. Just in case I’ve forgotten.”

  A bell rang loud, clear, and sharp.

  “A guest,” she muttered. “I have to go.”

  “Let them wait. I need you.”

  “You sit here and get your bearings. And then you really should go back to bed.”

  He nodded, making his lips droop. “I’ll do as you say, of course. Like a well-trained house pet.”

  Looking up, he caught a quick spark of wariness in those wide, green eyes. Her right eyebrow curved upward. She still wasn’t sure about him. But that was all right, he mused wryly, for he wasn’t sure about himself anymore either. What the hell was he doing? Anyone would think he was his elder brother Harry, who made it a point to seduce any beautiful woman he saw almost as if it was a matter of honor, a duty. Or his younger brother Adam, who apparently believed in love at first sight, having pined for the same woman for half a decade. But he wasn’t Harry or Adam, he was Luke. Dull, bookish Lucien who didn’t like people and only bothered with women when it became necessary to oil the parts, so to speak.

  Whatever he was doing with her, he didn’t feel inclined to stop. Someone had to teach this young woman that marrying a man she’d never met was an enormous mistake didn’t they? He was amusing himself, testing the old Blackwood charm he never knew he had. It was an experiment, a little entertainment. Surely that was all it was. He wasn’t actually going through with it, was he?

  “I don’t want to be any bother,” he added somberly.

  She nodded, removed his hands from her waist, and went out to greet her guest.

  * * * *

  Daisy passed through the door, her mind a whirl of thoughts, the imprint of his fingertips still felt around her waist. House pet indeed! A smile tugged insistently on her lips and she was still fighting it when she heard the bell again and forced herself to look up.

  “Miss Wellfleet.”

  Her eyes came into focus and the smile wilted before she pulled it back into place. “Guy.” Remembering the importance of discretion, she quickly corrected herself. “Mr. Westerfield. Good afternoon.” A belated wave of panic rippled down her spine when she realized her husband-to-be, the supposed invalid, was still in the back room only inches away. She could hear him rustling papers, prying into her things. She couldn’t let Guy see him yet. They needed time to prepare because she knew the extremely healthy appearance of Lawrence Bailey would be as big a surprise to Guy as it was to her.

  “I happened to be in Middleton today on an errand for Mama. Thought I’d stop in and visit.”

  She laughed, but it sounded high and nervous to her ears. “It’s good of you to call in, Mr. Westerfield.”

  Afternoon tea had already been served and there were a few people in the foyer, but none watching Daisy and her gentleman. One man was buried in his newspaper, and two ladies seated by the fire gossiped avidly while feeding sandwich crusts and meringue to an ill-tempered poodle.

  “Might we have a word,” he whispered, leaning across the counter, angling his head toward her private room.

  She had to think quickly. “It’s not convenient just now.”

  “Oh?” His handsome face remained smiling, but his eyes hardened.

  “The drayman with the bill,” she explained. “I must deal with him. Perhaps you’d care to wait.” She gestured to a chair across the foyer, but she knew Guy wouldn’t sit
and wait for her. He never did. He was always busy, going somewhere and fitting her in when he could. It made the time they spent together, as he would remind her, even more precious. And she liked it that way, never wanting to share her life completely or have to deal with a man in all his moods, including the bad ones. The occasional treat of dinner out and an evening in Guy’s company was quite sufficient for Daisy. She liked being able to wave him off again and then loosen her corset, pour another cup of tea, and sit down to read the newspaper without interruption.

  “I’ll come back later and take you out to dinner.” He flicked a curl of dark hair from his brow. “Make certain you’re ready at seven sharp. Wear the blue.”

  She nodded. He winked.

  Thankfully, he didn’t linger, but turned swiftly and hurried out through the doors of the hotel, ignoring young Albie who held it open for him, hoping in vain for a tip.

  “Mean ol’ bugger,” the boy muttered, sauntering up to the counter, getting mud on her tiles as usual.

  “Don’t speak about Mr. Westerfield that way.” She lifted on tip toe, leaning over the counter as far as possible to watch through the glass-paneled doors as Guy strode out of her view along the street.

  “It’s true. He’s mean and he’s old.”

  “He’s neither, for Heaven’s sake.” Sometimes she wondered why she let Albie hang around her hotel, especially since the boy took an instant dislike to Guy and made no bones about it. But then that dirty face would look up at her and smile, hence he was forgiven his poor judgment. She knew the boy came from a large family, and his parents had no time for him and no money. Unlike most of his siblings, Albie stayed out of serious trouble and seemed to like her, making himself useful occasionally, a pest of himself the rest of the time.