Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction

by Jayne Fresina

  He told her for sympathy, but of course she laughed. And how he loved to see her laugh.

  In the afternoon they stopped to let the horses drink from a brook and enjoy the shade of a willow. Carver took her inside the threshing barn, where dust beams danced in the air, gilded with gold from the sun’s rays that filtered through the old planks. Stacks of hay bales were stored there now, but very soon the barn would be filled with activity once the harvest was underway.

  “The people seem pleased that you are here,” she said. “You should come more often and stay longer.”

  “I should.” He was looking at her as the tiny speckles of light hovered and darted around her face. Ten days left. For the first time in his life, the clocks were moving too fast.

  But how could he make her stay longer? They’d both agreed to that contract, and she wanted to go back to her work. He could not keep her from it—it wouldn’t be fair, knowing how she loved it and how successful she was. Besides, he did not like more permanent relationships. A man should be free to come and go, not let himself be pinned down. There were many other women out there, and devoting himself to only one would be a mistake. What would become of him then, if she fell ill and died or left him or didn’t love him as much as he loved her?

  Suddenly he was frozen to the spot, his feet like lead in his boots.

  Loved her. Did he?

  Was it possible, after all these years of avoiding any tenderness of feeling, that he, Carver Danforthe, fifth Earl of Everscham, had fallen in love with his sister’s lady’s maid? Former lady’s maid. A woman of incredible talents. A woman who looked at him as if he was worth looking at, worth more than his bank account and his title. Worth caring for.

  “Margaret.”

  “Yes?”

  How did one say these things? His sister would have plenty of advice, but she was not there. She was off gallivanting in the Norfolk countryside with her farmer.

  He wanted to keep Margaret Robbins in his house and never let her out of his sight. It was a dangerous thought, an impossible, potentially ruinous need, and he must be rid of it at once for the sake of his own sanity.

  “From now on you will ride sidesaddle like a proper lady,” he said, barely listening to his own voice, watching only the disturbed speckles of sunlight. “And have some modesty when mounting before the grooms.”

  A very slight frown crossed her brow. “I told you I prefer to ride without a saddle.”

  “It is not a matter for debate. I am the master here.”

  Her gaze lowered to his feet.

  “It is also for your safety when riding about the estate.” His own mother had died after a hunting accident, when she boldly took a blind leap over a hedge instead of passing through a gate. An example of an obstinate woman coming to harm because she insisted on doing things her way. He could not have anything happening to Margaret.

  “Very well,” she replied, but the surly downward bend of her lips warned Carver that she would not pay heed to his warnings. The wild streak he’d recognized in her long ago was even more evident now that she’d come out of her shell. Bringing her out of London had also changed her demeanor, as if she felt more at home in the country. He had foolishly not considered that possibility when he brought her there. “Are there any other rules I must follow?” she demanded crossly.

  “I’m glad you asked. Yes. Plenty.”

  “I’m sure.” One eyebrow curved like a bow, ready to release an arrow. Possibly poison-tipped.

  “The most important one is that you will do as I say. At all times.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “If I catch you riding astride again, you’ll find out. Won’t you?”

  She pursed her lips and folded her arms, very unladylike.

  “Now smile, Margaret. That’s an order.”

  “So I’m your servant again?”

  He didn’t answer. He couldn’t, because he didn’t know what she was anymore.

  Rather than smile, the hussy stuck out her tongue, deliberately antagonizing and taunting him into action. He took a step toward her, and she leapt around a beam, dodging his reach. Stripping off the burden of his riding coat, he followed his mischievous playmate in and out of the hay bales and around sturdy beams. She was laughing now and breathless, as was he. It was twenty years at least since he’d played a game like this, but suddenly he was a boy again with a lifetime ahead of him. No mistakes yet, no regrets. No sadness. Just the dizzy pursuit of a pretty woman whose hair had fallen loose down her back in glorious, tumbled mahogany waves that tempted his fingers.

  She tripped over a hay bale, and he followed, landing heavily on her. She didn’t appear to mind as he tugged her skirts upward without ceremony.

  “Oh, sir, don’t tear my gown,” she wheezed, panting.

  With a low growl, he swept her warm hair aside and nipped the back of her neck gently in his teeth. “Be still then, and submit to your master’s desire, wench.” Already his hand crept up over her stocking tops and garters.

  “Oh, sir, be gentle.”

  “Why should I?” He stroked the curve of her bottom through her drawers, his mind filled with images of Margaret riding astride in that reckless fashion, showing her stockings off. “You must be punished for your defiance.”

  “I’ll be good, sir. From now on.”

  “Yes, you will.” He spanked her, not too hard.

  “Ouch. You rotten bugger!” But he noted the lift of her hips and the little wriggle, deliberately taunting. The catch in her breath, and even the way she gripped the hay bale with her fingers, told Carver she was enjoying herself.

  “Now, now, wench. That’s no way to address your lord and master.” A second spank followed, and then he laid his hand over her bottom, fingers splayed, demonstrating ownership. “Promise me you will not show your legs again to any other man.”

  She rested her upper half on her elbows, her chin cupped in her palm. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  For that she got a third spank, a little harder this time. “By all means keep me waiting,” he growled, resting his hand on the heated swell of her right cheek, pressing his groin against her as she spread her thighs over the bale and tried to keep her balance. “I can spank you till the cows come home.”

  Finally she sighed. “Oh, very well then.”

  He gently squeezed her bottom. “Very well then what?”

  “I won’t show my legs to any other man.”

  “Better, wench.”

  “Are you done with my punishment, then?”

  “Not quite.” Carver positioned himself swiftly, unhooked his breeches, and angled his erect manhood through the slit in her drawers, unable to wait another second.

  She gasped in surprise and delight. “If I’d known this was to be the punishment, I would have misbehaved much more often.”

  Bending over her again, his groin flush to the back of her thighs, he whispered huskily in her ear, “You’ll be the death of me, Margaret Robbins.” She giggled as he rocked forward. He couldn’t get enough. Neither, it seemed, could she. Perhaps, he mused, death by desire was her design for him after all. She was merciless.

  Twenty-three

  The days passed, rolling gently by like a steadily bubbling stream. On some mornings she watched Carver with the horses on his stud farm. She liked it best when he was unaware of her presence and she could spy on him in secret. He had a gentle way with the animals, and when he rode around the paddock in his rolled up shirtsleeves, a peace came over his face that she had rarely seen at other times. There was no haughty superiority when he conferred with his grooms about a sick horse or a pregnant mare. He laughed easily, worried openly, listened and advised without sarcasm. She even saw him slap his blacksmith on the shoulder once as they shared a joke, which she could not hear but strongly suspected was not fit for her ears anyway.

  As she’d promised the housekeeper, Molly took a long basket and a pruning knife into the rose garden most afternoons, while Carver was busy with Phi
pps or meeting with people who came up from the village to discuss their problems. Molly could see that he was much more efficient and effective in his role than he thought he was. People may have feared and respected his father, but she heard from the staff how much they liked and trusted Carver.

  Rising early every day, keen to make the most of every moment, she explored the house and countryside, finding ways to help Mrs. Martindale and the maids as much as they would allow her. Once, as she approached the kitchens, she heard the cook and housemaids discussing her.

  “That young lady is just what he needs. Pity he’d never marry her, of course.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? You daft ’apeth! She’s just a lady’s maid. Done well for herself, and no mistake, but not of the caliber he must marry. She’s got no title, no breeding, and no family fortune. In any case, his lordship has always said he’ll never take a wife.”

  “But he needs an heir for the estate.”

  “He has cousins enough to inherit. And he doesn’t want children. I heard him say once he is not cut out for fatherhood.”

  Molly stepped back farther into the shadow behind the door.

  “Aye, well he had a hard childhood in this house, trying to fill his father’s shoes and make up for the loss of an elder brother. Then after the tragedy of losing his parents, being left to look after his little sister. ’Tis no surprise he avoids marriage and doesn’t care to have any children of his own. Oh, but those awful cousins! Not one of them is half the man he is, and it’ll be a sad day when one of them takes the reins of this place.”

  To Molly’s relief, the housekeeper must have entered the kitchen from the outside door at that moment, for she silenced their gossiping immediately, and they all got back to their work.

  She waited several minutes before she walked in to greet them, not wanting anyone to know she’d overheard.

  Although she already knew Carver’s views on marriage and fatherhood, it wasn’t any less painful to hear his staff talk of it.

  Of course, he had enough children to deal with now, did he not? Those he rescued from the rough streets of London. Ironically, the man who did not want children of his own took on the children no one else wanted.

  ***

  The roses in his mother’s garden were overblown at that time of the year, although with a careful pruning, Molly thought some of the plants might yet enjoy one more late bloom before the weather turned. She tidied and trimmed diligently, putting shape back into the twisted vines around the arbors. She raked up dead leaves and fallen petals, delivering them in a small wheelbarrow for the gardener’s disposal. She even mended the broken bird feeder and stocked it with scraps from the kitchen. Slowly she brought the neglected garden back to life.

  As she strolled along the narrow paths, drinking in the thick, sweet fragrance, she felt serenity and contentment settle over her. Sometimes, when coming upon the pleasant surprise of a stone bench or a wooden seat under the leafy arbors, she sat for a spell and found herself nodding off. It was unheard of for her to take naps during the day. Perhaps this life of leisure was already rubbing off on her, she mused.

  The rose garden occupied an area behind the south-facing side of the main building. It was enclosed by rugged stone walls on three sides and the hothouse on the fourth. A pretty wrought iron scrollwork gate led into the pleasant sanctuary, but kept out the sheep that wandered freely all over the lawns. With a gentle squeak, that rusty gate warned of any other visitor soon to approach, and today it brought the housekeeper, Mrs. Martindale, who came looking for her.

  “Tea is served, madam, in the green parlor.”

  The green parlor, it had been explained to her during a tour of the house, was the sitting room where the countess once greeted visitors in the afternoons. There were French doors that opened onto a sunny paved area and overlooked the vast green lawns. The room itself seemed to have been preserved exactly as it was when the countess was alive, and Molly got the sense that dust covers were removed just at the last minute before the carriage brought them up to the entrance steps. Molly felt honored even to sit there, let alone have tea served to her within its elegant, refined walls, but she was hungry again, and there would be dainty, sugary little cakes. For such treats, she could overlook the fact that she really had no right to be there.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Martindale. That sounds lovely.”

  The housekeeper was looking around at the newly trimmed bushes and the arbor, which no longer sprouted wayward tentacles. “My, you have been busy, madam. I knew you came out here every afternoon, but I hadn’t realized how much work you’ve done.”

  “I have to find something to do with my hands, or I’d go quite mad,” she confessed with a sigh. “I’m afraid a ladylike life of leisure is not for me.”

  “So I see.” The lady finally cracked a smile. “We must find more things to keep you entertained.”

  His lordship was managing that quite nicely, she thought wryly, but pushing that fact aside, she leapt at the chance to be useful. “If there is any sewing to be done, I’d gladly help.”

  “I’m sure I can find some, Miss Robbins.” The woman paused. She seemed about to turn back to the house, but changed her mind. “It is very good to see his lordship smiling for once. To hear his laughter. It seems we have you to thank for this.”

  Molly felt her cheeks flush. “I don’t know how much of a part I play in it, but I am glad if he is happier.” Gathering her courage to be curious while she had the ear of someone who might actually give her information, she added, “I have heard his childhood here was quite sad, Mrs. Martindale.”

  The housekeeper glanced over at the gate and then, assured of their being alone, replied, “Indeed. He struggled so for his parents’ affection, but they were both taken from him while he was relatively young and his character not yet fully formed. It was very hard.”

  “I’m sure. And his elder brother also died here.” She’d never dared ask Carver about that. It felt rather sneaky to ask the housekeeper behind his back, but she was desperate to know more. His childhood in that house had been much on her mind of late. Almost as if she saw and heard ghosts sometimes, just as he’d warned her she might.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Martindale glanced over at the rusty gate again. “The firstborn child was only two when he passed on. It was devastating to the earl and countess. Especially the countess. She took to her bed for a month or more, and I feared she was inconsolable at the loss of her son. The physician said she may not have another child, so there was great fear for the future of the estate, you see. The previous earl had no love for his cousins—had borne a grudge against his uncle for many years—and did not want the place falling into their hands.” There was another uneasy pause, during which Molly felt as if even the falling rose petals clung on a moment longer, fearful of missing something. “And then, along came the second boy, and all was well.”

  “It was lucky there was another son to inherit.”

  “Most fortunate indeed.” The other lady began to move away. “I must see if I can find that mending for you, Miss Robbins.”

  When Carver found Molly in the green parlor later that day, she was occupied with a basket full of mending, so absorbed in it that she forgot to remove her spectacles until it was too late, and then she fumbled, dropping them to the carpet.

  “What’s all this?” he demanded, gesturing at the wicker basket by her feet.

  “It’s called work. Don’t worry, it’s not contagious.”

  With her toe, she tried to push her spectacles out of sight under the chair, but he stooped, picked them up, cleaned them on his sleeve, and handed them to her. Quite casually. As if it was the most normal thing in the world and he’d known about them all along.

  “I suppose you ate all the cake again. Any more tea left at least?” He dropped into a chair beside her, pursed his lips in a tuneless whistle, and reached for the newspaper.

  It suddenly struck her as vastly amusing. Here they were, like an old marrie
d couple, sitting together and having tea. The lady’s maid and the nefarious rake. What an odd pairing.

  Ouch! She’d pricked her finger. Hastily she slid her spectacles on and got back to the mending. Other mistresses would probably spend their afternoons in floaty lace and feathers, waiting about for him and with nothing else to occupy their time. She, however, was not like that and couldn’t be even if she tried. In a way, he had just silently acknowledged the fact. Sitting about on her backside, waiting to entertain a man, was the last thing she’d do, and he knew it. Just as she knew he wasn’t thinking of her every minute of the day.

  Oh well, it couldn’t all be about the lust and the passion, could it?

  “What are you laughing at, Mouse?” he muttered, shaking out his paper.

  “You.”

  “Of course, what else?”

  It was comfortable to sit quietly in that little parlor with him. Almost too comfortable. Perhaps she ought to get up and do the dance of the seven veils for him. That thought made her laugh even harder.

  But as she bent over her sewing, she felt a sudden hot wave of nausea. If she wasn’t careful, all that sweet cake would make a reappearance.

  “Tell me about your cousins,” she said after searching for subjects to take her mind off the strange churning going on in her stomach. “I’ve never heard you or Lady Mercy talk about them.”

  “Probably because they are all obnoxious brats.”

  “A Danforthe family trait, isn’t it?” she teased coyly.

  “Most amusing, Miss Robbins.”

  “But one of them will inherit this estate.”

  He sighed. “Felix. The son of my father’s cousin, and the biggest bore you would ever meet.”

  “Won’t you be sorry to leave everything to him then?”

  “I’ve never looked at it that way. The estate has never really been mine.” He paused. For a moment she thought he would not speak further on the subject, but he took a breath and plowed onward. “It belongs to the Everscham name, and it goes to the next male Danforthe. I am merely the current custodian.”