The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor)

by Alexander, Victoria

  He glared at her. “I have a great deal of responsibility.”

  “It’s not quite as easy as it once was to be Winfield Elliott.” Grayson bit back a grin.

  “And yet, I bravely carry on.” The corners of Lord Stillwell’s mouth twitched as if he too was resisting a smile.

  “We have agreed to dispense with formality and call each other by our given names.” Camille pinned him with a firm look. “Now then, Winfield, might I present Miranda? Miranda, this is Winfield.”

  “How delightful to meet you, Winfield.” Her gaze met his and she smiled. This was silly but more than a little fun. It struck her that this group had much in common with her own family.

  “The pleasure, Miranda . . .” He stepped closer, took her hand and raised it to his lips. His gaze never left hers. This was the second time he had kissed her hand and while the first had triggered a fluttering in the pit of her stomach, now warmth spread from the touch of his lips through to her very toes. “The pleasure is entirely mine.” He lowered his voice, his words for her ears alone. “You are a vision tonight, Miranda.”

  “Every little boy’s dream?” she teased.

  “No.” His gaze bored into hers. “Every man’s.” Her breath caught, her gaze locked with his and for an endless moment there was no one in the room, no one in the world save the two of them. The wicked lord and the governess. And something that might well have been desire washed through her.

  “After all,” Camille’s voice sounded from somewhere very far away, “we are all living in the same house. And you and Miranda will be together for a very long time.”

  “A very long time?” Miranda and Winfield said in unison. She snatched her hand from his and stared at Camille, and his gaze followed hers.

  Grayson laughed or coughed, one couldn’t be quite sure as his hand covered his mouth.

  “Well, yes.” Camille’s gaze slid between Miranda and Winfield. “It was my understanding that construction will go on for months. Which to me does seem like a very long time.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I was not referring to the rest of your lives.”

  Winfield scoffed. “The thought never crossed my mind.”

  “Of course not.” Miranda forced a short laugh. “How absurd.”

  “Grayson said Fairborough wouldn’t be completed until well after we return,” Camille continued.

  “Until who returns?” Lady Fairborough frowned.

  “We shall explain it all to you.” Camille blithely waved off the question and nodded toward the door. “And I believe Prescott has come to call us into dinner.”

  “Very well then.” Lady Fairborough took her husband’s arm, then glanced at her son. “Winfield, do escort Miranda, if you please.”

  “I would be honored.” He smiled politely and offered his arm.

  It would have been unacceptable not to take his arm; still, she knew the briefest instant of hesitation, then braced herself. She slipped her hand onto his arm and again that strange sensation of warmth washed through her. At once terrifying and exciting.

  He held back until the rest of the group was nearly at the dining room, then walked slowly after them, speaking in a low tone out of the side of his mouth. “That was odd.”

  She knew at once what he was talking about and nodded. “Extremely odd.”

  “You do realize what they are all thinking?”

  “Oh, surely not.”

  “Perhaps you have not met my mother.”

  “I have met mine . . .” She winced. “We shall just have to set them straight then.”

  “How?” He stopped in mid-step and looked at her. “Denying that . . . that . . . moment, for lack of a better word, that we shared in front of them would only give legitimacy to it.”

  “Legitimacy?” She stared at him.

  “Well, yes, acknowledging it gives it credence. If we ignore it, it will go away.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  He nodded. “I do.”

  Disappointment mixed with relief and something else she couldn’t quite define. Anger perhaps? “Excellent idea. We shall pretend it never happened.”

  “That does seem for the best.”

  They took another few steps and she paused. Definitely anger. “Although . . .”

  “Although?”

  “If we really want to convince the others of the insignificance of the moment . . .”

  “And we do.”

  “Without question,” she agreed. “But it seems to me we might want to do more than just ignore it.”

  “More?”

  “You and I seem to be exceptionally good at annoying one another.” She smiled in as pleasant a manner as she could muster. “Perhaps we should just let that natural tendency of ours take its course.”

  He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “That will do, I suppose.”

  “Yes, it will.” She clenched her teeth. It was obvious the man had no interest in her whatsoever, even interest of a prurient nature, which was unreasonably upsetting. Infuriating, really, although it made no sense. Why, she didn’t even like him. Even if, for less than an instant, it had seemed there might be something quite remarkable between them. It was an aberration, no doubt. Not the least bit significant. It would be best to ignore it completely and pretend it never happened. Because if it was not important to him, she would absolutely not allow it to be important to her.

  “Very well then, Winfield.” She cast him her brightest smile. “Shall we join the others?”

  It was going to be an interesting evening.

  “. . . and therefore I have decided to go with him.” Camille’s gaze circled the table. “I have never been to America and who knows when I might have another opportunity. Delilah”—she glanced at Miranda—“my younger sister, has agreed to join us so it won’t be the least bit improper.”

  “I don’t know why you have to go at all.” Lady Fairborough aimed a pointed look at her nephew. “You just returned to England in December after eleven years of being away. Eleven years, Grayson, is a very long time.”

  “I am well aware of that.” Grayson smiled at his aunt.

  “And now you are leaving again.” She huffed.

  “I am leaving, Aunt Margaret, to settle my business affairs and make the necessary arrangements so that I can return to England for good,” he said in the kind of firm but gentle tone one uses when one has explained something more than once. “But I shall always have to travel to America on occasion.”

  “Business, my dear”—a firm note sounded in Lord Fairborough’s voice—“is business.”

  “Besides, we won’t be gone long,” Camille said. “Grayson says it will be less than a month and probably only three weeks. Why, we shall spend more time in travel than actually in New York. Which does seem a pity, really. But we do want to be back before the Midsummer Ball.”

  “The queen might yet come,” Lady Fairborough murmured.

  “The last thing I want is a visit from the queen,” her husband muttered. “Problems enough without a royal visit complicating life.”

  “Nonetheless, it is a pity Fairborough won’t be completed by then.” Camille sighed. “I haven’t been to the Fairborough Midsummer Ball in years and I was quite looking forward to it.”

  “I am sorry, but . . .” Miranda shook her head. “The project is huge. There was a great deal of damage and rebuilding to Lord—to Winfield’s—specif ications is not an easy task. We have really just started and it is already the beginning of May. Completion by late June is next to impossible.”

  “Next to?” Winfield raised a brow. “I thought you said it was impossible? Next to impossible implies that there is an iota of a chance that makes it indeed possible.”

  “I am sorry, I misspoke.” Irritation clenched her teeth. “It is indeed impossible. It simply cannot be done.”

  He leaned forward slightly, his gaze meeting hers over the dinner table. “Why not?”

  “I just said it was an enormous project.”

  �
��One wonders if another firm could accomplish it.”

  “And yet other firms were not willing to so much as attempt it.” Was he doing this deliberately or was he just being his usual annoying self?

  “Perhaps this could be accomplished if a man was in charge,” he said in a deceptively casual manner.

  “Or a promise would simply be made that would not be kept as men are prone to do.” She shrugged. “Promises not kept, engagements broken, that sort of thing.”

  His eyes narrowed. “It seems to me anything can be done if one puts enough effort and resources into it.”

  “And money,” she snapped. “This is already costing a small fortune. Are you willing to spend even more?”

  “How much more?”

  “I have no idea. We would have to vastly increase the number of workers.” She thought for a moment. “Construction costs would be at least twice what we have allocated. Perhaps even three times as much.”

  “And could you then guarantee completion by late June?”

  “No! Absolutely not!” What part of this did the blasted man not understand? “I simply cannot promise you the house will be finished. For one thing, I will not have men working on Sunday. That is not negotiable.”

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  “Nor will I allow Mr. Clarke to sacrifice safety for speed,” she said sharply. “And I will not permit shoddy workmanship.”

  “Nor do I expect you to.”

  “Even if we could get the floors, walls and roof in place by late June, the finishes could never be done. Keep in mind, you want Fairborough put back precisely the way it was. That means replicating carved woodwork and molded plasters. I have craftsmen in London working on some of that already, but it is going to take a considerable amount of time to be done correctly.”

  “I shall make a bargain with you.” His gaze locked on to hers. “If the Midsummer Ball can be held at Fairborough, as it has been for well over a hundred years—”

  “One hundred and twenty-seven, to be exact,” someone murmured.

  “There is a bonus in it for you.”

  She stared at him. “What kind of bonus?”

  “Substantial.” He paused. “I am already paying you twice your usual commission. I will give you a bonus equal to your original commission.”

  “On the condition that your Midsummer Ball is held at Fairborough?” She studied him closely. Surely he wasn’t that stupid?

  “Exactly.” He nodded. Apparently he was.

  “And you are willing to pay the extra construction costs incurred?”

  “I am.”

  “I see.” A bonus of that size, above and beyond the original contracted agreement, was pure profit and could be put in its entirety into her employee fund, thus ensuring their security. And that was especially important now.

  Her presence at Fairborough would not go entirely unnoticed. She might well be able to get away with the same excuse she had originally given Winfield—that she was simply taking Emmett’s place out of necessity—but she was realistic enough to understand that that would not hold up for long. Even if the elusive Mr. Tempest was given credit for the architectural work, one thing would surely lead to another and the truth would come out. That was the dreadful thing about truth: it very nearly always came out eventually. The house of cards she and Clara had so cleverly built would tumble and Garret and Tempest would tumble with it.

  “I am more than willing to spend your money, Winfield.”

  “Ah, spoken like a true woman.”

  “I accept. I shall make certain the ball is held at Fairborough.” She nodded. “On my next trip into London, I shall have an addendum to the contract drawn up.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.” He shrugged. “I should think a simple agreement between the two of us should suffice. I am a man of my word after all. Especially when it comes to an agreement with a beautiful woman.”

  “As evidenced by your history with giving your word to women.”

  Someone at the table choked and abruptly Miranda realized she had quite forgotten that they were not alone. She looked around the table to find four pairs of eyes staring at her and Winfield in either horror or amusement or shock or disbelief.

  “My apologies,” she murmured and grabbed her glass of wine and drained it.

  “I think we . . . well . . .” Winfield began. “Sorry.” Then he too tossed back his wine.

  “Ah yes, well . . .” Lord Fairborough cleared his throat. “Have you made your travel arrangements yet, Grayson? Might I suggest . . .”

  The discussion around the table turned to the less volatile topics of travel and ships and what Camille looked forward to seeing in America and who knew what else. Miranda’s mind was anywhere but on the conversation, and she counted the minutes until she could gracefully make her escape. If Winfield’s intention had been to show his family that their moment was not indicative of some sort of feelings between them—as indeed it wasn’t—he’d succeeded admirably. No one at this table could possibly think there was anything between them that was not of a business nature. Indeed, if she was trying to convince anyone they did not so much as like one another, this would have been an excellent way to go about it. Not that it wasn’t the truth.

  At long last dinner dragged to a merciful close. The ladies were to retire to the parlor; the gentlemen were headed to the billiards room. Miranda excused herself, pointing out she had a great deal to do in the morning. She headed toward her rooms and started up the stairs.

  “Lady Garret. Miranda.” Winfield hurried toward her. “Well, what did you think?”

  “What did I think?” She paused on the second step and studied him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the opportunity presented itself and I took advantage of it.” He grinned with what looked like pride.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I am talking about seizing the moment. Carpe diem, if you will.”

  “What moment?” She stared with growing horror.

  “When Camille asked about completing the house before the ball and, of course, I know how determined you are. Even ambitious.”

  “Go on,” she said slowly.

  “And I knew the mention of another firm would infuriate you as well as my inference that a woman should not be here at all.”

  “Inference?” Her voice rose. “Inference?”

  “I didn’t actually say it, you know. I simply implied.”

  She tried to scream, but the oddest squeaking, croaking sound came out instead. Was the man truly mad?

  “Although I did think your comment about broken engagements was a bit too much,” he said in a chastising manner.

  “Did you?”

  “It didn’t seem quite in the spirit of our plan.”

  “What plan?”

  “It was your idea.” He studied her for a long moment; then his eyes widened with realization. “You weren’t acting, were you? You meant everything you said.”

  “I had no idea you didn’t!”

  “Well, I didn’t!”

  “I didn’t know that!”

  “Now you do!”

  “And?”

  “And?” His eyes widened with horror. “You do realize this whole bonus nonsense was no more than part of an act. Given that, I assume you will not hold me to it.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. The man was not merely mad but stupid as well. “Oh, but I will.”

  His eyes narrowed. “It scarcely matters. You can’t complete the work by the ball; therefore you will not earn the bonus.”

  “Oh, I will earn the bonus, Winfield.” She started up the stairs. “You may count on it.”

  “Excellent, as that means the house will be finished,” he called after her.

  “It only means the ball will be held at Fairborough,” she said in a tone too low for him to hear. He’d realize his mistake soon enough. She was wrong about Winfield Elliott. He was indeed a twit after all.

  And for that he
’d have to pay.

  Chapter 13

  “Well, dinner was certainly interesting.” Gray leaned over the billiards table and positioned his shot.

  Win had hoped his cousin and his father were going to do the decent thing and pretend nothing out of the ordinary had occurred at dinner. Of course he was wrong. Gray had only been waiting for Win’s father to retire for the night. Win suspected his cousin and father had agreed between them to let Gray deal with this.

  Gray took his shot, then nodded with satisfaction. “It was like watching a play performed during dinner. Although, admittedly, one did tend to forget about one’s food.”

  “I’m glad you were entertained.”

  “I’m not sure anyone was entertained exactly. In spite of a few excellent lines on her part, it wasn’t that good of a play.” He thought for a moment. “Actually, it was more like watching a collision that you know is coming, that you know as well you should try to prevent, and yet you can do nothing but stare.”

  “Thank you for your assistance.”

  “I assumed you could handle it.” Gray shrugged. “Apparently not.”

  “I did handle it.” Now was not the time to confess he didn’t mean anything he had said but was acting a part designed to show his family he and Miranda had no interest in one another. In hindsight, it had not been his best idea. It had certainly not been well thought out but rather evolved with every word out of his mouth. Nor did it turn out as he had expected. He still wasn’t entirely certain what happened, but once again it was as though he had lost a game he didn’t know he was playing.

  “Ah, yes, well, if you define handling it as agreeing to give the woman a great deal of money . . .”

  “A bonus, Gray,” Win said firmly. “On the condition that Fairborough is completed by the day of the ball. She has said from the beginning it can’t be done, so it’s really a moot point.”

  “I see.” Gray chalked the tip of his cue. “I have never seen you quite so befuddled by a woman before.”

  “What utter nonsense.” He leaned over the table and took his shot. The ball refused to cooperate, but then wasn’t that to be expected given the rest of the evening? “I am not the least bit befuddled.”