“Before? This has happened before? My God, but who—”
“It doesn’t matter who, now that I’m out of there. I can handle anything your master dishes out compared to what I’ve already dealt with.”
Mrs. Brown’s eyebrows drew together in a frown, her suspicion plain to see. “All right, I’ll go get your maid,” she said slowly. After a slight pause, her lips pursed together, as though still uncertain. “But I do think the master needs to know about this.”
“No! I-I don’t want him to know. You can’t imagine how humiliating it was that my own servants knew what he was doing to me. I just couldn’t bear it if anyone else were to find out.”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Perhaps the master wouldn’t treat you so badly if he were to learn the truth. He’s not a bad man, you know, just a little confused these days.” Mrs. Brown’s defense of Blackridge was admirable. It was obvious she held a deep affection for him and was very loyal.
“Please.”
“All right, I won’t tell him – for now, anyway. But if it gets any worse, I will tell him, to be sure.”
Angela smiled. “Okay, I can live with that.”
“Now, you get yourself out of that tub, into your nightclothes, and into bed. I’ll send your maid to tend your wound.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Brown. It warms my heart to have a friend like you in this situation.”
“Well, perhaps you’ll tell me your story someday, but only when you’re ready,” she replied with warmth in her dark eyes.
“Perhaps, Mrs. Brown, I will at that.”
MORNING CAME ALL too soon for Angela, as she awoke to an incessant pounding in her head. It took her a moment to peel her eyes open, fighting past the grogginess of sleep. She realized the pounding wasn’t coming from her head, but from the other side of her door.
Strange – she was sure she’d left it open last night.
“Rise and shine, princess!” Blackridge’s deep voice boomed. “It’s time to begin your chores.”
Angela raised her head off the pillow, wincing in pain as she became aware of her aching body. She felt as though she’d tumbled down every flight of stairs in the house. Twice.
Mrs. Brown had sent Rosemary with a headache powder, along with a soothing cream for her bruises. The combination had helped a great deal in reducing the pain in her head, as well as the swelling around her eye. Nevertheless, she still felt a battered.
Sitting up slowly, she tried putting some weight on her one hand, relieved to find there was no significant discomfort from the knife wound. Rosemary had done an expert job stitching it together. When she’d finished, she’d applied some of the cream and re-wrapped it with a fresh strip of cloth.
“Miss Hopkins, if you don’t answer me, I’m coming in there and tossing you out of bed myself,” Ian threatened through the door.
When he had come to wake her, he’d been surprised to find her door wide open, and had to admit to himself the room was nothing more than a closet. There was only enough space for the small bed, an equally small dresser, a wooden chair, and a nightstand. There was a nook built into one wall where her dress hung forlornly. Her chemise lay neatly folded on the chair, her shoes underneath.
She’d been sound asleep, her back toward the door. All he could see was the shape of her body underneath the thin blanket . . . her shoulder, the downward slope to her tiny waist, then up again to the curve of her hip.
He’d retreated into the hall, feeling like a thief and a voyeur in his own house. Out of some misplaced sense of propriety, he had quietly closed the door. For a moment – only a moment – he’d suffered from a guilty conscience for what he was doing . . . for what he was planning to do. But the memory of what she and her father had done renewed his resolve once more.
The sound of her muffled voice interrupted his thoughts.
“I’m up!”
He heard her mutter something else.
“What did you say, princess?” His narrowed gaze bored into the surface of the closed door. Had she just called him a bloody barbarian?
For such a delicate creature, she sure had an interesting vocabulary. If she considered him a barbarian, he would definitely oblige her.
“I said I’m getting up,” came her muffled reply. “You can go away, now.”
You can go away now? The impudent little chit! He ought to go in there right now and show her who was in charge.
“You’ve got ten minutes to get your scrawny ass downstairs, your highness.” Striding angrily back down the hall, Ian tried not to think of her deliciously curved behind.
How dare he speak to her like that! If she wasn’t feeling so poorly, Angela would have thrown that door open and tossed the basin of water in his too handsome face. Instead, she listened as the sound of his footsteps receded. When she was sure he was well out of earshot, she murmured under her breath, “Well, he is a Bloody barbarian.” She then used the cool water to bathe her own face.
How could he have heard that? She’d barely whispered it! The man obviously had excellent hearing. She’d do well to remember it.
She reached for the gown she’d arrived in. Was she to have nothing else to wear for the next three months? The thing would be in tatters by that time. She would just have to insist Blackridge allow her to send for her things, along with Rosemary’s.
What was she doing here? What had she been thinking, to make such a rash decision? Angela didn’t know anything about this man, Blackridge, who had a reputation as a philandering womanizer. He was a heartless rogue, moving from one affair to the next, without a care to the consequences.
And here she was, in his home, under his authority, with no place else to go. At this very moment, her own reputation was a total ruin, for she was certain word had already spread of her arrival here. She’d been so desperate to leave her father’s house she hadn’t cared about the consequences.
Was she no better than Blackridge, then?
Angela rejected the idea that she could have anything in common with him. She certainly didn’t flit from one man’s bed to another’s. Her situation was entirely different. She’d had no choice.
But that wasn’t true. She was a grown woman, and had made a conscious decision to stay with him for the next three months. There was no one to blame but herself in this. She would go forward, let it play out until the end. She would do what was necessary to gain the freedom she desired so much.
With the amount of money Blackridge was willing to pay, Angela would be able to support herself comfortably. Once she had fulfilled their bargain, she would move on and forget it had ever happened.
Angela’s thoughts settled on the reason she was here in the first place. She would be sharing Blackridge’s bed and her body soon. Her mouth went dry. She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. She knew next to nothing of men, and absolutely nothing at all about performing the duties he expected of her. The idea that she would be lying naked with such a virile man, whose reputation as a skilled lover was unsurpassed, sent an involuntary shiver skittering over her skin.
She wondered why he’d chosen her out of the score of women who would no doubt jump at the chance to be his mistress. In the light of day, away from the dangerous situation with her father, Angela had to question Blackridge’s motives in making such an expensive deal.
There was another, more elusive reason to all of this, she was almost sure of it. At the moment, however, she couldn’t imagine what it could possibly be.
After she finished dressing, Angela left her tiny room, her stomach rumbling, in search of the kitchens. The third floor was empty and quiet, and when she arrived on the second floor, no one was about there, either. For such a large house with an adequate staff, the place seemed deserted.
She walked slowly, taking her time, working out the stiffness in her aching muscles. She examined each of the large portraits lining the walls on either side of the long, wide hallway. The paintings were obviously of long-deceased relatives, generations of Blackridge men
and women, captured in a time-frozen moment. Each one gave an incremental history of clothing style as they changed through the ages. The last portrait, just before the stairs leading to the main level, caught and held her attention.
It was Blackridge, the current viscount, in full-color glory. Her breath hitched, and her blood heated in her veins as her pulse increased to match the rhythm of her rapidly beating heart. Those penetrating golden eyes stared out from the painting as though he were alive and standing right in front of her. Again, they brought to mind a bird of prey – a predator – and she was literally his captive. The sensual curve of his generous lips had her imagining what they would feel like against hers.
What form of insanity had she been afflicted with when she’d agreed to this arrangement? Angela’s heart beat into her throat as she began to really think about what she’d gotten herself into. She’d always done what she was told, always followed the rules of propriety.
And now she would be sharing this man’s bed. The facsimile in the painting was no less intimidating, was just as heart-stoppingly handsome and mesmerizing as the real man. Soon, his hands would be touching her; those eyes would be gazing at her and, quite possibly, seeing more than what was on the surface.
With a shiver, she snapped herself out of that ridiculous train of thought, inhaled a shaky breath and proceeded down the stairs, continuing her search of the kitchens. When she arrived on the main floor, the area was empty. Apparently, she was to find her own way. She was starving, and if she must face Blackridge with a shred of dignity, she would need fortification.
5
Villarreal / The Devil Rogue
Chapter 4
FINALLY, AFTER MAKING several wrong turns, Angela entered the kitchens, hoping it wasn’t too late for breakfast. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, as her grumbling stomach persistently reminded her.
“Oh, Miss Hopkins!” a portly, gray-haired woman said when she saw Angela standing in the doorway. “Come over here and have a seat while I fix you something to eat. Your maid’s already been down. She offered to help until her other duties called, the sweet thing.”
Angela gratefully sat on the smooth wooden bench on one side of the long table. In the center was a bouquet of colorful flowers that had been placed in a round earthenware bowl. She inhaled their pleasing fragrance while she waited. “Rosemary was here?” she asked as the woman handed her a cup of steaming tea.
“Aye, here and gone already, as I said.”
Sipping slowly, Angela watched the woman bustle around the room, piling a plate high with eggs, potatoes, sausages, and biscuits. She wondered if the woman expected her to eat it all. She’d give it a good try. “Are you the cook, then?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, miss, how rude of me! Yes, I’m the cook here. I’m Mrs. Olsen. My, but you’re such a wee thing, and so lovely, too.” She set the plate down in front of Angela.
Mrs. Olsen didn’t seem to think it odd that a complete stranger was sitting in her kitchen. But she’d known Angela by name, and had obviously already met Rosemary. “Thank you, Mrs. Olsen,” she replied with a gracious smile.
The food smelled delicious, making her mouth water. Her stomach gurgled loudly in anticipation. She was just about to dig into the mound of fluffy scrambled eggs, her fork poised over the plate, when a large, sun-browned hand reached from behind her, removing the plate right out from under her nose. Another hand plucked the fork from her fingers before she’d even had time to put it in her mouth.
“Mrs. Olsen,” Blackridge said, “I believe the young lady would prefer dry toast and tea this morning.” He handed the plate over to the cook, ignoring the deadly glare Angela directed at him.
“Actually, I would prefer something a little heartier, specifically, that plate of food, Mrs. Olsen,” Angela gritted out through her clenched teeth. She rose from the table, reaching for the plate. Setting it back in front of her, she began shoveling the eggs into her mouth, not caring about her bad manners.
“I gave an order for dry toast, so that is what you will have, princess,” Blackridge said, prying the fork from her tightly clenched fingers.
Pieces of egg flew in every direction, some of it landing on his immaculate navy sleeve. This time, he tossed the contents into the trash bin. He handed the empty plate to Mrs. Olsen, and brushed off his sleeve.
Leaning over her, he whispered in Angela’s ear. “You agreed to my terms, princess, so you will do as I say for the next three months, is that clear enough for you?”
His hot breath caressed her cheek, causing a shiver of awareness to tingle down her spine. He was so large. It made her feel small in comparison, delicate, womanly. She inhaled the scent of sandalwood and lemons. She wanted to lean in, the better to smell him. Her reaction caught her so unprepared, all she could do was nod her head.
He straightened. “Good. Now, eat your toast and then report to Emma in the front parlor. She’s the head housekeeper here. She’ll explain what your duties are to be for today.”
Angela recalled how she’d felt standing in front of the portrait of Blackridge, and realized one important fact: the flesh and blood version of him was much more daunting.
Sensing the sudden emptiness of the space he had just occupied, Angela turned her head to see that he was gone. Shifting her attention to Mrs. Olsen, she couldn’t help a quick laugh at the cook’s comical expression.
“My goodness, dearie! Why, I’ve never seen him treat a woman so. What do you suppose has gotten into him?”
“I wouldn’t know, Mrs. Olsen,” Angela said, feeling grim over the cook’s comment. Apparently, she was the only woman he treated so cavalierly. The satisfaction she’d felt taking that plate back was well worth it.
The cook chuckled. “Glory be, but them flyin’ eggs was a sight to see! You might be a bit on the small side, but you’ve got spirit, Miss Hopkins. Just you keep that up, and before long, you’ll have the master eating right out of your hand.”
He’d probably bite off her fingers.
Or kiss them.
Or lick them.
He was a wicked man.
Angela shivered. “Don’t bother with the toast, Mrs. Olsen. I’ll just be on my way to the parlor.”
“Are you sure? It’d be no trouble at all.”
“Thank you, just the same, Mrs. Olsen,” Angela said, and left the kitchen in search of the front parlor. Her stomach protested at the loss of such a delicious breakfast. At least the tea had helped to settle it, somewhat.
IAN MADE HIS way to the study, his thoughts on his encounter with the lovely Miss Hopkins. The girl had spunk, he’d grant her that. But from the look of things in the kitchen, she’d already convinced Mrs. Olsen to cater to her every whim.
All Miss Hopkins had to do, it seemed, was flash that sweet smile of hers, crook her dainty little finger, and everyone was eager to do her bidding.
He remembered the way her golden hair was arranged in a loose pile atop her head, soft tendrils escaping to tease the flesh of her slender neck. There’d been an enchanting sparkle of defiance in her blue eyes, a subtle floral fragrance drifting in the air around her. It made him want to get closer, to hover near her like a hummingbird drawn to sugar water.
She possessed such an air of innocence, it was difficult to believe her to be the cold, calculating woman who’d deceived so many.
Something puzzled Ian, however. He’d been surprised by the modesty of her gown. It was not the type he would have expected her to be wearing. It had a plain design and upon closer inspection, appeared faded and worn. It was the same one she’d been wearing yesterday, he realized. In fact, her father’s home had been starkly furnished and in obvious need of repairs. Ian found it odd that a wealthy family with a daughter reputed to be doted on and pampered would wear such a plain gown, live in such meager surroundings.
Well, the manner in which Miss Hopkins lived was no concern of his.
It was the grief and subsequent death she and her devious father had caused that wa
s the point of all this. His friend – hell, Ian could have just as easily called him brother, they’d been that close.
That friend was dead.
Ian was convinced Miss Hopkins and her father, the Baron of Eberly, were the ones responsible. They would pay, those two. The baron’s markers would be called in, and his pampered daughter ruined in the eyes of society forever.
ANGELA ENTERED THE parlor, greeting the woman she assumed was the head housekeeper. “Good morning, are you Emma?” she inquired politely.
The tall, thin woman approached, a smile lighting her face. She took Angela’s hands into her own, her brown eyes friendly as she spoke in a soothing voice. “Yes, I’m the head housekeeper. It’s so good to meet you, my dear. We’ve all heard so much about you already from your maid, Rosemary, such a sweet girl.”
“Rosemary? Sh-she told you about me?” Angela experienced a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.
“Yes, indeed. She told us how you always tried so hard to make your own servants comfortable, and how you often helped with some of the work, in times of need.”
“Oh, that.”
“Now, the master has given me instructions on what he wants you to do today, but considering your condition, I believe some light chores would be more in order.”
“M-my condition?” What has Rosemary been telling these people?
“Why, your injuries, dear girl, from your tumble down the stairs. Rosemary told us how you tried so valiantly to save that poor little kitten.”
“Kitten?” Angela asked weakly. Then she realized what Rosemary had attempted to do. “Oh! Yes, the kitten!” Cautiously, she said, “I did manage to save it after all, as it turns out.” She hoped to high heaven she did save the imaginary kitten, or Rosemary was in big trouble.
“Oh, you did indeed,” Emma confirmed brightly. “Are you up to a little dusting? Rosemary has told us about your sore shoulder. If you think it would be too taxing, I can find something less strenuous for you to do.”
Sore shoulder? Rosemary had been very busy this morning, bless her heart. “No, that will be fine, Emma. If you would tell me what needs dusting, I’ll get started on it right away.”
The Devil Rogue Page 3