The Model Master

by Sorcha MacMurrough

  She stared at him. "Is such a thing possible?" she asked quietly, testing his convictions.

  "It is. I will teach you, Bryony. Make it possible for you to be completely independent. We will see the solicitors to draw up the papers, and open a protected bank account in your name only for the dividends."

  "Very well, it will give us something to work towards in terms of my education and improvement. What do we do now?"

  "Find my portfolio and look through it. Analyse what’s doing well, and let you make up your own mind about what you would like to invest in. I give you absolute discretion with five thousand pounds."

  She looked horrified. "That’s far too much. Even five hundred is excessive. I am a stranger to you. What on earth would people think—"

  Michael waved her objections aside airily. "I’m far too old and out of the world to worry about that. I would also not like to think of anything happening to you or the boys should something dire befall me."

  "Oh no, please don’t say that. It’s too gruesome," she gasped.

  "But practical. The fact is that death comes to us all."

  "No, please," she said, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "I’m sorry to be so overwrought, but it was a near run thing with Darren. I don’t think I’ve quite recovered from the shock."

  He patted her shoulder. "There, there, it’s all right. If you want to cry, go ahead."

  She sniffed and shook her head. "If I do, I shan’t trouble you with my tears."

  But before she could rise from the seat he had put both his hands upon her face and stroked the tears away from her lids with his thumbs. His lips were only inches from her own, and her lips parted in a silent sigh. Her lashes fluttered on her satiny soft cheek and she waited in an agony of impatience for his mouth to descend, eager for his kiss.

  To her infinite frustration and his, he dropped his hands to his wheel rims and began to move away,. He was certain that to kiss her in the manner he longed to was to commit himself irrevocably. That once he kissed her he would never be able to let her go.

  Even after only a few days, he didn’t want to let her leave him. Couldn’t bear the thought of her being unhappy. He berated himself for his selfishness as he headed for the door.

  He wheeled out of the chamber and reminded himself once again that in no circumstances was he to think of Bryony as anything other than his housekeeper and secretary. He could never to consider her a desirable woman, or else he would be lost.

  Michael scolded himself over what a fool he had been in ever offering her a job, taking her into his life. For she would want a normal life one day, with a whole man.

  No matter how kind she was being now, Bryony was well and truly beyond his reach. Now and forever.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Michael and Bryony spent the rest of the day avoiding one another, both considering how close they had come to kissing, and both fearing and dreading what might have happened if they had. All their doubts and fears about themselves gnawed at them, so that their aching longings remained unfulfilled despite their clear attraction for one another.

  That night, they had an almost silent and very brief supper, both lost in their own thoughts though pretending they were busy with papers, each on edge and eager to get the meal over so they could go to their rooms to continue contemplating what had nearly happened to them that day.

  Michael tried to tell himself that Bryony was nothing special, that he had futtered many better-looking and more lively wenches than she.

  Liar, he taunted himself. No woman had ever made his heart lurch in his chest with just one look. And from what he had seen of her legs and breasts, she was perfection. She most voluptuous woman he had ever laid eyes on, and growing more so now that she had three good meals a day, nice clothes, and a less wary and defensive look in her eyes.

  Not that she had ever been really abrasive, but the brittle, wary and taut quality she’d had when she had first met him had been replaced by a tender kindness to all she met.

  The servants adored her, and her sons were exceptionally affectionate. He longed to have her hold him cradled to her, to lie with his head in her lap as she stroked his hair. To lie in her lap as she stroked his...

  Stop it, stop it now.

  Bryony glanced up at him timidly. She had wanted that kiss so badly she could almost taste him on her tongue, warm and vibrant. She guessed at coffee and brandy, a bit of chocolate, some cinnamon, a touch of lime aftershave. All her senses crackled with awareness of him. She found herself staring at his hands, so magnificently large, yet so gentle when he had touched her face.

  She shivered and drew her shawl around her. The vision of him making love to her slowly and patiently, one huge hand on her stomach, the other teasing her breast, her secret folds, was enough to make her shudder again.

  What on earth was wrong with her? She had sworn no man would ever pull her strings like a puppeteer again. Yet here she was indulging in all sorts of fantasies about bending herself to her master’s every whim.

  Bending might be the correct word too, she considered, for making love with him would pose some problems she was not sure how to solve. Her husband had insisted upon being dominant at all times, pinning her to the bed with his hands and hips. Determined to take her wherever she happened to be when the mood suited and to cause her maximum shame: in rooms he knew were about to be entered, on the stairs, over the sofaback or chair or table minutes before their guests were about to arrive for their weekly at home...

  She shivered once more, this time with loathing. He had loved treating her like a whore, a convenient, a hole with no more thought of her desires, needs and pleasures than he thought about his clothes or furniture. She had been just a possession, not even as important as his horse. Oh, how she had hated him.

  With Michael that spontaneity and vigorous lustiness might have been fun. However, it was evident that it simply would not be possible.

  No, her problem would be to convince him to let it happen, instead of allowing his own view of himself as an undesirable cripple get in the way.

  Their gazes met across the table, and she dropped hers first and rose. "I’m sorry, I’m feeling unaccountably fatigued. I’ll see you in the morning."

  "Yes, Mrs. Wells," he said in clipped tones. "Good night."

  She sighed. Well, what had she expected? He would not ask her to linger now. Not when he was embarrassed by what he had done. Was it possible he really did not find her attractive?

  She was so unsure of herself and everything else, her head spun. Perhaps she should not even be sharing meals with him, but dining in her own chamber or with the rest of the servants in their quarters? She would have to see.

  She went to her room, read to the children for a time, and then changed for bed, donning a fresh night rail and slipping between the cool clean sheets to nestle against Darren. She left one candle lit and looked around the snug little chamber decorated in pale blue on blue.

  It was a good home, a lovely bright room. The boys had got all they’d wished for except the puppy they had talked of when they’d been ill with the measles. They had warmth, food, shelter. What was the point in pining for what she couldn’t have when there was so much she did?

  On that positive note she tried to fall asleep.

  For once, no nightmare of Michael’s disturbed her that night. She wondered at it early the following morning even as she felt relieved. Perhaps the bad dreams really were fading after all? Or perhaps he was as sleepless as she?

  Bryony rose long before the dawn, tired of tossing and turning in the bed. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Michael’s handsome face smiling down at her. Longed for his strong arms around her, his wonderful hands and lips upon her hot flesh—

  She dressed in a simple navy gown with a high white lace collar, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and went into the study to look over some papers whilst the children slept.

  Michael came in about an hour later and stared at her in surprise. "Good morning
, Bryony. Why have you risen so early? You ought to have stayed in bed, or at least spent more time with the boys."

  "I thought I would make a start with the dictionary as we agreed. Decide upon a method of organisation. I thought I might also begin the letter A myself, say A to Am, and you An to Az, and then we could check each other’s work."

  "Quite a good idea. But you should go look in on the boys."

  "Do you not need me for anything?" she asked, feeling a bit hurt that he was dismissing her so readily.

  He did not even look at her. It was as if he had decided she was to be relegated to the role of just an ornament after all. She had thought him different, that they had become friends. He had talked fine words, but when put to the test…

  "It’s Sunday, my dear. Everyone is entitled to a day of rest, even my secretary. I think the Lord even took one. Most of the world is sleeping happily in bed. I suggest you join them."

  "Easier said than done."

  "I know the problems of a restless mind, believe me. "

  "Is that why you’re up?" she asked quietly, hoping the question would not seem too personal.

  He shrugged. "Before we start the dictionary, I must catch up on several things which were neglected in my absence, including my correspondence, and a report on increasing Army efficiency which Horse Guards requested from me when I was formally discharged. I’ve been trying to find a quiet time to finish it. But as you can imagine, it conjures up all sorts of unpleasant recollections I would rather do without."

  "Then tell them you can’t do the paper. There must be other men—"

  He sighed. "I’m one of the few who kept such a detailed diary of impressions, and I have to confess that my family is not without power and influence."

  "So you’re an aristocrat?"

  "Did you ever doubt it?" he asked with a certain hint of hauteur.

  "Not at all. I just wondered how high up you were. After all, you fought with your bare hands. Most officers led from the back."

  He shook his head. "Not Wellington, so not me. It used to really gall me the way some of the men used to return to England for the winter whilst the poor common soldier froze and starved. That's not the way to treat your comrades."

  "I’m sure not," she agreed warmly.

  "Well, you can work on the report whilst I start—"

  "No, quite all right. Plenty of opportunity to start tomorrow," he said in clipped tones.

  "Can I help with your report?"

  He smiled tightly, trying to keep his voice even as he replied. After all, she was only trying to help. She had no idea that every time he laid eyes on her he wanted to strip her naked and--

  "For the moment, Bryony, go back to bed and rest. Settle into the house a bit more. Go have breakfast, enjoy the morning room. Go out for a walk on the grounds with the boys. You’re not to be kept a prisoner in this chamber or house. Find some more books in the library to entertain and edify. Order around the carriage to go to Church. Anything you need, simply help yourself."

  He went over to his own desk, opened the drawer, and took out his strong box. "There is always cash in here for emergencies. Here is twenty pounds for last week and twenty pounds for this coming one. Please let me know if you need more."

  "That’s more than generous. Thank you."

  "I trust you. You need not thank me. You have your needs, and your first lessons will be in how to earn money and spend it wisely. As I said to you yesterday, I’m not sure of all your role in the house will entail, but I would like you to be independent."

  She nodded as she took the notes and coins he had placed on the desk.

  "You have the run of the house, of course. Now that you are feeling so much better, you shall keep the keys."

  He put the set he had taken from Cook down on the desk.

  Her heart lifted. He had been serious after all. "I’ll do my best."

  "I shall try not to be too harsh a taskmaster."

  "I’m sure you’ll be fair. If you are harsh, it will be no more than I deserve."

  He fixed her with his piercing blue eyes. "Don’t be too meek, my dear. I was raised a little lord of the manor, and can be quite overbearing at times."

  She smiled with in amusement and relief. "Very well, I shall stand up to you on occasion. We would not want our lives together to be too dull." She turned to leave him.

  Michael’s heart nearly lurched into his mouth. Dull? He managed another small tight smile. "I have the feeling it never shall be."

  True to his word, Michael gave Bryony the day off to take her leisure. She prowled through the entire house thinking about improvements she could make to his life, whilst Michael worked on his report and tried to keep his mind off the lovely raven-haired woman he could hear pattering around, chattering to the children, and singing.

  An idea was forming in the back of her mind, but she needed a master carpenter, and Michael would have to agree...

  At one point he looked up from his papers and journals in surprise. "Bryony. I didn’t hear you come in. Are you and the boys well?"

  "Yes, very."

  "Is there anything I can do for you?"

  She put a cup of tea down by his elbow, and some hot buttered muffins.

  "No, I’m just bringing you some breakfast. It’s rather late already and you’ve not eaten a thing."

  He accepted the offering gratefully. Then he frowned. Rather than leaving, she had settled herself on the sofa by the hearth.

  "What are you doing now?"

  "Joining you by the fire while I do some mending."

  "Is the fire not adequate in the morning room?" he asked.

  "It’s fine. I just thought— Well, you do not mean for me to shun you entirely on my day off, do you?"

  "Not at all," he said quickly. "By all means, sit there. Just don’t expect me to be too chatty when I have this report to finish."

  "That’s fine."

  She had found the mending basket with the help of Robin the valet, and saw that his footwear needed darning, his shirt buttons replaced. It was ever the way with bachelors, she was sure. As lady of the household in the absence of any other, it would be her duty to ensure his wardrobe was up to scratch.

  "I say, those aren’t my stockings, are they?" he said with a blush.

  "Um, yes."

  "Really, there’s no need. I mean, it is not as if I can’t buy more."

  "In which case they can go to the poor, but they still need to be mended."

  "It’s very kind of you."

  "Not at all."

  He felt his cheeks burn. What was it about one simple a gesture of domesticity and thoughtfulness that had him lusting for her all over again?

  Michael tried hard to concentrate on his report. He shivered every so often as he read a particularly vivid passage from his journal.

  After the initial distraction of Bryony’s presence, he found he got on better than he had done when he’d been struggling to get the report finished sitting there on his own.

  Well, I don’t have to wonder and worry where she is and what she’s up to when she’s with me, he decided as he completed the last sentence with a flourish.

  "Finished?"

  "This section of it, yes."

  "May I read it?"

  "You would find it awfully dull, my dear."

  "I shall never learn if I only read novels."

  He nodded. "True. Let me just glance over it once more."

  Michael read it through, and made a few changes.

  Bryony approached the desk timidly and he sat her down. She read a few sentences, and then lifted her head.

  "You see, I told you. Dull as watching paint dry."

  "No, not at all. Actually, I was going to ask you if you minded my correcting a few of the sentences. Or is it just that you were working on it in your lap and the writing has gone all crooked?"

  She pointed to a couple of errors he had actually missed.

  His pale blue eyes rested up on her warmly and he had the grace to l
ook sheepish. "Just so, my dear, though I admit those two are my terrible writing."