The Unsuitable Secretary (A Ladies Unlaced Novel)

by Maggie Robinson

  “Oh, God.” He swept his hair back. “I’ve mucked it up already. I was only trying to—” He paused and shook his head. “I don’t know what I was trying to do. Be careful, I suppose. Not attack you like a madman. You are so beautiful I don’t know how to behave. Well, you know that already. I’m a clumsy fool.”

  All Harriet heard was “beautiful.” She opened her mouth to tell him again to stop lying, but he held up a hand.

  “I know, I know. I’ve gone about this all the wrong way. I should have just courted you. Let nature take its course. I was a clod to attach a monetary value to our relationship. It goes against your principles. Mine, too. If I’d wanted to pay for sex, I should have sought a willing prost—uh, someone who is accustomed to dealing with a man, not a poor innocent such as yourself. I wish I could take it all back.”

  Harriet stiffened. She didn’t need his money. Didn’t want his money. “You certainly don’t have to pay me anything beyond my regular salary. We’ve only kissed.”

  Thomas snorted. “There was nothing “only” about that kiss! Or am I being ridiculous? You make me feel like a schoolboy in the first throes of puberty. I look at you and all I want to do is lick you everywhere.”

  Everywhere? How very . . . intriguing. Harriet shivered.

  “Here, you’re cold. Let me build up your fire. It’s the least I can do.” He set to work on his knees at the marble hearth, and in no time the flames were fanning up the chimney. His back was muscled, his shoulders broad. If Harriet had her glasses on, she might be able to see how his pajamas dipped below his hips and partially exposed his very fine bottom, but she used her imagination instead.

  How could she get rid of him? She made a great show of yawning, but only remembered in the nick of time not to stretch her arms and drop her blankets. Thomas didn’t seem to notice as he picked up her nightwear from the floor and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I’ve been an imbecile. Can you forgive me?”

  “Yes, of course I forgive you. I’m rather tired, Sir Thomas.”

  “No, you haven’t, or you would call me Thomas. Or maybe even Tom. I had a nanny once—oh my God, will I never learn to shut up? Now I’m comparing you to my nanny. That will elevate the romantic atmosphere. No wonder I’m still a virgin.” He buried his face in his hands and laughed.

  Harriet was almost feeling sorry for him. She reached out to touch his shoulder but stopped herself. She didn’t want anything to start up again. She had nothing on, and he might see the horrible scar from her appendectomy.

  “We can talk about all this tonight. I have a busy day ahead,” Harriet said briskly. Just because it was January 1 didn’t mean she couldn’t work.

  “No.” He turned to her with a look of determination. “I stopped earlier because I didn’t want to stop.”

  That made no sense at all. “I didn’t expect you to stop.”

  “And that’s part of the problem, Harriet. I have to know you want to do this with me. Not for the money, or because you’re being kind. Or because you signed a piece of paper that has absolutely no legal standing whatsoever and you think you have to keep your word. Do you like me at all, Harriet? I have to know.”

  Did she like him? The man was an imbecile.

  Chapter 23

  Thomas fidgeted with the silk nightclothes he’d tossed back on the bed. Wait. If they were here in his hands, that meant that Harriet wasn’t wearing them.

  Wasn’t wearing anything.

  Sure enough, her shoulders above the bedcovers were bare of any straps or sleeves. Her skin was so smooth, darker than was fashionable. She was not one of those paper-pale girls who strove to look ethereal and untouchable. She was sturdy. Curvaceous. Warm.

  He wanted her very much. But now he’d never know if she really wanted him. He’d tainted what was between them with his bloody offer of money.

  Thomas knew Harriet felt an obligation to her family, despite the fact that her blighter of a father hit her. She had spoken briefly yet fondly of her brothers. She probably would spend every penny Thomas gave her on them.

  He wanted her to be safe, her future secured. Which meant more money, which was fine by him. He had plenty to spare, thanks to Thurston and his conservative investing. But more money meant less spontaneous emotion from her. How could it ever be natural between them? Thomas didn’t want false words and fake responses. He could have hired someone for that.

  But what he’d done was even worse. He’d taken an innocent and tried to corrupt her. Lure her from her virtuous—if boring—life.

  Damn it. Why couldn’t he just have found a nice girl from his own class and gotten married like everyone else? Bumble along in the dark. The girl would probably never know his shortcomings—girls weren’t supposed to know anything.

  Thomas wasn’t especially short now. His cock was thrusting up against his belly at the very thought of a naked Harriet just inches away. She was gripping the blankets so hard her knuckles were white. What he could see of the rest of her was amber. Her hair was a springy cloud of curls.

  Her dark eyes were closed, though, as if she was willing him to depart. And so he should. He just didn’t know the proper exit line, didn’t know how to alter their agreement.

  He didn’t want to touch her if the pleasure wasn’t going to be mutual. And if he proposed to give her even more money, it would make their circumstances more bizarre. Clearly he hadn’t thought all this through. That first kiss had sent him right off his onion.

  “Yes.”

  Thomas sat up straighter, not sure his ears weren’t deceiving him. “Yes what?”

  “Yes, I like you.” Her eyes were still shut.

  “If I hadn’t—if we didn’t—what I mean to say is, if you were just my secretary, would you still be interested in me?”

  Harriet’s eyes opened. She stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. “It wouldn’t be professional to have feelings for one’s employer. Or sensible. We’re even taught that in commercial college. There’s an entire chapter on it, with examples. The secretary always, always comes to a bad end.”

  “I won’t allow that,” Thomas said. “You’ll have whatever you need. I’ll tear up our agreement—it’s not sufficient anyhow.”

  She looked puzzled. Something had been done to her eyebrows, he noticed. “What do you mean?”

  “Look, we don’t have to do anything else beyond what we’ve done—the kissing and cuddling and so forth,” he said. “I was a complete cad to ask you to step over your professional boundaries. But I like you, too, Harriet, and I want to provide for you.”

  “You’ve already been more than generous.” Her voice was tight. “But if I do not fulfill my end of our bargain, I do not expect any financial reward. Just a letter of reference will do.”

  “Absolutely out of the question. You’ll take a settlement even if I withdraw my offer—I’ve forced you into a role that you’re completely unsuitable for.” He was more convinced than ever that he’d made a terrible mistake. He’d ruined the easy camaraderie between them, and he’d never find another secretary so efficient. Or sensible.

  Damn good sense anyway. He was an ass and apparently doomed to never have any.

  Harriet sat up a little straighter. “You’ve changed your mind, then.”

  “Yes. No. It’s hard to explain.”

  “I understand. You no longer find me attractive.”

  “Good God, woman! Have you been listening to a word I’ve said? Of course I want you—I just said so a few stupid sentences back, didn’t I? I can’t think!” Indeed, Thomas’s head was paining him. Too much wine at dinner to quell his nerves, and he’d still made a muddle of everything.

  He rose from the bed. Away from temptation. Away from respite. The blood sang in his ears.

  “I’m going to leave. You’re right—we can discuss all this later in the day. This afternoon. Tonight.” A thought occurred to him. “I say! Is all this too much for you? For your health, I mean? You didn’t have a proper rest this afternoon.
”

  “No. It hasn’t been too much. The shopping trip was very pleasant and didn’t tire me at all.” She sounded surprised. But there were faint smudges under her eyes now, and her cheeks were no longer pink from their kiss.

  “Well, you need to nap today. Your health is important. Will it be all right if I accompany you to Mount Street later this morning?”

  Her brows knit. Yes, they’d definitely been plucked.

  “I thought you couldn’t.”

  He tried to smile. “Changed my mind about that, at any rate.”

  “Of course. It’s your project, after all.”

  Thomas couldn’t lose her. He just couldn’t. What if Harriet took over one of the rooms in his little artists’ colony? He could still see her on occasion. Get to know her better. Then maybe this awkward chasm he’d created between them would close.

  Thomas thought back to their discussion about consequences. He had been perfectly prepared to marry her if she carried his child. Thomas realized he was perfectly prepared to marry her without the added incentive. He really liked her, and most of the time she seemed to understand him.

  Which was something. He couldn’t even understand himself.

  But. There was always a but. Her background was unsuitable in every way. Thomas didn’t care what society would think of him—he was already infamous. Known for being a loose cannon. His fortune made him acceptable anyway no matter what ill-conceived thing he did. But he wouldn’t want to submit Harriet to the snobbery of his class.

  “Sweet dreams.” He stopped himself from bending over and planting a kiss on her forehead. Her forehead was much too close to her mouth, and all his good intentions might be for naught. He’d never stop this time with one good-night kiss.

  Thomas left the room before more could be said, but he couldn’t go to his own bed. He was far too restless, too wound up to relax. And there was the inconvenient fact of his erection, though the idea of taking care of himself was not appealing.

  The house was silent. Even Hitchborn, God bless him, was asleep. William, the drowsy young footman, was still stationed at the door, sitting out of the draft in a leather wing chair designed for that purpose. Thomas declined his help as the poor boy struggled to rise, then made his way down the stairs to the kitchens.

  He wasn’t hungry—Cook had outdone herself. He wasn’t thirsty, either. But his nanny—did he actually bring up his nanny to Harriet?—had soothed him when he was a lad with a cup of warm milk laced with honey. Good for colds, too—it was, in fact, Nanny’s cure for just about anything, and Thomas needed a cure for the firestorm that Harriet had lit within him.

  He had spent some of his formative years belowstairs, and was still a frequent visitor, and knew his way around the black-enameled behemoth. The stove was the very latest design—he prided himself on keeping up-to-date in all his properties.

  He set a pan of milk to heat, then searched unsuccessfully through the pantry for a jar of honey. The milk would have to be plain. He grimaced as he took a sip, a drop falling to his bare chest. Thomas should have gone back to his room for his robe and slippers. It was winter, for heaven’s sake, and he didn’t want to alarm any maid with insomnia if she stumbled upon him and his naked chest in the kitchen.

  Thomas left the pan in the sink, feeling a touch guilty as the kitchen was, as usual, spotless. He carried his mug up the stairs, and the poor footman jumped up. Thomas had put one unshod foot on the stair when the knocker sounded at the door.

  At this time of night? William looked as startled as Thomas felt. The boy reached for a truncheon hidden behind the chair.

  “Let’s hope that’s not necessary.” He passed the mug to William. “I’ll get it.”

  “But Sir Thomas—”

  The knocker rattled more insistently. “It’s quite all right. It’s probably just one of my foolish friends, foxed to the gills and seeking amusement.” Thomas unbolted the door and opened it to the night air.

  Someone was foxed, but the man was utterly unfamiliar to Thomas. The fellow smelled as if he’d fallen into a vat of gin. Small and spare, he looking relatively harmless except for the angry flags of color on his cheeks.

  “Sir Thomas Featherstone?” he barked.

  Thomas attempted to look dignified, which was difficult to do bare-chested and barefooted. “How may I help you?”

  “I might have known,” the man shouted. “You’re a disgrace! A libertine! A vile seducer! Where is she? Where is my daughter?” He took a swing at Thomas, missed, and fell with a sickening crack to the black-and-white tiled floor.

  Chapter 24

  Harriet was unable to sleep as well, but she wasn’t about to barge half-dressed into Thomas’s room, wherever it was. He had unsettled her. Annoyed her, actually.

  She had been ready for their agreement to be consummated. All evening long she’d worried, keeping the butterflies at bay. When he had finally kissed her, they’d flapped at an alarming speed and taken flight. Her body responded and flew to his touch, and her mind was not too far behind.

  Being with Thomas was no hardship. He’d been gentle, but still commanding. She supposed she should have told him that to build up his confidence. Men were such ridiculous creatures, but she was worse, tongue-tied and shy.

  Harriet wanted to believe Thomas still was interested. He’d said so, at any rate. He seemed sincere. Though he might exaggerate, she had not known him to lie in the time she had been his employee.

  Which wasn’t very long, she had to admit. Possibly he had secrets up to his eyelashes. Certainly the biggest was his virginity. Harriet still found it difficult to believe he had not found an opportunity to remedy that before now.

  Her nightgown was twisted on the coverlet where Thomas had left it. Despite the well-stoked fire in the room, she was cold. There was coal and wood to spare at Featherstone House, very different from at her father’s house, where each black chunk of coal was hoarded like a diamond.

  She pulled the garment over her head and buried herself in the covers. The mantel clock may as well have been Big Ben—each tick was deafening. Harriet rolled around in a vain effort to get comfortable. She should be exhausted after missing her daily nap, but every nerve was on edge.

  Very dimly she heard shouting below. Odd. Sir Thomas’s house was as well-run as any gentleman’s home she could ever imagine. King Edward might even be jealous.

  She squashed the pillow over her ear and resolutely shut her eyes. She was just beginning to drift off when there was a firm rap on her door.

  Now what? If he thought he was coming in to change his mind again—

  Harriet ignored it. Let him play puppeteer with someone else.

  The knocking became more insistent. Bother.

  “Who is it?” she snapped.

  “Hitchborn, Miss Benson. May I trouble you to enter?”

  Hitchborn! Something must have happened to Thomas! Harriet was up in a flash to open the door.

  She bit back a laugh. Poor Hitchborn stood in a nightshirt and striped robe, his nightcap askew. Even so, he radiated dignity.

  “You must come downstairs at once, Miss Benson. Sir Thomas has need of you.”

  Harriet hesitated. Surely Thomas would not enlist his old butler’s help in their bargain.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I cannot say, miss. It’s best if you see for yourself. The doctor has been called, but at this hour—”

  Harriet didn’t stop to find her problematic robe or slippers. She hurled herself down the stairs, only remembering halfway that her bent glasses were on the nightstand. A blaze of light led her to the little visitors’ anteroom on the ground floor, the room where Hitchborn put people he deemed not up to snuff. Thomas was kneeling before a prostrate figure on the sofa, and turned at her flurry of footsteps.

  “Ah! There you are. Is this man known to you, Harriet?”

  Harriet stepped closer and squinted. A wave of gin breath nearly knocked her to the carpet.

  “Oh no.” He wasn’t dead
, thank goodness. His smelly snores were proof of that, though he looked awful.

  “No, as in you don’t know him, or no, I can’t believe it’s him?”

  “It’s he,” she said reflexively, correcting Thomas’s English. She’d worked very hard on her own grammar and accent. After her mother died, she’d fallen in with a little crew of neighborhood guttersnipes and had erased all her mother’s efforts to educate her speech in order to fit in. “No, no, I do know him. It’s—he’s my father. What is he doing here?”

  “Rescuing you from my wickedness. Before he fell, he was not especially flattering about my character. It’s really rather ironic considering how our evening ended.” He gave her a crooked smile.

  “Oh, S-sir Thomas, I’m so sorry. I’ll get him home right away if you’ll call us a cab.”

  Her employer rose from his haunches. “You will do no such thing! I’ll not permit you to go anywhere at this time of night. What kind of a scoundrel do you think I am?”

  He was clearly no scoundrel at all.

  Unfortunately.

  “But what are we to do with him? When he wakes up, it’s bound to be very . . . unpleasant.” An understatement if ever there was one.

  “I’ve sent for my friend Paul Meadows. Your father took quite a tumble on the marble floor. Better to be safe than sorry.” Thomas brushed his disheveled hair back. He looked younger without his luxuriant mustache, and Harriet wondered why he’d shaved it off.

  “Did he see you l-like that before he fell?”

  Thomas glanced down at his chest. There was a light mat of dark hair across its breadth that narrowed and trailed past his navel. His pajama bottoms hung precariously on his hips, and his long feet were bare. Even blurry, a half-naked Sir Thomas Featherstone was a beautiful, beautiful man.

  “Guilty. It’s a wonder the old fellow didn’t have a stroke. He seems to have divined our situation, Harriet. He tried to hit me, too. There’s nothing for it.”

  “There’s nothing for what?” Harriet asked.