The Unsuitable Secretary (A Ladies Unlaced Novel)

by Maggie Robinson

  “Cat got your tongue?” He thrust out a dirty hand. “I’m Nick Raeburn. Tubby didn’t tell me yours, just that you were a prime article.”

  Should she be flattered? Eliza didn’t think so. “E-E-Eliza. Lawrence. Eliza Lawrence.”

  He gave her a cheeky grin. “Well, E-E-Eliza-Lawrence-Eliza Lawrence, welcome to my humble atelier. We won’t have much light left, so you’ll have to take off your clothes at once. Normally I like to go through some polite preliminaries, but we don’t have time. The other girls are waiting.”

  Eliza gripped the handrail more firmly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Tubby said you were quite the la-di-da lady. I see he was right. Come now, don’t be shy. Perhaps you’d like some whiskey to relax you. My family happens to make the best single malt in the Highlands, and that’s saying a lot. I’ve got cases of it. Come on up and we’ll have some and then you can get naked.”

  Eliza recoiled at the hand that was proffered. “Mr. Raeburn, I believe you are under a misapprehension.”

  A bronze eyebrow rose. “I’m under a lot of things, love. Aren’t you Tubby’s friend?”

  “It depends on who this Tubby is. I have been sent by your sister-in-law Lady Mary Raeburn to act as an emergency governess for your daughter. I am certainly not going to disrobe now or at any time in the future, no matter how much whiskey you ply me with.”

  It was his turn to be shocked, but it didn’t result in him making a mad dash for some proper clothing. “An emergency governess? What rot. I told Alec’s interfering little wife we’re fine as we are.”

  “Oh, I can see that.” Eliza wished she could unsee. She had never in her life had such an encounter with a member of the male sex. He was practically naked himself. In broad daylight on the front steps, where anyone might see him. When she had lived in Mr. Hurst’s house, she’d never seen her employer with a hair out of place or without a cravat the whole year she was there.

  Nicholas Raeburn’s jaw twitched. “You doubt we’re fine?”

  “It’s not for me to doubt. I came here as a favor to Lady Raeburn. I confess it’s a great relief you do not require my services.”

  “You aren’t a model, then—this isn’t some lark Tubby put you up to.”

  “I do not get put up to larks, Mr. Raeburn,” Eliza said quite firmly.

  “Pity. I do need a girl, and as I said, you would have done. Just. Blondes in general bore me, but you have a certain spark.”

  “Thank you so much.” Her insincerity was deliberate. What a rude, reprehensible man.

  Just then Eliza’s attention turned from the gleaming gold earring to the long hallway behind its wearer. A little girl of about four or five was standing on a chair and attempting to climb into an enormous Chinese urn. Any warning cry Eliza might have made came too late. The child disappeared into the pottery, and then proceeded to shriek.

  “What the devil?” Nick Raeburn raced down the hall, carpets flying. “Not again, Sunny! I’ve told you a dozen times!”

  Eliza couldn’t help but follow him. She peered down into the vase. A pair of deep brown eyes blinked back at her. The child giggled, then put her grubby hands over her face.

  “We can still see you, moppet, even if you can’t see us. If you break this valuable antique, I’ll have to send you to the orphanage.”

  “Don’t say such things, even in jest,” Eliza hissed. “Children are very literal minded.”

  “Sunny knows I don’t mean it. I’d never send you away, would I, sweetheart?” He smiled down at his daughter. Eliza noted it was a rather nice smile, nothing like the semi-leer he’d given her on the doorstep.

  “No, Papa.” Domenica—Sunny—sounded as if she were at the bottom of a well. She was a very little girl, and the vase was very big.

  “She’s done this before?”

  “Several times. Sunny likes to play hide-and-seek. I’m forever finding her in one cupboard or another.”

  “It’s not safe. Who is minding her?”

  Nicholas Raeburn ran a paint-stained hand through his disordered hair. “Sue. The kitchen maid. But I suppose Mrs. Quinn needs her help getting supper ready. I’m having a sort of welcome home party tonight.”

  “And where will Domenica be while you have this party?” Eliza asked.

  “In bed, of course.”

  “Who will put her to bed? I imagine this Sue will be serving your guests.”

  “I don’t know. It will all work out,” Nicholas said, sounding annoyed.

  “Will it? Why does your child have no proper nurse or governess? You can afford one. For that matter, where is your butler?”

  “You are just as bad as my sister-in-law. Though she is a vast improvement on Alec’s first wife. It’s really none of your business.”

  “Lady Raeburn has made it my business. She’s concerned for the child’s welfare, and frankly, so am I.”

  “Will you help me out now, Papa?” came a little voice.

  Good grief. They’d stood over the girl, arguing, when she might be smothering in the confines of the urn. Eliza watched as Nicholas tipped the thing on the Turkey carpet, and Domenica crawled out, a little dustier than before she went in. She gave a very creditable curtsey to Eliza. “Are you to be my new nanny? My old one is in Heaven with Mama.”

  “I don’t know.” Eliza looked up at Nicholas. “Am I?”

  He threw up his hands. “Oh, fine. But it’s just temporary. I will find someone that suits me.”

  “Temporary is exactly the word. The Evensong Agency is reviewing applicants even as we speak for a responsible person to join your household.”

  “Damn it! I never asked Mary to do anything. She may lead my brother around by his co—nose, but I’ll be damned before she runs my life. I only got back to London last week. We’re not even unpacked.”

  Eliza glanced around the hallway. She had never seen such a number of antiquities, paintings, patterns, and embellishment in a private house in her life. One hardly knew where to look first. Could there be even more stowed away in boxes? It boggled the mind.

  “I bought the house furnished,” Nicholas said, anticipating her question. “An artist friend of mine had to let it go. These are his things. Well, mine, now, I suppose.”

  “It’s very—decorated,” Eliza said, searching for the right word. She longed for a broom and a dustbin. There was just too much stuff.

  “Yes, isn’t it fabulous? Leighton would eat his heart out if he were still alive. I’ll get your bag.”

  Eliza felt a little light-headed watching the man walk to the open door. His pajamas were slipping down his slim hips, and she thought she could see—

  There was a tug on her coat. “Come up to my room. We can have a party of our own.” Domenica smiled, and Eliza followed the child up the stairs, wondering what precisely she’d gotten into and just how long “temporary” was.

  Maggie Robinson is a former teacher, library clerk and mother of four who woke up in the middle of the night, absolutely compelled to create the perfect man and use as many adjectives and adverbs as possible doing so. A transplanted New Yorker, she lives with her not-quite perfect husband in Maine, where the cold winters are ideal for staying inside and writing hot historical romances. Her books have been or will be translated into French, German, Portuguese, Turkish, Russian, Japanese, Thai, Dutch and Italian.

  Visit her website at maggierobinson.net.