“You’re going to pluck her off the street when you know nothing about her? Take her under your roof, when she could steal off with half the house’s silver come morning?”
Nick almost chuckled at the absurdity of the comment. “I’m not concerned she will steal off with anything.”
Except perhaps his sanity. Women never held sway over him, yet Miss Grant did just that with her air of innocence and her stubborn manner. Without doubt, the best thing he could do to preserve that innocence would be to set her free. But to what fate? He could protect her while she was in his house and ensure that the mark on her cheek was a thing of the past. Really, he was unwilling to share her with the rest of the world.
“She is not up for debate, Huxley. She will remain as my secretary.”
Huxley stood and jammed his hands into his pockets. “What do you want me to show her?”
“Any and all the tasks you don’t have time for. You can start with the invitations and the appointment book. Make sure she’s familiar with my business associates. When she is better able to walk, she will attend meetings with me.”
Huxley gave one succinct nod and turned to leave Nick’s study without further objection.
Nick sure as hell hoped he knew what he was doing by offering a position to Miss Grant.
Sitting at his desk, he penned a note to the employment agency, which he had lied about in order to keep Miss Grant here. He let the agency know that he had stolen one Amelia Grant into his employ. In closing, he requested a list of the houses she had previously served in. They’d think he was interested in recommendations, but really, he wanted to sort out who had dared to raise a hand against her.
Trusting Huxley would settle in his new secretary, he left his letter with the kitchen boy for delivery. Pulling on his coat and straightening his cuffs, he left through the back exit of the house so he was less tempted to stop in on Miss Grant.
Amelia made it to the window seat just as Mr. Huxley came into the room with a tray. Setting the silver dish on a side table close to her, he scrutinized her from head to toe. His gaze was not possessive, like Mr. Riley’s; she had the feeling he was measuring her ability and worth.
“I’ll show you to the study once you’ve eaten,” Huxley said.
Instead of leaving her with the tray of food—eggs, sausages, and potatoes—he watched her eat from where he leaned against the doorframe. His bearing was intimidating, his size compact but sturdy. His face was pockmarked, and he wore a permanent scowl that had her shifting constantly in her seat.
She picked at her food, unable to stomach anything when Huxley was staring at her so coldly, giving her the impression that he disliked and didn’t precisely trust the newcomer in his house. Not that she could blame him for such a notion. She still wasn’t quite sure how she felt about being here but had resigned herself to staying for at least a few days.
“If you would be so kind as to sit with me, I will eat much faster and let you get on with your duties,” she suggested, hoping he might let his guard down a little so she could gain his trust at the very least. If her last job had taught her anything, it was that she needed to make more friends. Had she done so, maybe . . .
She closed the door on the what ifs. It was in the past. She was safe now . . . wasn’t she?
“I’ll wait here, if you don’t mind.”
She placed her napkin on the table and turned toward Huxley. “I do mind, in fact. I feel as though you’re waiting for me to falter. Or to make a mistake I cannot possibly know I’m making. It is not so hard to guess that you like my presence here as much as you would like a toothache.”
Instead of the scowl she expected, her comment seemed to earn her a smile. What a strange man Mr. Huxley was.
“You can tell a lot by the way someone eats,” he said, but he walked into the room and sat on the sofa she’d vacated after the doctor’s visit, which was close enough to acceptance for her.
Placing her napkin back in her lap, she continued to eat. “How exactly would one make out a person’s character by the way she eats?”
“I can tell you’ve never had to fend for yourself, even though, by the looks of you, you’re a few meals short of content. Though I suspect there was never a missed meal not so long ago and at a proper table.”
Amelia swallowed her half-chewed eggs and set the fork down on the side of the plate. “You can tell this, how?”
Huxley crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back into the sofa. He gave nothing away in his expression. Was he trying to intimidate her? If he was, it wasn’t working. She raised her eyebrows with indifference.
“Grew up in a small house with seven brothers,” he went on. “Nothing like fighting over a ration of one loaf of bread meant to last a week, sometimes two.”
“I see.” She looked back at her dish, lifted it, and held it out to Huxley. He grabbed a sausage and chomped into it with exaggerated vigor and a smile that held no laughter.
She cut a piece of the sausage for herself and nibbled it delicately. “You are right about the proper table. But it was a poor table, and there was not always enough to go around.”
There was no harm in revealing that much to this man. She would have to work with him, and they might as well get along so their days were enjoyable. She finished the remainder of her meal—even though it was far too much food—because she didn’t want Huxley to find her wasteful.
Once finished, they walked slowly to the study, and he showed her the appointment book and where the mail and invitations were stored. Mr. Riley was nowhere in sight. They didn’t look at the appointments in any great length but went over the engagements that would keep Mr. Riley away from the house for a few days. Huxley had her write out a list of tasks she would be responsible for in the coming days.
“Does it worry you that I’m here without references, Mr. Huxley?”
“It’s just Huxley.” He gave her a long look that dared her to be formal again. “As long as I don’t find you stealing off with the silver or trying to climb into Mr. Riley’s bed to further your position, I think we’ll get on just fine.”
She opened her mouth and closed it. Shock didn’t even describe how she felt, and her face flamed at the insinuation. Did he think her that type of woman?
Not sure what to say, she cleared her throat and changed the topic. “How many businesses does Mr. Riley own?”
“Never enough, by his estimation.”
“That is not really an answer.”
“S’pose it is not.” Still, he didn’t elaborate.
“How does Mr. Riley generally spend his time, day to day?”
“Out and about, here and there. Once you get a handle on his schedule you’ll have a better understanding of his business ventures.”
Amelia spent the day familiarizing herself with names: peers, merchants, and business owners—all those who shared interests with Mr. Riley.
It was impossible to get a good sense of what exactly he did, as his business ventures varied. He owned a bank and a theatre outright. He owned large lots of land. Some were located next to the docks and used for storage and warehouses; others held residents in the east end of the city. He owned shares in shipping companies and railroads. It was as though he were amassing as much wealth as he possibly could.
Curious about so many things, Amelia couldn’t stay quiet forever. “Mr. Riley has interests everywhere. Has he always been a businessman with so many tastes?”
“Not always,” was all Huxley said.
Not quite satisfied with his response, she pushed for more information. “How long have you known him?”
“Since he was nothing more than a scrap of a boy. If you want more answers, you should ask him your questions directly.”
Because it was her first night, and Huxley insisted on her learning more about her new job, they didn’t go down to the dining hall. Instead, Huxley left her for a quarter hour and returned with two steaming bowls of lamb stew with hunks of bread, which they enjoyed in silence.
There were a thousand and one questions going through Amelia’s mind about Mr. Riley, and she vowed to find the answer to each and every one of them. But her questions could wait for another day.
It was hard to believe that she’d found a position so easily, and she would remain vigilant while completing her duties. It all seemed too easy, though.
While she was thankful to have a roof over her head and a bed to sleep in for the night, she would wait for the other shoe to drop.
CHAPTER FIVE
Amelia woke bright and early the next morning, so she could limp her way around the house without someone at her elbow, guiding the way. She wanted to see it with her own eyes, learn every nuance, and discover everything beautiful and everything hidden and ugly about the house.
Sleep hadn’t come easily, despite her being exhausted from all that had happened. And while she hadn’t seen Mr. Riley again last evening, her curious imagination had invented a hundred different impressions of him through the long night, none of which she wanted to rehash, for most made her blush furiously. And why should she think any of those things about him? He could still be the wolf wearing sheepskin to hide his true nature.
Yesterday, she’d been far too drained after dinner to do more than sit at the secretary desk, read through the appointment book, and review one of the many stacks of invitations that had been tossed into piles as high as the length of her arm. Huxley had remained with her, so she couldn’t snoop around the study to see what secrets her new employer might be hiding.
All she had learned about Mr. Riley was that he was a very busy man and that he received more invitations to gatherings than was possible for one person to attend. After two hours of reviewing invitations and penning responses last evening, she realized Mr. Riley hadn’t been lying about his need for a secretary.
Exploring the second floor of suites, she found two beautifully appointed drawing rooms, one very masculine, with dark mahogany paneling three-quarters of the way up the wall. The furniture was overly large, and the sofas were hunter green in color, with a mix of brocade and velvet in the other furnishings and textiles. It was an inviting room in which she could easily imagine sitting with a book and enjoying a hot cup of tea.
The sunroom on the second floor was a wall of windows, the upper half stained glass that depicted all things nautical: a ship with a full amber-colored mast blowing in the wind, a raging storm done in shades of blues and grays, a seabird soaring high in a crystal blue sky. The furniture in this room was buttercup-yellow chintz. There was a nook with chairs near the windows, making this room a part-time breakfast area for immediate family, she guessed.
The last drawing room on the second floor faced the back garden of the house and carriage house. The windows were at least fifteen feet high, and heavy curtains made of the most delicate golden velvet draped around them, inviting the viewer to look outside, as though it were a landscape of art.
While the back garden wasn’t large, there was a stone terrace at least ten feet deep, set against the main floor. It was big enough for a rose arbor, a pair of stone benches for two, and an angel-topped fountain. The sight took her breath away. The burgundy backdrop of furniture was less inviting than the green drawing room but so much more tranquil with the scenery below.
Once she could tear her eyes away from the sight, she took the stairs slowly to the main floor, hating every pained step along the way. Although she’d been up for less than an hour, she’d already overtaxed herself.
She headed directly to the study, as she was somewhat familiar with that room and because she had the key tucked into her bodice. Sliding walnut doors at one end led to a large library. She’d only glimpsed what was inside yesterday and was desperate to explore it more thoroughly today.
Her gasp of surprise couldn’t be held at bay when she opened the doors. Tall blond shelves filled the walls from floor to ceiling. Each shelf was filled with row upon row of books, and she thought it would probably take a week to sort through all the titles.
The terrace she’d seen from the second floor was off this room. And what a sight it made. She wondered what the house said about its owner, other than the fact that he loved beautiful things. And he must like to read, to have so many books in his possession.
Pained as her ankle might be, she couldn’t stop herself from walking past the shelves and running her fingers over the spines of the books. They were sorted by author and then by genre. She even found a whole collection of Jane Austen, though the spines were in pristine shape, so she thought Mr. Riley had not read those. Oh yes, she could get lost in this room and planned to do so the moment she was given spare time.
Everything she’d seen in the house only confirmed her theory that Mr. Riley was a very wealthy man. She would know the answer to that soon enough, if she was to handle all his affairs.
With her foot and ankle throbbing like a hive of angry bees, Amelia knew she would have to explore the rest of the house another time.
Turning away from the terrace, the last thing she expected to do was to walk right into her employer.
Quickly stumbling back a step, she stammered out an apology and said in a rush, “I’m sorry.”
He caught her by the elbow. “We really must stop meeting this way.”
Was that humor she heard in his voice? It unsettled her and had her stuttering for excuses at being caught wandering through the house.
“I promise I’m not usually so clumsy, just a bit unsteady since yesterday. I didn’t know when it was appropriate for me to come down, so I started my day as soon as I was up.”
“You should not be walking without support. I don’t want you to injure yourself further.”
Even today, his voice did strange things to her. It made her feel things no decent woman should ever feel. It made her want . . . but want what? She reminded herself that his kindness could be a façade she had yet to crack through.
“I would have taken you around the house,” he said, almost as if it was an apology.
She didn’t miss the note of intimacy in his comment. And while his admission and the underlying innuendo should have her running from the house, she found herself intrigued. What in the world was wrong with her? Her imaginings from last night were what was wrong with her. She’d sketched a picture of this man in her mind that was too perfect and without flaws. Everyone had flaws.
She decided right then and there that she couldn’t trust herself in his presence. Her imagination had run wild with this man’s character, and she couldn’t help but paint him as some sort of hero, not only for rescuing her but also for giving her the things she desperately needed right now—a safe place, a job . . . a chance.
With self-preservation finally at the forefront of her thoughts, she managed to take an uneven step away from him. The misstep shot a heavy dose of pain up her leg, and it felt like her stomach was in her throat with the sudden correction in her balance. But Mr. Riley grasped her arm firmly. Instead of toppling back, she was crushed along the length of his body.
With her hands wrapped around his strong forearms, she let him steady her long enough that her head stopped spinning. His thumbs brushed back and forth over the inside of her wrist, letting her focus on the intimacy of his touch instead of the pain radiating from her ankle.
His nearness did strange things to her, things that made her want to step closer instead of away from him, to be touched everywhere as familiarly as he stroked her wrist. She shook her head and dropped her arms to her sides. She needed to get a better grasp on her emotions, her desires.
She reminded herself that she knew nothing about this man. And these were not the types of thoughts she should have of her employer—and an attraction of any kind was entirely out of the question.
When his gaze probed so far as to make her feel as if he were sifting through her secrets, she lowered her gaze. She didn’t know why, but she liked the fluttery sensation she felt in her stomach when he was near. That was the last thing she should feel, she
reminded herself for the umpteenth time. Mr. Riley could cut her loose just as fast as he’d tied her to his household.
Not willing to meet his gaze again, she focused on the cloth buttons lining the front of his maroon waistcoat. That did not help her imagination in the least, as she wondered if the material on the buttons was soft or coarse, which led her to wonder if his body would be as firm as it looked too.
“My apologies,” she said again.
What else was there to say? I’m sorry I’m a buffoon, Mr. Riley, but it appears to be a general state for me whenever you are in the room. That simply wouldn’t work.
“So you said. I won’t expect you to eat with the rest of the staff in the kitchen quarters if you cannot make the climb downstairs.” He made it sound as though she were breakable or, worse, an invalid. And she took exception to that until his finger turned up her chin, and their gazes collided. “What is your preference for your morning meal?”
“Whatever your cook puts together for the rest of the household will be sufficient, Mr. Riley.”
His jaw clenched. Had she displeased him with her answer? She wanted to ask but found herself speechless instead, when he took her arm in his, alleviating the pain from her bad ankle. It was impossible to hold back the sigh of relief that his support offered. Escorting her over to a matching pair of leather chairs, he settled her in the one that faced the gardens.
“A post came from the employment agency for you,” he announced, as though her receiving a post had been expected. “I left it on the desk for you.”
Though her body was strung like a new violin bow, she hoped he didn’t notice the tension suddenly assailing her. What if her old employer had contacted the agency to give them a story that painted her as an unsuitable employee? What lies would Sir Ian have made up about her? If the agency wrote a note to her, what had they already told Mr. Riley?
She swallowed back her nervousness. “I didn’t think they would have anything to say.”
Desire Me Now Page 4