Instead of giving them to her, he turned her around and pulled her hair back, twisting it around until she had a bun low at her nape, and then he pinned it in place. His hands rested on her shoulders when he was done, squeezing them gently. She felt the heated fan of his breath against the small bit of skin exposed around her nape, and then his lips were on her. She swallowed heavily, closed her eyes once again, and soaked up the feel of him.
“Stay with me tonight,” he said.
She shook her head. There would never be any escaping him, even if she tried to avoid him. “You mistake me. I’m not the kind of woman you think me to be.”
“I never make mistakes,” was his sure response.
Because there was nothing she could say to that, she leaned away from him to retrieve her cane. It took everything in her not to look back at him as she limped steadily out of the library. This time, he didn’t call her back.
Where was his self-control? Nick pressed the flats of his hands against the desk. He wanted to follow her upstairs. He wanted to go to her even though she was gone. He wanted her to himself, damn it.
To be ruled by desire was to be ruled by emotion. And men ruled by emotion made mistakes he couldn’t afford to make. His life was built on quick decisions. Some—very few—of his choices had undesirable outcomes, but for the most part, he did well and had found a great deal of success.
He couldn’t gamble on Miss Grant for so many reasons, the first being that he didn’t want to lose her. The one thing he couldn’t figure out was exactly what he wanted from her. Or why her at all? Lillie, he reminded himself. Though now that he was getting to know Miss Grant, there were striking differences between the two women. But that didn’t change the fact that every time he looked at his secretary, he saw a little bit of Lillie.
It was no secret that he had a knack for finding and taking in broken souls, and perhaps that was where the issue lay. He’d had his pick of women over the years, but they had all been vapid and empty inside. Then there was Victoria, whom he’d broken off with only a week ago, but he’d never wanted her like he wanted the woman walking away from him now.
None of those women had looked at him the way Miss Grant had, with her heart open and mind ready for any challenge. There was a tenacity to her that he didn’t often find in a woman. By all appearances, she had an unwavering spirit that wanted nothing more than to be free, and that feeling was familiar to him. Women like her didn’t hide in the shadows for long. They weren’t afraid to experience life to the fullest. Did she want to experience the fullest with him? Because he could give her that. He wanted to give her that. He wanted to cloister them up in his bedroom . . .
There he went again; allowing himself to be ruled by this desire and the strange sense of feelings he had for Miss Grant. Avoiding her just wasn’t possible. Keeping away from her, even knowing she wasn’t ready for his advances, was impossible.
He wanted her in so primal a fashion that the fine line he walked as a society man was on the cusp of shredding whenever she was near. While no one would mistake him for a gentleman—nor did he pretend to be one—no one would ever question his acuity as a businessman. Except perhaps when he was with Miss Grant. Because he had no inclination to work when she was around. He wanted to arouse her curiosity of him.
Entering his study, he poured a dram of scotch into one of the crystal tumblers stocked on the sideboard. Taking his drink over to his desk, he sat heavily in the chair. He forced himself to sip the spirits, giving Miss Grant ample time to fall asleep. Once finished, he blew out the candles and turning down the lamps in the study and made his way upstairs.
Unable to keep away from her, even though he’d let her escape earlier, he tapped his knuckles feather-light on her door. If she was awake, would she open the door to him? He braced his arms around her doorframe, a sorry attempt at holding himself back. It was better she left him in the hall. Better that she refuse him, or she might consume his every thought, his every need. Not that she didn’t do that already. God, what was wrong with him? She didn’t need this from him.
After a few moments, he tore himself away from her door and headed down the corridor to his bedchamber, doubting sleep would find him easily.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Amelia woke with a start. As she scrambled to a sitting position, she reached down to cover her legs, prepared to defend herself.
Had she been dreaming of that night again?
She wasn’t certain when the last time was that she had slept through the night uninterrupted. And it wasn’t just the incident with Sir Ian that caused her sleeplessness. She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her hands up and down her upper arms as a chill brushed right through to her bones.
There was a clock on the dressing table, but she couldn’t see it in the darkness that cloaked her room.
Amelia stared at the intricate plaster design on the ceiling, trying to make out one angel from the next, as she listened to her surroundings. Everything seemed to have gone silent in the house; all she could hear was the pounding of her heart in her chest, though the pace slowed with each breath she took. She was wide awake now.
Just as she resigned herself to getting up for the day, a second crash thudded from somewhere deep in the house. Shooting fully out of her bed, Amelia flinched as a vicious yell came from the hallway, followed by another crash. Was there an intruder? She grabbed the night robe that Jenny had loaned her and cinched it tightly at her waist.
Hurrying from her room, she saw Huxley standing outside Mr. Riley’s room. The candle stub in the holder burned low as he stared at her through narrowed eyes that were not the least bit tired-looking. “Back to your room, Miss Grant,” Huxley snapped. “There is nothing you need worry about here.”
She stood her ground for reasons she didn’t want to consider, her chin jutting out and her back ramrod straight as she stared at him without flinching from his cold gaze. “I heard something fall or break, I’m not sure which.” She didn’t have the slightest idea how she could help. Nor was she certain that Huxley intended to enter Mr. Riley’s bedchamber.
With his usual scowl firm on his face and the candlelight flickering harshly over his scars, Huxley looked intimidating, and Amelia might have found him so if she hadn’t already known that he had nothing but kindness in him.
“You cannot scare me off so easily,” she whispered. When she brushed past him and reached for the door latch, he settled his hand firmly over hers.
“I’m telling you once more: leave this with me.”
She turned to look at him so that he could see the resolve burning in her eyes. She would not be persuaded from the path she intended to take. If Mr. Riley needed help, she would never walk away. Especially considering everything he’d done for her.
Huxley didn’t say another word; he only backed up a step to allow her admittance, although with a look that almost dared her.
Before she could think about what she was doing and what she might see, she lifted the handle and pushed the door open. Twisted in his sheets, Mr. Riley lay in the middle of a monstrous four-poster bed, mumbling incomprehensible words as he tossed around in the grips of a nightmare. The only evidence of something being knocked over was a three-stemmed candelabra on the floor, but she wasn’t here to look for the source now; she was here to assist Mr. Riley.
Huxley came into the room close behind her, his face somber, but not surprised by what he saw. Was this a regular occurrence? That was not a question she would dare ask. At least not right now.
There was a moment of regret as she approached Mr. Riley, and her face started to burn red as she realized that he did not wear clothes to bed. Though there was no feeling of desire as she approached his twisted, agonized form—only worry. All she wanted to do was help him as he’d helped her, to stop what pained him in his sleep in hopes that one day someone could help her through the nightmares that haunted her sleeping hours.
She took the candle stub Huxley had been holding and edged closer to the be
d, using her softest voice to call Mr. Riley back from whatever tortured him in his sleep.
“Mr. Riley. You need to wake.”
The pain that gripped his face broke her heart, and she hated to see him reduced to a man drowning in so much pain. Sweat beaded across his forehead and drew a damp line over his temples. The closer she got to the high bed, the more she realized that perhaps Huxley had been right when he’d told her to leave. But she couldn’t leave now. Mr. Riley needed her. Well, maybe not her, but he needed someone to help him, and she refused to walk away from anyone in need.
She set the candle on the nightstand next to the bed. His body was level with her chest, as the mattress rested on a high platform.
“Mr. Riley.” She kept her voice low, soothing, hoping he would hear her if she kept repeating her request. “Let go of what pains you. Come back to us.”
How could she break through his nightmare?
She reached toward his forearm, only to have Huxley yank her violently away. “You don’t want to touch him. He isn’t quite right when he is in this state.”
“Best you head back to bed, Miss Grant. I can handle this.”
There was something about Huxley’s stark gaze that frightened her. Amelia wrapped her arms around her midsection and nodded. Leaving the candle behind, she made her way out of the room. She paused at the door to look back at Mr. Riley, still twisting around on his bed, mumbling incoherently.
Huxley caught her gaze again; he was waiting for her to leave so she wouldn’t be witness to whatever came next. Reluctantly, she closed the door. She released a ragged, broken breath with the finality of her action.
Hand over her heart, she found her center after a few deep breaths and leaned on the wall as she headed back to her own room. Her ankle throbbed worse than it had before; she’d been foolish to run to Mr. Riley’s aid without taking care of her injury.
She sat on her bed listening to the old creaks in the house, as one question turned over and over in her mind: what secrets haunted Mr. Riley so deeply?
And then she had to ask herself if Huxley would mention to Mr. Riley that she’d seen him at a great disadvantage. She must bring it up with Huxley first thing in the morning.
She was quite awake now, so decided she might as well get dressed for the day, even though it was close to half past four. Too early to break her fast, she resigned herself to getting some work done in the study. She had every intention of finishing Mr. Riley’s invitations today and finalizing his calendar so that she might be available for more important tasks, preferably something more challenging; she disliked being idle.
Mr. Riley didn’t come down to the study all morning. The first person she saw was Huxley, who advised her that breakfast was being served in the dining hall. Before she could ask him what had come of Mr. Riley the night before, Huxley held up his hand, stalling the words before they could leave her lips.
“Don’t ask questions to which I can give no answers. Just forget last night.”
She pinched her lips together. That was one thing she couldn’t promise to do. How did Huxley expect her to forget what had happened? Couldn’t she at least inquire as to Mr. Riley’s state of mind once he woke? “If his nightmares are a regular occurrence, it might be in both our best interests to know how I should deal with the situation in future.”
“You’ll not need to deal with anything, Miss Grant. A man needs to keep some of his life private, and prying would be unwise.”
Not satisfied with his answer, she boldly asked, “Are you suggesting that my further examination of the events last night will cost me my job here?”
Huxley wasn’t expecting the question, she knew, because he turned from her suddenly and repeated in a far sterner voice, “Breakfast is being served in the dining hall.”
Taking up her cane, she followed Huxley down to the kitchen, angry with herself for caring, and especially angry with Huxley for being such a stubborn mule about the whole situation. His warning, however, was unlikely to deter her from going to Mr. Riley again, should she hear him tossing around from another nightmare.
Whether Huxley had informed her employer about her witnessing the events of last night, she couldn’t say. But she had to assume they discussed it, because she didn’t see Mr. Riley for the remainder of the day.
CHAPTER NINE
It had been a feat but one she’d conquered without Huxley’s help in all of two days. Amelia stuffed the last response in an envelope and set it on top of the stack of letters and RSVPs that needed to be posted in the morning. She sat back in her chair with a triumphant yawn and wondered what Huxley would have her do tomorrow.
Voices carried to her from the next room, just as a light flickered on in Mr. Riley’s study. She recognized the soothing tone of her employer’s voice, but there were two other gentlemen with him. Not wanting to repeat her rudeness from two nights ago, she rose to her feet just as Mr. Riley came into the library.
“Why are you still here?” His eyes lingered over the desk where her accouterments were neatly lined up.
“I wanted to finish the invitations and correspondence before the day was through.”
She reached for her cane, but Mr. Riley reached it first, and his arm came under hers to guide her into the study. She hated to admit that she’d been counting down the hours until she would see him again.
Why did she always find herself breathless in his presence? It meant she was full of foolishness, and she silently scolded herself for that.
Delicately clearing her throat and focusing her thoughts away from the steady warmth of his body so very near to hers, she said, “I planned to head to the kitchen before I went to bed.”
She winced at the suggestiveness of her words. Did he think she was inviting him to eat with her or join her in bed?
“Let me introduce you to some friends before you retire for the night,” he responded.
As they walked into the study, two men stood from the leather chairs.
“Landon Price, Lord Burley,” Mr. Riley said, indicating the shorter man, though he stood taller than Amelia. “This is my new secretary, Miss Grant. And she is currently handling all correspondence, so your wife will not need to read Huxley’s chicken-scratch writing anymore.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Grant.” Lord Burley’s hand engulfed Amelia’s as he bowed slightly and kissed the back of her knuckles. His hair was dark, though gray feathered through it at the temples, and his eyes were a rich brown.
“Likewise,” Amelia responded.
“Landon and I share an interest in wool shipments,” Mr. Riley said, explaining their relationship further. Amelia recalled accepting an invitation for Mr. Riley to a soiree at Lord Burley’s house next week. “Landon is trying to convince me to visit his farm in Scotland, so I can see firsthand the start of the process.”
“Aye, my wife thinks you need some time in the country. Help you get rid of the tension you always carry about you.”
Amelia heard a slight Scottish lilt in Lord Burley’s comment. Before she could ask him about his farm, the other man stepped forward, his hand out in invitation. When she put her hand in his, he turned it over and brushed a kiss across the back of it.
“Hart,” he said. “I have known Nick for about as long as I can remember.”
It was difficult to tell if he, too, was a peer. In fact, she wasn’t altogether certain if he had just introduced himself with his first name or his last. The man’s clothes spoke of similar wealth to Mr. Riley’s—the fine material was pressed and without a wrinkle, even so late in the day. His waistcoat was a checkered silver and blue silk that complemented his light blue eyes and fair coloring. His smile was alluring, and it probably had seduced many an unsuspecting woman, but it didn’t have the same effect as Mr. Riley’s intense stares had on her.
She frowned with that thought.
“Will Miss Grant be replacing Huxley?” Lord Burley asked.
The last thing Amelia had planned this evening was
to sit with Mr. Riley. Her stomach chose that inopportune moment to rumble in protest. She hoped no one heard it, though Mr. Riley glanced over to her, amusement dancing in his eyes.
He turned back to his guests. “She is taking over his old position, yes,” Mr. Riley corrected Lord Burley. “I won’t keep you, Miss Grant.”
Amelia ducked her head cordially to everyone in the room. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintances. Good evening, Mr. Riley.”
She couldn’t be sure, but she thought Mr. Riley was reluctant to release his hold on her elbow.
Mr. Riley’s guests bid her a good night, allowing her to make her escape. She wasn’t sure if she was happy to have had such a short interlude with Mr. Riley or disappointed that she hadn’t spent more time with him alone. She furrowed her brows, not overly impressed that her thoughts were so consumed by her employer.
When she arrived in the kitchen, no one was about. The hour must be later than she suspected.
Although she was not sure whether she was allowed to avail herself of whatever was in the kitchen, her stomach’s grumbling protest decided her path. Searching through the larder, she found a half a loaf of bread, a plate of covered cheese, and some butter. She settled herself to making a sandwich and sat on the stool off the side of the room to enjoy her dinner. She’d think twice before forgetting dinner again.
The steady pace of someone approaching stopped her midchew. She hadn’t done anything wrong by coming down here—or at least she didn’t think so.
The master of the house stepped into the kitchen area, one eyebrow quirked when he saw Amelia sitting in the chair.
He was down to his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. When he crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, she could clearly make out the sinew of his arms flexing beneath the crisp white linen.
“You do know that if you miss a meal, Joshua sets aside a plate,” he said. “On cold days, he keeps stew warm on the coals.”
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