“I believe her ladyship is still—”
“Her ladyship is right here, my lord.”
Calder’s head jerked up at that husky purr to see that Deirdre was indeed standing in the doorway—or rather, was lounging sleepily against the doorjamb as if she didn’t quite have the alertness to stand.
She rubbed the back of one hand across her eyes, then blinked hard. “God, Brookhaven, who in the world eats this early? I can scarcely stand to look at the food.”
His breath stuck in his throat. “What are you wearing, my lady?”
She blinked at him with wide eyes. “You said ‘dressed for supper.’ You never said ‘dressed for breakfast.’”
Clad in a hastily tied wrapper and something lacy and diaphanous beneath, she was a mess—a luxuriously half-dressed erotically tousled mess drawn straight from his darkest fantasy of damp and tangled bed linens. She yawned with catlike delicacy, her lacy sleeve slipping halfway up her arm as she covered her mouth with the back of her hand, then blinked sleepily at him. “I might as well eat, since I’m here.”
That was it. No greeting, no husky “Good morning, my darling,” no sleep-warmed arm twining about his neck to pull him down for a soft-mouthed drowsy kiss …
The lack of such was no oddity—but his sudden aching longing for it was. She was his wife. She should be waking in his arms, her smooth limbs tangled in his, her soft breast weighing heavy in his palm, her sleepy blue eyes seeing only him—
She flopped into the chair Fortescue pulled out for her. The damned butler got a smile and a husky-voiced thanks, of course. A plate appeared before her—toast and a sliced apple. She drank only tea with no milk.
Calder frowned. She ought to eat more. Her figure was lovely, but he had no objection to a bit more of it. He opened his mouth to protest her diet—then halted. The bloody-minded creature would only do the opposite and starve herself. So instead, he eyed her plate with feigned approval. “I see you’re very disciplined with your figure. Good. You wouldn’t want to get fat.”
That lit a spark behind her drowsy gaze. “Fortescue, eggs and ham,” she snapped.
Calder hid a smile behind his napkin.
At that moment, Meggie wandered in. The fact that his daughter had obeyed him stunned him, but the fact that she was somewhat clean and dressed and more or less groomed—in a summer-in-the-country manner—left him entirely speechless.
Her dark hair was shining and combed and braided, albeit lopsided. Her dress showed not a dot of mud or food or soot and her face, pink and freshly scrubbed.
She was a beautiful child, just as anyone would expect a child of Melinda’s to be. Her mother’s face, softened by the childish lack of angles—her mother’s hair, gleaming nearly blue-black, her mother’s shy smile that had hidden so much loathing for so long …
Pain twisted within him. Not for the loss of Melinda—at least not for his loss—but for what he’d done and not done and what he’d cost the child before him. He looked away, frowning, and missed the way that Meggie’s wistful smile faded slowly away at his lack of greeting.
Deirdre didn’t miss a thing. Idiot man. “You look as though you’re going out today, Lady Margaret. What are your plans?”
Meggie, her mood obviously now as foul as her father’s, only shot her a disdainful glare from beneath long lashes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have to stay in all day with you.”
Deirdre sighed. They were a pair, the two of them. Meggie even sounded like her father. She glared at Brookhaven in renewed fury. “You’re no help at all, do you know that?”
Fortescue slid her new plate before her at that moment. “Small victories are still victories, my lady,” the butler murmured under the cover of arranging a fresh breakfast napkin for her.
Deirdre sighed. It was true. In the breakfast battle, she thought she’d scored rather highly off her husband. And he’d looked directly at his daughter for once, at least for a moment. That was something.
She glanced up to see Brookhaven’s dark gaze fixed upon her bodice. The nightdress she still wore was not terribly concealing and her wispy wrapper wasn’t much help.
Good. Let him see what he was missing with his idiotic tyranny. She put down her own fork and breathed deeply, dropping one shoulder so that her neckline came dangerously close to falling down. It wouldn’t, of course, but she’d flirted enough in her life to know that the anticipation of even a tiny possibility of such a thing was enough to keep most men riveted for hours.
His eyes darkened and his sculpted jaw clenched. She could feel the heightening lust burning off his skin like the heat of a black coal fire.
Unfortunately, when he looked at her like that—as if the only thing stopping him from sweeping the table clear and debauching her upon it was his own rigid control—she went a bit weak in the knees herself.
Her mouth went dry at her own vision and her breath seemed harder and harder to catch. To distract herself, she blindly cut a bite of food and forced her trembling hands to carry the fork to her mouth.
Then the first bit of salty-sweet ham dissolved on her tongue, diverting her lust for her husband into something far more attainable.
Oh, bliss. She closed her eyes to enjoy the taste to the fullest, then hurriedly cut another, larger bite. She hadn’t had ham in years—and why not?
Now that she thought of it, the strict diet was Tessa’s idea. Deirdre had been banned from indulging anything resembling a normal appetite since she was fifteen years old.
To be truthful, it wasn’t all Tessa’s doing, for nothing would have stopped Deirdre if she’d decided to rebel. Such rigid protection of her figure had made sense when she was duke-hunting. Yet, she was a married woman now. She could grow as fat as a cook and Brookhaven couldn’t do a thing about it.
She wriggled more comfortably into her chair and prepared to eat until she couldn’t breathe.
Calder watched his lady wife as she tucked into her breakfast like a field hand. The sight was oddly satisfying. She was unguarded in her enjoyment, for just this moment in time, and he relished the genuine pleasure on her face.
Now if only he were the cause instead of his staff’s excellent cooking. It was all he could do not to stare boldly at her bosom in that loose and lacy nightdress thing she wore. He couldn’t even taste the food he was chewing!
Still, progress was progress. His wife had begun to take his daughter in hand, despite early signs of rebellion, and he had a full table at breakfast.
Not bad for his third day at the job of husband. Perhaps he was a bit rusty, but he’d soon have everything running smoothly enough to return to touring his beloved factories—
Good God, it had been days since he’d given them more than a passing thought.
He ought to leave at once. He needed to take a tour of his properties, involve himself in something real and concrete and entirely devoid of breasts. Yes, absolutely. It was time to leave this madhouse and lose himself in the comfortingly dry and uniform world of manufacturing again.
Reluctance pulled at him and he struggled to explain it. It was too soon. She was too unpredictable. Meggie wasn’t accustomed to her yet. The staff wouldn’t know to keep a tight rein upon her.
Yes, that was it. He didn’t dare leave. He wasn’t blind to the way she’d seduced Meggie to the dark side. Even Fortescue, whose heart was made of such dependable ice, was clearly becoming smitten by her. At the rate she was going, she’d take over the world before he made it back!
No. It was best to stay—to stand his ground. She must learn that he would not be swayed from his course.
Besides, even though he wouldn’t have admitted it under the vilest of torture, he was rather curious to see what she would do next.
Chapter Eighteen
The tension in the breakfast room didn’t ease until his lordship gruffly excused himself and tossed his napkin to his plate. Deirdre smiled brightly at her husband. “Are you leaving us today?”
He gazed sourly at her. “There’s no need to sound so hopeful.”<
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She fluttered her eyelashes. “I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”
“Hmph.” He turned away, then turned back. “By the way, my dear, you will dress for breakfast tomorrow.”
Deirdre smiled sweetly. “As you wish, my lord.”
That confused him. “Er … well. Good morning, then.” He strode away, minus just a bit of his previous smolder.
Once he was gone, Deirdre’s smile faded. As amusing as it was to tease the man, “annoyed” wasn’t precisely the eternal emotion she had in mind.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Meggie said thoughtfully. “I think Papa sort of liked having us here.”
Deirdre sighed. “I certainly hope so.” She pushed her plate away. “Fortescue, could we have some tea in my sitting room?” She smiled at Meggie. “We have some plotting to do.”
Soon they were ensconced in private comfort in the beautiful suite. Hot fragrant tea in fine china, next to a cozy fire on a damp spring day—and no Tessa. Truly more peace and comfort than she’d ever experienced.
“Fortescue—”
He looked up from the tea tray. “Yes, my lady?”
Deirdre studied her hands. “I wish to thank you, Fortescue. Despite this—this childish war between myself and his lordship, you’ve treated me with great respect.”
“Of course, my lady.” Fortescue made to move on, but Deirdre held up her hand.
“Wait. I’ll not let you brush this off, Fortescue. After living in my stepmother’s household, I know perfectly well how the staff can make a mistress’s life miserable if they wish it … and that tone is usually set by the butler.” She glanced aside to where Meggie played with her kitten by the fire, then gazed earnestly up at the butler.
“It seems silly indeed to refuse his lordship’s wish that I raise Lady Margaret, especially since she so clearly needs it. I simply wanted you to understand, it isn’t what Lord Brookhaven asks of me that I find impossible—” She shrugged helplessly, spreading her hands. “It’s the way he asked—or, rather, didn’t ask. Do you think I’m being ridiculous, too?”
Fortescue gazed very carefully at a spot somewhere over her head. “My lady, I have often noted when integrating new staff into the household that how they begin is how they will go on, if not corrected immediately.”
Deirdre laughed shortly. “That argument could go either way, Fortescue.”
Fortescue bowed, his eyes shadowed by the angle of the light. “My point precisely, my lady.”
Deirdre considered the man for a long moment. “You’re on my side, aren’t you, Fortescue?”
Fortescue met her gaze directly for a fleeting moment. “I hope that we can all win, my lady.” Then he bowed again. “If you require nothing else, my lady?”
Deirdre laughed and waved him. “Go strike fear into some hapless coal-boy then. You don’t alarm me anymore.”
“Oh, dear,” he said mildly. “I’ve so enjoyed it.”
Deirdre was still laughing when the door closed on the butler, but her amusement faded as she gazed at the lonely little girl before the fire. Meggie’s happiness depended on winning more of her father’s hesitant new attention—and Meggie’s happiness had somehow become very important to Deirdre.
Then she slid to kneel beside the child and coo over the kitty. Mischief-plotting could wait until after tea.
“WE COULD PUT boot black in his hairbrush.”
Deirdre gave the notion polite consideration. “I should like to see that—although such a plan might be more effective if he were fair-haired, don’t you think?”
Meggie’s face fell. “Oh.” She sighed. “Ink in his tooth powder?”
Deirdre grimaced. “What if it never came off?”
“Oh, it comes off eventually,” Meggie reassured her brightly.
Deirdre sent her charge a wary look. “Remind me not to make you angry.”
Fortescue brought in a fresh pot of tea. Deirdre smiled her thanks and went back to her evil master plan.
The butler lingered. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “My lady, if I might have a moment of your time?”
Deirdre looked up to see Fortescue standing even more stiffly than usual. Goodness, if she hadn’t known better she would have thought he was nervous! She leaned to whisper in Meggie’s ear. “Lady Margaret, run up to the schoolroom and fetch more paper while I help Fortescue pry the iron bar from his arse.”
Meggie snickered and obeyed with speed. Fortescue looked surprised at such willingness as Meggie dashed past him with a wide smile.
“You’ve done wonders with her young ladyship, my lady.”
Deirdre frowned. She wouldn’t want something like that to get back to Brookhaven. “I haven’t done a thing. Lady Margaret makes her own decisions.”
Fortescue bowed. “Precisely, my lady.”
Deirdre gave the butler a half-smile. “What may I do for you, Fortescue?”
He cleared his throat. “I thought perhaps now that you’ve settled into Brook House … somewhat …” His words faded delicately away, for that was most certainly not true. “Perhaps you might consider making Patricia’s appointment as your lady’s maid permanent—that is, if you have found her work satisfactory?”
Deirdre blinked. “I hadn’t realized that wasn’t already the case.”
“No, my lady. His lordship asked that I find someone on the staff to fill in until you selected your own maid.”
Patricia was a lovely girl and very skilled, far beyond what one would think, what with her lack of education …
Deirdre straightened. “She is a very intelligent girl, but her speech?” Deirdre waved a hand. “I worry that she will never be able to pursue possibilities outside of this house. It would also aid me if she could read and figure.”
Meggie strolled back into the room with a stack of paper, a smudge on her cheek and one braid rapidly coming undone. Without thinking, Deirdre tugged the child into her lap and began to rebraid it. Meggie seemed to think nothing of it, but Fortescue’s eyes widened in surprise. Deirdre went on. “If Patricia is willing, I should like to engage an instructor for her immediately.”
All tension eased from Fortescue’s handsome features and he nodded briskly. “I shall take care of it at once. I know precisely who to engage.” He left with what might have been described as a jaunty step—that is, if one were not speaking of Fortescue.
“How is Fortescue’s arse?” Meggie asked curiously.
Deirdre smiled as she used her handkerchief to absently dab at Meggie’s face. The butler and the lady’s maid? She found herself rather envious. “Oddly enough, I think it’s better now.”
Chapter Nineteen
Miss Sophie Blake had managed, despite her habitual clumsiness and inability to fade into the woodwork due to her height, to escape her aunt’s house unseen and unchaperoned. Not that Tessa was terribly diligent, but she did seem to have the most uncanny ability to detect someone about to have a bit of fun, just in time to spoil it for them.
It was odd to stroll down the London streets by herself. Perhaps it ought to have been alarming, but it seemed her unfashionable garb and obvious lack of wealth put her somewhere amongst the great servant class and therefore rendered her nearly invisible. This was rather freeing, in fact, and she thoroughly enjoyed the long walk to Brook House.
She even smiled at Fortescue when she entered, but missed his blink of surprise because she was looking about for Deirdre.
“Her ladyship is in her sitting room, Miss Blake. If you’ll wait in the parlor, I’ll inform her that you are here.”
Smiling slightly at the reminder that she was now a visitor instead of a member of the household, Sophie handed over her bonnet and gloves and made her way down the hall. Just as she approached the door of the parlor, she turned in response to an uneasy sensation that she was being watched.
Fortescue remained standing where she’d left him, a bemused expression upon his face as he gazed after her. At her questioning glance, he caught himself and dipped a respectf
ul bow before striding off to find Deirdre.
Whatever could the man have been staring at?
Then she caught her own reflection in a small hallway mirror as she passed. Her reddish hair was escaping her cap and the bump in the bridge of her nose caught the light just right and her long neck looked like a plucked chicken’s rising from the ruffled neckline of her ridiculous gown.
Oh, that’s right. I’m plain.
As usual, her mind instantly veered away from that thought, heading instead to her project. Whenever she could, she escaped from Tessa’s social obligations to work on it. Having completely translated the first of the stories of German folklore to her satisfaction and to the thorough enjoyment of her cousins, she was now in the thick of the second translation, a magical tale that promised to be even more thrilling than the first.
Her mind on the delightful prospects of finding out what happened next, she sauntered through the music room on her way to the parlor with none of her usual care in entering a room. The sunny chamber was not empty, however.
Sophie stopped short just inside the door. There was a man seated at the small pianoforte, absently running through scales with one expert hand. The notes lilted up and down, melodic for simple scales.
She wondered what it would sound like if he truly tried to play. She adored music, though there’d been precious little at Acton, but she’d come here to see Deirdre, not be confronted with strange men.
She couldn’t pass through to the parlor without him seeing her—and if he saw her he would speak to her—and then she would have to speak to him—
Panic rose within her. No, she would turn around and find Fortescue—who had already disappeared to fetch Deirdre, blast it! Perhaps if she bustled right by the fellow, he would mistake her for a maid and simply keep playing. She might even be able to muster a curtsy without catastrophe—
“You’re going to scorch the hairs off the back of my neck if you keep staring that way.”
With a gasp, Sophie looked up to see that he was gazing directly at her by way of the mirror above the fireplace. From the relaxed posture that hadn’t shifted since she’d entered the room, he’d been watching her the entire time.
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