Taste of Temptation

by Cheryl Holt

  “Miss Lambert!” he stated more fiercely. “I haven’t given you permission to leave.”

  “I didn’t realize I needed it. I believe our appointment is concluded.”

  “It’s not concluded until I say it is. Sit down!”

  Brooking no argument, he gestured to her chair, and she vacillated, then slinked to her seat. He grinned malevolently, delighted to have his authority so blatantly demonstrated.

  “You’ve been hired,” he declared, “and you will not refuse me.”

  “As you wish,” she tersely retorted.

  “We depart for Scotland on Saturday, and I don’t have time to interview anyone else.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Your ungrateful attitude will not help matters, Miss Lambert.”

  “I apologize for my discourtesy,” she insincerely muttered.

  “Mrs. Ford assures me that you’re ready to commence your duties.”

  “I am.”

  “We’re sailing from London. I trust that mode of travel won’t be a problem for you?”

  She’d never been on a ship and had no idea how she’d weather the voyage, but when he was such an ass, she felt justified in being contrary.

  “I get seasick,” she said, lying.

  “I don’t care,” he rudely responded. “It’s a minor distance, so your discomfort will be brief.”

  “I’ll try not to be ill in your presence.”

  He ignored her snide remark and continued. “I’ve been informed that you booked lodging at the inn in the village.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “I will send for your bags. A chamber will be prepared for you, and you’ll join us for supper so you can be introduced to the twins. Tomorrow, you’ll assist them in their packing so that the three of you can become acquainted.”

  “I can’t wait,” she lied again, and she couldn’t shield her distaste.

  “You have a sharp tongue, Miss Lambert. I don’t like it.”

  “Then perhaps you should reassess your decision.”

  “No. I enjoy getting my way, and the more you protest, the more insistent I shall be that you do as I bid you. Might I suggest that—in our future dealings—you keep that fact in mind?”

  “I will.”

  “You may proceed to the foyer. The butler will meet you there and have a maid show you to your bedroom. We have drinks at seven and supper at eight. Be prompt and dress appropriately.”

  There were a thousand replies she could have made, but what was the point? He hated to be denied, and she was no better. Nothing galled her more than having an arrogant male ordering her about, which certainly had her questioning her choice of career.

  She imagined thwarting him, watching until he was off the property, then running away. Would he chase her down as if she was a feudal serf? Would he call out the hounds? Would she be dragged back in chains?

  He was such a conceited beast that he just might, so she’d bite the bullet and obey, but she would loathe her job—and him—every second.

  Why couldn’t she have had a different type of life?

  Her parents had died when she was a baby, and she didn’t remember them. She’d had no relatives to take her in, so she’d been shuffled among the neighbors until there was no one left.

  Since she was twelve, she’d supported herself. She struggled and toiled, but she couldn’t find a place where she belonged. It was her greatest dream to marry, to have a kind husband and a home of her own.

  Instead, she had to rely on the whims of a man like Penworth.

  They stared and stared, his snooty expression letting her know how futile her spurt of rebellion had been. Her wishes were trivial compared to his, and she sighed and nodded, reluctantly acknowledging his power.

  Without further disagreement or complaint, she stood and went to locate the butler so she could learn where her bedchamber would be.