A Bewitching Governess
Page 9
His stroking thumb was intoxicating. Sitting here talking to an understanding man, as she had once conversed with Owen, was turning her mind inside out. But she couldn’t flee like the scared rabbit she’d been, no matter how appalling the thought of a lien on the house might be.
“A mortgage? I don’t know. Is that something your solicitor might discover? Having the bank foreclose on it would be dreadful—I haven’t the money to buy the land back. It’s not a large estate. Owen made it work, but the profits were small.”
“Even if you prove the land is yours, you might have to sell it if it’s mortgaged,” he said sadly. “I’ll write the lawyers again. It might be interesting to see how Hargreaves proved ownership to the banks if he borrowed against it. I still think we should wait until we hear from the law.”
“A simple Hogmanay party won’t hurt anything,” she insisted. “There is no harm in laying the groundwork in case the solicitors run into obstacles. The law is never quick.”
“A single party and I will ride to Glasgow in the new year to breathe fire on the lawyers.”
“And chat up a few bankers,” she suggested, rising. “I should check on the kittens and puppy or else you may need to scare up a new cook in the morning.”
Simon didn’t want to let her go. Holding the lady’s slender hand settled the tempest that plagued him better than whisky. Bedding her would be even better. She was acting as if they were equals, blurring his mind to all the reasons seducing her would be a very bad idea.
He rose with her, as etiquette required. “She’s a fine cook but replaceable. The key to running a business is to never allow anyone to become indispensable. But caging the animals is a good idea. I’m not fond of fur in my food.”
She cast him a sideways glance that shot straight to his groin as he followed her out.
“Everyone is replaceable?” she asked disapprovingly. “No sentimental attachment, even to Cook’s gooseberry pie?”
He was on firm ground talking about business. Knowing his way around a coin had made him what he was today. “Sentiment has naught to do with proper production. Cook is a cog in a well-oiled machine. If she leaves, the lass she’s training will step into her place.”
“Or quit in a huff if her friend is sent off,” the lady said with a small laugh. “You cannot predict or control human behavior the way you can a machine. But that reminds me—are you averse to hiring new staff?”
“Why would I need more bodies to stumble over?” he asked as they descended to the kitchen. “There’s always someone aboot every time I turn around as it is.”
“One, because it is a lot of work for a small staff to serve and prepare a buffet for a large party.” She caught his arm and slowed him down as they took the dark stairs. “And two, the well-trained staff at Hargreaves House is not being paid or fed regularly. Unlike you, I do become sentimental over people who have helped me.”
She wasn’t a petite woman, Simon knew, but he was large. She felt lighter than thistle on his arm, with her skirts swishing about his legs. His imagination ran rampant at trying to picture the legs she concealed beneath all that frippery. It was all he could do to mind what she was saying.
“You want me to steal Hargreaves’ staff?” he asked in mixed horror and amusement as her intent registered. “You are truly a wicked woman.”
“Think of it as feeding the hungry.” She stepped into the shadows of the cavernous kitchen and waited for him to lift his lamp so she could see.
“It is that kind of thinking that has your family called witches,” he noted, not trying to hide his amusement at her blatantly vengeful request. “You may call it feeding the hungry. Others will call it cursing your enemy.”
“Lawrence Hargreaves is not my enemy. He is his father’s puppet. I cannot even call him evil. Owen once told me there is speculation Lawrence is not his father’s son. He resembles their mother, so there is no proving it. But the rumor leaves Lawrence vulnerable and uncertain of his position in the earl’s affections.”
“Damn, but you’re perceptive.” Turning up the lamps, Simon hunted for the pets. “So Hargreaves is terrified of being exposed and denied an earldom, so he does whatever Basingstoke wishes—like declaring you and your son illegitimate.”
“That’s what I’ve decided over many a cold and lonely night.” She crouched down beside a basket on the hearth. “The kittens are sleeping.”
“So is the pup. Where the devil did they find them? It’s the wrong time of year for breeding.” Simon crouched down beside the baskets.
She fondled the dog’s silken ear. “I’d say someone’s hound escaped its pen and frolic ensued. And the spaniel’s owner was not happy with the result.”
“Poor bastard, punished for his elders doing what comes naturally. I suppose Aloysius rescued him.”
She smelled of gingerbread and lilacs and crouched so close, it would be a moment’s work to capture her tiny waist and plant kisses. . .
Simon stood abruptly. “I’ll see you back to your room. I don’t think these wee things will drive Cook from her comfy position anytime soon.”
He escorted the lady through the silent house to her room. He had once used to lead Letitia this way, turning off lamps, lighting her path to their bedroom after checking on the children. The cold and loneliness seeped into his bones now. A wee dram might help. . .
The damned woman was right. He would become a drunkard if the whisky started replacing a living, breathing woman in his bed. He refused to give it up for her, but he’d best learn to save it to quench his rages.
“I believe you are a good woman, or I’d not have you mind my bairns,” he said awkwardly when they reached her door.
She cocked her fair head quizzically, and he felt the weight of those crystal blue eyes on him.
When he did not find his tongue fast enough, she acknowledged, “As you are a good man. We are just. . . different.”
“Men and women usually are,” he said dryly. “I thought we’d established that. There is one place where the differences work together.”
A maiden wouldn’t understand. A staid matron would slap his face. But Lady Hargreaves was young and from a more broad-minded society than his. Her lips turned up, and he thought he saw interest in her eyes. . . or at least speculation.
“Your aunt and your niece are just down the hall,” she reminded him.
That did not sound like a no to him. He pushed open her sitting-room door and led her in. She still watched him with that grave speculation.
He did not have words to overcome her mild objection. He only knew action.
He shut the door and drew her into his arms and kissed her.
Eleven
Fool that she was, Olivia sank into Mr. Blair’s embrace, desperate for the strength and comfort a man’s arms could offer. This wasn’t slender, gentle Owen, however. Mr. Blair wrapped her in a flaming furnace, then set sparks to her lips and tongue until she was consumed by a fire in her blood, making her ache for the fulfillment she’d once known.
She wasn’t drunk, she was certain. And she didn’t think he was either. How could they. . . ? They could not.
She tried to push against Mr. Blair’s broad, unforgiving chest, to make him back off so she could breathe, so she could think. . . but he only carried his intoxicating kisses down her throat and buckled her knees.
“I am not a rabbit,” she told herself. Or maybe she said it aloud. He took to unpinning her hair with expert swiftness instead of kissing her senseless.
“I wager you were never a rabbit,” he murmured. “Despair makes fools of us.”
“I am not you.” Relieved that he gave her breathing space, Olivia found her legs again, although her breasts were desperate for attention. “I am not strong. I like quiet peace.”
“I think we’ve established our differences.” He ran his big hands through her hair, spreading the length over her shoulders—and over her breasts. He cupped them admiringly. “You are a beautiful young woman. I’m a healthy m
an. Who would we hurt if we enjoyed a bit of bed sport?”
No one. She had no one but herself—and Evie. Evie had grown up with a prostitute and understood only that she was loved and fed.
“Your family,” she murmured in protest, but his hands felt so very good—
“I’ll send the lot away,” he said in indignation. “They have no right to judge. But I dinnae want to push you.” He rubbed her aching nipple through layers of fabric and leaned his bristled jaw on her hair. “You are a guest in my house. I want you now, and I’ll want you still tomorrow. I’ll give you time to think on it if you like. We’re adults, not children.” Despite his words, he undid the top button of her bodice.
She wanted him to open her bodice, to untie her ribbons and caress her flesh. “Denial makes us stronger, does it not, Mr. Blair?” she asked unsteadily.
“Simon. I am Simon to you, please. And you are Olivia. I cannot call you by another man’s name. Denial most likely makes me weak with lust, but perhaps it’s good for the soul.”
He reluctantly stepped back, although his gaze did not lift from her bosom.
“Lust without sentiment,” she said shakily, fastening her button to look less wanton. “It is not a philosophy I have considered and is probably best pondered in the cold light of day—Simon.”
“Yes, you’re most likely right—Olivia. Tomorrow, we may despise each other all day and go about our business. We’ll see how we feel tomorrow night.”
The bulging placket of his trousers revealed how he felt tonight. Olivia forced her gaze back to his square, honest face framed in lush black hair—and almost fell into his arms again.
“Go, before I regret it,” she whispered.
He pressed a quick kiss to her cheek then departed, as if he felt the pressure too.
What, by all that was holy, was she doing?
On Thursday, needing to stay busy to keep from spending the day in a state of rut, Simon had his horse saddled. He didn’t grow up with horses the way wealthy nobles did. He had no eye for expensive horseflesh or delicate thoroughbreds. But he’d found a good solid Percheron mix that could hold his weight and travel faster than the carriage he refused to use.
He aimed his mongrel beast toward Hargreaves Hall. If the viscount was present, it was only right that he meet him man-to-man before falling for female schemes.
Gullies marred the hard-packed gravel of the lane up to the hall, and the verge had not been scythed in the fall. Brown grasses coated in morning frost brushed his horse’s hocks.
The Hall itself had an air of neglect, even though Simon knew Lady Hargreaves had lived here until two years or so ago. He’d not owned a home until he’d bought his estate about the time the lady had left hers. But these past years he’d learned the need for constant maintenance. He eyed the peeling, faded paint on the windows and knew no pennies had been wasted on upkeep recently.
He yanked the bell rope at the door, then rapped the knocker. No stableboy arrived to take his horse. No footman answered the door.
Perhaps the rumors of the viscount’s presence were just wishful thinking. Out of curiosity, Simon led his horse around the house to the modest stable.
The Hargreaves obviously had not spent their coins on horses. His own stable was larger and better appointed. Remembering Olivia saying the estate eked a bare profit, he approved of the restraint.
A stableboy appeared to admire his massive gelding.
“Is Hargreaves not at home?” Simon asked.
“He is, sir, but they stay abed until afternoon. I can take word to the kitchen for ye if ye like.” The freckle-faced lad looked eager to head for the warmth of the kitchen and perhaps a hot cup of tea. His jacket seemed thin for the weather.
“Why don’t you water Thor and give him a handful of oats while I go around to the kitchen myself,” Simon suggested. He offered up a coin to assuage the lad’s disappointment.
The boy grinned, pocketed the coin, and led the horse away.
The lady had said her former servants were going hungry. The boy was skinny but not sullen. Maybe he could reassure Olivia that her staff was faring well.
The house was old and made like many another farmhouse. He took the path through the kitchen garden, past the privy, the dairy, the laundry, and down the cellar stairs. Rather than knock, he entered as if the place belonged to him. He’d noticed that gentlemen were rude that way.
The servants were evidently enjoying mid-morning tea and gossip. They glanced up from the trestle table with surprise at his entrance. No one leaped to his assistance or to challenge him.
“I bring you greetings from Lady Hargreaves,” he said into the silence. “She’s heard rumors and is that worried about you, I thought I should see for myself. I’m Simon Blair. The lady stays with my family.”
An older fellow in a faded suit got up to close the interior kitchen door. “I’m Jameson, sir. As you can see, we are well. You may reassure the lady and convey our gratitude for her concern.”
Simon had grown up in proud poverty. He shoved his hands in his pockets and studied the meager fire barely heating the kitchen, the weak tea in their cups, and the lack of sugar or cream on the table. No meat roasted on the spit. No pies cooled on the counter.
He checked the cauldron simmering over the fire. “Gruel, eh? I’ve eaten my share of that in my day. Now, my cook insists on one of those fancy stoves that heats water as it cooks and holds a dozen pots and needs polishing every day.”
“Lady Hargreaves said she was saving for one,” a young maid spoke eagerly. At a loud cough from an older woman, she drew back. “But there’s mostly just us now, and we don’t need fancy.”
“Can we offer a cup of tea, sir?” Jameson asked stiffly, apparently having already determined Simon’s status and lack of title as good butlers learned to do.
“I thank you, but no. The lady is a bit homesick for familiar faces.” Simon didn’t think he was lying. Women liked the familiar, he was reasonably sure. And he didn’t like seeing proud people mistreated if he could help. “I’m in need of more staff, and she thought if any of you might be looking for a new position, I should make an offer. I know I don’t have the importance of a viscount, but I pay well and promptly. New uniforms are given out twice a year. You may ask any of my people.”
“Will Lady Hargreaves be staying with you for long, sir?” the older woman asked cautiously.
“I hope so,” he said with cheer, thinking of the lady gracing his bed. “But even if she takes a notion to return to the city, I’ll still need staff. I know it’s a difficulty to work with new people and situations, and I cannae help that. Think on it. And if you’re in the market sometime, talk to my staff, get the lay of the land like.”
He tipped his hat and opened the door. “Don’t be strangers.”
He strode up the crumbling steps whistling a happy tune.
He knew the characters of people like that. He’d grown up with them. The ones with status would be unwilling to surrender their superior position. The youngers. . . They’d be around before long. They had futures to build, loved ones to feed, and the time and energy to succeed. The viscount wouldn’t go hungry, but he’d soon be saving coins on a staff he no longer had.
Olivia attempted to lose herself in the mundane. She helped Cook with the menus for the party and for the week, since Aunt Maggie had never fed a large household. While Maggie knew a good deal of housekeeping, the older woman had no comprehension of bookkeeping, so Olivia went over the household accounts and left the approved invoices on Mr.—Simon’s desk.
No matter what she did, she was reminded of his blatant masculinity pressed against her, his hungry mouth on hers, his hands molding her breasts, and the desperate need to feel his naked flesh. A maid set the newly cleaned whisky glasses on the shelf, and Olivia recalled the peat-smoked scent of his breath. The children ran to her with questions about their new pets, and she remembered crouching beside his big body in the dim light of the kitchen. She was driving herself mad.
Owen would have been proud of the boy. He was growing straight and tall, and despite his wariness, he bowed and met her eye boldly. Daisy had trimmed his dark hair, and the vicar had rummaged the village for clothes that almost fit. She’d ordered a local seamstress to make up more, but he now looked like any normal boy and not a ragamuffin.
“My aunt wrote me,” he said, holding a wrinkled scrap of paper. “She can write,” he said almost defiantly.
“And you can read,” Olivia replied. She’d noticed he was quick with books.
He nodded. “She’s me. . . my mother’s sister. She works at the Hall.”
Ahhh, the plot thickened. Olivia waited, proud that he had the courage to come to her, a veritable stranger.
“She says. . . Mr. Blair invited the staff to come work for him. She wants to know if this is a safe place to work.” The boy’s eyes begged for understanding of a subject no nine-year-old should need to know. Certainly, no son of a viscount should be aware of kitchen affairs.
Incensed that any woman was put in a position of inquiring about her safety, Olivia still thrilled a little knowing that Mr. Blair had not only listened to her concern but had acted on it. Which meant he’d probably visited the Hall and had seen conditions for himself. They must not have met his approval.
She had known Lawrence Hargreaves was nothing like his brother, but she had never thought him callous. But if he allowed his friends to give the maids cause to fear. . . She’d have to cut his throat.
“What do you think of Mr. Blair’s home?” she asked the boy. Someday, Aloysius might have servants of his own. He needed to understand leadership and responsibility. “How will you respond to your aunt?”
Aloysius gravely considered her question. “No one talks to children,” he said cautiously. “But we listen. Cook doesn’t scold. Mrs. Maggie does, but she’s not hateful. There is lots and lots of food. And it’s warm here.”