She reached up and swiped a stray hair from her face. The motion so smooth, so graceful, it was art simply to watch.
He had to put an end to this madness, preferably before he did something stupid.
“Good afternoon.” He released the words into the silence, and watched as her body froze, then her head turned just enough to see who had spoken.
Her eyes widened, and she slowly rose from her reclining position and moved to stand.
His gaze flickered to her foot in the water, watching as she placed her other foot down on a nearby rock.
It wobbled.
She shifted, gasped—then, as if time had slowed down, she fell backward into the pond.
Chapter Nine
Cold.
The first thought that went through Miranda’s mind wasn’t the need for air, or the inclination to swim. It was the idea that her body was going to freeze into a block of ice, like the Serpentine in winter. At least she’d had the good sense to take a deep breath and close her mouth as she fell.
Good Lord. He’d scared the wits out of her!
Her hands found the bottom of the rocky pond, and she pushed herself up into a sitting position, taking a lungful of air. Thankfully, the pond was only a few feet deep, just enough to give her a proper soaking. Immediately her teeth started chattering while she wiped the water from her eyes.
“Good God, are you all right?” a deep baritone asked with a rich brogue.
Miranda glanced up to see the man who had ignited her fright, the man who was also her employer, reaching out a hand toward her.
Reaching up, she was all but flung from the water and onto the shore by his powerful grip. Warm hands grasped her shoulders, and she wanted to melt into their comfort. Quickly, too quickly, the touch was removed as she gained her balance. “Thank you,” she spoke between teeth chatters.
Even though she really didn’t feel thankful in the slightest. She turned to him then, waiting for an apology.
She blinked.
He tilted his head.
Was the man daft? Didn’t people apologize? Wasn’t she owed one?
“We should get you indoors.” He nodded once, as if his idea were brilliant rather than simple common sense.
While she, on the other hand, still waited for an apology.
She wasn’t sure why it mattered so much; it just did.
Maybe it was because her father never apologized for anything.
Maybe because she wanted to be treated well.
Regardless, as she waited one moment more, something inside her snapped.
She. Was. Done. With. Waiting.
“Aren’t you going to apologize?” she bit out, trying to make her tone serious even while her teeth chattered.
The irritating man tilted his head, as if the thought had never occurred to him.
Perfect. From one arse of a man—her father—to another.
Well, this time she refused to stand by and allow it to happen.
Not when she knew Liliah would arrive soon.
Not when she knew her rank, her worth—regardless whether anyone else knew.
She. Did.
“Do you need coaching? I’ll help. ‘I’m sorry I snuck up on you and—’”
“I know how to frame a proper apology,” he interrupted, his caramel eyes dancing with . . . amusement?
What part of this was amusing? Miranda began to seethe.
“You simply are miserly in handing them out, even when they are grossly necessary?” she asked, her tone clipped. This time the chattering of her teeth added emphasis.
He opened his mouth, fought a grin, and glanced to the ground. “A thousand apologies, miss.”
Lady, she corrected in her mind but held her tongue. “Thank you,” she replied in more of a retort, and started to march up the hill toward the manor house.
“Isn’t it customary to accept an apology when one is given?” His tone was challenging.
She paused halfway up the hill and turned to regard him. “When the lady is so inclined, yes,” she answered, then turned, a smirk on her lips at her own smart remark.
“And you don’t include yourself amongst the ranks of ladies?” he asked, his voice sounding much closer.
I’m more of one than you think. “When it suits me,” she replied instead.
A deep chuckle radiated from him, giving her body a rush of warmth even with the biting chill of her wet skirts. “I’m thankful you amuse yourself, my lord.” She stomped up the rest of the hill and started down the other side, her skirts sticking to her legs with each step.
“Wait,” he called out to her.
“I’d rather not. I’m not comfortable just now,” she remarked over her shoulder without breaking her stride. She made it to the gravel path beyond the hedgerows and noted the way her skirts dripped water upon the stones, leaving a trail. Drat; she wouldn’t be able to make it up to her room without making a mess. She stopped and glanced to the house, debating which entrance would be best to take.
A warm hand rested on her shoulder. She should have shrugged it off, but the warmth was irresistible. Settling for a glare, she turned to the owner of the hand.
“Come with me. It’s the least I can do,” he remarked, amusement still thick in his tone and apparent in his expressive eyes.
She shouldn’t notice.
But she was realizing that he was impossible to ignore.
She gave a small nod, and lamented the loss of heat when he removed his hand and started for a small entrance not far from where she stood. With his back to her, she took the liberty of studying the infuriating man before her.
The man whose benevolence she still needed.
For the moment.
Drat.
Yet her irritation melted into appreciation as she studied the broad length of his shoulders, the tapering of his waist down to a powerful stride.
Belatedly, she noted he didn’t wear a coat, just his shirtsleeves.
It wasn’t proper.
But she wasn’t exactly proper at the moment either. The improper attire did afford her a much clearer view of the gentleman’s form, and it was . . . intriguing. Angular yet rounded. She fleetingly wondered if he was as granite solid as he appeared.
“Here.” He opened the door, pulling her fairly scandalous thoughts from the forefront of her mind. If she hadn’t been so terribly cold, she was sure a blush would have given away her private musings.
She was no sooner through the door when she was shocked once more by the absurd gentleman. One moment she was walking on her shivering legs, the next she was holding the man’s neck to keep her balance while he carried her up the stairs.
“This, no.” She shook her head.
“Ach, wee-shet,” he muttered, grinning wolfishly. “Mrs. Keyes would tan my hide if I let you traipse about the house dripping all over.”
“I highly doubt that your housekeeper—”
“You don’t know her as I do. Trust me, I’m saving my hide here. And maybe yours too.” He gave her a wink.
While he carried her.
In his arms.
She’d never been carried before.
Warmth seeped through her as she pressed against the fabric of his shirt. The initial shock of her cold skirts pressed tightly against her was now being replaced with warmth from his arms.
If she weren’t so frustrated, she might actually enjoy it.
“I see you’re not giving any argument,” he said.
“I can’t see how my arguing would change anything,” she replied.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating deep in his chest, resounding against her limbs. “You’re right in that.”
She was about to say something but noticed he was walking out into the second floor. “My roo-chambers are not here my lord, but . . . below.” She spoke, the idea of it reminding her of her humble position.
He paused, turning a confused glance to her. “You mean Mrs. Keyes gave you the nursery quarters? When we’ve at least thirty rooms avai
lable?”
Miranda frowned, not seeing the problem. “Of course. Why would I be anywhere else?”
Something flickered in his gaze, an understanding of sorts before he gave a small nod. “I see.”
“I’m afraid I do not. And I’m soaking you as well.” She glanced to the almost transparent white shirt pressed against her skirts. Belatedly, she realized she was able to answer her own question.
Yes. His body was as solid as granite.
Her fingers, pressed against the back of his neck for support, registered a thousand sensations all at once, as if absorbing as much information as possible, as quickly as possible. Soft, warm, smooth, tight, it was an overload of her senses, and she scrambled to identify each one.
“Let’s count it as my penance for a late apology.” He smiled kindly, then continued down the hall.
She opened her mouth to say something in reply, then closed it when no intelligent remark came to mind. She was growing far too . . . aware of him. His arms were placed just beneath her bottom, and his hands gripped her upper thighs as he walked. His other arm wound around her back, making his hand scandalously close to her—
“What in heaven’s name!” Mrs. Keyes all but shouted, drawing Miranda’s attention.
“Ach, I scared the wee lass and she tumbled into the pond,” he answered with a hint of remorse.
She was shocked it held any at all.
“She’s drippin’ wet!”
“I said she fell in the pond, Mrs. Keyes. Did you think she miraculously didn’t get wet?” he answered with a chuckle as he turned toward a room with a double door.
“There’s nothing to be done for it now, I suppose. I’ll fetch some clothes for the poor lass.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Keyes. And I’m dreadfully sorry I’m dripping on the floor,” Miranda added.
“Isn’t your fault. It’s his.” She jabbed a thumb at the viscount, cackled, then rushed off to collect the items.
He opened the door and took a few steps inside, then, with a gentleness she wouldn’t have suspected, he tenderly set her down on her feet.
“Th-thank you,” she murmured, missing the heat of his body immediately.
“You’re welcome.” He ran his hand through his sandy hair, stretching the fabric of his transparent shirt over the skin of his chest.
Miranda’s face heated with a blush even as her heart beat faster at the imagery it created. “I’m sure Mrs. Keyes can assist me from here,” she added, wanting to be rid of him. Her senses and emotions could only take so much.
He’d wreaked havoc on both.
He nodded once, his gaze meeting her eyes, then lowered, traveling the length of her body till she was sure he was studying her slippers. His gaze was like a touch, caressing every inch of her body, making her breathless. With a low curse, he turned and left.
It was a few moments later, after she’d recovered, when she glanced down at herself.
Just as his shirt had become transparent from the water, so had her dress.
Chapter Ten
Heathcliff Marston, Viscount Kilpatrick, was not a stranger to beautiful women. Nor was he a novice when it came to the naked female form.
Rather, he was considered an expert.
Lord knew he’d had more than enough experience.
Yet he still felt the lingering intensity that threatened to make him combust.
He tried to remember the trek to the house. Surely he would have noticed the transparency of the fabric before? Yet it was also reasonably sound to consider that the water continued to soak through the layers of clothing till . . .
He slid a hand down his pants to ease the ache between his legs.
And there was something else.
Employees did not demand apologies from employers.
He’d seen it in her eyes the moment they flashed at him in irritation.
She had expected one, and when the expectation wasn’t met, she had demanded it be satisfied.
It was rather erotic. The forest- turned water-nymph had a bit of a temper.
He liked it, but it was an untried emotion. One she didn’t use often.
Apparently, he had the knack for bringing it out.
That could be intriguing.
The nagging curiosity ate at him yet. Who was she? He’d often heard of ladies of good breeding falling on hard times and turning into bluestockings. Hell, they’d employed a few ladies who’d turned into ladies of the night because of financial destruction. It wasn’t often, and they came to Temptations because they’d at least be treated and paid well, but it made him wonder what trauma had befallen the nymph now next door.
That was another problem. Of course Mrs. Keyes would put the governess in the nursery rooms, but when she said it, it seemed wrong, like petting a hound against the grain of his fur. But that didn’t bloody well give him license to deposit her in the room across from his.
As if she didn’t present enough of a temptation.
Damn it all, she was the help!
Nothing could come of it.
Except pleasure.
Only that was one particular pleasure that wasn’t to be had, or so he tried to remind himself. In an irritated motion, he unfastened the wet shirt that clung to his skin, gritting his teeth against the memory of how her clothing had done the same. Tossing the offensive reminder to the floor, he all but stalked to the adjoining closet and selected another. He should call his valet, but he wasn’t the kind who required constant assistance from others. No, he preferred to accomplish tasks with his own two hands. His fingers fumbled slightly with the buttons, but soon he was tugging the sleeve of his shirt into place while he finished dressing.
The generational clock sounded in the hall, and Heathcliff counted the chimes, four. They kept country hours here, and he expected dinner to be served at around six, which left him two hours. Much could happen in two hours, but there was only one thing that was a necessity.
He had to calm the hell down.
It wasn’t an impossible feat, but it was a feat nonetheless. Governesses weren’t to be trifled or flirted with. That was simply the end of it. Yet, as he shrugged on his coat, his mind drifted back to the perfect outline of her waist swelling to perfectly rounded hips. His memory traveled the length of her waist, higher . . . he shook his head. In truth, the fact that he was attracted to her should be the first sign to be wary.
His judgment in women had never been good. Rather, it was a universal truth amongst his friends that if he found a woman interesting, she was trouble.
It would behoove him to remember that, and apply it to this situation. Miss Miranda may be beautiful, with the form of a goddess, but fine figures often hid black hearts.
After all, a beautifully wrapped poison was still lethal, no matter how lovely the paper and bow.
He headed to the door and strode out into the hall. It had been months since he’d been in residence; he needed to address the small mountain of correspondence and documents requiring his attention that had taken habitation on the mammoth desk in his study. As he took the stairs down to the lower floor, he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Keyes leaving one of the parlors and entering the foyer.
“I see you’re all cleaned up as well,” she said, her brow arching.
Heathcliff narrowed his eyes. “Indeed.”
She shook her head. “Scaring the wits out of the poor thing. You should know better,” she scolded without any heat.
“You should know better than to expect much from me.” He shrugged and started toward the study again, then paused. “Mrs. Keyes?” He turned.
The woman folded her hands and inclined her head. “Yes?”
“Can I speak to you in private?” He gestured to his study, just ahead.
“Of course.” She followed him in, then took a seat when he indicated she should.
The fire crackled softly in the otherwise quiet room, and Heathcliff set a stack of papers to the side of the desk before he sat down, facing Mrs. Keyes. “What do you know of Miss
Miranda?”
Theoretically, finding out about her history and other information would reinforce the necessity to keep away. He only hoped Mrs. Keyes had some details.
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about her, my lord.”
Blast.
Mrs. Keyes twisted her lips, then continued. “She’s very prompt, exceedingly polite, and I’m certain she was a lady of quality at some point in her young life. She carries herself with more grace than any lady I’ve ever seen, though you’d be a better judge than I, with all your experience in London.”
“Indeed.” He waited.
“She’s kind to a fault, never cross as far as I can tell, and has the patience of a saint to deal with Miss Iris. Who, I might add, is a delightful girl as well, simply inclined to more of a stubborn nature, you understand.”
“I quite gathered that.” Heathcliff arched a brow. “So you know nothing of her life before her employment here?”
Mrs. Keyes shook her head. “No. I thought you had that information, my lord.”
Heathcliff leaned back in his chair. The mystery continued. “Thank you, Mrs. Keyes. I appreciate your insight.”
“Not sure how much insight I have, but you’re welcome. If you’re interested, why no’ ask the lady herself?” Mrs. Keyes asked, her brow furrowing.
Heathcliff gave a disinterested grin, the kind he gave to gamblers who tried to convince him of the worth of the collateral they used to place bets at Temptations.
Mrs. Keyes arched a brow, as if awaiting his response, not believing his bravado.
Damn, it was bloody well irritating to have someone read your expressions. He almost had sympathy for the gamblers.
Almost.
“I don’t wish to bring up memories that could be painful,” he lied smoothly.
“You and your tender heart,” Mrs. Keyes remarked, smirking. “Will there be anything else?” she asked in a kinder tone.
Heathcliff shook his head. “You’re dismissed.”
“Thank you.” She stood slowly, then bustled out of the room, shutting the door with a soft click.
Heathcliff folded his hands on his desk, staring at the swirling wood grain but not seeing it. It would be a terrible lapse in judgment to ask Miss Miranda questions. Who was to say she would tell the truth? And while he prided himself in reading others’ body language, women were of a different sort, and his confidence was lacking in that area.
Escaping His Grace Page 6