Cheryl Holt (7 page)

Why me?
he woefully, disgustedly, mourned for the thousandth time.

Stomping into his room, he slammed the door, as a feminine gasp froze him in his tracks. He whipped around to see an unfamiliar woman hovering in the threshold to his dressing chamber. Close to his own age of twenty-six, she was exceptionally pretty. She had brunette hair, worn in a fetching chignon, big green eyes, and a mature, curvaceous body that was rounded where it should be, and thin where it should be, too.

His loud entrance had startled her, and her fist was clutched to her splendid bosom. She was winsome, alluring, but overtly befuddled, and during any other period of his life, he’d have acted the part of the gentleman he’d been raised to be.

“Who the hell are you,” he crudely demanded, “and what are you doing?”

“I most humbly beg your pardon,” she responded in a steady, soothing voice. “I believe I’m lost. I’m so dreadfully sorry.”

She reached out and groped for purchase, and he was shocked to discover that she was blind as a bat. She had to be a member of the governess’s family, which meant that Michael had failed to divulge the relevant details.

A blind woman? Living with them? What next! He was trapped in a madhouse, against his will, and without the financial wherewithal to flee!

“You most certainly
are
lost. Have you no better sense than to inflict yourself where you don’t belong?”

Astonished by his rudeness, she bristled but hastily stifled the reaction. “It was an innocent mistake. There’s no cause for discourtesy.”

“Don’t let it happen again. I don’t care to have outsiders invading my privacy.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“It’s quite uncivil of you to be wandering around where you’re not wanted.”

A scarlet wave of embarrassment washed over her. “It was an accident.”

“A pitiful excuse.” She possessed the regalness of a queen, which had him feeling petty and small, and he wished he could bite off his impolite tongue, yet he kept berating her.

“I’ll be going,” she snapped, “and whilst I’m on the premises, I shall guarantee that our paths don’t cross.”

“I would appreciate it.”

“So would I.”

She’d told him, hadn’t she? It was his turn to blush, but with shame.

In recent months, he couldn’t calculate how often he’d rebuked acquaintances, or chastised the servants, many of whom had worked for the family since before he was born. Nary a one had commented. Not even Michael. As though Alex were made of glass, others tiptoed around him, anxious about his mental state, and worried about his delicate sensibilities.

She was the sole individual who’d been brave enough to suffer his disrespect, then toss it back. He was mortified. To what a filthy trough he’d descended! When had he become the sort of villain who’d abuse a blind woman?

She hadn’t mentioned her disability, hadn’t used it as a justification for her blunder, and he could tell that she was too proud to cite it as a defense. She took several halting steps, her arm furtively searching for an exit.

As she was disoriented, her stealthy fumbling was fruitless, and she tripped over a pair of his boots. With a soft wail of dismay, she pitched forward and smacked onto the rug.

Dumbstruck, he rushed forward and lifted her to her feet. “Are you all right?”

“I’m perfectly fine.” She yanked away, even as she surreptitiously massaged her wrist, and he was furious to note that there were tears in her eyes.

He couldn’t abide a display of histrionics! “For God’s sake, don’t cry.”

“I’m not,” she insisted as she swiped her hand across her cheeks. “If you’d be so kind as to point me toward the hall, and the stairs to the third floor, I would be much obliged.”

It galled her, having to ask for directions, and her palpable wrath cooled his own, restoring his manners to an appropriate level.

“Sit for a minute. Please.”

“I’d rather walk across a bed of hot coals.”

“A thoroughly warranted reprimand.” He eased her toward a nearby chair. She felt it brush her legs but wouldn’t slip into it, so they dawdled, awkward and much too close together. To break the thorny silence, he
declared, “I apologize for my boorish behavior. I’ve had a terrible day.”

“So have I.” She was in a temper, which he suspected was out of character. She was trembling, upset by the fall and he couldn’t guess what else.

“I’d say we were even.”

“I doubt it. I resided in the same locale for twenty-eight years, and now, I’m a vagabond. Have you any notion of how awful it is to be accustomed to routine, to know where every little item is placed, and then to be thrust into this monstrosity of a house?”

“No, I can’t imagine.”

“Suddenly, I’m relying on the benevolence of strangers; I’m praying for charity, and hoping there’ll be food for supper to feed my daughter. Can you envision how hideous it is to be helpless? To be dependent? To be in such dire straits, and incapable of assisting in any worthwhile fashion?”

“No,” he repeated, discomfited by the information.

“Then don’t insult me by pretending our situations are the same.”

He was unsure of how to respond, and her anger had him fascinated and wary.

“Hello.” He clasped her hand and bowed over it. “I’m Alex Farrow.”

On learning his name, she blanched. “So, I’ve offended the earl’s brother, and I haven’t been here an hour. Isn’t that the icing on the cake?”

Charmed by her pique, he chuckled. “And you are?”

“No one of any consequence, at all.”

She moved away, and he almost went after her, but he was positive that any aid would be rebuffed. When she
detected the door frame, she paused, her confusion evident.

“The rear stairs are about eight paces to your right,” he murmured. “There are two flights, of ten steps each, with a landing in the middle. You’ll be at the third floor.”

“Thank you.” Her reply was short, bitter. She started off, and he listened; then he tiptoed after her and watched as she disappeared.

Soon, he could hear her overhead, and apparently, she was lodged in the bedchamber above his own. When she’d erroneously stumbled into his room, she’d likely miscounted and presumed herself to be on the third floor when, in reality, she was on the second.

“A harmless and interesting mistake,” he mused to himself.

The stairway was a convenient route between the two rooms. Not that he’d ever have occasion to climb them and speak with her. Not that he’d ever have a reason to go up and knock.

He contemplated their peculiar conversation. She couldn’t see him, so she was the first person in ages who’d stared at his face without revulsion, who’d talked without flinching, gawking in horror, or wrenching away in disgust.

Intrigued, he retreated, even as he conjectured as to how he might contrive to parlay with her again.

Nervous and excited, Emily tarried in the foyer. Through the opened front door, she could view the Winchester coach that had delivered Pamela and Margaret Martin to
London. The luggage was being unloaded, the girls about to be handed down.

Her heart pounded with anticipation and dread. What would she think of them? What would they think of her?

Too much had happened too quickly, and she was having a difficult time absorbing it all. She was stunned to find that despite rumors as to Lord Winchester being a ne’er-do-well, when he wanted something badly enough, he was a veritable whirlwind of activity.

With a snap of his fingers, he’d had them transferred from their despicable accommodations and ensconced in his own. Rose had a cheery spot in the nursery, while Emily and Mary had been given spacious guest suites. They hadn’t been boarded with the servants, an honor and distinction about which she’d complained, but he’d been adamant, and as she was discovering, when Michael Farrow made a decision, it was impossible to oppose him.

He was more stubborn than any individual she’d ever known.

Alert and vigilant, he stood beside her. If he was nervous, too, he hid it well.

He’d sworn that there’d be nothing improper between them, and so far, he’d kept his word, but her meeting him, her observing his carnal antics, had rattled loose her inhibitions. Restless, edgy, she was disturbed in ways she couldn’t define, which had her absurdly eager to race to perdition. It was torture, loitering next to him, and she was mortified to admit that with the slightest encouragement, she’d leap into his arms and beg him to corrupt her.

“How old are they?” she questioned, anxious to break
the tension that sizzled whenever she and the earl were together.

“Pamela is sixteen, and Margaret is nine,” he answered.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen them?”

“I don’t believe I ever have.”

“Then why would their father entrust them to you?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” he bluntly claimed.

He glanced away from the carriage and focused on her, leaning in so that their bodies were nearly touching. Sparks erupted; the air crackled and heated.

She was swept up in the blue of his eyes, and she hated how easily he overwhelmed her. Anyone watching would conclude that they were involved in a torrid affair, which was the last assumption she needed to have drawn. There were servants everywhere and she jumped away from him, but—knave that he was—he moved with her so that the strident stimulation continued. She was convinced that he recognized how thoroughly he unsettled her and he received an enormous kick out of having her so flustered.

He whispered, “Tell me the truth: Would you consign your children to such a dubious fate as having me for their guardian?”

“Never in a thousand years, you bounder.”

He chuckled, then sobered. “I’m glad you’re here.”

From how he was gazing at her, she was certain he was recollecting their kiss, that he might actually be speculating as to whether he could get away with doing it again. The notion terrified her. Would he dare such a thing, with the majority of the staff hovering about?

At the idiotic caprice, she scoffed. It was preposterous to imagine that he was attracted to her, and she had to
remember that he was an insatiable libertine. He thrived on flirtation and worse, and any attention he paid her was feigned.

She scowled, which had him chuckling again, and she whipped away as the girls left the carriage. They proceeded inside, and Emily evaluated them.

They were both fetching, with blond hair and blue eyes. Margaret appeared smart and shy, but also melancholy, which was to be expected after having been orphaned and uprooted.

Pamela was a shock. Everyone referred to her as a
girl,
so Emily had a picture in her mind of her being youthful and in need of supervision, but Pamela was definitely an adult. She was taller than Emily, and more feminine, with a curvaceous figure, ample bosom, and shapely hips. Her corset was laced too tightly, and her gown cut much too low for the modesty Emily would demand.

Seeming crafty and cunning, Pamela turned toward them, and she appraised the mansion as though calculating its value.

Here comes trouble.

The impression flitted past, and Emily tamped it down. She was determined to befriend them, and she wouldn’t make any hasty judgments.

Pamela entered, sauntered over, and snuggled herself to Winchester. Being the unbearable cad that he was, he let her.

Emily was aghast, but as it was their initial introduction, she was perplexed as to what she should say about the conduct of either.

“Hello, Michael.” Pamela was brash, shameless, stroking her hand across his chest. “We meet again.”

“Yes, we do,” Winchester fairly cooed, “and you’re all grown-up.”

Pamela was acting like a harlot, and Emily foresaw months of misery, with the two of them constantly at loggerheads.

“Lord Winchester,” Emily interrupted, barely able to keep from reaching over and yanking Pamela away from their cozy tête-à-tête, “I thought you hadn’t met Miss Martin previously.”

“I’d forgotten,” he insisted.

He was fixated on Pamela, giving her the rapt consideration he often focused on Emily, and if Emily hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn she was jealous. Which was ridiculous.

How could she be covetous of Winchester? How could she be jealous of a sixteen-year-old child?

“Who is this?” Pamela asked, as she rudely studied Emily’s clothes.

“This is Miss Barnett,” he explained. “I’ve retained her as your governess.”

Pamela laughed. “Surely, you intend her for Margaret. You can’t think that
I
need her.”

“I’m afraid so.”

He was fawning, obsequious, and practically leering down Pamela’s dress, and Emily wanted to hit him.

“Miss Pamela,” Emily interjected, her patience exhausted, “let’s get you up to your room. You can relax and rest; then I’ve arranged for tea so we can become acquainted.”

“I can hardly wait,” the snooty termagant remarked; then she batted her lashes at Winchester. “Will you join us, Michael?”

“Probably not.”

“Pity.”

She strolled by and started up the grand staircase, exacerbating the swish of her skirt. Like a dog at a bone, Winchester’s eyes followed, and Emily elbowed him in the ribs.

“Pretty girl,” he murmured.

“Shut up,” she hissed.

Quiet and demure, Margaret trailed behind her sister, and it was instantly obvious that they were as different as night and day.

“Hello, Lord Winchester.” She curtsied as a young lady ought when in Winchester’s presence.

“Hello, Miss Margaret.”

“How do you do, Miss Barnett?”

“Very well, thank you.”

Margaret analyzed Winchester, searching for something, which she apparently didn’t find. “You don’t remember us, do you? I heard you talking to Pamela, but you don’t really recollect.”

He shifted uncomfortably, then admitted, “No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. It was a long time ago. I hope you don’t mind terribly that we’ve come.”

“How could I?”

“When Father was ill, he didn’t know where he should send us after he . . .” She swallowed twice. “Well, after. I told him that you’d be the best choice.”

“Me? But why?”