Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (8 page)

‘Indeed, sir.’ From Empson’s voice he was a trifle uncertain as to the status of this latest arrival. Ross Brandon sounded like an officer and a gentleman; he hardly looked like one as he loomed over the desk with her crouched at his feet. ‘A Mrs—’ he glanced at his ledger ‘—Halgate who has just registered is so qualified. You seek such a person?’

‘Yes,’ Ross said, standing in the middle of the immaculate, prim office like a prize fighter in a vestry.

‘Er…I see.’ Mr Empson, in the absence of any further explanation, patently did not see. ‘I believe you are not registered with us as seeking staff, Mr, er—?’

‘Lord Brandon,’ Ross said and Meg stood up so abruptly that she banged her elbow on the edge of the desk.
Lord
Brandon? ‘Very well, I will register if that is required. Brandon, Trevarras Court. Do you need anything else?’

‘No, my lord. Indeed not.’ Mr Empson was on his feet, washing his hands together in an ecstasy of delight at having secured a titled client. ‘May I offer my condolences on your recent loss? A great man, hereabouts, your late father.’

‘Thank you,’ Ross said, his voice frigid enough to stop Empson’s gushing dead. ‘And the housekeeper in question is where, exactly?’ He gazed past Meg, who stood rubbing her elbow and trying not to gape.

‘Here, my lord. Mrs Halgate stands before you, my lord.’

The black eyes travelled up and down as though assessing her plain gown and modest bonnet. As though he had never seen her before. A perfect example of an arrogant lord, the clever man. Or perhaps it was not pretence. Perhaps this really
was
Ross. ‘Very well. She will do.’

‘We have not yet seen Mrs Halgate’s references, my lord,’ Mr Empson blurted, prudence finally overcoming his desire to offer his noble client immediate gratification of his needs. ‘We cannot guarantee…The reputation of the agency requires—’

‘If she turns out to be inadequate or dishonest, or her Portuguese grammar is faulty, I will return her to you.’ Ross sounded profoundly uninterested in Empson’s worries. ‘Mrs Halgate? We may discuss terms later.’

‘I believe you also require a valet, my lord.’ Ross, Empson and Meg all stared at the wiry young man who had got to his feet and was addressing Ross.

‘I do?’

The young man blinked in the face of Ross’s full, intimidating, attention, but stood his ground.
Brave man,
Meg thought. ‘If your lordship has a valet at present, may I make so bold as to observe that he is not doing his job.’

‘And you can do better?’

‘Most certainly, my lord.’

‘Your name?’

‘Perrott, my lord.’

‘Perrott was with the late Mr Worthington,’ Empson hurried to intervene. ‘A local gentleman of the dandy persuasion, if I might be so bold. A follower of Mr Brummell in his own way.’

‘And you think you can make a dandy of me, do you, Perrott?’ Not a line of Ross’s face indicated the slightest amusement at the prospect.

‘I would venture, my lord, that you would suit the severity of style advocated by Mr Brummell. That or uniform.’

‘I’ll take them both.’ Ross might have been referring to two new pairs of gloves. ‘They can come with me now to the Red Lion Hotel. We will travel to the Court this afternoon. Good day to you, Empson.’

Meg stared at the young valet, who looked back with a decided twinkle in his eye. What on earth was Ross about? He knew she needed employment: proper, paid employment. He might indeed require a valet, but his home, the name of which she had only half-heard, must be fully staffed already, surely? She was
not
going to take his charity.

And
Lord
Brandon? Why had he not told her that?

‘After you, Mrs Halgate,’ the valet said. ‘We must not keep his lordship waiting.’

Lord Brandon—would she ever get used to it?—was indeed waiting for them, radiating the impatience he seemed able to convey despite his outward calm. He clicked his fingers at her porter and set off with his small entourage straggling behind him.

And he was walking far too fast, his limp getting worse as he ignored the need for caution, or, presumably, the pain.

‘My lord!’

He stopped, turned. ‘Yes, Mrs Halgate?’

‘Would you be so kind as to proceed more slowly, my lord? I have wrenched my ankle on these cobbles.’ Meg managed a pained smile.

Ross narrowed his eyes at her, then turned and walked on at a more moderate pace.

‘He’s going to be a challenge to dress,’ Perrott observed out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I don’t suppose I can persuade him to stay with the uniform. He’ll be selling out, I have no doubt.’ He walked on, studying Ross with frank professional interest. ‘At least I won’t have to pad anything.’

No, Ross certainly did not suffer from spindly calves, narrow shoulders or a pigeon chest. ‘You’ll need to talk him into a lot of shopping,’ Meg murmured back. ‘He hasn’t a decent shirt to his name.’

It did not take the expression on the young valet’s face to make her realise her error. ‘You know him already?’

‘I came over on the same ship from Bordeaux,’ Meg confessed. ‘I have nursing experience and I dressed his leg when he first boarded—that is a nasty bullet wound.’

‘I see,’ was all Perrott said. Meg hoped profoundly that he did not, and that he would keep his mouth shut about whatever speculations he had formed.

‘I had no idea he had a title,’ she added, hoping that made the acquaintance seem even more remote.

‘His father was the third Baron Brandon,’ Perrott told her as they picked their way around a spilled basket of herring. ‘A big man with a nasty temper, very hot.’

‘Well, his son is very cold,’ Meg said. ‘From what I have seen,’ she added cautiously. ‘There was an incident
on board and he dealt with it ruthlessly and with all the heat of an ice house.’

Perrott gave a snort of amusement, then sobered. ‘He doesn’t seem too worried about the existing staff. His old lordship must have had a valet and there’s definitely a housekeeper in residence. What is he going to do with them?’

‘Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.’ Drat him—now she felt guilty as well as confused. Ross was proving nothing if not autocratic; he did not appear to have given the question of the existing servants any thought at all. Surely he would not just arrive and turn them out?

He came to a halt in front of a long, low white-washed building with a statue of a red lion projecting out over the street. ‘Where are your possessions, Perrott?’

‘At my lodgings, my lord, not ten minutes away.’

‘Then fetch them. We leave at one.’

Meg followed Ross inside, her porter at her heels, to find him already ordering a private parlour and a noon meal. The landlord quite obviously realised who he was, from the obsequious
my lords
that peppered every sentence.

‘Toadeater,’ Ross snarled before the parlour door had quite closed on them. ‘Well, Mrs Halgate? And why are you looking at me as though I’ve grown another head?’

‘Because I am so confused, you may as well have done! You really are the most outrageous, arrogant man, Ross Brandon.’ Meg put down her reticule and stood right in front of him. ‘I say goodbye to
Major
Brandon and the next moment
Lord
Brandon is taking over my life. Has it not occurred to you that there will already
be a valet and a housekeeper and that she will not be best pleased to have some unknown assistant wished on her? You have no idea if I will be halfway competent to run whatever sort of establishment you are dragging me off to, and neither do I, come to that. I told you I would not accept money—’

‘I did not drag you.’

‘Well, I could hardly stand there in the middle of the employment exchange and say, “This is so sudden, my lord. One moment we are sleeping in the same bed and the next you are employing me”, now could I? I expect I will be back there tomorrow looking for a proper position, so I needed to leave with some dignity. Why make me go through this farce when you know I need to earn some money quickly? And why,’ she added, recalling another grievance, ‘did you not tell me you are a baron?’

‘Because I do not want to be a damned baron,’ he snapped back. ‘And because I want you.’

There was no chance to step back and no hope, once Ross’s hands had banded on her upper arms, of pulling free. She was lifted up on her toes as he bent his head and then he was kissing her as though to bend her to his will by sheer force of his sexuality. His tongue was possessing her mouth, his hips were thrust against hers, leaving her in absolutely no doubt that he was more than ready to simply toss her on to the couch and take her, and the deep growl that vibrated through her spoke of nothing but a savage need that he was barely containing.

R
oss showed no sign of needing to draw breath. Hanging in his grasp, Meg was afraid, outraged and shockingly aroused. Somehow she got her hands up, clenched her fingers into the cloth and buttons of his uniform jacket and clung on while he ravaged her mouth. He wanted no tender give and take, that was the only thing that was clear to her reeling brain as he freed her arms, clasped her buttocks and lifted her against the rock-hard ridge that was so exciting her.

Yes, yes, yes,
the words chanted in her head as the taste and smell and heat of him overwhelmed every other sensation, every coherent thought.

There were coloured lights against the darkness of her closed lids, a strange buzzing in her ears. Air. She needed air or she would faint. Meg pulled back her head just enough to breathe and with the air came reality.

This could only lead to one thing. The clamouring voices in her blood still shrieked
yes,
but she fought them, got her mouth free, dragged down more air and
managed to say, ‘No.’ It was a whisper, hardly audible above the thud of her pulse. How could she trust her instincts after last time, after James? How could she risk entangling her life with another man when her future was so precarious?

Ross did not seem to hear her, but buried his face in the curve of her neck, his big hands sliding round to cup the weight of her breasts. The touch felt like naked skin on skin. ‘No,’ Meg said again, on a sob, and hit him, hard, on the ear.

Any other man would have reeled. Ross merely lifted his head and looked down at her. ‘No?’ He must have seen the conviction in her face, for he opened his hands and stepped back. ‘Meg, I am not playing with you. Won’t you be my mistress?’

‘No!
Of course not. What are you thinking of? What am
I
thinking of?’ she added distractedly. ‘I am not your mistress, I do not want to be your mistress.’ Meg hit him on the chest with her clenched fist, a thump for every sentence as though she could make herself believe her own protestations. Ross was silent, accepting her blows without trying to parry them. ‘You stalked me from the quayside, caught me in a position where I could not refuse to come with you. You know I need money—’

‘No.’ He spoke at last, frowning as her final, half-hearted blow faltered and she stood there, one hand on his chest, her breath coming in sobs. ‘It was not like that. I realised, suddenly, that I could offer you a position, one where you would be safe.’

‘Hah!’ Meg snatched back her hand. ‘Safe?’ She was not safe from her own desires, let alone Ross’s.

‘It wasn’t until just now, when I realised just how bad this felt…Oh, Meg. I don’t want this title, I don’t want
this life. I don’t want to be here. You are the only thing I know I do want, just at this moment. The only point of reference I’ve got.’

‘Then why are you here?’ she demanded. ‘Why come back if it makes you feel like this?’

There was a long silence while Ross seemed to be asking himself the same question. ‘Duty,’ he said at length. ‘Duty. There have been Brandons at the Court for three hundred years. The land is mine and my responsibility. The people are my responsibility. The damned title is my responsibility. My brother’s dead; I cannot even tell myself I can leave it to the better man any longer.’

The bitterness shook her out of her own anger and confusion.
The better man.
Had he really thought that about his own brother? ‘And you reach for me like another man might have reached for the brandy bottle or the laudanum,’ she said, thinking aloud.

‘No, I am not seeking oblivion.’ Ross’s dark eyes rested on her face. ‘I want you, not a drug. Did I hurt you, Meg?’ He reached out and ran his right forefinger with surprising gentleness across her swollen mouth.

‘No,’ she lied. ‘I was kissing you back.’ She moved away, went to sit at the table near the window. It was easier to manage when she was beyond the possibility of touching him, beyond the temptation of these new feelings surging through her. Why had she never felt like this with James, even though she had believed herself in love at first?

This was wanton, however, utterly wanton and she would not put herself back in a man’s power again. She needed to be free, her own mistress, not his. She needed to be independent, to find her sisters, to start again. She
needed to fight this romantic yearning to trust him and surrender to him or she would be as much at a man’s mercy as she had been with James. ‘I must go back to the agency. Do you think your lawyer would write me a reference? I realised when I got there that I do not have any.’

‘No, because I will not ask him.’ Ross came and sat opposite her. ‘You will not be my mistress, Meg? You kissed me back just now, you admit it. You do not seem repelled by me as I thought you must be.’

‘Repelled?’ She stared at the harsh face. ‘Never that—I hope I have more sense than to be blinded by superficial beauty. You know I have responded to you as I should not have done.’ His mouth twisted in something that might have been a sardonic smile. ‘But, no, I will not be your mistress.’

‘Then be my housekeeper. You may change your mind.’ Meg opened her mouth in denial, but he overrode her. ‘I will not touch you unless you ask me to.’

Meg felt her face flame. He knew she was attracted to him, she had just admitted it, but even if she had not, he must have realised. But he could not have realised how new and frightening the overwhelming reaction to his caresses was. Surely it was wrong to feel like this without love? It was certainly dangerous, for the only thing it could lead to was a broken heart and along the way she would have been distracted from her quest, weakened in her need to be self-sufficient and independent. She no longer felt strong enough to risk everything for love, not when it was hopeless.

Meg fell back on common sense. ‘You already have a housekeeper at your home, surely.’

‘The Court is not my home, it is the place where I must live,’ he said bleakly. ‘And the housekeeper in
residence will leave, today, with a good pension. With you, or without you, I won’t have that sour-faced harridan in the house. My mother was intimidated by her, I imagine my father hardly cared, provided the place was run efficiently, but I’ll not have her brooding like a black spider below stairs.’

‘And your father’s valet?’

Meg kept talking, anything rather than face the dilemma before her. Could she live in the same house, even for a few weeks, knowing what it was to be in Ross’s arms? She would feel that hard, angry mouth on hers every time she looked at him. But if it were a means to an end, if it would give her the financial security to search for her sisters, then perhaps it would be worth the longing and the struggle to keep her feelings to herself.

‘He is an elderly man. I will pension him off too. If he wants one of the estate cottages, then he’s welcome to one.’

‘I cannot stay for long, you know that. I must find Bella and Lina.’ She picked up her reticule. ‘I should go back to the agency, explain that we decided mutually that I would not suit.’

‘I can give you a secure place and a salary that would allow you to employ a Bow Street Runner to send after your sisters.’ Ross propped one foot on the fender of the empty grate and laid his arm along the mantelshelf, not looking at her. ‘He could start at once, travel faster than a lone woman, follow them if they have moved away. You are out of touch with England. You need help to search.’

Meg put down her reticule again and stared at his bleak profile. Bella, Lina…And she could send a man at
once, if Ross would advance her salary. When the Runner found them she could go to them just as soon as she had paid Ross back, or they could come to her. But it would mean staying with Ross, close to all that temptation and attraction, even if it was only for a month or two.

‘Thirty pounds, all found,’ Ross said, still without looking at her.

It was an excellent wage for a housekeeper, and they both knew it. With that wage she could easily afford to send a superior investigator to track down her sisters, one she could rely upon to search diligently and to preserve confidentiality. Ross had chosen a figure that would tempt her, not named the going rate for the position. But she would work for the money, earn it. It was not like taking a gift.

‘I accept the position. As your housekeeper, nothing else. And only for as long as it takes to find them.’ Then a thought struck her. ‘Can you afford it?’

Ross did look at her then, his face showing a hauteur that convinced her that he was, indeed, a baron. ‘Yes,’ he said baldly.

‘Pensions for two long-serving, senior members of staff. An overpaid housekeeper, a new valet. Your wardrobe to replenish…’

‘I shall expect you to economise: tallow candles, pease pudding on a regular basis, darn the sheets, set the gardener to dig up the rose beds for vegetables.’

‘Very well.’ How serious he was she could not tell. But economy was something she knew about, she had had enough practice. At the vicarage waste and excess were mortal sins. And when she was married she found that James had not calculated the cost of keeping a wife on a lieutenant’s pay. It did not occur to him to give up
his old bachelor lifestyle of gambling, drinking and keeping a string of horses. Nothing could be cut, James insisted—he was sure his clever Meg would contrive. And contrive she had.

‘How large is the Court?’ She tried to think ahead.

‘The old house is very small—’ Ross broke off as the waiter came in with food, Perrott on his heels.

Well, that was a relief. Meg moved away from the table to let the man set out dishes while Ross took the valet aside, presumably to agree terms. It was foolish of her to have imagined that just because there was a title the family must own some vast mansion. He was not an earl or a marquis. A small house might even explain Ross’s decision to run away from home—living at close quarters with a father he was at odds with would be intolerable for any spirited seventeen-year-old lad.

‘We will eat and then leave immediately. I have hired a chaise; we can get the luggage on behind.’

‘My lord…’ Perrott waited until Meg and Ross had both sat down before taking his own seat. ‘Might we not stop at the linen drapers on our way through the town? I think—’

‘No.’ The young valet shut his mouth with a snap. Ross waved a hand at the platters. ‘Eat. You are not dragging me round shops, Perrott. You and Mrs Halgate can make lists to your hearts’ content, but not if it requires my active participation.’

Effectively snubbed, Perrott retreated into the silent consumption of a large lunch. Meg pecked at her food, her pulse still uneven, her thoughts tumbling. Could that big, abrupt man who was silently demolishing a chicken-and-ham pie with the air of someone half-starved
for a week be the same person who had just kissed her with near-violent desperation? And was he the same man who had inflicted such inventive and whimsically shocking punishment on the two men who had tried to assault her?

And why, when she should be fleeing from him, had she accepted a temporary position as his housekeeper when she knew he was simply waiting for her to weaken and come to his bed?

For the money and the chance to rebuild her family it promised, of course. But also, she feared, because she wanted him more than prudence or sense. Wanted him although he had spoken no words of love—words she knew would be lies. Meg made herself eat some ham and told herself it was the money and she was a romantic girl no longer.

‘If you have finished shredding that unfortunate slice of ham, Mrs Halgate, we can be on our way.’

‘My lord.’ Meg put down her cutlery and made herself smile. Had the wretched man
no
sensibility at all? He must realise how she felt after what had happened between them in this parlour, surely? Then she saw his eyes and realised that he was focused on something long ago. His haste to get to the Court was like the urgency of some men to get into battle when at least the waiting would be over and they could finally face their nightmares. Even when they knew the nightmares would come true.

‘Let us go and supervise the luggage being loaded, Per…Mr Perrott.’ She must remember that they were both upper servants now and he was entitled to his title from her. How many other indoor servants would there be? A cook, a housemaid, a scullery maid and a
footman or two, she supposed. A butler of course. Not so very bad, provided the cook and the butler, were congenial, for they would be her equals in this strange new world.

The journey was pleasant, the scenery, after Spain and the Pyrenees, lush, green and achingly English. The hedges were filled with flowers, the fields with fat cattle. After a few miles they crossed the River Fal by ferry. The horses were apparently used to this alarming experience and walked steadily on to the low deck for the crossing, and Meg was fascinated by the steep wooded banks tumbling down to the wide river, the mysterious way it wound its course out of sight. Then there was rolling country, small fields, high hedge banks and occasional glimpses of sea. The names seemed alien, as though they were in another country. But it was beautiful, even through the eyes of someone fighting against nerves.

Bella would be perfect as a housekeeper—practical, calm and with a natural authority that overcame every kitchen squabble or difficult tradesman. But Meg had learned her own housekeeping in circumstances far distant from an English country house. Her expertise was limited to life in a tent, an abandoned building or the occasional luxury of a billet in whichever town they found themselves in. She would just have to pretend she was Arabella and bluff it out for as long as she was there. It would not be long enough to do any damage, she reflected. Or at least, not damage to Ross’s household. She was not so certain about the price it would exact from her.

Lord Brandon, as she must be certain to think of him, for she could not risk the slightest slip before the other
staff, had seated her beside him, facing forwards. She could not see his face without turning to stare, but as the pair slowed she felt the tension coming off his still frame like heat from a fire.

‘This is beautiful country,’ she ventured.