What a Woman Wants (A Manley Maids Novel) (7 page)

I
’LL
look forward to seeing you in two weeks, Ms. Carolla.”

Sooner, if Livvy had her way.

“Drive carefully, Mr. Scanlon.” She closed the massive front door. Two weeks and this would all be over. For better or worse, she’d be finished.

Why did she have the nasty suspicion that it’d be worse?

Sean materialized from behind one of the giant columns near the living room. She hadn’t decided where he fell on the good-to-bad scale.

“Meeting go okay?” he asked, one eyebrow higher than the other. Oh, sure.
He
could do the eyebrow trick. Was there anything not perfect on this guy?

With the way those pants hugged his thighs (and butt, she reminded herself; let us not forget how they hugged his butt), the way the shirt rippled over the contours of that six pack . . . He was in the Better column.

No. Worse.

No. Better.

Ah, hell. He could be the Sexiest Man Alive according to whatever magazine was running the poll that week, but it didn’t change anything. She was here to earn this inheritance so she could sell it and pocket the change, and he wasn’t going to be very happy with her for doing him out of a job.

How about just doing him?

Now there was a thought. She already knew the guy was a world-class kisser, she’d bet he’d be a world-class lov—

“Hello? Livvy?”

A big, tanned hand waved in front of her face, cutting off that delicious image. Which was probably just as well because she could feel a blush starting and she didn’t want to have to go explaining
that
. “Oh. What? Is Orwell all right?”

Sean winced. “Well, he’s certainly a healthy eater. All your animals are.”

Of course they were; that’s what the organic food was all about.

“Did things go okay?” He motioned to the paper she’d dragged off her grandmother’s desk as if it were a loan being called due.

And, yes, she did realize how appropriate that analogy was.

“Do you know if there’s an old book around here anywhere? Something really ancient about a queen losing her head? Marie Antoinette, maybe.” She couldn’t name that many queens who had famously lost their heads.

“French Revolution?” Sean rubbed his jaw. “There’s a library in the west wing if you want to check that out.”

“That’s right. I’d forgotten about the library. Good idea.” She should have remembered. It was one of the off-limits-to-a-seven-year-old-with-sticky-fingers rooms. In the years since her one and only command performance with Merriweather, she’d never figured out if Rupert had meant sticky, as in the peanut butter she’d loved at the time, or, well, something else. Good thing that, at seven, she hadn’t known that other meaning. “I’ll just get out of these clothes”
—
she almost asked if he wanted to help
—“
and head there.”

“Want me to come with you?” he asked as they headed for the front staircase. “I could help you look.”

“Not liking my animals, are you?”

“It’s not the animals I object to. It’s their eating and sanitary habits.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Uh, yeah.” He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, but not everyone’s an animal person.”

“True. My grandmother, for one.” Livvy took the first step. “She did have horses in the barn for a while, but I’m sure
dear
Grandmama
would have a conniption if she knew goats were jumping all over her furniture. Could be why it doesn’t bother me in the least.”

“I take it you didn’t like your grandmother.”

She stopped mid-step and looked at Sean. “I didn’t
know
my grandmother. She never gave me that chance. I did, however, know
of
her. Her reputation was revered at my school. Could be because she’d donated a few of the wings, but the woman herself? I don’t know if anyone ever
knew
my grandmother. She was one tough cookie.”

“When you have the kind of responsibility she had, you have to be.”

Livvy shrugged. “In business, yes. But with your only grandchild?” She shrugged again. That hurt was so old it was forgotten, the wounds scabbed over and covered in new flesh. The tough, calloused kind. “Look, I’m soaked. If you do want to help, I’ll meet you in the library, ’kay?”

Sean wrung the bottom of his shirt. “Yeah, I could use a change, too. See you in a few.”

L
IVVY
yanked the handles on the library’s mammoth oak doors that she hadn’t been allowed to touch twenty years ago. Getting caught with peanut-buttery hands on the brass handles had been a memorable event—so was the hour she’d spent cleaning them afterwards under the stern eye of Mrs. Tidwell.

“So why are we looking up a book about a beheaded queen?” Sean reached over her and helped her open the door, his biceps flexing. Livvy caught a whiff of
man
as she passed him. Funny, she’d often thought of sweaty guys with an
ick
factor, but the faint hint of perspiration that lingered on him beneath the smell of the rain was definitely not
ick
.

And she shouldn’t be noticing. She had a
job
to do, not a
housekeeper
to do. “In a full shocker to me, it turns out my grandmother has a sense of humor. And likes poems. Go figure. Anyhow, she said that I have to find something specific in this book or I don’t get the castle.”

“I thought the castle, er, the house, wasn’t important to you.” Sean ran a finger along the brass plates on the edge of a shelf above her head.

“That’s one way of putting it.” She checked the date on the one in front of her: 1100. She was pretty sure Marie Antoinette was after that date. “No, it’s not the house itself. I mean, this place is too big for one person.”

Sean rolled a wheeled library ladder along the rod that circled the room for that purpose. “You’re not going to be single forever. This is a great house for kids. That suit of armor in the foyer could keep them entertained for hours.”

Or freak them out.

“Kids are a long way off for me. If ever.”

“You don’t want kids?”

She was used to the disbelief; it was most people’s reaction when this subject came up, but since she hadn’t had the best parental role models, why perpetuate the angst? Not to mention, she probably wouldn’t be very good at it, since she had zero idea of what constituted “normal,” thanks to the way she
wasn’t
raised. “Not every woman is programmed with the procreation gene, you know.” She grabbed the book closest to her. William of Orange.
Bleh.
History had never been a strong point. She put it back.

“No offense meant.” He stepped on a rung, then slid a book halfway off the shelf. “I can see why you’d want to unload this place in that case.”

“That’s the plan. Highest bidder gets the Martinson legacy and
Grandmama
rolls in her grave for eternity.”

He tapped the book back in place. “Ouch. Harsh.”

Okay, so maybe he had a point. She was, after all, a grown woman; her grandmother’s disinterest shouldn’t hurt her anymore. She had friends, her own four-legged family, a business. And now she’d have enough money to keep that family and business in the manner she wanted. All thanks to the woman who hadn’t cared if she’d lived or died all those years. It made no sense to Livvy why Merriweather had left her anything, and especially this house.

Sean climbed up three more rungs of the ladder, giving her a nice view. She laughed at herself. Still jonesing for the maid.

“Did you find something?”

“Not yet.” He traced his finger down a book’s spine, his lips silently mouthing the words. It was a cute mannerism and completely unexpected.

He climbed back down, rolled the ladder to the right and climbed back up.

She was going to have to find out who designed those pants because they did awesome things to a man’s butt—though that might just be because Sean had a great butt.

“Livvy?”

She shook off the hormonal bath and looked up. Beyond his butt.

“Here.” He held a book down to her. “Try this one.”

“This isn’t about Marie Antoinette.”

“I know. It’s a copy of Henry VIII’s Great Bible, whose queen was—”

“Beheaded,” she answered with him.

“Anne Boleyn.”

“Queen Elizabeth I’s mother.” It fit. She opened the cover.

There, folded neatly, were two pieces of paper. The first one was yet another note from dear ol’
Grandmama
.

Well done, Olivia. You are holding the Martinson family bible. Henry VIII gave it to the first Martinson to make something of himself. We trace our lineage from him.

Actually their lineage could be traced from
that
Martinson’s father, and his father before him, et cetera, but obviously, to Merriweather, unless there was a title after one’s name, they didn’t matter.

Which left Livvy where?

“What is it?” Sean asked.

Livvy held up the letter and unfolded the bottom part. “Another poem.”

A family’s honor to defend

A reputation to mend.

This inheritance I’ll not be handing

Unless you identify the reward left standing.

To mend?
Her reputation was just fine, thankyouverymuch. No matter what Merriweather thought, her illegitimacy didn’t define her. She was an honest businesswoman. Hardworking. Delivered good customer service and a delicious product. Adhered to the standards she’d set for herself. She certainly had nothing to apologize for and did
not
have a bad reputation.

Ol’ Larry the Worm, on the other hand, had more to atone for, but since he was dead, there wasn’t much she could do about his reputation. Her grandmother couldn’t honestly expect her to restore it, so this annoying riddle made no sense.

She unfolded the other piece of paper. Great. Latin. A lot of
-us
and
–um
, a bunch of
V
s . . . all of which didn’t matter a hill of beans, since she knew Latin as well as she knew British history.

They hadn’t exactly been her favorite subjects. Cooking and animal science, on the other hand, as well as the recycling and organic portions of her science classes, they’d been her thing.

“What’s that?” Sean peered over her shoulder.

Livvy handed the notes to him. “Beats me. Another bad poem from Merriweather and a drawing of Henry VIII with a bunch of Latin. A love letter, maybe?”

Sean whistled. “One of your ancestors got a love letter from Henry VIII? And lived to tell the tale? That’s amazing in and of itself. How’s your Latin?”

“About as good as Orwell’s singing.”

“That good, huh?”

She rolled her eyes. “So now
Grandmama
wants me to learn Latin.” Conniving, controlling, vindictive old woman.

“Or you can find out what kind of document it is and get it translated.”

“And you know a sixteenth-century documents specialist, do you?”

“No. But the internet might.”

Right. The internet. How could she have forgotten?

Mainly because she didn’t have a computer. Discretionary funds weren’t available for that purchase, nor for a cell phone with that capability.

She was going to have to chat with Mr. Scanlon about getting an advance against her inheritance. Although, the way Dragonlady was going about this scavenger hunt, Livvy wouldn’t put it past her to nix any advances until this place was hers, free and clear. “They don’t happen to have a computer around here, do they?”

Sean shook his head. “No computer that I’ve found. Other than the upgrades in the kitchen, this place is still firmly stuck in the last century. No remote controls for the televisions, no computer, and forget about Low-E windows.”

She’d bet there had been a computer here. Merriweather wouldn’t not have had one, if only to keep up on world markets. The woman had been old but shrewd, and Livvy would bet she’d had it pulled from the house just to make Livvy’s search more difficult. “What about a public library?”

Sean thought for a minute, then nodded. “About a half hour from here.” He checked the clock on the mantel above another monstrous fireplace. “But I think it closes before then. You don’t have enough time.”

She put the document back in the bible and placed the whole thing on top of another old tome on a stand in the corner.

Not enough time
. She had a feeling that was going to be her mantra as
Grandmama’s
little game played out.

I
T
was all Sean could do not to run out of that library and into his bedroom in the servants’ quarters. Mrs. Martinson might not have a computer around here, but he did. Ostensibly, he’d brought it to help with the running of his company, but since he’d sold almost everything, running his company consisted of making this work out to his advantage.

But he didn’t need a computer to tell him what that document was. He’d seen enough letters patent when he’d done his research on this place, papers from the Crown gifting the title and lands over to the bearer, in this case, the very first
Martinson
—the uppercase, italicized Martinson—to hold a title and the making of the dynasty.