In which Lord Walrafen behaves Badly
She was nervous. Very nervous. Aubrey paced the floor of
her spacious sitting room, sliding her damp palms down her
skirts. That man—Higgins, the justice of the peace—had
been in the castle all morning. At least he’d had the
decency to stay away on the day of the Major’s funeral.
But today, he had insisted upon questioning everyone
again. He had upset her routine, disturbed her staff, and
set their tongues to wagging anew. And now, it was almost
two o’clock.
At two o’clock, things would go from bad to worse. The
Earl of Walrafen was to review her accounts. She was not
worried about her bookkeeping; it was exemplary. Nor was
she worried he might find fault in her management of the
house or estate. Oh, he might rant and rave a bit over
some paltry expense or decision, but in the end, he would
do what he always did; relent, apologize, and admit she
was right. And she was right. Almost always. Aubrey
closed her eyes, and tried to remember that.
And then, there was a knock on her door, and she spun
about to see him, his broad shoulders filling the expanse
of her doorway.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Montford,” he said in his low yet
commanding voice.
“Good morning, my lord,” she managed. “The ledgers are
ready.”
He stepped fully into her room, seemingly filling it.
Today, the earl was dressed for the country, in high,
polished hessians, snug buff breeches, and a dark brown
coat which fit as if it had been sewn on. With his
glittering gray eyes, and hard, clean-shaven jaws, he
looked every inch the rich, arrogant aristocrat.
For an instant, those glittering eyes drifted over her,
and Aubrey felt warmth spring to her cheeks. Yanking her
every fiber under control, she escorted him across the
room, and politely showed him the two stacks of ledgers,
green for the estate books, brown for the household
accounts.
It was very uncomfortable standing shoulder to shoulder
over her small desk with him. Perhaps because his
clothing was always so simply tailored, she’d not realized
quite how large a man he was. She was tall, but he topped
her by a good six inches. His hands were long-fingered,
and quick. His mind was quick, too. He grasped her
method of accounting easily, and rocked back on his heels
to study her.
Aubrey tried to smile. “So as you see,” she
concluded, “we are using standardized entries for the
household accounts, and a modified double entry system for
the estate records. Because they are more complex, what
with the various forms of income.”
“All is crystal clear, Mrs. Montford.” His voice was
soft. “You’ve a fine grasp of numbers.”
She stepped a little away from him then. “Thank you,” she
said. “Shall I ring for a footman? It will be no
inconvenience to do without the books for a few days. In
your study, you may peruse them at your leisure.”
He narrowed his gaze assessingly. “Madam, I have no
leisure,” he said quietly. “I mean to do it here, and
now. Is that a problem?”
So much for that ploy. She tried not to look
rattled. “Of course not, my lord. What will you require?
Pencils? Paper?”
He pointed at a folio tucked under his arm. “Tea,” he
said, his silvery eyes still watching her. “Just a pot of
strong tea, and the occasional splash of milk. Will that
be a problem?”
Her blush heightened. “Of course not, my lord.” She went
at once to the hob.
“Will anything about my presence in this room be a
problem?” he asked, as if trying to pin her down on some
small point.
“Certainly not.” Awkwardly, she put the kettle on, and
snatched up her small pewter jug. “I shall just send to
the dairy for fresh milk.”
Lord Walrafen settled down at Aubrey’s desk, looking
impossibly large in her dainty chair. But just as she
touched the doorknob, a sharp knock sounded, and Betsy
came into the room. She stopped short on the threshold
when she saw the earl.
“Pray do not mind me,” he said, motioning her
inside. “Mrs. Montford, can you manage at your worktable
for the nonce?”
Aubrey put down her jug. “Indeed, yes. Come in, Betsy.”
In the narrow room, Aubrey was forced to lean around Lord
Walrafen to take up her daily workbook and pencil. Again,
the scent of him teased at her nostrils. She shook off
the sensation, and Betsy followed her to the oak worktable
in the center of the room. “Have you taken the linen
count in the guest rooms?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ve the ten beds stripped, and just one
pillow slip for repair.”
“Excellent.” Aubrey wet the tip of her pencil and sat
down. “And who is to do the holland covers? I want
everything on in the west wing by the time the late sun
hits.”
“Lettie and Ida have nearly finished, ma’am,” reported
Betsy. “Do you wish the draperies covered as well?”
Aubrey considered it. There was no reason to assume
Cardow would see houseguests again in the near
future. “Yes, the draperies, too. Tell Lettie to be
careful with the pins, please. And brush all the carpets,
but do not sand or beat them unless absolutely necessary.”
“I’ll tell ’er, ma’am,” she answered. “And Mrs. Jenks
wishes to know what to tell the butcher for the rest of
the week. Do you wish the order cut back?”
“Yes, by half, please, since most everyone has gone,” said
Aubrey. “But there could yet be callers, and we have Lord
and Lady Delacourt.”
“They are leaving tomorrow,” came a deep voice from the
desk.
Aubrey jumped at the sound. “I beg your pardon?”
The earl smiled faintly. “You needn’t plan to feed them
past tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve told them not to wait on
me.”
“You—you are not leaving with them?” Aubrey managed. “I
mean to say, you are planning to remain? Here?”
Lord Walrafen lightly lifted his brows. “I’d rather not
put up at the Kings Arms,” he said dryly. “I hear they’ve
trouble with rats.”
Aubrey stood in such haste she knocked her pencil into the
floor. “I did not mean to suggest it, my lord.”
But Lord Walrafen’s expression was suddenly sly. “Now why
is it, Mrs. Montford, I wonder if you wish to be rid of
me?”
And then she saw the earl’s lip begin to twitch. He was
watching her from one corner of his eye, even as he
tallied up a long column of numbers. And then the twitch
was a full-fledged grin. Suddenly, Betsy let go a spurt
of laughter.
“Betsy!”
The housemaid’s face went red with effort. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Then Lord Walrafen began laughing. Truly laughing,
looking from her to Betsy with his pencil hanging limply
from one hand. “Really, Mrs. Montford, it’s your own
fault,” he said. “The expression on your face is quite
priceless. I seem to have come and set your little
kingdom on its ear, and now I don’t have the good grace to
take myself away again when I ought. Is that it?”
“Certainly not!”
Walrafen was still chuckling. “Ah, whatever are you up
to, I wonder?” he said almost to himself. “You and
Pevsner aren’t smuggling off the coast again are you? Some
of my ancestors did that you know, and made quite a tidy
profit.”
“You are welcome, my lord, to stay as long as you wish,”
said Aubrey. “I said nothing to suggest otherwise.”
Lord Walrafen was grinning at Betsy now. “I think she’s
hiding something, Betsy.” He paused to wink. “What do you
think?”
“Oh, I think I’d best go back to work,” said Betsy.
“Good idea,” said the earl, still dangling his
pencil. “But fetch me some milk for my tea first, will
you? Mrs. Montford seems to have forgotten me.”
But Mrs. Montford had not forgotten him, Giles soon
realized. And she did not forget him during the whole of
the two hours he spent ensconced in her tiny sitting room,
alternately reviewing her bookkeeping, and watching her
work. Her interactions with the servants were smooth and
professional. Her accounting was the same. He could find
no fault in either.
Nor could he find fault in the way her eyes kept drifting
to him when she thought he was not looking. She was
looking, and often, too. There was an undeniable tension
between them, something almost palpable in the room. Yet
she went about her duties with her usual energy and self-
possession. She was all smooth grace and lithe
femininity, moving through the room with light, quick
steps, her black skirts swishing about her ankles.
He liked watching her, he realized. Today, her thick
auburn hair seemed somehow softer, and in the privacy of
her quarters, she wore it uncovered. The hollows and
turns of her long neck could have been sculpted from the
creamiest of marble. And as always, those shoulders set
so rigidly back made her bearing almost regal in its
elegance. From time to time, he would glance
surreptitiously up from the ledgers, and watch her face
shift as first one issue then another was laid before her
by her staff. Sometimes her brows would snap together in
obvious consternation. But once or twice, he saw her
smile, and when she did, it warmed the room.
He was skimming the last of the ledgers when the second
housemaid, a girl called Lettie, came in for clean
tablecloths. He watched Aubrey go to one of the tall
cupboards which lined one wall of her sitting room, and
unlock it with a key from her waist. She stretched up,
very high up, and Giles watched, intrigued, as her skirts
flattened over a very delightful derriere.
He thought of filling his hands with those shapely mounds
and his mouth went dry. In fact, he was on his fifth cup
of tea, but it wasn’t helping much. Aubrey handed a stack
of snow-white linen to the girl, and she turned to go.
Giles stood abruptly. “Lettie,” he said to the girl. “We
do not wish to be disturbed for the next hour.”
She jumped when he spoke. “Yes, my lord.”
“Inform the household staff, if you please,” he said. “I
need to ask Mrs. Montford a number of questions about
these accounts. Tell Betsy she is in charge.”
Mrs. Montford shot him a dark look, but said nothing.
Lettie curtsied deeply, clutched her pile of clean
tablecloths to her breast, and darted out. Mrs. Montford
lingered by the tall linen cupboard. As soon as the door
was shut, Giles crossed the room to stand before her.
Mrs. Montford seemed to shrink back against the narrow
cupboard door.
“I think we should move the books to the worktable, my
lord,” she said, her voice suddenly unsteady. “There is
more room there.”
“I’ll get them,” said Giles. “They are too heavy for you.”
But despite his good intentions—they had been good, hadn’t
they?—he made no move to pick up the books. Instead, he
stepped incrementally closer, and slipped one finger
beneath her chin.
She looked up at him through a fan of thick, dark lashes,
then swiftly dropped her gaze. She was beautiful.
Exquisitely so. Suddenly, he burned to take her mouth
with his, and drive his fingers into her pile of rich, red
hair. As if his hand possessed a will of its own, Giles
lifted her chin, and forced her eyes back to his.
“Mrs. Montford?” he said softly. “Perhaps we ought to
stop playing games with one another?”
Much of her color was gone now, and both her shoulder
blades were set against the linen cupboard. He had her
trapped between his body and the door.
“W-What do you want of me?” she whispered.
He moved another inch closer, until he could feel the
warmth of her breasts against his coat. “At this
particular moment?” His words were oddly thick. “Not your
fine housekeeping skills.”
She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.
That made kissing her inevitable. Holding her chin
firmly, Giles lowered his lips to hers. She did not fight
him, nor did she kiss him back. Instead, she stood, rigid
and stoic as his mouth moved over hers, nipping, sucking,
and tasting her lips thoroughly.
It occurred to him that his actions were not his, but
those of a rash, undisciplined man. He had never been
either. It did not seem to matter. Lust shot through
him, molten and searing. He molded his body to hers then,
and she trembled faintly against him, but not, he feared,
from lust. Instead, she was almost like a virgin,
untutored by a man’s touch.
He should have put a stop to it then. But for once in his
life, his self-discipline failed him. He wanted her,
simply and desperately. He slanted his lips over hers
again, stilling her to his touch by sliding one hand into
the hair at the nape of her neck.
“Open your mouth,” he murmured.
Obediently, she did so but he could still feel her
trembling. Giles surged inside her mouth, sinuously
stroking his tongue back and forth along hers. She seemed
not to know how to kiss, but it little mattered. Her
mouth was warm, her breath faintly spicy. He heard
himself groan as he deepened the kiss, so lost in the
sleek, hot feel of her, he barely noticed when she began
to respond. But then he realized that small, delicate
fingers were inching round his waist. Their warmth was
searing his flesh. Then her tongue touched his, tentative
but unmistakable.
Still shivering, she rose cautiously onto her toes. It
was a small response. But it was enough. Blood began to
thunder in his head. Almost experimentally, she turned
her head to one side, and delved deeper into his mouth.
He felt wild and urgent, like some animal unleashed. His
eyes shot toward the long, sturdy worktable.
For an instant, he considered throwing up her skirts and
simply taking her there, in the bright shaft of afternoon
sun which slanted through the room. He could imagine how
the light would heat her hair to rich, red fire as he
pulled the pins from it. Could imagine how her bared
shoulders would look, pale alabaster against the wood, her
small breasts exposed, her nipples taut and dusky. He
reached up to cup one in his hand.
But that would not do. Indeed, this would not do. The
door, he realized, was not locked.
His timing was almost perfect. Behind them, the doorknob
rattled. Aubrey tore her mouth from his, shoving hard at
his shoulders. “Stop,” she panted. “Get away!”
They sprang apart just as Jenks came into the room, the
crook of one arm filled with a bundle of long, sword-like
foliage topped with large white blooms. Coloring
furiously, the gardener dropped his eyes.
Oh, God, thought Giles. The damage is done.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” mumbled Jenks. “You said
to lay out the gladiola in here until Ida washed the
vases.”
“Indeed, yes.” Aubrey leapt from her position by the
cupboards. “On the worktable, Jenks, if you please. I
was just—just—”
“Trying to get a spider out of her hair,” interjected
Giles. “I saw it come down from the ceiling, and thought
to brush it away.”
A spider? Lord, what a bounder. Jenks didn’t believe a
word of it, either.
“I’m told a spider’s bite can be quite dangerous,” he
added lamely.
“Aye, well, that’d be true enough.” The gardener lifted
his gaze from the floor, but avoided his master’s
eyes. “Will there be ought else, ma’am, before me and
Phelps start on the parterre hedges?”
Giles picked up his leather folio and strode toward the
door. “I’ll just be off, then, Mrs. Montford,” he
said. “My questions can wait.”
She did not look at him. Her face was deathly
white. “Yes, my lord.”
“Good day to you both,” said Giles.
“Put the flowers down, Jenks,” he heard Aubrey say as he
left. “Anywhere. Then please just go.”
Quietly, Giles closed the door, then hesitated. The
passageway through the servants’ wing was mercifully
empty. He shut his eyes, leaned back against the cool
stone, and pressed his fingers to his forehead. Good
Lord, what a hash he’d made of that.
Just then, the hinges squeaked again, and Jenks came out
into the stone passageway. Giles cleared his throat
sharply. The gardener whipped around, his eyes narrowing.
“You were not mistaken, Jenks,” said the earl quietly. “I
won’t insult your intelligence by pretending otherwise.”
“Reckon that’d be none o’ my business, my lord.” But his
dark look said otherwise.
“No, it isn’t,” agreed the earl coolly. “But it is Mrs.
Montford’s business.”
“I don’t carry tales, sir, if that’s your meaning.” His
voice was grim.
Giles stepped nearer. “I know,” he answered. “So I’m
bloody lucky it was you, and not one of the household
staff. I forgot myself, Jenks, plain and simple. As you
say, it is none of your business, but I wanted you to know
that.”
Jenks eyed him narrowly. “Well, you can know this, my
lord,” he said quietly. “Aubrey Montford is a good girl.
And she has trouble enough around here as is.”
With that, the gardener slapped his cap back on his head,
and strode off down the corridor, leaving Giles to wallow
in his emotional quagmire of lust, humiliation, and worse
still, an almost breathtaking lack of remorse. But
apparently Giles did not have sense enough to know when to
cut his losses. As soon as Jenks disappeared into the
lower bailey, he went directly back into the lion’s den,
without even pausing to knock.
Aubrey could not believe it when Lord Walrafen stepped
back inside her sitting room. Had the man no shame?
Hadn’t he caused trouble enough? Apparently not. All long
legs and masculine beauty, the earl strode across the
floor as if he owned it. Which, of course, he did.
She jerked from her chair at the worktable and watched him
warily.
He tossed his folio down with what looked like
aristocratic disdain. “I spoke to Jenks,” he said
coolly. “You won’t have any trouble from that quarter.”
Something inside her seemed to snap. “Oh, you spoke to
him—?” she hissed, circling from behind the table. “Why,
how very lordly of you, sir. And just what did you tell
him? Never to interrupt you whilst you’re debauching your
staff?”
He looked at her in some surprise. Surprise which swiftly
shifted to something else. He stalked closer, so close
she could see flecks of ebony in his silvery
gaze. “Madam, were I intent on debauching you, I’d have
had your drawers round your ankles days ago,” he
returned. “All I did was kiss you—and not entirely
without your consent.”
“Why, how dare you!” Aubrey had quite forgotten her plan
to keep her mouth shut. To cooperate. To do anything to
keep her job. “How dare you lay the blame for your lapse
at my door!”
The earl shrugged. “I’m sorry you were embarrassed,” he
answered. “That was never my intent.”
“Oh, but you found me irresistible, so all must be
forgiven?” she suggested cynically. “I suppose you were
overcome with lust at the sight of my exceptional
bookkeeping skills. Or was it my extraordinary way with
the linen press?”
“Actually,” interjected the earl, “it was your arse,
Aubrey. Your skirts cling to it most invitingly when you
reach upward.”
Much of her color drained. “I see,” she whispered. “And
like some ripe apple, my lord, I am to be yours for the
plucking?”
Walrafen lifted one brow at her analogy. “Forgive me, my
dear, but you did give that impression,” he
answered. “But perhaps I was confused. Perhaps that was
someone else’s tongue in my mouth?”
Instinct seized her. Aubrey drew back her hand to strike
him.
The earl’s hand came up, quick as a cat on its prey,
snaring her wrist and dragging her close. “Don’t even
consider it, my dear,” he said, his voice low and
ominous. “I’ve put up with a vast deal of insolence from
you already.”
“Well put up with this, Lord Walrafen,” she whispered
darkly. “I choose who shares my bed. No one commands
it.”
Walrafen no longer looked so civilized. His eyes were
dark, his mouth hard. Aubrey drew in a jagged breath, and
with it came the scent of hot, angry male. His expensive
cologne didn’t smell quite so refined now.
“As to your bed, Aubrey,” he whispered hotly against her
ear, “perhaps you’d best remember who owns it? And as to
commands, yes, you are free to choose. So choose very,
very wisely.”
“And I thought you were a gentleman,” she whispered.
He drew back, his gaze running over her face. “A
politician,” he corrected. “A real gentleman wouldn’t
know what to do with you.”
“Oh, and you do?”
Challenge fired his eyes. Walrafen jerked her fully
against him. “I think I’m catching on,” he said, right
before he kissed her.
Aubrey had found his first kiss overwhelming. This one
was emotion unleashed. A firestorm of hot, rushing blood
and blinding light. Walrafen opened his mouth over hers
and took her, invading her mouth, pressing her back
against the worktable until she felt the wood at her back.
She fought him, beating her hands against his shoulders
and twisting her face away. When that yielded nothing,
she tried to bite him. He caught her by both wrists, and
forced them against the tabletop, pinning her with his
body. Aubrey felt the evidence of his desire, hard and
unmistakable. For an instant, their gazes locked.
Walrafen was trying to catch his breath. “Don’t fight me,
Aubrey,” he growled.
Her breath, too, was short. “Let me go.”
But something in his eyes shocked her. She saw in him a
ferocity, a wild, hot madness she could never have
imagined. But there was pain, too. She had hurt him.
Still, he looked like a man who got what he wanted. Good
Lord, she’d been playing with fire.
“Just let me go,” she whispered again.
But even as his grip was loosening, his lips were moving
toward her again, and her eyes—her treacherous eyes—were
slowly closing in surrender. “Are you sure that’s what
you want?” His voice was like sin and silk. “Are you,
Aubrey?”
Her body went limp against the wood. Oh, God! That was
the trouble, wasn’t it? She was not sure. Any human
contact, any sort of emotion—yes, even lust and anger—felt
better than the nothing she’d been living with.
That moment’s hesitation was her undoing. The earl kissed
her again, his lips soft and warm, melting over her own.
A lover’s caress. Aubrey was drowning. Drowning in
confusion and hunger. Lazily, he let his lips move over
hers, tasting and sliding, his breath warming her skin.
His fingers were threading lightly through the hair at the
nape of her neck, and vaguely, Aubrey realized it was
tumbling down.
He had released her wrists, she finally realized. His
hand slid from her hair to her face, cupping one cheek as
if she were some fragile piece of porcelain. His touch
was warm, his arm gentle as he pulled her effortlessly up
from the table. The arm came around her, tight and secure
and inexplicably, she wanted to let her weight—and the
weight of the world—sag against his solid body.
“Aubrey, I’m sorry,” he whispered against her mouth. “Oh,
Aubrey . . . ”
His lips found her neck, his mouth open and hot. He let
one hand roam down the swell of her buttocks, smoothly
caressing her. When she did not resist, he gathered her
skirts in his fist and inched them up slowly. Cool air
breezed across her stockings. With his long, warm
fingers, the earl cupped one hand beneath her hip, curving
his fingers into the plumpness and lifting her body
against his. Again, Aubrey felt the heat of him, the
jutting strength of him, straining through his clothing.
Suddenly, horse hooves clattered into the bailey beyond
her window and a wagon rumbled past. The racket cut into
his consciousness. As if waking from a dream, he lifted
his mouth and looked down at her. His hand went slack,
and her skirts slithered back down her legs.
Aubrey stared at him for a long, silent moment. “What do
you want, my lord?” she whispered. “Just what are you
asking of me?”
His eyes searched her face, his expression that of a man
both torn and confused. “I hardly know,” he said, as if
to himself. “I am sorry, Aubrey. I . . . I had better
go.”
The earl turned and strode toward the door, his tread
heavy. His shoulders were stooped, his hands fisted
tightly at his sides. In an instant, the door opened and
shut, and he was gone. Aubrey wrapped her arms about
herself, went to the cold hearth, and set her forehead
against the mantle. The odor of old ashes was bitter in
her throat as she inhaled raggedly.
She had wanted him. Oh, yes. Despite his overbearing
arrogance, she’d been willing. He had not been wrong in
guessing that, had he? Which made another truth chillingly
clear: if ever the Earl of Walrafen did order her to his
bed, only her pride would suffer. The rest of her,
apparently, would find it no hard task to go.