Beatrice knew she could have asked for a larger allowance and the Tumbley’s, being a good family of upstanding moral character, would have no doubt given it to her. But she was not a woman without pride, and instead of taking more from them than she already had, she began to sell the artwork and the furnishings and the tapestries and everything else she and Jeffrey had spent all of their money on when they thought themselves invincible.

  How wrong they’d been, Beatrice thought bitterly as she opened her armoire and stared at the pitiful selection of dresses within. How arrogant to think themselves in control of their own destinies. How foolish to believe their happiness would last forever.

  Reaching out, she blindly picked a gown of faded yellow that had seen far better days. Once she never would have dreamed of wearing such a tired and worn garment; now she stepped into it without thought, careful not to tear what remained of the delicate lace trim as she pulled it up and over her shoulders before ringing for one of the maids to help with the pearl buttons that ran down the back.

  Anna, dark curls bouncing beneath her white cap, appeared within moments. She blinked in surprise upon seeing Beatrice up and halfway dressed, a feat rarely witnessed before noon.

  “Goodness!” she said, lips curving in a smile. “Look at you all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” Without being asked she moved behind Beatrice and began to button the dress with brisk efficiency, chattering all the while. “Sadie is downstairs fixing breakfast. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of Mrs. Plumsworth but the snow is so deep it is no surprise she was not able to get up here. Have you seen it?”

  “Seen what?” Beatrice murmured distractedly, her thoughts far removed from the cook. If Sadie was making breakfast, did that mean Jack really was waiting for her? The corners of her mouth tightened. She had enough to occupy her time without spending it on a veritable stranger. Especially one like Jack Emerson. The man was a threat to everything she-

  “The snow!” Anna exclaimed. Finishing with the last button she moved to the bed, frowned slightly at the pile of covers at the foot of the mattress, then shrugged her shoulders and began to gather them up. “It is quite beautiful, actually. Do you want me to open the curtains so you can see?”

  “No,” Beatrice said with a vehement shake of her head. “As I told you yesterday, I do not wish to see it. Any of it.”

  Anna’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “But-”

  “The curtains will remain closed until spring,” Beatrice snapped. “How difficult is that to understand?” Recognizing the venom in her tone, she took a deep, deliberate breath. “I am sorry,” she said, noting the Anna’s wide eyes and pale cheeks. “I did not mean to speak so harshly. This is a… very trying time for me and the snow reminds me of things I would rather forget.”

  “Of course.” Hugging the bed linens against the white apron she wore over a plain brown dress, Anna began to edge towards the door. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Her gaze flicked to Beatrice’s hair, then darted away.

  Self-consciously Beatrice touched a pale tendril, fingers sliding through the lifeless strands. Once she would have sat every morning for over an hour while her hair was fashioned into an elaborate chignon or fanciful twist. It had always been too heavy and thick to hold a curl, and on the days her lady’s maid had been unable to style it she’d refused to receive any callers or even go outside, too embarrassed to be seen with her hair hanging limply around her shoulders and too inept to style it herself.

  “Yes, I… Actually no,” she said, abruptly changing her mind with a sharp shake of her head. If she asked for help with her hair this morning it would only be because she wanted to impress Jack. If and when she decided to once again begin fashioning her hair in fanciful twists and chignons it would be because she wanted to do it for herself, not for a man she hardly knew and almost certainly disliked.

  “My lady?” Anna said uncertainly.

  “Go on.” She gestured towards the door. “I do not want to hold you up any further. I know you have a lot to do.”

  “Yes,” Anna said with a cheerful shrug of her shoulders, “but no more than usual. If you need help with anything…” she trailed off, her gaze flicking to Beatrice’s hair yet again. “I caught a glimpse of the stranger as he went downstairs this morning. He’s quite handsome.”

  “Mr. Emerson.”

  “Pardon?”

  “That is his name,” Beatrice explained. “Mr. Jack Emerson.”

  Eyes bright with curiosity, Anna shifted the linens from one arm to the other. “Is he titled? Where did he come from? How long will he be staying here? How did he-”

  “I do not know.” Beatrice held up her hand, palm facing outwards as though she could physically stop Anna from speaking. Under normal circumstances a member of the household staff would have never been so familiar with their employer as to ask questions or make personal remarks about a guest, but then the circumstances at Stonewall were hardly normal. Anna and Sadie were more than maids; they were the only women Beatrice had to talk to which meant certain boundaries that would have been in place in traditional households - namely that the servants adhered to the timeless rule of being neither seen nor heard - did not exist.

  Anna’s shoulders drooped in disappointment. “Oh,” she said after a pause before one corner of her mouth lifted in a mischievous smile. “But you do know how handsome he is.”

  “I know nothing of the sort,” Beatrice said primly.

  “But was he not in here just a few moments-”

  “Breakfast,” Beatrice interrupted. “I - I need to go down for breakfast.” Because heaven help her if Jack came back up.

  Somehow she needed to convince him that he had to leave this very morning… a task she would much rather accomplish with a table between them instead of a mattress. “Carry on doing whatever it is you are, ah, doing-”

  “The laundry,” Anna supplied helpfully.

  “-and I will see you later.” Bolting out of the bedroom before the telltale flush she could feel blooming in her cheeks gave her away, Beatrice walked briskly down the hallway, bare feet echoing on the cold floorboards. The stillness of the manor wrapped her in a chilly embrace as she navigated the twisted labyrinth of corridors. At nearly two-hundred-years-old Stonewall had always been a dark place predisposed to shadows. With all of the windows covered by thick velvet curtains there was little left to distinguish day from night.

  Her fingertips trailed along the banister as she walked down the grand staircase, nails clicking rhythmically on the wood. When she reached the bottom step she hesitated, glancing longingly over her shoulder as she considered fleeing back upstairs to the safety and the solitude of her bedroom.

  “That dress is hideous.”

  Beatrice’s head snapped around, eyes automatically narrowing when she caught sight of Jack lounging in the doorway between the foyer and the front parlor. “Perhaps,” she acknowledged, for the dress truly was hideous, “but at least I am fully clothed which is more than I can say for you.” Her chin lifted. “This is not a brothel, Mr. Emerson.”

  “It isn’t?” His gaze widened in mock alarm as he exaggerated looking left and then right. “Well bugger me sideways. You’re right.”

  Beatrice’s nose wrinkled. Jeffrey would have never spoken so crassly in the presence of a lady. Then again, Jeffrey would have also never been caught outside of his private chambers in nothing more than a pair of trousers. She may not have known who Jack Emerson was, but she now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt who he was not: a gentleman.

  “Go put on some clothes,” she demanded, her voice echoing in the drafty foyer. “If you think I am having breakfast with you dressed like that you are sorely mistaken.”

  “What would you have me wear?” Jack asked, one eyebrow lifting as he glanced down at his naked torso. The bandage on his left shoulder remained, standing out in stark white contrast against his golden skin. “You cut up my only shirt.”

  “There is an entire closet filled with shirts… in… the…” Beatrice trailed off, bringing her fingers to her lips with a gasp of dismay as she realized what she’d been about to do. Yes, there was an entire closet filled with shirts in the bedroom suite adjacent to her own. But they were Jeffrey’s shirts in Jeffrey’s closet, his wardrobe being one of the few things she’d been unable to part with since his death. On days she was feeling particularly melancholy she would go into his bedroom and open the closet, inhaling the scent of what had been. With every month the smell of him grew weaker but still she clung to the only tangible proof she had left that he’d ever existed at all.

  “Yes?” Jack prompted. “There is a closet filled with shirts in the…? You forgot to finish your sentence.”

  Appalled that she had been one word from giving away something so intimate and precious, Beatrice gave a brisk shake of her head. “Never mind. I - I was mistaken.”

  “No,” Jack said slowly, his sharp golden gaze missing nothing as it swept across her face. “I do not think you were.” Beatrice’s spine stiffened as she braced herself for a slew of probing questions, but with a shrug of his good shoulder Jack turned and walked into the parlor. “Come on love, let’s carry on. I am starving and after what I went through last night I am not of a mind to eat a breakfast that has gone cold this morning.”

  Countenance pinched in a scowl, Beatrice hurried after him, sucking in a startled breath as her toes met the foyer’s marble tile. “Wait,” she called out through gritted teeth. “There is not any furniture in… the… Where did all this come from?”

  Flabbergasted she stopped short in the doorway, gaze locking in stunned silence on the table and two chairs that had been set in the middle of the room. The chairs didn’t match, but a pale blue cloth embroidered with delicate flowers had been set upon the table along with a cracked porcelain vase filled with pine boughs and holly. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, giving the parlor a warm, cozy glow despite the lack of any other furnishings and natural light.

  Noting her shocked expression Jack grinned and went to the far wall where a long line of windows were hidden beneath heavy curtains. Grabbing the last curtain he began to pull the drapery aside, letting in a flood of bright sunlight. “It’s so damn gloomy in here. No wonder you are wasting away. Where the bloody hell is all of your furniture?” Finishing with the one line of windows he strolled across the parlor and began to peel back the curtains on the second, oblivious to how pale Beatrice had gone or the way she’d begun to tremble. “I found the table in a room on the third floor. The leg was broken, but easily fixed. It’s good wood. Solid oak. You shouldn’t throw things out simply because they are banged up a bit, you know.”

  “S-stop it,” Beatrice choked out, hands tightening into tiny knots of anxiety as tears burned in the corners of her eyes. Her gaze darted to the sparkling wintery landscape outside the windows then bounced quickly away, settling instead on the table.

  She had sat there once. Not at that exact table, but one just like it. She had sat there and she’d knitted a pair of socks for her husband as though it were any other ordinary night, never knowing that everything she knew and everything she held dear was about to change… forever.

  “One of the maids - Sadie, I think, although it could have been Anna, I can’t bloody well tell them apart - found the tablecloth,” Jack continued. He raked a hand through his hair, pulling the tousled ends taut before letting them fall. Unbound, his hair touched his shoulders in an inky cloud of black silk that would have been the envy of any pirate lord. “And I sent the boy out for the pine boughs and - why do you look like that? Are you crying?”

  Beatrice dashed a hand along her cheeks. “No,” she lied, turning her head to the side. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Jack moving swiftly towards her. Before she could react he had her chin cupped firmly between his fingers and was lifting her face towards his.

  “You are,” he said incredulously. “You’re crying. Why?”

  “None of your business.” She tried to twist free, but his grip was unyielding.

  “Is it the vase?” he asked, gold eyes taking on a mischievous light. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. There is still plenty of room for both of us on the table. In fact, we don’t even have to be on the table. Well at least I don’t. If you just rest your bum on the very edge-”

  “Oh!” Beatrice gasped in outrage. Beneath Jack’s fingers her skin burned hot as her entire countenance was consumed by a fiery blush. “You are the most… the most…”

  “Run out of names to call me?” he queried, one brow lifting. “Don’t worry. It happens”

  “They have not invented names awful enough to call you yet,” she snapped.

  “Probably not. But I am sure if you get creative you could think of a few.”

  “I would never presume to use such foul language. Unlike you.” Suddenly becoming aware of how very close their bodies were to touching, Beatrice hesitated to even breathe, afraid the faintest movement would bring her belly - or worse - into intimate contact with Jack’s naked torso. Standing so near to him allowed her to see their heights weren’t so different, although that wasn’t much of a surprise given she’d always been considered tall for a woman. That was where the similarities ended, however.

  Jack’s chest was broad and exceptionally well-muscled, as were his arms and thighs, indicating him to be a man of the outdoors, or at the very least an adept equestrian. Jeffrey had never liked horses nor been especially fond of any activity that required physical exertion. As a result his frame had been tall and lean without any muscle of which to speak. Still, he’d been handsome in the classical sense most often associated with artists and poets; a true lord of the manor with hair flawlessly styled and clothes perfectly tailored.

  In the past Beatrice had always been drawn to men exactly like her husband. Dreamers, each and every one, with manners as impeccable as their bloodlines. In short, the sort of men who were the exact opposite of Jack Emerson, which was why she could not understand the flare of attraction she felt towards him, nor the temptation to press against his body when she should have been pulling away.

  Trapped between the two polarizing needs she remained motionless, a delicate bird who didn’t know whether to take flight or duck for cover.

  Jack skimmed his thumb across her bottom lip, tracing the contours of her mouth while she stared up at him unblinkingly, her eyes two shimmering pools, pupils dilated with both anxiety and a growing passion she was trying desperately to suppress.

  “I never claimed to be perfect,” he said in a voice gone dark and deep. When his fingers glanced along the side of her jaw and closed around the nape of her neck, sinking into unbound hair and tense muscle, Beatrice closed her eyes and barely managed to contain a moan.

  When had a man ever touched her like this? Jeffrey had always been kind with his affections, but anything of an intimate nature had always been restrained to the bedroom. Even then he’d been rather practical about the whole affair. A kiss before the deed and a kiss after. He’d never lingered, and she’d always been left wondering if there was more.

  More passion.

  More pleasure.

  More fire.

  Now she had her answer, except by some cruel twist of fate the wrong man was supplying it. It should have been Jeffrey gently massaging her neck, not Jack. Jack was… Jack was wrong in so many ways. He was too rough. Too coarse. Too ill-mannered. And she was too starved for affection to think sensibly.

  “S-stop,” she said, eyes snapping open. “Stop doing that.”

  “Stop doing what?” he murmured huskily.

  “Touching me!” Voice strained, she stiffened against his one-handed embrace. “Stop touching me.”

  For once, Jack did as she asked. He stepped back abruptly, expression inscrutable, and Beatrice filled her lungs with much needed air. She leaned weakly against the doorframe, head sagging against her shoulder as she attempted to regain some semblance of control over her riotous emotions.

  “You are a strange woman, Lady Tumbley,” Jack remarked, his gaze both coolly assessing and lightly mocking as it swept up and down her trembling frame.

  Beatrice lifted her chin. “You do not know anything about me.”

  “I know you are no longer crying.” He walked towards her and she flinched, but he turned his body to the side at the last moment and stepped through the doorway without so much as a passing touch.

  Frozen in place, Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut and listened to his footsteps as he stalked across the foyer. The sharp staccato sound of his boot heels striking marble grew fainter and fainter until it faded away altogether, swallowed up by a mansion with too many rooms to keep track of… and far too many secrets to count.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It should have been impossible to lose track of a man in one’s own house, but that was precisely what Beatrice did. For the next three days she saw neither hide nor hair of Jack and would have thought him gone completely… if not for the curtains.

  After waking on the fourth consecutive day to sunlight spilling unfiltered into her bedroom, Beatrice threw off the covers and stormed down the hall, nightgown swishing around her ankles in a pool of white. Enough was enough. She didn’t know how he was doing it, or why, but for some reason Jack seemed as determined to keep the curtains open as she was to keep them closed. And that was not the only thing he seemed determined to change.

  For the past three days she’d found herself nearly tripping over one of the maids at every turn. They always had some platter of food with them, and no matter how many times she said she was not hungry, they insisted she eat. Since neither Sadie nor Anna had ever been concerned with her dining habits in the past, she knew Jack had something to do with it.

  The man was more than infuriating. He was… he was… well, she couldn’t think of a word horrible enough to describe what he was, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was she’d lost control of her own household and she wasn’t going to stand for it.

  Not anymore.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9