“Is that where we’re going?” Ally asked, her voice quiet as she leaned closer to Whitney.
“Yes, Ms. Ally, this is your family home,” Mr. Smotter told her.
“That doesn’t look like a home,” the little girl replied.
The closer they came, the larger and more intimidating the building looked. Whitney felt so far out of her element that she feared she might not land safely on her feet when this ride was over.
They drove around to the back of the manor, which had windows that each seemed bigger than her entire place back in Oregon, and walls stretching halfway to the sky and beyond. Would the children get lost in the depths of this palace the second they stepped inside, never to be seen again?
“I want you both to stick with me,” Whitney told them as the limo stopped. “And please behave.”
“We promise to be good, Aunt Whitney,” Ally said quickly. Her nephew gave no response.
“Right this way, Ms. Steele.”
The massive door ahead of them looked like something Shrek would need to use. Whitney walked slowly toward it, holding tightly to Ally’s hand. Brayden stood next to her, for once not issuing a snappy or snarky remark, but simply staring as Mr. Smotter opened the door.
“Why is the door so big?” Ally asked as they stepped through.
“Because Mr. Felton is a large man,” Mr. Smotter told her.
Ally stopped, and her eyes turned into saucers. “Like a giant?” she squeaked.
“Not quite that big,” the man said, and even he couldn’t repress a brief chuckle.
They were greeted in the hall by a smile. “I didn’t think you were ever going to arrive,” said a short, round woman with a perky voice.
“Elise, this is Whitney Steele, and these are the children, Master Brayden and Miss Ally,” Mr. Smotter said, and he turned to Whitney. “This is the nanny, Ms. Simms. She’s been awaiting your arrival anxiously.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Ms. Simms, but the children won’t need a nanny,” Whitney said, her fingers tightening on Ally’s hand.
“Oh …” The woman’s face fell, and Whitney immediately regretted what she’d said.
“I just meant that I enjoy watching after Ally,” Whitney told her. “And Brayden is quite independent. But I’m sure we could do some things together.”
“That would be wonderful, Ms. Steele,” Elise said, her lips instantly lifting.
“Please call me Whitney. I’ve never been comfortable with so much formality.”
“Oh, well … um …” That request had clearly dumbfounded the poor woman.
Mr. Smotter stepped in and saved them all from the awkwardness. “I’m sure you’re all ready to rest and then get changed for dinner.”
“Yes, thank you,” Whitney said.
They left Elise, and after walking for what seemed to be a mile, they stopped in front of an ornate door.
They were shown Brayden’s room first, and then Ally’s, which Whitney was grateful to learn was next to her own. She tugged on the girl’s hand anxiously.
“I’m fine, Aunt Whitney,” Ally told her. “I want to jump on my bed.”
“I’ll keep a good eye on her while you rest up from your trip,” Elise said, and Whitney walked reluctantly to her room next door.
“I’ll have your personal maid, Darcy, unpack your belongings while you take a bath,” Mr. Smotter said.
“I don’t need any help of that sort, but thank you.” Whitney turned the knob and opened the door to a room easily the size of her last apartment, the one she’d been renting before that tragic accident.
“Nonsense,” Mr. Smotter said, and he turned and walked away.
She barely made it inside before she was joined by a woman who looked old enough to be her great-grandmother. How could she possibly have the poor old woman do anything for her?
“I’ll begin putting your things away,” the woman told her briskly.
“That really isn’t necessary,” Whitney began as the woman unzipped her suitcase and dove on inside.
Whitney’s cheeks grew flushed. Just her luck — right on top were a couple of her favorite romance novels, with very risqué pictures on the cover. The maid looked at her with a raised eyebrow.
“Just so you know, we do have an extensive library here; you’ll have a lot of good books to read.”
Whitney couldn’t miss the disparaging look that the maid gave to those poor half-naked beauties on the covers, their bodices sadly ripped.
“I really can unpack on my own,” Whitney told the harpy, and quickly snatched the books from the woman’s hands.
Darcy was openly affronted, and Whitney could feel her face turning redder by the minute as this oh-so-proper maid stood there staring at her less than impeccably packed suitcase.