Love's Price(3)
A rush of unwanted, stupid tears flooded her eyes.
“You’re Lord Westwood, aren’t you?” she inquired, realization dawning.
“Yes.”
Gad! How pathetically eager she’d been to gain a position in his disreputable abode! How lucky she was that Miss Wilson hadn’t liked her! Praise the Lord for small favors!
“Well, milord,” she said, giving him the fleetest curtsy in history, “I can smell alcohol on your breath, so I will tell myself that your rudeness is merely due to overindulgence.”
His devilish grin appeared, making him look wicked and dangerous. “Are you calling me a drunkard?”
“I would never presume to comment on your personal habits.”
“Really? It certainly seems as if you just did.”
“Which is inexcusable of me, and I humbly apologize”—she almost choked on the falsehood—“but no decent female should have to tolerate such disrespect.”
“Decent! What the hell are you talking about?”
“Mrs. Ford only provides the very best candidates. Were I you, I wouldn’t expect her to further aid you in your search. Goodbye.”
“Who is Mrs. Ford?”
She started out, and he asked again, “Mrs. Ford? Is that the woman from the employment agency?”
Helen was on the stoop and hurrying down the wide steps to the bricked drive.
“Hold it right there!” he commanded with such authority that it wasn’t possible to refuse him. She whipped around.
He was up above her, framed in the ornate double doors, marble columns on either side, while she was far below him and staring up. With his coat off, his shirt undone, his black hair mussed, he might have been a magnificent, disheveled god, and she was overwhelmed by the sense that she’d dodged a near-fatal blow.
“What?” she demanded when he didn’t speak.
“By any chance are you a...lady’s companion?”
“Yes.”
Two slashes of chagrin darkened his cheeks. His masculine gaze drifted down her body as he assessed her conservative attire, and he smirked with distaste.
“I should have guessed by the gray dress.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“Come back inside.” He gestured into the foyer.
“No.”
“You would disobey my direct order?”
“Yes.”
At her rebuff, he was extremely perplexed, and he frowned.
“You’re aware of who I am.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Yet you would defy me anyway?”
“Yes.”
“Are you dimwitted or are you daft?”
“I’m neither. I simply don’t like you, and as I’ve been gravely offended and I never intend to see you again, there’s no reason for me to be civil.”
“Have you any notion of the power I can wield? You sassy little jade, I could do anything to you.”
“You don’t scare me.”
“I don’t?” He actually chuckled. “What is your name?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“But Mrs. Ford sent you?”
“Yes, to my ultimate regret.”
“Dammit,” he muttered.
She turned and ran.
CHAPTER TWO
“Miss Stewart will be perfect for you.”
“I agree.”
James Harcourt, Earl of Westwood, smiled across the desk at Mrs. Ford. She preened under his avid scrutiny.
“I apologize for the misunderstanding,” she said.
“Think nothing of it.”
“Miss Stewart is typically very mild-mannered. I don’t know what came over her.”
“Women are often flustered around me. I seem to have a disturbing effect on them.”
He graced her with another smile, and she giggled like a schoolgirl, but quickly, she regrouped and composed her features.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and shortly, the elusive Miss Stewart walked in.
“Here she is now,” Mrs. Ford beamed.
James stood and bowed. “Hello, Miss Stewart. We meet again.”
On seeing him, Miss Stewart stumbled to a halt, appearing so disconcerted that he wondered if she might faint.
“Sit, Helen, sit.” Mrs. Ford gestured to a chair.
Miss Stewart glared at James, then the door, then James again, anxious to stomp out, but she didn’t dare.
James had already coaxed Mrs. Ford into revealing that Miss Stewart’s previous post had ended, so she was unemployed and in immediate need of income. The impertinent vixen wouldn’t be able to refuse him.
She slid into the chair Mrs. Ford had indicated, but she perched on the edge as if—with the slightest provocation—she would leap up and race out.
“You remember Lord Westwood, don’t you, Helen?” Mrs. Ford asked.
“Yes, I remember him.” If looks could have killed, he’d have been dead a hundred times over.
“I have the most marvelous news,” Mrs. Ford gushed.
“What is it?” Miss Stewart grumbled.
“After your interview yesterday, Lord Westwood was so delighted that he called on me personally to let me know that he’s giving you the job.”
“I don’t want it!”
At the vehement declaration, Mrs. Ford was taken aback. Scowling, she shifted in her seat and cleared her throat.
“Nonsense, dear. Of course you want it.”
Miss Stewart counted his sins on her fingertips. “His ward hates me. He has friends over who gamble for high stakes. He laid his hands on me, because he assumed I was a...a...”—she leaned nearer to Mrs. Ford and whispered—“prostitute he’d ordered from a brothel.”
“A minor mistake, I assure you.” Mrs. Ford made a wiggling motion with her wrist, dispatching James’s horrid gaffe with a wave. “Lord Westwood has explained everything.”
“Has he!”
Miss Stewart glowered at him, her striking emerald eyes narrowed with disgust. It was obvious she didn’t like him, and he was fascinated by her disregard.
Women loved him. They were desperate to please him. They never told him no.
From his earliest memories as a tiny boy with his first nanny, he’d always gotten his way, and in the intervening decades, nothing had changed. With his being a thirty-year-old nobleman, the most beautiful females in the kingdom wrangled to be his paramour. The wives of acquaintances pleaded for trysts. Mothers of debutantes tried to lure him into marital traps baited with their innocent daughters.
Only Miss Stewart seemed immune, and he was greatly humored by her obstinacy. If she hadn’t been so violently opposed to working for him, he wouldn’t have given her a second thought, but when she was so adamant, how could he fail to insist?
Besides, he had to hire someone to fuss with Miranda. Why not the intriguing, stunning, and amusing Miss Stewart? His home would never be dull with her in it.
Miranda had come to town uninvited, claiming she’d intended to visit his brother, Tristan, but she was aware that Tristan was gone. He was a ship’s captain, and he’d sailed a few days prior, so James didn’t know what game she was playing. Nor did he care.
He simply wanted her out of his hair, but he couldn’t kick her out on the street. At the same juncture, he couldn’t have her alone and unchaperoned at the house. He was a renowned scoundrel, and every bit of his low reputation was deserved, so she had to have a companion.
Miss Stewart would do nicely, and he would receive the added benefit of proving to her that he could act however he chose. The previous afternoon, as she’d insulted him in his own driveway, she hadn’t comprehended that he could be an absolute beast—and she was powerless to stop him.
“I trust this matter is settled to everyone’s satisfaction?” he said, standing. “May we go?”
“Go!” Miss Stewart hissed. “Go where?”
“Why...to my home. Where would you suppose?”
“I’m not going anywhere with you. I’d rather live in a haystack.”
“Miss Stewart!” Mrs. Ford scolded, and she peered over at James. “I beg your pardon Lord Westwood. As I mentioned, Miss Stewart is usually so good-natured.”
“It’s quite all right,” he amiably stated. “This is all happening a tad fast. She’ll adapt swiftly enough; she’ll be fine.”
He glanced over, tickled to note that, when Mrs. Ford had summoned her, she hadn’t had time to put up her hair. The golden locks flowed down her back, restrained with a single green ribbon that matched her emerald eyes.
The lengthy tresses were the oddest shade, not blond and not brown, but somewhere in between. He’d never seen hair like it, and he decided that—so long as she was employed by him—he wouldn’t let her hide it.
She was petite and slender, willowy and lithe, yet she was curved and shapely, so he wasn’t surprised to find himself evaluating her in a thoroughly masculine fashion. He was only human after all, and he wouldn’t ignore the fact that she was very pretty or that he enjoyed looking at her.
“May I ask what is happening?” Miss Stewart demanded, her rage barely contained.
“Isn’t it obvious?” he replied. “I’ve hired you to be a companion to my ward.”
“You better not have.” She whipped her hot gaze to Mrs. Ford. “Tell me it isn’t true.”
“Oh, but it is,” Mrs. Ford confirmed, “and I couldn’t have found you a more prominent position. I’m thrilled to provide Lord Westwood with one of my best girls.”