“You’ll be glad to work for me, Miss Stewart,” he claimed. “In the end, you’ll be glad I pressured you into it.”
“Miss Wilson hates me.”
“What makes you say so?”
“I spoke with her yesterday”—this was news Miranda had failed to mention—“and she was quite clear. She neither wants nor needs a companion, and if you insist on providing her with one, she doesn’t want it to be me. Her antipathy was tremendously apparent, and I don’t understand why you’d foist me off on her. Why torture me like this?”
“As you said: I’m a tyrant. I relish cruelty. In fact, I live for it.”
She snorted. “Would you be serious?”
“All right, I will be. Miranda is eighteen, and she’s marrying my brother in the fall. She’s come to town while he is away, but I don’t have the time or energy to entertain her.”
“Send her home, and your problem will be solved.”
“She informs me that she must make wedding plans and shop for her trousseau. I can hardly deny her the opportunity.”
“Am I to assist her with her wedding preparations, too?”
She seemed pained, as if he’d strapped her to the rack and twisted the screws.
“Yes.”
“Lucky me.” She glanced down at her hands, her slender fingers clasping at the fabric of her skirt. “Don’t do this to me,” she softly implored. “Don’t put me through this ordeal. Please?”
She peeked up, her vibrant green eyes beseeching, and though it was very strange, he suffered the most strident wave of affection for her. She looked young and earnest and vulnerable, and just then, had he been kinder or more considerate, he might have done anything for her.
The sudden burst of compassion shocked him.
He never attached himself to women, never bonded or agonized over their plights. While they were always eager to form an alliance with him, he never reciprocated the sentiment. His mother’s behavior had seen to that.
When he was a boy, his mother had been seduced by Charles Sinclair, Lord Trent. Though she’d been a countess and married to James’s father, though she’d had two sons who’d needed her, she’d been swept away by the infamous rogue.
She had fled to Paris with Trent, had consorted openly with him and even given birth to Trent’s bastard son. But eventually, Trent had left her there, pregnant and broke and alone. She’d died, still loving Trent, still foolishly praying for him to come back to her.
Her shameful saga had ripped James’s life apart. Soon after she’d sneaked away, his father had begun to gambol as if he had no responsibilities either. James and Tristan had been like a pair of orphans, shuttled from school to school until there was no money to pay their tuition and no further credit to be extended.
Through all the years of penury and neglect, James had stupidly waited for his mother to realize she’d erred and return, but she never had, and her callous conduct had taught him an important lesson: Women couldn’t be trusted.
In the lofty circles where he roamed, observing the antics of the wives and daughters of his acquaintances, his low opinion had been validated over and over. So why did Miss Stewart incite a different reaction?
He had no idea.
The coach rattled to a halt in front of his town house, and the footmen occupied themselves with their arrival.
“Don’t worry so much,” he told her. “It will be fine.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to endure Miss Wilson’s disdain.”
“Miranda will be civil to you. If she’s not, come to me at once.”
“And ask you to do what? Spank her? Scold her?”
It was a legitimate question. What would he do? And why did he care one way or the other? He had a competent staff so he could spend as little time as necessary fussing over the running of his household. If Miranda was impolite to Miss Stewart, why bother over it?
He flashed one of his lazy smiles. “How about if I swear to beat her, then lock her in a closet?”
Her derision was undeniable. “This is a recipe for disaster.”
“It won’t be. I promise.”
She scrutinized him, her mind busy with arguments she could never win. Ultimately, she capitulated, as he’d known she would.
“There can’t be any gambling,” she said.
“In my home? Or anywhere?”
“In your home. If I find out that you’re having gaming parties, I won’t stay. It’s vital that I maintain a stellar reputation. I won’t have it destroyed by you.”
“Are we haggling over employment terms?”
“No. I’m merely stating my conditions for remaining: no gambling and no loose women. For my sake—and for Miss Wilson’s—I must insist.”
“No women or gaming,” he pretended to muse. “Anything else?”
“That should cover it. For now. After I’ve gotten to know you better, I’m sure I’ll stumble on other bad habits of which I’ll disapprove.”
“You’re determined to spoil all my fun.”
“I’m determined to labor in a decent environment where I don’t have to be mistaken for a harlot by any of your seedy friends.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Miss Stewart, but I give up. You will toil away in a domicile as dull as a Puritan’s.”
“Thank you.”
He was more humored than ever by her, aware that—despite what he’d vowed—he would behave exactly as he pleased. If she caught him in a scandalous situation and tried to sneak to Mrs. Ford, he’d simply fetch her back, and he’d keep on fetching her until she understood that she couldn’t defy him.
He stared at her, and though a footman had yanked open the door, neither of them moved. They sat, transfixed, as the most thrilling surge of recognition flowed between them. It was physical attraction, but fondness too, and some other emotion he couldn’t quite identify.
He felt as if he’d always known her, as if he’d been charged with protecting her. The sensation was bizarre and unnerving, and he was relieved when she was the one to break the contact.
She climbed out, and he followed, hating to admit that he was flustered by the encounter.
Why would he be?
She was a twenty-year-old destitute female. She would work for him for a few months as any other servant might do. He would rarely see her. They would rarely interact.
But as she marched up the steps and bustled into his foyer, the moment seemed normal and expected, and he experienced the most peculiar rush of happiness, convinced that she’d finally arrived right where she belonged.
CHAPTER THREE
“When I want your opinion, Miss Stewart, I’ll ask for it.”
Helen took a deep breath and bit down on a dozen scathing retorts.
“I simply thought I should mention,” she pleasantly said, “that the cut of the gown’s neckline is rather low.”
“It’s my money, Miss Stewart,” Miranda snapped. “How I choose to spend it isn’t any of your business.”
“I realize that, but Lord Westwood is counting on me to assist you. I wouldn’t be earning my salary if I didn’t speak up.”
“Miss Stewart! You are neither a seamstress nor a clothing expert so your comments are without merit. As to your knowledge of fashion”—she derisively assessed Helen—“it’s clear from your dreary wardrobe that you haven’t the sense God gave an ant. Be helpful or be silent.”
Helen sighed and gazed out the carriage window, wishing a hole would open in the road and swallow her up.
She had been Miranda’s companion for two weeks, and the position was as awful as she’d predicted it would be. Miranda had a temper, and her tongue was sharp as a whip. Helen had been maligned and impugned and demeaned, and though she kept her mouth shut and her head down, there was no way to escape Miranda’s wrath.
From the moment Lord Westwood had advised Miranda that Helen had been hired after all, Miranda had been in a state. Not that she’d let Westwood know.
In his presence, she was courtesy itself. She flirted and simpered and batted her lashes, and if Helen hadn’t been apprised—by Westwood himself—that Miranda was marrying his brother, she might have wondered at Miranda’s behavior.
Her conduct seemed very forward, but Westwood didn’t appear to notice, so Helen might be confused as to the exact nature of their relationship. Maybe Westwood was friendlier than Helen had assumed. Or perhaps—just perhaps—Helen was correct, and the entire situation stunk to high heaven.
Wasn’t it just her luck to be caught in the middle of it?
The carriage halted in Westwood’s drive, and Helen expected Miranda to climb out first. On their previous outing, Helen had been so desperate to flee Miranda’s critical diatribe that she’d bolted the instant they’d stopped. As a result, she’d received an hour-long lecture on disrespect.
She wouldn’t make the same mistake again, so she waited...and waited...
But Miranda didn’t move.
“What is it?” Helen finally inquired.
“I am the earl’s cousin and his brother’s fiancée,” Miranda imperiously said. “As I am the only important personage in this vehicle, it is appropriate that I exit last. You may precede me.”