Hero
One of the penguins had absconded with Hero's cravat, but the rest of his clothing had been left alone. After roughly toweling himself off with his waistcoat, he dressed, then made his way back to the horses, whistling softly. Josephine was sitting cross-legged beneath a tree, her expression remote. To his regret, there was no sign of the charming bashfulness she had exhibited when he had started to undress.
Offering her a helping hand, he said, "You should have joined me. The penguins were in fine form."
Ignoring his hand, she got to her feet unassisted. "I'm sure that I would have been so dazzled by you that I wouldn't have noticed them," she said witheringly.
"Ah, I am beginning to make an impression on you," he said with delight.
"I would never deny that."
Clouds had covered the sun and chilled the air, and the ride back was a quiet one. After stabling the horses, Hero escorted Josephine into the house. He was pleased to see that she now accepted his casual touch as normal.
His good mood evaporated as soon as he stepped into his grandfather's house. As he ushered her into the main drawing room, he asked, "What do you think of this place, Josephine?"
"It's very grand," she said after a slight pause.
He studied the room with distaste. "But do you like it?"
She frowned. "That's not a fair question. I'm a simple woman, with cottager tastes. I know how to appreciate an oaken chair, or a whitewashed wall, or a well-made quilt, but I know nothing of fine furniture, or art, or aristocratic style."
"That doesn't mean your opinion is valueless. Does this house please your senses?"
"To be honest, I find it oppressive." Her gaze traveled around the room. "There's too much clutter. Every inch of space seems to be filled with patterns, or fabric, or bits of china whose value could feed a poor family for a year. No doubt everything is in the best of taste" —she ran a finger across the top of a picture frame, then frowned at the dust—"though the housekeeping could be improved. But I prefer my cottage."
"Too much clutter," he repeated. "My sentiments exactly. Gypsies don't like being indoors at the best of times, and this house has always made me feel suffocated."
"Do you think of yourself as a Gypsy?"
He shrugged. "When it suits me." He lifted a porcelain figurine that depicted a lion devouring an undutiful child. Not surprisingly, his grandfather had been fond of it. Hero had always wanted to smash it to pieces.
Well, why not? With one swift movement, he hurled the figure into the fireplace. It shattered with a satisfying crash.
Pleased, Hero turned to Josephine, who was watching him warily. "I give you permission to change whatever you want," he said. "Pack away the clutter, hire more maids. Clean, paint, paper—whatever you think best. Since it's your fault that I'm going to spend more time in this mausoleum than I had planned, you can jolly well make it livable. Buy what you think necessary and have the bills sent to me. Not only will that pump money into the local economy, but you'll gratify Williams no end. He finds his post here rather boring, I think. I'll instruct him to follow your orders as he would mine."
"Is it part of a mistress's job to redecorate her lover's house?" she asked with dismay.
"Most mistresses would swoon with delight at the opportunity," he assured her. "Would you like to visit the attics? There are masses of furniture up there. You might find things that are more to your taste."
Looking a little dazed, she said, "Later, perhaps. Before I make any changes, I will have to observe and think."
"Wise woman." He glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. "I must meet my steward now, so I'll leave you to your own devices for the rest of the afternoon. We dine at six. If you wish to bathe first, ring from your room. The staff should be able to manage hot water. Until dinner?"
He withdrew, already feeling less oppressed by the house. Three months of Josephine 's sturdy good sense should improve Westgate immeasurably. Perhaps, in time, it might no longer feel so much like his grandfather's house.
Josephine
Josephine spent the next hour examining the public rooms. The basic layout and proportions were appealing, but the furnishings seemed to have been chosen more for grandeur than comfort, and there was too much of everything.
When she finished her survey, she went to her bedchamber, which was as large as the whole ground floor of her cottage. It was also cluttered, but the blue draperies and bed hangings were pretty. If she removed all the unnecessary furniture and the two dismal paintings of dead animals, it would be quite pleasant.
Feeling drained, she self-indulgently flopped across the bed, then folded her hands behind her head and thought about what had happened since she had arrived at Westgate. It seemed as if days rather than hours had passed.
She was still incredulous that the Earl had casually handed the reins of his household to her, with blanket permission to spend what she wished. But now that she had recovered from her surprise, she relished the prospect of improving this gaudy, dusty, neglected mansion. For the rest of the afternoon, she thought, made lists, and jotted down question to herself.
She was drawn from her plans when the clock struck five. Time to prepare for her first dinner with Hero.
Work had steadied her, and she no longer felt as emotionally fragile as she had by the lake. Nonetheless, being in such a grand house was unnerving. Even ringing for a bath made her uncomfortable, since the Langfords had never had any servants.
Trepidation vanished when the little maid who responded to the bell turned out to be a former student. Dilys was a sweet-natured girl who had always adored her teacher, and she accepted Miss Langford's presence as if it were perfectly natural for a schoolmistress to be the guest of an Earl.
For her part, Josephine found that asking Dilys for a bath was no harder than asking a student to recite the times tables. However, she was unable to stop herself from helping when Dilys staggered into the room with two heavy coppers of steaming water. If she were a real lady, Josephine supposed that she would have stood by and let the girl struggle.
The enormous hip bath was delightful; Josephine had never had the luxury of so much hot water. She soaked for so long that she had to fix her hair and dress in a rush.
Only one of her gowns was suitable for evening wear, and it was old and had never been stylish. However, the rich blue fabric matched her eyes, and the neckline revealed several inches of smooth skin around her throat.
She glanced down at herself and tried to envision what she would look like in a fashionably low-cut gown. Regretfully she realized that even if she owned such a garment—and had the courage to wear it—the result would be unremarkable.
After brushing her hair and pinning it into a shining coil at her nape, she examined herself critically in the mirror. The moist heat of the bath had caused her blonde hair to wave softly around her face, lessening her usual severity. Fortunately her complexion was good and she had naturally rosy Welsh coloring.
Her reflection showed that she appeared exactly as she was: a modest woman of modest means. For the sake of her pride, she looked as good as she was capable of looking, yet she was too ordinary to drive the Earl of Westgate to uncontrollable lust. Thank heaven for that. It was bad enough that he viewed seducing her as a game; if his heart and loins were really in the pursuit, she might not be able to withstand him.
Wiping palms that were suddenly damp, she went downstairs to dinner. The day would soon be over, and she couldn't help wondering when the Earl would collect his kiss. Even more important, how would she react when he did?
Hero was already in the family drawing room, pouring a drink from a decanter. Dressed in beautifully tailored black coat and pantaloons, he looked ready to dine with the Prince Regent. She paused in the doorway, momentarily struck by the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. What on earth was she, plain Josephine Langford, doing at Westgate?
Hearing her steps, he looked up and halted in mid-gesture, his expression arrested. "You look lovely tonight, Josephine."
There was such warmth in his voice that she shivered. Not only was he rich and handsome, but he had the ability to make a female feel beautiful and cherished. Perhaps that was an essential talent for a rake, for a woman would give a great deal to keep that expression in a man's eyes.
"Thank you," she said, trying to sound as if compliments were common in her life. "Would it be improper for me to observe that you are a sight to break any impressionable girl's heart?"
He looked hopeful. "Are you impressionable?"
"Not in the least." She tried to sound stern, but couldn't help smiling.
"A pity." He reached for a different decanter. "Would you care for a glass of sherry?"
She actually considered accepting for a moment, but shook her head. "No, thank you."
"That's right—Methodists avoid anything that might be considered strong drink." He set the decanter down and thought. "You drink ale, don't you?"
"Of course—everyone does."
He lifted a bottle. "Then try some of this German wine. It's milder than most ales." When she still hesitated, he said, "I swear this won't make you so drunk that you'll dance on the table." He gave an elaborate sigh of regret. "Unfortunately."
She chuckled. "Very well, I'll have some. But you needn't fear for your table—I don't dance, either."
"Good God, I'd forgotten that." He opened the bottle and poured her a glass of wine. "What do Methodists do to amuse themselves?"
"Pray and sing," she said promptly.
"I shall have to broaden your repertoire." He handed her one of the glasses. "Shall we drink to a mutually satisfactory conclusion to our association?"
"Very well." She lifted her glass. "Three months from now, may the mine be safer and the village of Penreith healthier, wealthier, and happier. In addition, I hope that you will have seen the spiritual light and become a sober and godly man, and that I will be home again, reputation and career intact."
He clinked the rim of his glass against hers, his black eyes gleaming. "My definition of 'mutually satisfactory' differs in several details."
"Which are?"
He grinned. "I'd better not say. You'd empty the rest of your wine over my head."
With mild wonder, Josephine realized that she was bantering with a man. And not only was she carrying on a teasing conversation with suggestive undertones—she was enjoying it.
Her sense of being sophisticated and in control vanished when she made the mistake of glancing into Hero's face. He was studying her with a mesmerizing intensity that was as palpable as a touch. As she looked into his green eyes, she felt trapped, unable to look away. Her blood swirled with unaccustomed heat, rushing to each spot touched by his slowly moving gaze. First her lips tingled, then her throat pulsed, almost as if he were caressing them with his fingertips.
When his gaze drifted to her breasts, her nipples tightened with yearning sensitivity. Merciful heaven, if he could affect her like this when he was a yard away, what would happen when he finally touched her?
Before she could become completely unnerved, she was saved by the soft gong of a dinner bell. Hero turned his head, freeing her from the spell of his gaze. "Shall we see what the cook is capable of? I haven't had a real meal since returning to Westgate, so I have no idea how skillful he is. In fact, I don't know if the cook is a him or a her."
"I talked to Williams earlier, and he said that one of the two maids, Gladys, has been pressed into service as temporary cook," Josephine said, hoping that she sounded composed. "You don't need a mock mistress—you need a housekeeper to order your household."
"Can't you be both?"
Once again he put his hand in the small of her back, gently possessive. She flinched, for her gown and shift were thinner than the garments she had worn earlier, and the effect was almost as intimate as if he had put his palm on her bare flesh.
He noticed, of course. "And here I thought that you were becoming more at ease with me," he said softly. "You needn't be fearful, Josephine."
She scowled up at him. "If I had any sense at all, I'd be terrified. You're twice my size and probably four times my strength, and I'm entirely at your mercy. The fact that I am voluntarily under your roof means that you could do anything short of murder and most people would say that it was only what I deserved for my shameless conduct."
His face darkened. "Let me repeat: I have no interest in unwilling women. In spite of my worldly rank and greater physical strength, you hold the ultimate power between us, for you have the right to say no. For example ..." He raised his hand and brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles.
The slow movement burned across her skin, seductive and alarming. Josephine felt suddenly vulnerable, as if his touch was stripping away her common sense and exposing unadmitted longings.
He murmured, "Shall I continue?"
With all her heart, she wanted to say yes. Instead she snapped, "No!"
His hand fell instantly. "See how easy it is to stop me."
He thought that she had done that easily? Apparently he wasn't all-knowing. Nerves in shreds, she said, "Why don't you take your kiss for the day and get it over with? I'll enjoy dinner more if I don't feel like a mouse being stalked by a cat."
He smiled lazily. "My turn to say no. Anticipation is part of the pleasure of lovemaking. Since I can only be sure of one kiss, I wish to delay it as long as possible." He guided her into the dining room. "So fear not—I promise not to leap across the table before you've fortified yourself with food."
He must know that her real fear was not that he wouldn't stop, but that she would be incapable of saying no. The thought strengthened her resolve. Yes, he was powerful and infinitely more experienced than she, but that didn't mean that she had to lose their contest. It was up to her to be stronger.
That goal in mind, she encouraged him to talk about his travels rather than more personal subjects. To her surprise, he had traveled extensively on the Continent. After he mentioned a visit to Paris, she asked, "How did you manage to see so much of Europe when Napoleon has closed the Continent to Britons?"
"By traveling with my disreputable kinfolk. Even Napoleon's armies can't stop Gypsies from going where they will. When I joined a kumpania, I became just another Romany horse trader. No one ever guessed that I was British." Giving up on his over-salted leek soup, he poured wine for each of them.
She pushed away her own soup bowl with relief; it was amazingly bad. "If you'd any taste for spying, traveling as a Gypsy would have been a perfect disguise."
Hero broke out coughing. When she looked at him in surprise, he managed to say, "Swallowed the wrong way."
Josephine cocked her head to one side. "Was that coincidence, or a guilty reaction because you actually were involved in intelligence gathering?"
"You are definitely too clever for comfort." He sipped his wine, expression thoughtful. "I suppose there's no harm in telling you that an old friend of mine is active in intelligence work, and I sometimes passed on information that I thought might interest him. Occasionally I acted as a courier as well, if it fit into my own plans. I was never a serious spy, though. That would have been too much like work."
She was intrigued by his reluctance to admit that he had served his country. Perhaps he wasn't quite the wastrel he pretended; then again, perhaps he had simply enjoyed the adventure of spying.
Williams and Dilys entered the room together. The girl, with nervous glances at the Earl, cleared away the dishes from the first course. Williams placed a platter of scorched-looking lamb in front of his master, then served half a dozen other dishes. After dismissing the butler, Hero carved the lamb. "If the soup is any indicator, Gladys is out of her depth in the kitchen. This joint doesn't look too promising, either."
When Josephine tasted the leathery meat, she had to agree. Hero winced when he tried his.
"Something must be done about the food."
Seeing his speculative glance, Josephine laid down her fork and gave him a warning scowl. "Yes, I'm a good cook, but I will not have time to work in the kitchen. And don't try to convince me that a mistress also has to cook for her lover."
"I wasn't thinking of wasting your valuable time in the kitchen." He smiled mischievously. "But a mistress can do interesting things with food. Shall I describe them?"
"No!"
"Another time, perhaps." He prodded a boiled potato with his fork. It promptly disintegrated into a shapeless white mass. "Do you know of a decent cook who is looking for a situation?"
"Not in the valley. You might be able to find someone in Swansea, but you'd probably be better off sending to London. There must be agencies that specialize in finding French chefs for aristocratic houses."
"French chefs are usually temperamental, and most would go mad with boredom in Wales. Aren't there any good Welsh country cooks around?"
Josephine's brows drew together. "Surely that kind of food must seem very plain to a gentleman."
"I like country cooking as long as it's done well." After careful scrutiny, he pushed a sinister-looking lump to the side of his plate. "Even the penguins would sneer at this fish. Are you sure you don't know a competent person who could start soon—preferably tomorrow?"
His aristocratic impatience made her smile. "There's a woman in Penreith who worked at Westgate as a kitchen maid before her marriage. She's not a formally trained cook, but whenever I've eaten at her house, the food has been wonderful. And she could use the work—her husband died in the pit last year."
Hero spooned a mysterious substance onto his plate. It was brown and it oozed. "What's this? No, don't tell me, I'd rather not know. If you can coax the widow up here tomorrow, I'll be eternally grateful."
"I'll see what I can do." Josephine wrinkled her nose at the cold, gray, mushy Brussels sprouts. "I have a stake in the results myself."
After several more minutes of unenthusiastic chewing, Hero said, "Now that you've had time to reflect, have you devised a redecoration strategy?"
"Surveying the ground floor confirmed my original impression: cleaning and simplification will work wonders." Josephine tried the apple tart, which proved to be flavorless but edible. "I won't do anything too radical—when you remarry, I'm sure your wife will have plans of her own."
Hero set his wine glass on the table with a force that threatened to shatter it. "You needn't concern yourself about that. I will never remarry."
There was a black edge to his voice that Josephine had not heard before, and his face was dark as a thundercloud. He looked like a man who had loved his wife, and who mourned her deeply.
The late Caroline, Viscountess Tregar, had been the daughter of an Earl, and she had brought a title and a fortune to her marriage. During her months at Westgate she had seldom come into the village, but once Josephine had seen her riding. Hero's wife had been tall and graceful and gloriously blond, so lovely that to see her was to stop and stare. It was not surprising to learn that her loss still hurt Hero. And his grief must be compounded by guilt over his own role in his wife's untimely death.
Again Josephine wondered what had really happened on the fateful night when the old Earl and Lady Tregar had died. It was hard to believe that Hero had been so crazed by lust that he had bedded his grandfather's wife in defiance of all decency. The second countess, Emily, was only a few years older than her step-grandson, but though she had been attractive, no one would have looked at her twice if Caroline was in the room.
Unless ... unless Hero had hated his grandfather so much that he had wanted to hurt the old man in the cruelest way imaginable.
The thought that Hero might have seduced the countess for such an ugly reason turned Josephine's stomach. A series of dreadful pictures flashed through her mind: Hero and his grandfather's wife caught in flagrante delicto; the old Earl collapsing with a fatal heart seizure; Caroline drawn by the commotion, then rushing hysterically from the scene, only to die as she fled from the monster she had married.
If that was what had happened, Hero was morally responsible for the deaths of his wife and grandfather, even if he hadn't killed them with his own hands. Yet Josephine could not bring herself to believe that he had behaved so despicably. Though he might be wild, she had seen no wickedness in him.
But, she realized grimly, it was possible to believe that he had acted from impulse rather than calculated viciousness. If he had unintentionally precipitated the disaster, he would have ample cause to feel guilty.
Sickened, she pushed her plate away.
Unaware of her lurid thoughts, Hero said, "I agree. This is not a meal to linger over."
For a moment Josephine felt disoriented; it was impossible to reconcile her nightmare imaginings with the charming, playful man who sat opposite her. She saw quite clearly that if she was to endure three months of his company, she must put speculations about his past out of her mind. Otherwise she would go mad. Already Hero was frowning at her, wondering what was wrong. With effort, she managed to say calmly, "Do I withdraw and leave you to your port now?"
His expression eased. "I'll skip the port. I find you much more interesting—just as a mistress should be."
"I don't feel very interesting at the moment." She got to her feet. "May I go to my room now, or is it part of my bargain to keep you company all evening?"
He stood also. "I don't think it would be fair to force you to endure me all the time—but I would like it if you stayed willingly. It's still early."
There was a faintly wistful note in his voice. Perhaps he was lonely. She shouldn't be surprised, since he had no friends or family at Westgate, but it had not occurred to her that he might suffer from common sorrows like loneliness.
Empathy proved stronger than her need for solitude. "How do fashionable people amuse themselves in the evening?" Seeing a familiar glint come into his eyes, she said hastily, "No, I won't do what you're thinking."
He chuckled. "Not only clever, but you can read my mind. Since you're rejecting my first choice, let's play billiards."
"Don't you know any respectable activities?" she said doubtfully. "Reading in the library would be a nice quiet way to spend the evening."
"Another time. Don't worry—there's nothing inherently immoral about billiards. The only reason decent folk condemn the game is because of the risk of falling into bad company." His mouth quirked up. "Since you're stuck with me already, I don't see how playing billiards can make your situation any worse."
She found herself chuckling as he lifted a branch of candles and led her from the room. Wryly she realized that the real danger was not bad company, but laughter. It would be hard to give that up when the time came to leave Westgate.