From Waif To Gentleman's Wife

And stopped on a sigh. Ah, how heavenly it was to get out of the wind and cold!

The butler-person, mouth pursed in disapproval, stomped after her. ‘Haven’t ever laid hands on a woman and don’t expect to start, so I suppose, being a good Christian, I’ll let you dry off and sleep in the kitchen. But you must be gone first thing in the morning.’

Anger filtering into her desperation, Joanna crossed her arms. ‘Have you heard nothing that I’ve said, my good man? I am not going anywhere until I’ve seen the manager. If you force me out, I will simply come back.’

For a moment they stared at each other, nearly nose to nose. Finally the butler nodded. ‘Very well, I’ll fetch you to the manager. Follow me.’

Eagerness and trepidation stirred in her again as he led her on. He halted, she realised, before the door that opened into the room whose lights she’d glimpsed from the road, the lights that had led her to the manor.

Greville’s room! Illumined as if he’d meant to send a beacon of hope and welcome out to her in the darkness.

As the butler opened the door, warmth and the faint scent of wine wafted out. Her stomach growling at the hint of sustenance, her numb fingers and toes luxuriating at the caress of heated air, she scarcely heard the butler announcing her.

At last, she would see Greville and all would be well again. Pushing past the butler, she stumbled over the threshold, her chilled body drawing her like a moth to the flames dancing on the hearth. After the misery of the rain and chill, the temperature of the room made her feel light-headed and giddy, almost as if she might swoon.

Only then did she look up into the face of the tall man who’d risen from his chair behind the desk.

A man who was frowning at her.

A man who was not Greville.

‘Wh-who are you?’ she gasped.

‘Who did you expect?’ he asked, his faintly hostile gaze running with insulting familiarity over her figure.

‘G-Greville,’ she stuttered again. ‘Greville Anders. This is Blenhem Hill manor, is it not? He—he manages that estate for Lord Englemere.’

‘Not any longer,’ the tall man said curtly. ‘Lord Englemere discharged Mr Anders. Almost a month ago.’

For a moment she blinked stupidly at him. ‘Greville … isn’t here?’

‘No.’ His implacable gaze held her motionless, mesmerising her like a python regarding its prey.

Greville. Discharged. Not here. In her dazed and exhausted mind, syllables detached themselves from words and meaning, echoing down into her empty belly, up into her dizzy head. Images swirled before her eyes: the rain-swept road, her stiff cold fingers, her empty purse.

She felt as if she were swaying in a high wind. The disapproval on the face of the tall man by the hearth was the last thing she saw before the images dissolved and she slipped into blackness.

Chapter Four

Consternation tempering his irritation, Ned hastened to catch the girl before her head hit the wooden floor. As he gathered her up, glancing about him to determine where to deposit his soggy burden, he realised his first impression had been wrong.

Before she fainted, he’d noted little more than large dark eyes, a determined little chin and the fact that she was dripping all over the carpet. But though her body was short and slender, this was no girl he held in his arms, but a woman. The firm soft mound of her breasts pressed into him as he cradled her inert form, while a lingering hint of some exotic perfume mingled with the scent of rain and sodden wool.

His sleepy body roused abruptly to full attention.

Muttering a curse at that distraction, Ned turned to Myles, who was motioning him to lay the senseless girl—nay, woman—on the couch. ‘Who the devil is she?’

‘Said she was Mr Anders’s sister,’ Myles said, pouring a glass of brandy while Ned seated himself beside her, rubbing her hands to try to revive her. ‘At first I thought she be another of Anders’s women, but none of ‘em ever arrived this late and soaked through.’

Abandoning his thus-far ineffectual efforts chaffing her hands, Ned delivered a smart slap to her cheek. Her slack body tensed and she gasped, her eyes flying open.

She gazed up at him, her dazed look barely focused, seeming completely unaware of where she was and with whom. Just as Ned noticed the chill emanating from her and realised how icy were the hands he’d tried to chafe, she began to shiver, violent tremors that set her teeth chattering.

‘She must be frozen through,’ he muttered. ‘Myles, hand me that glass, please,’ he asked, nodding towards the brandy before looking back at the woman still reclining in his arms. ‘Miss … Mrs—’ Ned looked to the butler.

‘Mrs Merrill,’ Myles supplied.

‘Do not be alarmed, Mrs Merrill,’ Ned said. ‘You are at Blenhem Hill. I’m Mr Greaves, Lord Englemere’s estate agent. Here, have a sip of this brandy to warm you.’

He coaxed her lips—plump, in a pretty bow of a mouth, he noticed unwillingly—open and poured some brandy in. After choking a bit, she swallowed, her fingers coming up beside his to steady the glass. The tremors eased, then stopped.

He inspected her as she sipped, her hand absurdly small and delicate beside his. That pointed chin was set in a heart-shaped face with a pert nose and large dark eyes of a hue impossible to determine in the shadowy firelight. A soggy bonnet masked her hair, but her travelling cloak had fallen open when he’d set her down, revealing a graceful arc of neck and shoulders above full, rounded breasts. Chilled she certainly was, for even through her gown, he could see the peaked nipples.

His mouth watered to taste them.

He stifled a groan as his body hardened further. A fine cosy armful, if she was indeed Anders’s fancy woman. All sweetness and curves with a subtly intriguing scent, fresh as a new-mown hay meadow, that tickled his nose over the aromas of mud and damp.

Ned could think of a number of ways to warm her more effectively and much more pleasurably than brandy. Unleashed like hounds eager for the hunt, his thoughts tumbled over themselves, conjuring up images of firm white thighs straddling his, those small hands stroking and teasing as she coaxed him within, bare slender legs locked around his waist as she rocked him hilt-deep.

Heat flooded him and sweat broke out on his brow. Damn, he should have lingered in London long enough to visit Mrs McAllen’s Emporium. It had been way too long since he’d bedded a woman.

With a ferocious will, he jerked his lascivious thoughts to a halt and leashed them. She might be a doxy, but ‘twas just as likely she was Anders’s sister. Which meant she was Nicky’s cousin, however distant. Regardless of what her brother had done, Nicky would expect Ned to treat any connection of his like a lady.

At that moment she pushed the glass away.

‘You told Myles you were looking for Mr Anders—your brother?’ Ned said.

She nodded, her eyes finally turning alert.

‘How did you happen to arrive here alone in the middle of the night? Soaked as you are, you must have driven in an open gig. Is there a driver waiting? Can I have Myles fetch your things?’

Opening her lips, she hesitated, looking stricken. ‘I …I don’t have a gig,’ she said after a moment. ‘There’s no driver. I … walked.’

‘You walked from Hazelwick?’ Ned asked incredulously. ‘Alone, in the dark?’

Ignoring that query, she placed a hand on his arm. ‘Did … did I hear you aright? Greville … isn’t here?’

Whoever she was, she must have been desperate to come so far on foot, at night and through the rain. Despite his loathing for what Anders had done, Ned couldn’t help feeling a certain sympathy for her. ‘No. I’m sorry, ma’am.’

She swallowed hard. ‘Do you know his direction?’

Ned looked over at Myles, who shook his head. ‘No, ma’am.’

Two fat tears welled up in her eyes before she clapped her hands over them. ‘Merciful Lord,’ she whispered brokenly into her fingers, ‘what am I to do?’

For a moment he watched as she struggled for control. Admiration stirred in his chest as, with a ragged breath, she mastered her emotions and swallowed the tears.

‘Nothing tonight,’ Ned said, infinitely grateful for her courage. He’d rather battle a plague of rabbits in the kitchen garden than deal with a woman in the midst of a weeping jag. ‘Myles, rouse Mrs Winston and see if she can turn up some dry clothes for Mrs Merrill.’ Looking back to the woman, he said, ‘Did you have dinner before you … left Hazelwick?’