May 5, 2015
ISBN-13: 978-0062380432
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June 9, 2015
ISBN-10: 0062380427 | ISBN-13: 978-0062380425
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He charged out of the darkness to her rescue . . .
Amelia Grant has just escaped her lecherous employer with nothing but the clothes on her back. In the predawn hours of London, a horse and carriage come barreling down on her, and a stranger rushes to her aid, sweeping her off her feet . . .
There is something dark and dangerous about Nicholas Riley. With eyes gray like flint and hard as steel, he’s unusual … beautiful. The intensity behind his gaze makes her feel like the only person in the world. And then he whispers . . .
“I want your complete surrender.”
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Chapter One
London, 1881
“Tell me what you want, darling.” Victoria pressed hot kisses against his chest, scooting lower and lower with those pouty red lips of hers until her hand cupped his sac and her tongue danced teasingly over his abdomen and toward his half-stiff cock.
Nick Riley wasn’t generally a man to complain about being in such a position. “I have some errands to attend to this morning,” he said as he fisted his hand in the fall of Victoria’s blonde tresses.
When she rotated her tongue around the head of his cock, all his good intentions and morning obligations went out the window. Anything that needed taking care of could be done after that pretty little mouth of hers got his cock off.
Cat-like green eyes stared up at him, all innocent—though that was the last thing Victoria could be called. His hand tangled in her hair, angling her head back. That didn’t stop her from flicking out her tongue once more.
Refusing her would be like looking the gift horse in the mouth. While they’d agreed to end their affair last night, that hadn’t stopped her from seducing him right back into her bed. Not that he’d tried very hard to dissuade her, so he was just as much at fault for their current position.
And what a perfect position this was.
“Victoria,” he growled as her head lowered once again to the prominent protrusion standing very ready between them.
She didn’t hesitate to take in the full length of him, practically fucking him with that sweet mouth of hers. His hips thrust off the bed as her mouth drew on him. God, she felt good. She continued to swirl her tongue around him until the first bit of semen emitted from the tip.
Sucking that into her mouth, she released him with a pop before she crawled up his body. Her breasts swayed enticingly as her hard nipples stirred the hair on his chest, begging him to say yes.
“I’m just making certain you start the day on the right foot, Nicky. You cannot very well go around with a massive bulge in your trousers.
What should the delicate misses think to see you in such a state?” As she spoke, her hand curled around his shaft and stroked it from the base up. “We did agree on an amicable parting, and I find our position perfectly . . . amicable.”
Nick sat up with Victoria poised above him, her legs straddling his hips. The tip of his cock brushed against the damp curls between her thighs. He clasped her waist, stopping her from lowering. There was no way he was getting out of this bed without feeling the tight clasp of her sheath at least once more, but he would be the one in control.
Flipping her onto her back, he slammed into her welcome heat. Her legs curled around his back, her heels digging into his ass as he took her hard, pounding into her with a ferocity that didn’t ebb as her nails bit into his arms, and she screamed his name until her voice was hoarse.
He pumped into her so hard they almost tipped right over the edge of the bed by the time he had emptied himself inside her sweet little cunt. He stayed inside her until she milked every last drop out of him.
Sucking her bottom lip into his mouth, he pulled out and flopped them both back on the bed, with her draped over his chest. They stayed that way long enough to get their breathing under control.
“That didn’t feel like you were done with me, Nick.” Victoria slipped out of his arms and the bed to retrieve the blue silk robe draped over a chair. Cinching the robe tight around her waist, she stared back at him, expecting him to respond. “I’ll draw you a bath before you leave,” she said, with just enough annoyance in her voice that he nearly told her to come back to bed.
Instead, he gave her a curt nod as she stood in front of him, her arms crossed over her middle. “Will you stay long enough for breakfast?”
Threading his fingers behind his head, he looked at her. The drape of her robe skimmed off one shoulder, revealing the creamy expanse of her right breast but covering her ruby red nipple from view. There was no sense hiding just where his eyes lingered as he answered her. “Yes.”
“After five years, you’re just going to walk away from what we have?”
“You knew this wasn’t permanent,” he said, wishing the damnable material would slip right off her shoulder to give him the view he craved.
When she only shrugged, he continued. “What we have is nothing more than a convenience.”
“I fail to see anything wrong with that,” she replied.
“Everything, for a woman who needs to keep up a pristine reputation for practical and business reasons.”
As a prominent businesswoman and successful shopkeeper, Victoria had to remain above reproach if she were to gain the things she craved most . . . which only a week ago she had said was marriage.
That simply wasn’t something that Nick could offer.
She walked away in a huff, throwing the double doors open to the adjoining plunge bath. The rush of water drowned out the silence of the room, and tendrils of steam drifted into the bedchamber, laced with the light scent of rose oil.
“Your bath is ready,” Victoria said as she walked back into the bedchamber and sat at her dressing table to brush her hair.
Nick padded across the floor until he stood behind Victoria. Settling his hand on her shoulders, he leaned down and pressed his lips to the top of her head. Even now, his cock stirred as though not sated by their morning interlude.
“You’ll find someone who can give you the things you want, Vic.”
“I don’t want a man in my life who will dictate my actions.”
He wasn’t up for a fight. “Then find someone better than that.”
She sighed as she set down the silver brush and slid the slipper chair out from beneath the dressing table. He didn’t fail to note that her nipples were pebbled into two perfect peaks beneath her robe. They might be finished with their affair today, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t feast before he left.
“And what about you?” She tilted her head back to look up at him.
He shrugged and headed into the bathing room. Men like him didn’t settle down with a family. His nature was too dark for that kind of life, his past too fucking brutal.
“I’m busy enough without that kind of entanglement,” he answered.
Victoria let out a mirthless laugh as she followed behind him. “Seems like a contradictory standard. Because I’m a woman, I should marry and start a family, and you, being a successful businessman, should bury yourself in your work. What of my shop? My employees? Should I hand those over into the care of a husband?”
Once he stepped into the porcelain tub, he turned to her with a frown. “You’re more than capable of running things yourself and having the family you told me you wanted.”
She merely shook her head and pulled up a wooden chair to the tub. Grabbing a sea sponge that overfilled her hands, she motioned for him to sit with his back to her. She didn’t touch the scars that covered most of his back; she just squeezed a hot stream of water over his shoulders and arms.
“So we’re to break off our arrangement amicably.” She dipped the sponge into the water next to his hip. Her hair falling forward stuck to his shoulders. “What will you do when you want to keep your mind off the things that keep you up at night?” Hot water trickled over his chest as she squeezed the sponge again.
“I will manage.”
“I don’t believe you can truly stay away,” she said, soaping up his shoulders, her slender fingers kneading into his tense muscles. “We need each other, even if it’s not for the right reasons.”
“That is probably the best reason to end our affair.”
“I know you better than anyone else.”
He couldn’t refute that claim, which was to say Vic knew more about him than the average man, aside from Huxley, who could never be described as average.
This topic was not up for debate. He’d made up his mind. Finished talking, he turned and curled his arm around her waist to tug her into the tub. Water sloshed over the edge and splashed on the tiled floor.
She grumbled about her silk robe, but she didn’t struggle to get away.
His mouth hovered above hers as he stared into her sultry green eyes. Sometimes he wished he could be the man she needed. For now, they could each be what the other craved in the moment.
“This does not change anything,” he said.
“You’re an ass,” she replied, a second before he slammed his mouth against hers and she settled her knees around him. As her fingers threaded through his hair, he plunged into her once again.
Chapter Two
The last thing Amelia Somerset could recall with any clarity was dinner, followed by the hot tea her employer had insisted she drink. The events after that were hazy at best, so she thought hard about the last thing she remembered as her mind slowly awoke.
She’d been enjoying a hearty serving of beef stew in the kitchen quarters with the rest of the household staff when her employer, Sir Ian Hemming, had called her up to his study for his nightly update on his sons’ studies.
Sir Ian was a stern man with a strong—if somewhat frightful—bearing. She always stood to attention when in his presence for fear of reprimand on something as small as her posture. She kept her head down and remained diligent in all her duties so he would never have reason to fault her, as he did so many others.
Now . . .
Now Sir Ian’s breath was hot against her ear as he spoke. “Just a dream, Miss Grant. Sleep easy; I shall take care of you.”
What did he mean? Was she having a dream?
With her fists clenched tightly against his chest, she lifted her arms with all her might to push him away. But her arms were trapped. She shoved harder, struggling to be free, even though she wasn’t quite sure from what she needed to be freed. She blinked back the tiredness that assailed her. When her surroundings finally came into focus, the reality of her situation grew sickeningly clear.
“What have you done to me?” her voice croaked. Her mouth was so dry that her tongue stuck to the sides, making it difficult to talk. Her arms were a dead weight, though that didn’t stop her from trying to push him off her.
“Shhh, dovey. Let me take care of you,” he said, his finger pressed against her lips. “Relax. I can make it better.”
She turned her head away from the heat of his stale breath. Even that proved too hard to do. Her head spun and throbbed with the continued motion, but when she turned away, there was sudden clarity to her situation: She was lying on her lumpy bed with Sir Ian stretched out over her, covering half of her body with his own. How was he even in her room when she didn’t remember getting here on her own?
Her lips trembled in fear and disgust. A cool breeze brushed over her legs where her drawers had been unfastened and pushed out of the way. Sir Ian squeezed her upper thigh with his rough hand, and the pain he caused helped to snap her out of her groggy state, giving her the strength she needed to fight back.
Jabbing her elbow into his cheek, she tried to roll out from under him, but her skirts were trapped beneath his bulk, and her body was sluggish and uncooperative, despite her mind growing more alert by the second.
When he shifted himself between her thighs, she opened her mouth to scream. Sir Ian’s hand slapped down, muffling the sound.
“You would not want to wake up the boys, Miss Grant. You be a good girl and hush up.”
She bit him as hard as she could, tasting blood as he ripped his hand away. She spat it out, not wanting the foul taste in her mouth.
His hiss of pain wasn’t as satisfying as she had hoped. It only angered him further, for he reared his arm back and smacked her hard across her cheek. The force of his blow knocked her head to the side, leaving her dazed and her ears ringing.
Bringing up one knee, she twisted and pushed it between them, trying to squirm out from under him with renewed desperation. His hand tangled in her hair, and he yanked her head back so hard that her neck cracked. She stilled immediately, though nothing could stop the whimpers of fear and pain that slipped past her lips.
He leaned over her helpless form, instilling his dominance, his upper hand. The stench of his whisky-laced breath nauseated her, and her stomach roiled in protest.
“Please,” she begged, hating herself for the despair in her voice. But this couldn’t be happening to her again.
“Stop your wriggling,” he said roughly, his hand tightening in her hair. His other hand squeezed painfully at her breast, causing her to cry out.
She shoved harder against his weight. Sobs tore unwillingly from her throat, and fat tears fell down her face. She didn’t want to cry. Sobs amounted to weakness. And weak was the last thing she wanted to be. She had not escaped her past only to surrender to another kind of vile, unacceptable future. She wanted to scream, but her voice was lost to the hopelessness of the moment.
Finally freeing one hand, she scratched the exposed skin above his shirt as hard as she could. The enraged shout that came from him was just loud enough to let others know he was in the staff quarters. She wasn’t so naïve as to believe anyone would come to her rescue, as they hadn’t already, but the ruckus they surely made might be enough to stop him. At least for tonight.
Sir Ian hauled himself off of her, his body vibrating with a violence that had her cowering.
Show no weakness, she told herself over and over again.
Show. No. Weakness.Amelia scrambled up and pressed her back hard against the wall to anchor herself. She clenched her hands into fists, prepared to defend herself from further attack.
Be strong.Sir Ian swiped his hand across his neck where her nails had scored three angry furrows into his pale flesh. She took pride in knowing that a necktie would not easily hide the evidence of her struggle, and it was that thought alone that had her chin jutting forward defiantly and her fists rising marginally.
He looked like a wild man—nostrils flaring like a horse after a hard race, hair disheveled around his face, eyes pinpricked and focused on her.
If she stayed in this house another night, she knew she would pay for her actions. He cracked his knuckles as he flexed his hands. When he tilted his head to the side to give his neck the same sickening pop, she flinched. He continued to stare at her as he wiped the blood from his hand on a handkerchief and dabbed at the nail tracks of blood on his neck.
Amelia didn’t move and didn’t dare break contact with his emotionless blue eyes.
To her surprise, he turned away, shutting the door softly behind him, as though no one knew he was in her room to begin with.
She exhaled in a rush and slumped forward in relief. Legs numb and shaking, she stretched them out in front of her, letting the pins-and-needles sensation fade.
She needed to get out of this house—and fast. Sliding out of the bed, trying to make as little noise as possible, she knelt on the cold plank floor and pulled out the sack she’d stowed under the bed. Retrieved what clothes she had, she rolled them up tight, and stuffed them into the bag.
At the washbasin, she gathered the last bit of soap she’d taken from her home in Berwick and the silver brush that had been her mother’s. She had no other possessions, except a small oil painting of her parents in a broken silver locket, given to her on her tenth birthday and torn from her neck during one of her brother’s rages on her eighteenth birthday.
Pulling up a loose floorboard, she retrieved her drawstring reticule with the money she’d stolen from her brother. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it had been enough to get her to London and pay for lodgings for a month, if she had needed that long to find a job. The money would be put to good use now.
She packed only what she’d come with, as she didn’t want her employer accusing her of thievery. Hopefully, if she left quietly, Sir Ian wouldn’t pursue her, as she knew something of the determination of men when they were denied what they wanted.
With her sack tied and slung over one shoulder, and her shawl and mantle over her dress to keep her possessions safe, she tiptoed down the servants’ stairs and escaped out the back gate near the stable house. The cool air bit at her cheeks, so she quickened her stride, hoping that would keep her warm.
Once she was on the main streets, Amelia kept her head down so no one would see the tears flooding her eyes. It hit her suddenly that she’d left behind her last hope for a decent job.
Had she known how abhorrent her employer was, she’d have turned down the opportunity to teach his children. Sir Ian hadn’t wanted a proper governess for his young boys; he’d wanted a mistress living under his own roof. A woman he could visit in the cover of night, when his ill, bedridden wife was none the wiser.
She covered her mouth with her lace-gloved hand, feeling sick to her stomach. All she could do now was go back to the agency that had placed her and hope to find new employment.
Where would she go if they turned her away?
She picked up her stride, even though she’d developed a stitch in her side that made breathing difficult. She had only been in London for three weeks. Not enough time to make friends or learn her way around. She didn’t even know where she could find decent, safe lodgings. She supposed there was enough money to put herself on a train and go back home to her brother.
No. Never that.She refused to lower herself to that type of desperation. She would find another job. In fact, she would demand a new placement from the agency. She was well educated and the daughter of a once-prominent earl, which made her valuable and an asset for any job requiring someone intelligent and capable.
The only problem was that she’d told no one in London of her true identity.
Someone jostled her shoulder, spinning her from the path she walked.“Pardon, ma’am,” he said, grasping her under the arm to right her footing.
Before she could turn and offer her gratitude, he was just another bobbing hat on the street. Reaching for her reticule to pull out her handkerchief, she came up empty-handed.
“That thief!” she shouted, then slapped her hand over her mouth.
Those around her called up the alarm. She pointed in the direction she was sure the thief had gone, but there wasn’t a suspicious soul to be seen.
Amelia started pushing through the crowded street, apologizing along the way when she knocked into a few pedestrians. She grew frantic and inhaled in great gulps, trying to get air into her lungs and to keep at bay the panic that was threatening to rob her of her ability to think rationally.
Eventually, her feet slowed as the cramping in her side worsened. She could barely see beyond the tears falling from her eyes. Her face was damp, and she had nothing to wipe it clean except the sleeve of her day dress. She was unfit to go to the agency, but what other choice did she have?
Despair robbed her of the last of her breath, and she was forced to stop her pursuit.
Bracing one arm against an old stone building, she breathed in and out until she was calm. The last of her tears had dried on her face and made her cheeks stiff.
She should give up, crawl back to her brother, and beg for his eternal forgiveness. There were few viable choices left to her. She couldn’t stay out in the streets. Awful things happened to women who had no place to go. Things far worse than what she had escaped from, though in a moment of clarity, she might refute that statement.
Walking around to the side of the building where she’d stopped, she threw up the dinner she’d eaten the previous night. Feeling dizzy and unwell, she drew on the last of her courage, straightened her shoulders, and somehow found the strength to continue walking.
She needed to find new employment and accommodations without delay. The agency had been a room full of women; they would understand the situation she’d found herself in. They would help her.
Light-headed, she walked toward Fleet Street where the agency was tucked neatly behind a printing house. While the day had started rather dreary and dull in so many senses, the odd peek of sunshine cut through the coal-heavy air and pressed against her face. The sun warming her skin gave her a glimmer of optimism.
When the sun disappeared behind the clouds again, she focused on her surroundings and caught sight of a group of urchins, recognizing the tallest of the bunch immediately.
“You little swindler. Give me back what is mine,” she cried out loud and clear.
The boy, who had been counting the contents in her reticule, pocketed her money and took off at a full run. His pace was quick and light-footed, and she was sure he took one step to her three, though she still tried to catch up to him.
Shaken, with a cramp in her side and the dizzy feeling growing worse through her body, Amelia refused to give in. When the urchin dodged across a street heavy with traffic, she knew there was no time for hesitation. She needed that money back.
Before she made it halfway across the road, the urchin was lost among the carts. Tears welled in her eyes again, blurring her vision. Someone yelled for her to get off the road; someone else emphasized his point with obscenities she didn’t fully comprehend.
Though nearly to the other side, she didn’t move quite fast enough for the two-seat open carriage clipping down the street much more swiftly than the other carts.
“Move, you bloody fool,” the driver bellowed.
His speeding horses, black as pitch, headed toward her like the devil on her heels. She hiked up her skirts and ran but tripped over the stone curb and tumbled hard to her knees, twisting her foot on the way down. The pain of the impact caused black spots to dot across her vision. As she tried to gain her footing, she collapsed back onto her bruised, pained knees and cried.
A strong arm supported her under her elbow and hauled her to her feet, but it was apparent to them both that she couldn’t stand on her own. When the stranger knelt before her, all she saw was his tall beaver hat as he put one arm around her back and shoulders and the other under her legs. That was all the warning he gave before he lifted her into his arms and walked up the lawn as if she weighed nothing.
“Thank you,” she said weakly, her heated face pressed into his finely made wool jacket. His cologne was subtle and masculine with undertones of amber and citrus. She inhaled the scent deeper, wanting that comforting smell to wrap around her, wishing it would let her forget just how her day had unfolded.
Instead of releasing her when they were away from the road, he continued walking up the slight incline of the grassy field. A flush washed over her face as she stuttered for words of admonishment that anyone might see this gentleman carrying a poor, injured woman in his arms. She didn’t actually want him to put her down, but common decency demanded it of her.
Gazing at the face under his well-made top hat stopped any further protestations. She dropped her gaze and stared at his striped necktie tucked neatly into a charcoal vest.
“You need not carry me. I can find my way,” she said, but her request lacked any conviction.
The sun shone through the clouds once more, shining directly in her eyes and allowing her to pull away from the power that radiated from his gaze.
His short, close-clipped beard emphasized the strong line of his jaw. Black hair fanned out a little under his hat, longer than fashionable, but suiting to the rough edge this man carried.
She could tell that his mouth, though pinched, was full, the bow on top well defined. The type of lips young ladies tittered and wrote poems about.
“I just witnessed you hike up your skirts well past your shins to run across one of the busiest streets in London.” His voice was gruff, with a sensual quality that warmed her right to the very core.
Just as she thought her blush couldn’t get worse, she felt her ears burning from the blunt observation of what he’d witnessed.
Amelia cleared her throat, realizing she’d been staring at him too long. “I am sorry you had to witness that.”
He settled her down on a slated wood bench under the shade of an ancient burled oak tree. “It’s arguable that you did that in a careful manner,” he said.
The gentleman removed his leather gloves, set them on the bench beside her, and went down on his knees to stretch out her foot to look at the injury she’d done herself.
She tucked her feet under the bench, away from his searching hands. They were in the open, and anyone could see his familiarity. “I only need to rest a minute. I wish I could repay you for your troubles, but I have nothing of value . . .”
When he looked at her—really looked at her—she was struck speechless by the sincerity of his regard. His eyes were gray like flint and as hard as steel. Unusual and beautiful, she thought. But it wasn’t the color that had her at a loss for words. It was the intensity behind his gaze that made her feel that she was the only person in the world he was focused on; almost like nothing but the two of them existed on this tiny patch of grass in the middle of the bustling city.
This perfect man before her, who clearly didn’t have to worry about putting a roof over his head or bread on the table, held a maelstrom of emotions in his cool, assessing gaze. She trusted what she saw in his eyes, trusted a man for the first time in she didn’t know how long.
She wanted to reach toward his face but grasped the edge of the bench tightly instead.
Just how dire her situation was hit her so hard, she swayed where she sat. Her money was gone, her only picture of her parents taken with it.And then she cried.
She didn’t mean to. She didn’t even think she had the energy left for such an outpouring. But she couldn’t stop now that the dam had broken on her emotions. Histrionics didn’t seem to put her rescuer off, because he only huffed a helpless breath and waited for her to calm herself, which she tried to do in great gulping breaths.
“Let me get you to a doctor.” His voice was deep and commanding. He would never have to raise his voice to draw the attention of those around him. It was the kind of voice to which one was naturally drawn, and it stirred something deep inside her.
She shook her head at his offer.
She needed to loosen whatever spell he had over her.
She felt the command of his stare but did not turn her face up to his again.
“Let me see you to a doctor to ensure it is nothing more than a turned ankle,” he offered, his voice full of sincerity.
She shook her head again. She tried to explain about the agency, but none of what she said came out coherently, and her tears fell harder.
Before she could attempt saying anything more, her rescuer lifted her in his arms once again and strode toward the street.
Chapter Three
Bloody women. Why did they have to cry?
Nick called a carriage over to the curb, the inconsolable woman tucked tightly against his chest. Her sobs calmed only slightly after what felt like forever. He couldn’t complain about holding on to her, though; she had curves in all the right places, and his hand squeezed a little tighter than needed around her ribs. He was an ass, but she felt good in his arms.
He was almost reluctant to slide her into the seat but must needs . . .
Had this woman not had an uncanny resemblance to someone he’d known a long time ago, he might not have been so quick to cart her back to his home. He’d seen her by chance as he walked through the park. Then, she’d dashed through the traffic, giving him pause and causing him to think that she was headed in his direction. His heart had practically fallen out of his chest when she’d stumbled into the path of a moving carriage. And before he knew it, he was hauling her to her feet, looking her over for injury.
With a knock at the side of the carriage, the horse pulled forward, easing into the busy street with well-practiced precision. Soon, they were clipping at a pace in stride with the rest of the carriages and carts. The inside of the cab smelled musty, with a faint trace of tobacco smoke, and while the odor didn’t bother him, the woman across from him wrinkled her nose. He opened the window a smidgen to allow fresh air in.
Twisting around on the worn leather seat, she looked out the window, wiping the tears away from her swollen eyes. Even while she cried, she was pretty.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” He took off his hat and tipped it toward her. “Nicholas Riley, though everyone calls me Nick.”
“Miss Som—” When her voice caught on another sob, he handed her a handkerchief from his vest pocket. Her fingers brushed against his. It took everything he had in him not to hold on and pull her over to the bench he sat on.
“Thank you.” She blew her nose. “Miss Grant. Amelia Grant.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure, though I would have preferred introductions under better circumstances. I will have my physician assess your injury when we are back at my townhouse.”
“You’re far too kind and need not go to the trouble.” When she looked at him, he could tell she was out of her element, lost. A look he was familiar with. “I have an appointment I cannot be late for. You may drop me off wherever is convenient for you so I can be on my way.”
Tenacious. He did love that quality in a woman.
But he would not give her what she wanted. When he’d inspected her in the park, he had also noticed how delicate she was. She was half a foot shorter than he was, which made her taller than average for a woman. But her frame was slight, beneath the ill-fitting plain dress she wore.
“Your accent is not typical of a Londoner,” he said, knowing full well he was ignoring her request.
Wisps of her hair that had escaped the tight chignon at the base of her hat revealed the color as a sun-kissed brown. A becoming color next to her fair skin tone, though the bruise on her cheek stood out in stark contrast.
“I lived in northern England most of my life.” She tucked the stray tendril of hair behind her ear.
“How did a country girl end up in London instead of married with a brood of her own?”
Miss Grant didn’t seem taken aback by his blunt question and kept her stormy blue eyes steady on him, though he did notice her curling and twisting the handkerchief between her fingers. Did he make her nervous?
“You are rather direct, Mr. Riley.”
“A forward approach tends to garner truer words,” he said honestly.
“When my father died, there wasn’t much left of his estate. There are few marriages open to a woman of gentle breeding when there are no coffers to cushion the failing estates across England. And there are even fewer jobs available for a young woman. I came here to teach.” She screwed up her nose. “Which seemed logical at the time, considering my education.”
Made sense to him. “How long have you been in London?”
“Nearly a month.”
When they hit a rut in the road, Miss Grant let out a sound filled with pain as the motion jarred her bad foot. Nick wanted to haul her into his arms and comfort her. That would only frighten her, he realized, so he settled for the next best thing, because, dammit, he wanted to touch her.
“Here,” Nick said, hiking up her skirts before she realized his intention.
Panicked, she tried to push his hands away, which only confirmed the source of the bruise darkening by the minute on her cheek. He ground his teeth together. The bastard who had done that would pay dearly.
He gentled his voice, not wanting to frighten her any further. “You need to elevate your foot. To alleviate the swelling.”
Pressing himself against the far right of the carriage, he motioned to the vacated side of his seat, hoping she’d humor him in raising her foot herself; otherwise, he’d have to insist.
“The carriage is enough to satisfy any momentary pain I’m feeling.” The defiance in her voice only added to the strong vibrancy of her character. He wasn’t a man who often gave in to emotion—it revealed weaknesses to those around him—but he wanted to smile at her stubbornness.
He liked Miss Grant. Perhaps more than he should have, considering how little he knew about her.
This time when he lowered his hands, he didn’t try to lift the soiled hem of her skirts out of the way. He grasped her booted foot, raised it carefully, and perched it on the bench next to his thigh. The motion forced her to focus on balancing herself instead of pushing him away.
“We should arrive at my house shortly.”
“I was telling the truth about my appointment.”
“And what could be more important than seeing to your well-being? I can send a note along if you tell me where you were headed.”
She pinched her lips together, contemplating her answer. “To an employment agency.”
“Your teaching job did not work out?” He searched her eyes, knowing full well that the bruise could only have come from her last job.
She looked away from him, confirming his suspicions. His hands curled into fists so tight that his knuckles cracked on one hand. When Miss Grant flinched, he forced himself to relax.
Finally, they pulled up to the front of his townhouse. Opening the door, he stepped out of the carriage and tossed the fare up to the driver. Reaching inside, he gathered Miss Grant in his arms. He told himself it was because she shouldn’t walk, but he knew damn well it was because he needed to feel her in his arms again.
As he approached the stairs, his man of all affairs, Huxley, opened the front door. If he was astonished to see a woman in Nick’s arms, Huxley didn’t give it away with any sort of facial expression; it was as if it were business as usual.
Many might guess Huxley to be in his midthirties, judging from the lack of wrinkles on his clean-shaven, pock-marked face, but Nick knew the man was close to fifty. Huxley was discreet and never gave an opinion when outside of Nick’s company. Though he doubled as Nick’s valet, they had a much darker, intertwined past, one that had first overlapped some fifteen years ago. Huxley’s loyalty was unwavering, and Nick trusted him implicitly.
“Huxley,” he said as the door closed behind him. “This is Miss Amelia Grant. Conveniently, I found her on my way home, and she is in need of employment. She will be our new secretary. Would you call my physician to the house? By appearances, she has sprained her ankle but the doctor will need to confirm.”
Some might question Nick’s sanity for taking a woman on for such a task, but his mind was made on the matter. Nick held tighter to his prize when Amelia wiggled to be put down. Walking past Huxley, who left to do Nick’s bidding with no more than a grunt, Nick headed toward the parlor.
He approached the oversized yellow-and-pink floral-patterned sofa; he was reluctant to release her, but he ceded to better judgment and set her down as carefully as possible. She pressed her back to the farthest cushion from him and stared at him with furrowed brows.
“I cannot be your secretary, Mr. Riley.”
“Oh, but you will be. It’s a generous offer, and I have no ulterior motives.” Which was a lie, but the one thing he wouldn’t do was hurt her.
He motioned toward her cheek. “You will not find that kind of treatment in this household.”
She touched it fleetingly before tucking her hand away and sitting up straighter to face him, though she fiddled with a crease at the front of her dress.
While the dress had seen better days, it was well-made and only tattered and stained around the edges. He wanted to see her in silk and taffeta, not the stormy gray material that draped her unbecomingly.
“We never agreed to terms,” she said.
“If you think I offer this generosity to every woman who falls in my path, you are mistaken. The offer was not for your sole benefit; I am in need of a secretary. My paperwork has been in shambles for months, and the applicants who have come to me were nothing but buffoons. I see you, Miss Grant, and I see an honest woman.”
She blushed, the red a becoming color on her cheeks. “I have no experience in being a secretary.”
Perhaps not, but she was in need of a protector. Needing to see if there was any other damage to her, he freed the pin that held her hat in place. She tucked loose bits of her hair back into the chignon. The bruise darkening her cheek and the cut under her lip were the only visible signs of a recent struggle. He silently vowed to find the man responsible.
“Can you write correspondences and organize invitations and responses?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Huxley, the man we passed in the hallway, will settle you in and explain anything you need to know about my affairs.”
“Is he leaving the position?” she asked.
“Huxley’s time is better used elsewhere.”
“Why would you want to hire me without references?”
A valid question. He couldn’t tell her that from the moment he saw her, he knew that he had to have her. There was that and the fact that he had a penchant for bringing in strays. Though he didn’t think she’d appreciate either answer. “I will obtain the references you submitted for your last job. I assume you were placed through Everett’s agency for young women.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How could you possibly know that?”
“That is the closest agency in the area where we came upon each other.” It had also once been his agency, before he’d handed the reins over to one of his mother’s friends.
She lowered her gaze and stared at her lap with a defeated slouch curving her shoulders. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, tell her that the bruise on her cheek was a thing of the past, and that he would never harm her. If there was one thing he could promise her, it was that she would be safe in his household.
But would she be safe from him?
He wanted her with a fierceness that crossed the line of decency.
He would scrutinize both those thoughts later.
#
Amelia hated to admit anything to her perfect stranger, but he’d find out sooner or later. And if he was willing to give her a chance at a job, how could she not be honest? “The agency may not provide references, as I left my last job without notice.”
“Leave it to me to sort out the finer details, Miss Grant.”
Before she could refuse him again, Huxley entered the room, announcing, “The doctor will arrive within the half hour.”
Mr. Riley nodded his thanks and retrieved a tasseled velvet stool from under the window. “Once we’re finished with the doctor, Huxley, I should like you to show Miss Grant where she’ll be working—a tour of the house will have to wait until she is steady on her feet. She also will require a key to my study.”
If Huxley thought his employer insane for allowing a woman they knew nothing about to handle Mr. Riley’s day-to-day affairs, he said nothing. She wondered if they would discuss the matter when she wasn’t privy to the conversation.
“Miss”—Huxley addressed her with a curt tip of his head—“You’ll want refreshments, so I’ll locate Joshua.” Without further ado, Huxley left the room. Focusing on Mr. Riley’s intent stare, Amelia wasn’t sure how she felt about being alone with him.
Mr. Riley placed the stool in front of her. Before he could assist, she lifted her leg and settled her skirts around her so she wasn’t revealing anything but the edge of her short leather boot. He took a seat across from her and slung his arm over the back of the ivory-colored Louis chair. She flitted her gaze away from his, unable to stand up to the scrutiny behind those assessing grays.
“Aside from teaching children, what other skills do you possess?” he asked.
She studied him for a few moments before answering. “How can you even consider taking on someone who, up until now, has been more or less an encumbrance?”
“It is possible we view a burden as two separate things.”
“I doubt my skills would be useful to you. While I know how to run a household, put menus together for dinner parties, and teach children a number of topics that include the rudiments of mathematics, biology, geography, Latin, dance, and piano, I haven’t the slightest idea what would be required of a secretary.”
“Women often downplay the true extent of their abilities. Running a household is not as easy a task as you would have me believe. I know this for fact, as I struggled through it with Huxley for a number of years until we hired Marney, the housekeeper.”
Her mouth opened to argue her point, but a man carrying a large brown leather bag rushed into the room.
“Mr. Riley,” the newcomer said, slightly out of breath. “Huxley sent for me. He said it was urgent.”
Mr. Riley stood, motioning toward Amelia. “Miss Grant has taken a fall and twisted her ankle.”
The doctor knelt next to the stool her foot was perched upon. “May I?” he asked, motioning toward her booted foot.
She nodded and curled her fingers around the piped edge of the sofa. The doctor hesitated as he searched through his accouterments, pulling out scissors and then deciding against them. Instead, he unlaced her boot, careful not to move her foot in the process.
Sucking in a pained breath, Amelia couldn’t help but wince as her boot was tugged off. The pinch of pain lasted only a moment.
Mr. Riley took a step toward her, as if he would stop the doctor. She watched Mr. Riley cautiously. What was he about? This time, she intentionally tried to catch his gaze, but before she could garner his attention, he turned and strode out of the room.
Amelia breathed easier the moment Mr. Riley left her in the care of the doctor. Something about Mr. Riley’s presence made her feel things she’d never felt before—foreign things that had her blushing as images of him holding her close in his arms flashed across her mind. She’d been raised a lady and had respected that upbringing. What she felt for this man crossed every boundary of propriety that her father had instilled in her.
With a shaky breath that had nothing to do with the swelling pain in her ankle and everything to do with Mr. Riley, she looked at the doctor, needing to focus on something else.
Anything else.
She guessed the doctor’s age was around forty. His face was clean shaven and his black suit decently pressed. There were crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, as though he often found reason for laughter. The kindness she saw there put her at ease in her strange new surroundings.
The room was grander than any in her childhood home—the ceilings had to be twenty feet high, making the room bright and airy. Above each of the lead-paned windows, decorative stained glass was fashioned into the shape of a fan. The walls were papered with a deep burgundy damask, and the furniture—two sofas and a chair in her seating section—were a mix of ivory chintz and floral patterns to balance the dark walls and wood trim. It was a richly appointed room. Every detail looked carefully selected, and nothing looked neglected, not even the curtains. In the house where she’d grown up, the curtains had been filled with holes from moths over the years.
“It does not appear as though anything is broken,” the doctor said, drawing her attention away from her surroundings and back to his kind brown eyes. “May I ask how you hurt it?”
She bit her lip. It was embarrassing to admit what happened, so she opted for a much shorter version of the truth. “In my haste to cross a busy street this morning, I managed to trip over the curb separating the lane and the park. My ankle twisted when I fell.”
He looked at her silently, assessing her injuries. She knew her lip had a split at one corner; she felt the constant sting, especially when she talked. Mr. Riley had confirmed that Sir Ian was successful in bruising her where he had struck her.
“You will need to stay off your foot for a few days, preferably a week if you can spare the time.”
She needed to work, not laze about like an indulgent cat. “Is there not a salve I can use to heal it quicker? What if I wrap it so I can better support my weight?”
“I’m afraid neither will be sufficient. You need rest to bring down the swelling, and time will heal the rest.”
She looked away from the doctor, her vision blurring. She hated the tears that filled her eyes at her predicament. She was stronger than this. “I’m not in a position to do any such thing,” she said, hearing the break in her voice.
“You most certainly are.” Mr. Riley spoke from the door, startling her. The tone of his voice was commanding and brooked no argument. “You will sit at a desk to deal with my correspondence over the next week, if that’s how long it takes to heal.”
“I could . . .” She wasn’t sure what she could do. And this was not a conversation or argument for the kind doctor to hear. She would deal with Mr. Riley in due time. She ducked her head. “Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice, Doctor. I am grateful for your services.”
“I am always available when Mr. Riley calls.” He packed up his bag, stood, and bowed to Amelia. His smile was warm as he placed his hat on his head. “Call for me again if it worsens, though I think you’re in good hands now.”
She nodded, not sure how to respond to the doctor’s assurance of Mr. Riley’s character.
Mr. Riley spoke with the doctor before he left. They were too quiet for Amelia to overhear what they discussed before the doctor shook Mr.
Riley’s hand and left.Silence descended upon the room when she was left alone with her rescuer. She understood cruelty, unkindness. She understood the demands of men bent on humiliating her. Any of those things she could easily skirt around and make an escape for the nearest exit. But Mr. Riley bewildered her on so many levels that she was at a loss in determining her next step. He was kind, and he seemed genuinely interested in helping her.
Still, she couldn’t help but wonder: Why me?
