Chapter Seven

L ord Briarwood's breath grazed Saffron's cheek, smelling of brandy and cloves. The light of the crackling fire cast his slightly crooked nose and stubbled cheeks in a golden tinge. Her stomach filled with swirling butterflies, and she almost forgot her feet were soaked and her fingers numb from the cold.

When she'd walked into the cottage, she'd felt a searing rush of nerves at the sight of him, water dripping from his hair, shirt plastered to his chest. She'd dreamed of him every night since they'd met, replaying every scene, languishing in the comfort of his arms. She'd never met a man who had treated her as anything more than an annoying accessory to her sister, who didn't make her feel like she needed to hide some part of herself away.

She realized she was staring and hurriedly turned her gaze to the fire. "What are you doing?"

He pulled her tightly against himself. "You've caught a chill from the rain."

"What? No." She tugged away and looked into his face. The worry she saw there made her eyes burn with tears.

How can he care so much when he barely knows me?

"I'm fine," she said, enunciating the words. "I don't have a chill. I'm sure of it."

He moved his arms to her shoulders. "Your cheeks are flushed, and your hands shaking."

"It's nothing, Lord Briarwood," she said, glad when her voice came out evenly. Being so close to him was enough to send flickering tendrils of electricity across her skin.

"If not a fever, then what?" A slow smile spread across his face.

She licked her lips, unsure of how to respond. She'd never desired a man before. Should she tell him of her fantasies? The dreams she had, replaying their moment by the fountain?

"Call me ‘Leo,'" he said.

She startled, bumping her arm against his. "What?"

He turned his head so that his nose was only inches from hers and gave a boyish smile. "I told you to call me ‘Leo.' Not ‘Lord Briarwood.'"

"As I told you before, it wouldn't be proper," she whispered. Not that anything about their situation was proper. If anyone found out they had been alone together for so long, and in such a state of undress, she would be branded a lightskirt.

It might already be too late , she thought, with a frisson of fear. How was she going to explain arriving with the viscount, soaking wet, without a chaperone? Every minute they waited increased the chances that someone would stumble upon them, or that more guests would arrive and further complicate their return.

I've all but ruined myself already.

It was not that she cared about her own reputation. Three years of failing to find a man willing to marry her had chased away her childhood fantasies of securing a husband. But she could not allow her actions to reflect poorly on her sister and aunt.

"Are you still cold?"

Belatedly, she realized she was trembling again, and her breath came in gasps.

"I—It's not—" She swallowed a huge amount of saliva that had collected in her mouth and then groaned and thumped her forehead on her knees. "It is a problem I have. When things happen that I can't control, my mind tries to predict every possibility, and I get trapped in a cycle I cannot escape."

Leo chuckled. "You are so much like her."

She tilted her head to the side so she could see his face. "Who?"

His soft smile turned down. "My sister. She died three years ago."

Her heart ached for him. She knew how it felt to grieve a sibling. Losing Basil had torn her apart.

"My advice," he continued. "Do whatever feels right and don't worry about the consequences. I never do." Then he tilted his face toward her and dropped his eyes to her lips, as he had done in every fantasy that she'd had of him.

The temptation was too much to resist.

She fluttered her eyelids closed, angled her face, and pressed her lips to his.

It was nothing like she'd imagined.

His mouth was hard and unyielding, like cold stone. She tried again, desperately reaching for the warmth she'd felt when he'd protected her by the fountain, whispering sweet words that had made her insides feel like jelly. But aside from the muscles bunching in his neck, he gave no reaction.

Disappointed, she pulled back, tucking her arms against her chest and lowering her chin, not wanting him to see the tears forming at the corners of her eyes. She had trusted her instincts, and they had failed her.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I thought…"

"You thought what?" His voice was as cold as his lips.

That you wanted me.

"Nothing." Her voice broke, and she tried to pull away, only to find his arm anchoring her in place. "My lord, what are you doing? Let me go."

His rejection was embarrassing enough. It simmered in her mind, another reminder that she wasn't normal, would never be normal. She'd been so sure he had wanted her, but she'd imagined it, seen a spark where there'd been nothing. Facing the depth of his scorn tore at her already fragile confidence.

He's not different, after all.

"Let me go," she said again, struggling in his grip as tears dripped from her eyes and slid down her cheeks. "It won't happen again."

He uttered a strangled curse, then moved his hands from her arms to frame her face. With his thumbs, he brushed away the tears.

"You think too much."

He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, her nose, then her lips.

She melted beneath his feather-light touch and wound her arms around his neck. Her pulse skittered, making her dizzy with relief. Was it really happening? Or was she dreaming?

One hand cupped her breast, and she gasped. His tongue swept into her mouth and tangled with hers, sending a jolt of heat to her pelvis. He tasted smoky sweet, like a rich brandy, but more intoxicating.

He broke away briefly to pull her into his lap, straddling him. His hands grasped her rear and squeezed, his fingers tantalizingly close to her most sensitive area. It was as she'd dreamed, and so much more. Wetness pooled at the apex of her thighs, and she arched her back, aching for him to touch her there.

He drew back with a muffled curse and pressed his lips to her cheek in a chaste kiss. His heart pounded beneath her curled fingers and the hard ridge of his desire pressed into her thigh. Her skin prickled with sensation where he had touched her, and his taste lingered in her mouth.

"That was nice… Leo," she whispered.

Using his name felt so intimate, but it seemed fitting after what they had shared.

He nudged a strand of wet hair out of her face. "So, I am ‘Leo,' at last?"

She flicked her tongue across her lips. "Yes."

He cupped her cheeks in his hands and squeezed. "As much as I would love to continue this moment, the storm has stopped. We should get back before they come looking for us."

*

Saffron stumbled out of the sheeting rain through the large doors of the manor, held open by footmen, and shrugged off her purloined cloak. It fell with a wet thud onto the marble floor, splattering the marble tiles with a brownish-gray liquid.

Everything around her screamed opulence, from the grand, marble staircase carpeted in a rich crimson to the gilded-gold frames of portraits hanging high on the walls.

Despite her fears, they had not encountered a soul on the road, nor had any guests arrived before them. She felt both amazed, and somewhat guilty, by her fortune. It was as if the moment in the cottage had been a dream.

"My servants are very discreet," the viscount murmured, coming to stand beside her. "No one will ever know. Your honor will remain intact."

If only that were true. Honorable women did not throw themselves into the arms of rakes, no matter how gorgeous they were. But she was relieved that her lapse in judgement would not reflect poorly on her family.

A heavy blanket dropped onto her shoulders, and she looked up to see Leo's hands falling away.

"Thank you." She pulled the blanket tighter around her. Her eyes trailed down his silk shirt, plastered to his body. He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his bulging forearms, covered in a fine layer of golden hair. She had the sudden urge to reach out and stroke him like a cat. She could still feel his lips on hers, his tongue swirling around her mouth. His firm hands kneading her breast, cupping her rear.

This spark of attraction is a distraction. Nothing more.

She would not abandon her quest to find Basil. Not when she was so close. Somewhere among the guests attending the auction was the painter who had captured her brother's likeness. When she found Ravenmore, she would demand to know where he had met her brother. She couldn't be more than a week behind him, given the date on the painting. Things would go back to normal after she'd chased him down.

"Are you even listening to me? Not now, man!"

Saffron jerked her head around to see Leo struggling with a fluffy, pink towel that someone, probably his butler, had draped over his head.

"That's a good look for you," she said, laughing.

Then she remembered the sound of the carriage wheel cracking, Angelica and Rosemary screaming. How long had it been since she'd left them at the side of the road? It had gotten colder by the minute, and the rain had fallen from the sky in endless buckets.

What if it's too late?

She would never forgive herself if something happened to them.

Leo was still arguing with his butler, their voices rising in volume. The only other person in the room was a young footman with sandy-blond hair.

She charged toward him, filled with a renewed sense of urgency. "Have any other guests arrived? A young woman with golden hair, and an older woman?"

The boy gaped at her as if she'd turned into a dragon and breathed fire. "N-No, madam."

She followed his gaze to Leo, who was approaching them, having divested himself of the offending towel.

"Get the coachman," he said to the servant. "Make sure he sends a carriage to the riverside."

The boy scuttled off through the open front doors and into the rain. A footman in identical livery entered from the adjoining room and pushed the door closed, then took up a position against the wall.

She returned her eyes to Leo, who had his arms crossed. She fidgeted. He had the look of a man waiting for an answer, but she couldn't remember if he had asked a question. "What did you say?"

A muscle worked in his jaw. "You should have stayed with your aunt and sister. A storm is no place for a lady."

She snorted. "I shouldn't have to remind you I am not exactly a lady."

He cupped her cheek in his hand. "You could've been killed. Didn't you think about that? What would your family do if you got hurt?"

Before she could respond, a plump, bespectacled woman rushed them, her arms outstretched. Although she wore the same livery as the rest of the servants, the large ring of keys knotted to her belt with a thick rope marked her as a housekeeper.

Leo dropped his hand from her face and ran it through his wet hair. "Yes, Mrs. Banting? What has gone wrong now?"

"It's the grocer's bill, milord," the woman said between gasped breaths. "They've sent a beater of a man to collect payment."

"Then pay the man. What's the problem?"

The woman clutched her hands together at her waist. "I swear I left payment in the usual place. But it's disappeared! Oh, milord, I don't have a clue where the funds have made off to."

Saffron could not stop herself from interjecting. "Surely, this can wait until morning."

The housekeeper balled her fists at her sides, opened her mouth, and wailed. There was no other word for it. She sobbed, her head tilted up, mouth wide open.

Saffron gaped, then turned to Leo, surprised at his lack of response. Most other men she knew would have burst into a temper and fired the woman on the spot. No self-respecting lord tolerated such actions from those under his employ. Certainly not from his housekeeper, a position of considerable power within a household.

But Leo only groaned and buried his head in his hands, muttering something about responsibilities. The other servants slunk silently away, as if accustomed to such outbursts, and in short order, it was only the three of them in the cavernous entryway.

The opulence that had blinded Saffron on first seeing the grand estate shattered, and she saw the cracks in the fa?ade. All was not well at the Briarwood estate. She filed that information away for later as a potential opportunity to assist with her search.

"Fine!" Leo shouted over the wailing. "Cease your caterwauling. I will handle it."

The woman paused, her mouth still agape, her cheeks flushed. "You will?"

He smiled tightly. "Allow me a moment to exchange my clothing, and then I will send Sinclair to the coffers to retrieve the funds you require." He grabbed Saffron's shoulders and shoved her toward the housekeeper. "Miss Summersby is our guest. Please see she is comfortable."

With that, he ran from the room, leaving Saffron standing next to Mrs. Banting while water dripped from her clothes and formed a puddle at their feet.

"Come, madam," Mrs. Banting said, tugging on her arm. "I will show you to your room."

Saffron followed the housekeeper up the central staircase and onto the first floor, then down a hallway decorated with red damask wallpaper in a swirling, floral pattern. Her feet made dark footprints in the thick red-and-gold carpeting that shared the same swirling pattern as the wallpaper. Chandeliers hung in even intervals between each set of doors, burning enough oil to supply the Summersby townhouse for a year. Yet despite the lush appointments, there was ample evidence of neglect. Black soot marks on the walls, wear patterns in the carpet, and an acrid odor that suggested the chandeliers had not been cleaned in some time.

So much wealth, and yet such commonplace issues have not been addressed.

The house was as much a mystery as its master.

"Here you are, ma'am," Mrs. Banting said, stopping at a door and opening it with a key from her keyring. "I hope you'll be comfortable here. I'll be off to the kitchen to deal with the beater from the grocer now."

She bustled Saffron inside before departing, leaving her to stare, open-mouthed, at the luxury surrounding her.

The suite was composed of three adjoining rooms. The first bedchamber contained a bed larger than any she'd seen in her life, piled high with blankets and pillows. She punched one experimentally to confirm it was filled with feathers. Two smaller bedchambers connected through single doors on either side of the room, each with its own color palette and expensive furnishings. It was startlingly like the home in the country she had grown up in, and she had to clear the tears misting her eyes.

We'll have it back.

Thus determined, she began the laborious process of shrugging off her wet clothes. She had made small progress when a young maid with bright-red hair exploded into the room without knocking, sending the doors banging against the walls. She let out a string of rapid-fire words in a language Saffron didn't recognize but thought might be Gaelic, then charged her.

"Madam," the maid said, in a scandalized Scottish accent. "You need not do such work on your own. Mrs. Banting let me know you were in need and assigned me to help. My name is Lily. Don't mind the doors, they're always a-slamming here."

Too tired to argue, Saffron allowed Lily to peel the wet clothing from her body, then shivered while the maid arranged for a large, copper tub and buckets of steaming water to be brought up. The backbreaking work was done by the sturdiest of the manservants, rather than the lowest on the household hierarchy. Seeing that raised her opinions of Leo a notch.

Once the tub was full, she sunk into the frothing, scented water with a sigh of pleasure.

Lily wasted no time pulling up her sleeves and scouring Saffron's long hair with a brush.

"Oh, madam," the maid said. "Your hair is beautiful but naught treated well. You must not shampoo dry hair such as this more than once a month. A wash of eggs and oat bran is what you rightly need to make it shine. I have done so since I was a lass."

Saffron kept her lips sealed. There was no point in telling the maid that any eggs she could afford went right onto their breakfast plates. She could not fathom wasting good food on beauty.

Then Lily disappeared, and Saffron dried and put up her hair at the small dressing table. She was about to begin the tortuous process of putting her still-damp garments back on when the maid returned, her arms full of fabric.

"Oh, no," Lily said, dumping her load on the bed and gathering the old clothes out of her hands. "You canna wear those. Mrs. Banting told me to bring you these."

The fabrics were lovely, and she knew she should refuse, but the thought of stepping back into her sodden clothing was too much to bear. Instead, she allowed Lily to hand her the most beautiful underthings she'd ever worn. First a chemise and drawers of sheer silk and knitted wool stockings for the cold. Then the maid pulled back the covers on the bed, but Saffron stopped her with a wave. She was too anxious to sleep, especially when Angelica and Rosemary had yet to arrive.

Lily smoothed the bedspread. "As you wish, madam." Then she brought over Saffron's old corset with an apology. "Would not want you to use one that was not properly fit, and the lady who owned this gown was a fair bit taller than you. This was the only gown we could find."

Saffron could not argue, although she hoped the clothes had not belonged to one of Leo's light ladies. She wasn't sure how she would feel about him looking at her the same way he would a woman he had bedded. It was difficult enough maintaining her composure around him after what they'd shared in the cottage without imagining him intertwined with the previous owner of her dress.

A snowy-white petticoat came next, and a blouse instead of a corset cover. Then Lily spread out a bodice and skirt on the bed for her to admire. The emerald-and-cream day dress was made of silk taffeta and velvet, with a low, square neckline, an open skirt, and dropped waist trimmed with a wide, cream, silk ribbon.

"It's lovely," she whispered as Lily helped her into it. "I haven't worn something this beautiful in my entire life."

To finish the ensemble, Lily presented her with a pair of emerald gloves, only slightly too large, and a pair of pale-green slippers. Her toes bumped up against the tips, but it was better than walking around in stockinged feet.

When she was finally dressed, she stared at herself in the mirror, breathless. Proper attire was a kind of shield, invisible to most, but jarringly obvious when done cheaply. She had spent so long patching her old gowns until they were so thin as to be transparent that wearing proper, sturdy clothing filled her with a renewed sense of purpose.

I can do this. First, Ravenmore, then Basil.

"Much better," Lily said, her hands on her hips. "I will have your garments cleaned and returned to you, but if you'll be asking me, I think these suit you more."

Saffron dismissed Lily with thanks, then without a plan for what to do next, walked over to the window by the small writing desk and looked outside.

The storm had passed, leaving behind a rose-tinted sky as the first rays of the sun peeked over the tops of the trees. If she squinted through the scratched and dirty glass, she could make out the dotted shapes of staff working on the grounds, busy at their tasks, despite the remaining trickle of rain. How many people did an estate the size of Briarwood Manor employ?

She checked the ornate clock on the mantel, surprised that it was early morning. She did not know how long she had been on horseback. Had it been minutes or hours? The time spent in the cottage had passed with tremendous speed. She paced her room in a knot of worry. Every time she closed her eyes, she imagined the worst-case scenario of Angelica and Rosemary beset upon by brigands or highwaymen. Or, even worse, braving the storm themselves and falling victim to a flood or landslide.

What she needed was work. Something to keep her busy. But she had no garments to repair, or letters to write.

Remembering the incident in the entryway, she searched the room for a bell and found it in the corner. She grasped the heavy, braided cord, pulling it down in a quick motion. It wasn't long before there was a soft knock at her door.

"Enter," Saffron said.

A young maid with brown, plaited hair and a spattering of freckles opened the door. "Would you like a hot meal, madam? It's a few hours still before we'll be serving in the main parlor."

"No, thank you. Please tell Mrs. Banting I would like to speak to her."

The maid bowed and departed, closing the door with a soft whisper, in defiance of Lily's previous claims.

Left alone again, Saffron took a seat at the small desk and tried to calm her jittering nerves by organizing the contents of the drawers.

Twelve jars of ink. Fifteen sheets of vellum. Three fountain pens.

What if Angelica had set out after her? Would Leo's coachman even find her?

One bag of setting powder. Two wax seals.

There was nothing left to sort, but her mind refused to settle. Aunt Rosemary was sensitive to the cold. Would she take ill after being exposed for so long?

A gentle rapping at her door startled her. The housekeeper opened it when bidden, her hands tucked behind her back. "Terribly sorry to bother you, madam. You wanted to see me?"

"Yes," Saffron said, standing so fast that she rattled the table. This was her chance to begin her investigation. "I was hoping to speak with Ravenmore. Do you know if the painter has arrived yet?"

Mrs. Banting frowned. "I apologize, madam. There is no one with that name on the guest list."

Well, it had been worth an attempt. "Perhaps you might show me to the paintings for the auction? I find I am restless."

The housekeeper's lips thinned. "Lord Briarwood has made it clear that no guests should be allowed access to the items for the auction." She twisted her hands together at her waist. "Is there anything else you require?"

She could prowl the corridors, but what would it accomplish? Her time would be better spent making herself useful.

"Yes," she said. "You need help. I can provide it."

The housekeeper blanched. "Begging your pardon, but it would not be proper."

Saffron smoothed her hands along the bodice of her gown. "You would be doing me a kindness. The only family I have ever known is out there." She waved her hand toward the window. "I find myself thinking of them incessantly, which pains my heart."

The housekeeper seemed to struggle with something for a moment before her shoulders dropped. "A lady, cooking and cleaning? No, madam, I won't allow it. But there is something…"

"Whatever it is, I can help," Saffron said, more confidently than she felt.

Mrs. Banting nodded. "Well, you are right. I am in desperate need, madam. There is much to be done, and I am in a fluster on how to get it complete in time."

Finally. Something I can do that's not sitting around.

She was well acquainted with work, and it would force her mind to focus on something productive. She straightened. "You might as well avail yourself of my help while you can. When my aunt and sister arrive, I won't be able to assist you. What do you need?"