Chapter 6

Chapter Six

T he next morning, Ethan set down his fork and looked at his hovering butler. "I don't suppose you had a hand in preparing this?"

Brunswick shook his head. "I cannot say that I did, my lord."

Ethan thought as much. With grim disbelief, he reviewed the contents of his breakfast plate. He poked at the eggs with his fork, and they pushed back with rubbery resilience. The sausages were burnt to a crisp on the outside, yet the insides were raw and pink. The toast, at least, held no surprises, being blackened through and through. As for the buns, the good news was that, if he were ever in need of doorstops, he now had a bountiful supply.

Good God, could the troublesome Mrs. Wood do nothing right?

First the bats, now this.

"She said she could cook," he said grimly.

Brunswick cleared his throat. "Did she say she could cook well?"

"That was implied." Ethan turned a hard stare upon his butler. "Get her in here."

"Are you certain that is wise, my lord? After all, it is Mrs. Wood's first attempt?—"

"Are you defending her?" he asked in disbelief.

The old retainer's face turned ruddy. Bloody hell, he ought to feel embarrassed for acting like some knight errant. While Mrs. Wood lacked any detectable talent for housekeeping, she must have a hidden supply of charm if she'd won over Brunswick, who was a known curmudgeon.

With prickling unease, Ethan recalled his own reaction to her last night. Her spectacles had concealed more than he'd realized. Without them, he'd had his first good look at her, discovering to his shock that she was rather…pretty. More than rather. Her doe-like eyes were a warm, beguiling brown. They dominated her heart-shaped face, which also boasted a pert nose and cute little chin. She looked younger than twenty-seven, and her worn nightgown had clung to her nubile curves and perky nipples?—

Do not go there. She's your employee, for God's sake. What kind of degenerate are you?

"As Mrs. Wood is new to her position," Brunswick said with quiet dignity, "I am merely suggesting that you give her a chance."

Ethan inhaled for patience. "I am not going to throw her out, if that is your concern. Go fetch her."

Before departing, the butler gave Ethan a look that he'd become accustomed to. Since his injury, the people in his life had frequently given him that look. As if they didn't trust him to behave like a civilized human being. It was infuriating…and embarrassing because he couldn't blame them. His mood had been beastly, driven by his rumination about his hand, his music, his family…everything he'd lost.

He would brood, brood, brood about the unfairness of it all.

Then emotions would ambush him. He could be riding in the carriage in a fine mood one moment, then shaking with rage the next. This very thing had happened before his first meeting with Mrs. Wood. Although she hadn't taken him to task for leaving her in the rain, he wasn't a complete idiot and knew that his behavior had annoyed her. The thing of it was, he hadn't intended to be unchivalrous: he'd left her for her own good—to protect her from his devil of a temper.

While he'd always been a fellow of strong passions, before his injury he'd had an outlet, pouring himself into his music. The lulling beauty of a sonata. The exuberance of a concerto. Even the practice of technique held pleasure: the absorbing rigor of scales and arpeggios, the demanding precision, the feeling that one was honing one's potential. Piano had always come easily for him, and unlike his siblings, he'd never complained about practicing. When it came to music, he had limitless ambition and self-discipline. In fact, his parents often had to pull him away from his instrument to prevent him from missing out on other things.

As much as his family loved him, they didn't understand what music meant to him. It wasn't a hobby or amusement. A vehicle for fame and fortune. Playing the piano had been who he was . When the keys had glided beneath his fingertips, he'd felt alive, powerful, unstoppable. He'd felt touched by destiny, by joy…by God.

Without his music, who was he?

Nothing and no one.

Which led to his present dilemma. He was in no shape to deal with an attraction to Jane Wood. Losing his ability to play had affected his overall confidence and, as lowering as it was to admit, the fiasco with Constance had made things worse, making him question his appeal to the opposite sex. He was on shaky ground all around. Moreover, he was not the sort of man who chased after housemaids. Papa had taught him and his brothers that gentlemen of honor respected women and never took advantage of those who were vulnerable.

Even at the pinnacle of his debauched youth, Ethan had taken lovers who were his equal. Experienced ladies who liked to play the same naughty games. Thus, how was he going to handle his unacceptable reaction to his housekeeper? Perhaps it was just a one-time thing. Perhaps her proximity last night and the fact that she'd interrupted his dream of Sirena had resulted in his sensual awareness of her.

Yet Mrs. Wood's effect on him was more than physical. The truth was she intrigued him. It was obvious that she had deliberately concealed her attractiveness. This led him to question why she'd done so. And what else she might be hiding. He suspected that all was not as it seemed with his housekeeper.

Brunswick ushered Mrs. Wood into the breakfast room. Ethan rose; despite her mousy appearance, she was the kind of woman who kept a man on his toes. She curtsied, then peered at him through the spectacles that were once again in place. It was too late, however. He saw her now: those big, brown eyes and thick lashes tipped with auburn, the sprinkle of freckles over her nose. The mouth that was a little too wide and much too sensual for a woman trying to pass herself off as plain.

"You, um, wished to see me, my lord?" she asked.

Her voice had a husky warmth that felt like a caress against his groin. Recovering from a head cold, indeed. The woman had more excuses than a cat had fleas.

He looked at his butler. "You may go."

On the way out, Brunswick bestowed a look of encouragement upon Mrs. Wood that made Ethan feel like an ogre. For God's sake, he was going to take her to task, not eat her. Out of nowhere, his wicked banter with Sirena surfaced.

"Do you eat me?" she'd asked.

"I savor you."

"What is this about, sir?"

Mrs. Wood's question dispelled the memory. She looked nervous, rubbing her palms subtly against her apron. Her clean, herbal scent teased his nose; he'd noticed it last night when he carried her.

He cut to the chase. "You said you could cook."

"You, um, didn't like the dishes I prepared?"

Understatement of the year.

He curled a finger at her. "Follow me."

Obediently, she accompanied him to the sideboard, where he uncovered the first dish.

"Eggs, overcooked and inedible." He removed the next dome. "Sausages, undercooked and inedible. Then there's this." He unveiled her pièce de résistance , a congealed blob the color of a fresh bruise. "I don't even know what the devil it is."

"Black pudding, sir," she mumbled.

So that was the identity of the mysterious glop.

"Did you not find it tasty?" she asked.

He handed her a fork. A challenge. "Why don't you see for yourself?"

She reached for the utensil. Her fingers feathered against his, and even though he wore gloves, the passing touch caused his gut to clench. He jerked his hand away the same time she did. Their gazes clashed as the fork clattered to the ground between them.

"P-pardon," she stammered. "How clumsy of me."

As she bent over to retrieve the silverware, the sensation in his gut traveled farther south. Devil and damn, his housekeeper had a nicely rounded bottom. When she straightened, he hastily raised his gaze, but when he saw her intent, he snapped his brows together.

"You are not going to use that, are you?" he said incredulously.

She paused an instant before the fork she'd retrieved from the floor touched the purple goop.

"Um…" she said.

"Christ." He braced a hand on his hip. "Were you actually trained as a housekeeper?"

"Of course, sir." She lifted her chin. "You have seen my references."

"Yet you find it acceptable to eat with a fork that has touched the ground?"

She drew herself up. Since she was a full foot shorter than him, she still had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye.

"As you have undoubtedly not received training in household management, your lordship," she said with admirable poise, "you are probably unaware of the Golden Rule of Housekeeping."

"What is this bloody rule?"

"It is taught in the finest households. Also known as the Rule of Five Seconds, it states that if an object makes contact with the floor for five seconds or less, it is perfectly acceptable to use."

He narrowed his eyes. "You are making that up."

"I assure you that I am not."

Her manner was bland and reasonable. Devil take it. As much as he doubted her sincerity, he had to admire her boldness and ingenuity.

"In my household, the Rule of Five Seconds does not apply," he said sternly. "Remember that in the future."

"As you wish, my lord."

Although she bowed her head, he suspected there was not a deferential bone in her body. Strangely, he liked that. Everyone else in his life seemed to be walking on eggshells around him, whereas she didn't seem the least bit cowed. Maybe she wouldn't be daunted by his temper. He wondered if she might be testing how far she could go with him.

Two can play at that game.

He grabbed a clean fork and handed it to her. "Don't think you are getting off the hook."

Shrugging, she accepted the fork and dug into the slop. Extracting a blob, she gamely shoved it into her mouth.

As she chewed, he found himself distracted by her lips. They had an appealing shape. Would they feel as soft and plush as they looked…?

She started gagging. He held out a napkin. Snatching it, she coughed into its folds.

"Well?" he inquired.

"It was dreadful," she admitted. "The worst thing I've ever tasted."

"You haven't sampled your eggs."

"The eggs were terrible too?" Her spectacles had slipped down, revealing a glimmer of worry in her velvety-brown eyes. "But I poached them exactly the way the recipe book advised."

"Don't believe everything you read," he said wryly.

"I tried my best." She lowered her head, speaking to the tips of her worn shoes. "Truly I did. I'm sorry I made a hash of things."

His enjoyment of their byplay faded. He felt as if he'd kicked a baby fawn.

"You made a bad meal," he said gruffly. "You haven't committed murder or some other unpardonable sin."

She bit her lip, her eyes wide.

He sighed. "Try to do better next time."

"Next time? You…you are not going to sack me?"

Hope flickered on her face, causing an odd constriction in his chest.

"Over the eggs and blood sausage? No."

"There was the incident with the bats too," she said in a small voice.

"Mistakes I can tolerate. The one thing I will not tolerate is being lied to," he said firmly. "If you lack knowledge in a certain area of housekeeping, I expect you to be honest. About your weaknesses and your strengths. Only then can we make the best use of your time here."

"That is very understanding of you, my lord."

Her gratitude made him uncomfortable. He hadn't offered much. She was still in charge of dealing with the filthy, tumbledown manor where he'd chosen to lick his wounds. She still had to deal with him . Damaged, short-tempered, and a shadow of the man he once was. Who was such a failure that his family fretted over him endlessly and his fiancée left him for another. Reality crashed over him like an ice-cold wave. He couldn't even find a proper housekeeper and entertained improper thoughts about the one he did have.

I'm a bloody wreck. This is why I need to be alone. I'm not fit to be around others.

"My lord?"

"What is it?"

He didn't mean to snap, and his lack of restraint shamed him. Luckily, Mrs. Wood did not seem hurt. Instead, she…brightened?

"I am good with books," she blurted.

He frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"Before I was a housekeeper, I worked in a few bookshops."

Since her explanation explained nothing, he continued to look at her blankly.

"Your library needs to be unpacked," she reminded him. "You said to be forthcoming about my strengths, and, well, I could organize your books. In my spare time, of course, after I've dealt with more pressing household matters. And if I'm not stepping on Brunswick's toes."

After his boorish behavior, Ethan couldn't deny her earnest request. Truth be told, Brunswick would be grateful to be relieved of the task. Sorting out the room would give Mrs. Wood something to do…and even she couldn't wreak havoc with a bunch of books.

"Have at it," Ethan said. "And look for someone in the village to help with the cooking. Consult Brunswick, if necessary."

"I will. Thank you, sir. You shan't regret keeping me on," she promised.

She flashed him a smile that made him regret a lot of things. Mostly, he wondered what would have happened if they'd met under different circumstances.

If she wasn't his housekeeper.

If he had something to offer other than failure.

If he was the man he used to be.

If, if, if.