Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

"H udson, where is he?" Lovie Wright asked her brother from the doorless arch that led to the drawing room. The house may have been a steal for Mayfair, but it needed a king's ransom's worth of work, and the drawing room, like most rooms in the house, did not have a working door. Rochester had seen to that. Her cousin had pulled down every door when he purchased the manse and was slowly rebuilding the place from the inside out.

"If I knew that, I'd have hauled him home hours ago. Why?"

"Because he has still to approve an agreeable cook, and I'm verily tired of doing half the work myself."

"Believe me. You don't want Rochester or me cooking."

"Believe me"—her hands went to her hips—"neither of you want me cooking alone nor my wrath because of it."

"I'll see to it." Hudson pulled the newspaper he was reading high enough to avoid her next scowl and no doubt wished she would go away.

"You always say that, and nothing ever happens."

The nicely ironed paper now lay in an exasperated bunch next to Hudson while he cleared a wayward lock of brown hair from his forehead. His eyes were as green as hers, but his hair was like sinfully dark chocolate, the same color as Rochester's. She and Hudson might be cousins to Rochester, but they were, the three of them, arguably more like siblings. As for her, she had golden streaks in her auburn hair, like streams of sunshine in a chestnut tree her mother had said, the same as her father.

But more than that, they had the loss of parents in common. Lovie had lost both her mother and father, and Rochester had lost his mother as a young boy. Her cantankerous uncle was still alive, living as Viscount Rochester, which is why Dalton Rochester, his son and heir, had moved away from him. Besides, having the two of them in the same room was confusing because the viscountcy belonged to the surname, and Rochester rarely used his Christian name of Dalton.

Lovie blew out a long breath, steadying her temper.

"What do you want from me, Lovie?"

"I want you to learn to cook unless you can convince our cousin to get serious about this place. How long can we live this way? And all together? If you'd let me stay at our family's estate, I wouldn't be here to complain."

"You can't. It would be dangerous for you to be alone for so long, and I need to be here for Rochester's business arrangements."

"Business, indeed. The man plays billiards."

"Which has become quite lucrative in the last several years."

"Then he should have no problem hiring more help. Or do you like charred goose? And while I'm thinking of it, I refuse to cook such a meal. Perhaps I'll go home and spend Christmas with the land steward and his wife."

"You're being rash."

"And?"

"Like a woman."

She walked over to the window seat, picked up a pillow, and flung it across the room at Hudson's head. "Sometimes I hate you, Hud." Of course, she didn't mean it.

He bit back a smile.

She turned away to keep from laughing.

"And look at this, will you? Such a cheery house I have," Rochester showed up just then, standing in the doorway Lovie had just vacated, a clearly drunken arch to his smile. Behind him stood a stranger, a man of equal height to Rochester's six feet one inch.

"What wayward soul have you brought us now, Rochester?" She tilted her head to get a better look at the stranger. He didn't look poor, but he was as sloshed as her cousin. The man's mouth turned up in a decidedly wicked fashion, his hatless head was wet, and the ends of his hair dripped from the rain that had threatened all day. Good God, he was a handsome devil. The sheen of rain turned his hair bronze, which was appropriate since he looked like a statue of Adonis. One could only hope that his voice was whiny and toadyish because if this was one of Rochester's friends, then he was most certainly a cad.

"Madam." The man bowed and somehow managed to keep standing.

Well, hells bells, his voice reverberated through her like smooth whiskey, the kind that Hudson and Rochester procured from the owner of their favorite boxing establishment. For a moment, she didn't want to speak. She just wanted to breathe him in. No, not breathe. She pinched her nostrils when the smell of strong spirits reached out like the long arm of a ghost wafting across the room. You couldn't see it, but you knew it was there.

"We've had a little to drink," Rochester said, standing tall like an aristocrat who could do no wrong, confident and arrogant until he leaned a hand against the missing door's casing and hung his head with a chuckle.

"I can see where this is headed. If you'll excuse me, gentlemen." Not exactly her ideal escape to walk past them both, but they stood aside, giving her a wide berth just before she stopped and scolded them with a hardy stare.

"I like that one." She heard the drunken guest say as she walked past.

She halted, pivoting on her heel. "You, sir, are a scoundrel and are not welcome to stay, or look, or comment any further regarding my person. Is that clear?"

His gaze darted over her face and body, and she knew he was imagining her without clothes. "Today, the reprimand is clear. Tomorrow I'm not certain I'll remember. My apologies now in the case of the latter." He tilted his head in lieu of a bow.

"In your current state, I cannot accept the apology, and in the case you do not remember, I'll have the only other sober person in the room remind you." She meant Hudson, and then as she turned, she realized what he'd said and what she'd answered. It sounded, suspiciously, like he was to spend the night. She turned back, feeling woozy from the constant volley of conversation. She closed her eyes while holding up one finger for emphasis. "One more thing"—she pointed toward Rochester—"What on earth makes this man think I'll see him tomorrow?"

Rochester bowed his head as if crowning the moment with respectability. "Miss Lovie Wright, meet Mr. Remington Hawke."

"Ma'am," Mr. Hawke said, proceeding to remove a hat that did not exist, further proof of his gross intoxication.

She stared at both men like they were imbeciles. "Oh no, not here. Not when we're in dire need of a cook."

Rochester turned to Mr. Hawke and drolled, "We are short some staff, and our little Lovie here is the only one of us who can cook."

Hudson finally spoke. "No, Rochester, she cannot." At least her brother supported her. "She's not staff. I'll cook if need be."

"Oh, God, no." Rochester aimed that comment over his shoulder at Hudson.

"If you two are going to argue the finer points of fine cuisine, I'm going to my room." And then she added pointedly at Rochester, enforcing her position with each inflection. "My room, which has a door unlike your own, and Hud's room, which is right here on that sofa. Do we understand one another, Cousin?" Hudson had refused to sleep in the empty room that would eventually be his. Instead, he preferred the solid sofa against his back rather than a cot. In Rochester's defense, beds were high on the list, but Hudson had preferred the billiard room to be finished first.

Rochester smirked, his rolling gaze fixed on her for an exaggerated few seconds before he blinked his eyes into focus toward Mr. Hawke. "I would offer my billiard table, but then I'd have to kill you. I hope you don't mind a cot, Mr. Hawke."

"For goodness' sake, give him a chair before he falls down." At Mr. Hawke's height, it was a long way to fall, and she didn't fancy trying to help one drunken man and her brother to pick this Hawke person up off the floor. A cot, of all things. She couldn't believe Rochester would invite a stranger home when the house was grossly under-furnished and currently ill-managed.

"The rooms are unfurnished, but they are available," Hudson said. "I'll find him a guest room with a cot. I'll even light a fire to warm it."

Lovie had a feeling that Hudson had the better job, having escaped the consistently broken smiles of two soused men.

"Rochester, your cousin may be a bit naggy, but she's rather lovely." Mr. Hawke tried to bow again, then he closed his eyes, placing a hand against the wall.

"Sit, you odious man. And you too, Rochester." She walked past them again, back into the lion's den of a drawing room, and patted a red sofa and matching chair, directing them both where to sit. Mr. Hawke took the settee, and Rochester a chair before the fire. "You'll not drink another drop tonight. Is that understood?"

"We're grown men, Lovie," her cousin slurred.

She huffed but could not stop her prolonged stare at Mr. Hawke. He leaned against the arm of the sofa, his fist supporting his chin, and he looked like a boy with a naughty smile. "Naggy indeed," she said quietly.

Mr. Hawke licked his lips. "I think she likes me."

"You are deranged and drunk, may I remind you," Rochester said.

The man's smile was slanted, and his gaze was appreciative.

Rochester straightened in his chair, and for a moment, she thought he might call Mr. Hawke out, which would be appropriate under the circumstances. Instead, he said, "Not to worry, she's not usually so defensive. Most of the time, she's quite agreeable company."

"Rochester, have you lost your mind?"

"I believe he misplaced it somewhere between here and St. James." Mr. Hawke said unnecessarily. His eyelids drifted closed. His chin slipped from his fist, jolting him awake for a mere second before he nodded off again.

To her dismay, she felt sorry for him. She walked over to Rochester and smacked his booted foot, which was lying across his knee, with her slipper. "Go to bed, but first, help me with this one." Between her and Rochester, they managed to move Mr. Hawke's legs onto the sofa. Rochester removed his boots, and Lovie retrieved a blanket before Hudson returned.

"Why do I have the feeling I just made up my own cot?" Hudson asked.

"Unless you'd like to carry him upstairs, I believe he's here for the night."

* * *

Lovie woke to sunshine, a warm welcome after a day of drizzling rain. She took extra care dressing as she would have done for any invited company. At least, that's what she told herself. In truth, she was curious to see how the stranger, Mr. Hawke, cleaned up.

With the house relatively quiet, she tiptoed to the doorway of the drawing room.

"I'm awake and am certain I owe you an apology, Miss Wright." The voice came from behind and, without a doubt, belonged to their guest.

"Why, you almost sound civilized, Mr. Hawke."

"And you're understandably angry."

She licked her lips. "No, I was just curious how you got along." She pointed to the cup and saucer he held. "I see you found the coffee."

"It's tea, but yes. Why don't you sit and allow me to get you a cup?"

She felt her cheeks twitch into a grin. "Thank you." When he left the room, she kept her eye on the doorway and backed up cautiously as she felt behind her for the sofa. The backs of her knees encountered the settee, and she turned but did not sit. She shook her head because even the proximity of where he'd been was too close for her. Finally, she decided on the chair before the fire where Rochester had sat last night.

Lord God in heaven, she had thought the man handsome last night, but in the light of day, with his hair dry, curling at the ends, and brown eyes that could melt butter, her breath left her chest. She struggled to find her voice. Why did he have this effect on her? She'd given up looking for a partner in life among the ton and the elite who Rochester mingled with. As a result, she realized it had been years since she'd been attracted to a man.

Oh, she couldn't allow it, not now. It was simply the holiday season that had her thinking such whimsical thoughts and governing her forgiving nature.

"Here we are. I brought sugar and cream. I didn't know how you take it."

"That was kind."

"There isn't anything to eat as of yet, but I believe I could handle toast."

She half stood. "I'd be happy to make you some."

"No, no," he said with a rumbling chuckle. "I meant that I could manage it if you were hungry."

"Oh." She raised her brows. "Mrs. Nithercott should be along shortly. She's the housekeeper, but she helps with the kitchens. Rochester has yet to hire a cook. Which reminds me," she looked around. "Where is my cousin?"

Mr. Hawke shrugged, taking a seat on the sofa, this time like a gentleman. "He was gone when I awoke, but your brother was kind enough to show me around."

"Tell me how you came to be here?"

"In this house?" He pointed to the ground. "Or in England?"

"Both, if it's not too personal."

"I traveled from America, where my home is, to visit my grandmother before she passed. Unfortunately, I was given word on my arrival that she had succumbed, so I ended up in a coffee house where I met your cousin, Rochester. He invited me to a game of billiards. And a few drinks." He said the last part with a mischievous smile about his eyes.

"I see. Well, that explains a lot, believe me. Rochester plays daily and with whoever will oblige him." She put her cup back on the saucer and folded her hands. "I am sorry about your grandmother. That must have been difficult after such a journey."

"Thank you. It was."

"So, help me understand. Did you somehow know Rochester? Are you from here?" She meant England.

"No, on both accounts. My parents were from here. I may have been born here, but my roots are in America."

"That explains the accent, but I hear a touch of British there, too. Did you never live here?"

"No, not really. I have visited, however."

"Did you say your parents were from here?" She knew she must sound like an interrogator, but her curiosity outshone her typical good manners.

"They're both gone. My mother last year. My father three years ago." He sighed. "And now, my grandmother, who passed before I landed on shore."

She put a hand on her chest. "I can understand how that might lead you to drink with a stranger."

"I would not have blamed you if you'd thrown me out. Your cousin was kind enough to offer me a place when I couldn't find one."

"I do think I tried to throw you out, but I imagine you don't remember."

"And would you toss me out now?"

"I am at the whim of Rochester since this is his house. Hudson and I have a family home northeast of here. Not as far as Cambridge, but that direction, if you're familiar. I'll be leaving for there in a couple of days to check on it. Will you be with us for Christmas?"

"I don't know. I haven't actually been invited. Originally, I had hoped to spend it with my grandmother. She lived near Cambridge, but I'm not at all familiar with the area."

It sounded as if his grandmother's estate was a mere two hours from Lovie's family home. "Do you have other family members here?"

"None that I'm aware of." He looked uncomfortable, his hands folded in his lap, ignoring his cooling tea.

"Then you must stay for the holiday. Christmas is a day for opening doors to friends, and no one should be alone." This was the expected attitude of the season, but one Lovie barely felt—not that she was immune or cold, just practical. She'd spent too many years in her youth pretending to enjoy a festivity that only reminded her of being alone. Not that she wasn't thankful. She had a brother and a cousin who were closer than most families, but she missed her parents. And more accurately, she missed the idea and, perhaps, the unreasonable expectation of what a holiday should be.

"Rochester told me you wouldn't throw out a stranger in need. Should I be worried?"

"You should always be worried, Mr. Hawke." She hid a genuine smile behind a sip of tea. This man was too easy to talk to, too enjoyable to sit with, and too heavenly to look at.

As soon as the roads were passable, she would be making a trip to the country to check on her family's estate and, with any luck, return before Christmas day. It would take some convincing, but she planned to leave Hudson here. The holidays made her melancholy, and she would just as soon spend them where she could let her feelings have rein. She missed her parents, especially her father, who had raised them on his own from when they were young children until he met with a hunting accident.

"I found a cook!" Rochester's excited voice bellowed from the foyer.

"I think we're saved." Lovie stood as Rochester's feet echoed in the hallway before he appeared in the drawing room, out of breath.

"Did you hear?" Rochester asked.

"I believe everyone heard you."

"Just in time for Christmas dinner. I can taste the roast beef now, and the puddings, and the pies."

Lovie took in Rochester's broad smile and dark tousled hair, the only attribute on him that was ever out of order. "But is she good?"

Turning his head, Rochester stopped the endless list of Christmas dishes, his gaze isolating her, and his mouth stalled on a word. "Good? You're worried about good after you threatened us with no holiday dinner?"

She giggled, giving a quick shake of her head, her hands settled on her hips. "I never threatened a thing. Besides, Mrs. Nithercott takes care of most of our meals with my help. I'm not complaining, you oaf." She motioned to the other end of the settee. "Sit with your guest. I've been forced to entertain Mr. Hawke, and I can't imagine he's enjoyed a moment of my company."

Mr. Hawke's eyes lit with mischief like he wanted to throttle her, and then he winked. "Quite unpleasant."

Rochester looked between them. "Why do I feel as if I've intruded?"

Hawke cleared a chuckle from his throat, and Lovie, uncomfortable with Rochester's evaluation, took her seat again.

"Your cousin has been a generous hostess."

"And Mr. Hawke has nowhere to spend Christmas."

"Well, Lovie, I take it you would like me to extend an invitation."

"Formally, yes." She teased her cousin while she sat primly like a woman used to getting her way.

"There you have it," Rochester said, gesturing to Hawke. "I'll have my secretary draw up a calling card and an official invitation. Where shall I send it?"

"I fear I have no address except that of my grandmother's. No room at the inn and all that."

"Seriously, you can stay here. No one should be alone on Christmas," Rochester said, shelving his teasing tone.

"I told him the same."

"Did you?" Rochester glanced her way, his hazel eyes beaming suspiciously.

"I appreciate the sentiment," Hawke began. "But I don't want to be any trouble. I must see a solicitor today, and there has to be a hotel somewhere in this city with a vacancy."

"But will you find one that serves excellent brandy and sports a magnificent billiard table?" Rochester didn't give Mr. Hawke time to reply. "No? Well, there you have it."

Lovie and Mr. Hawke exchanged looks, and she felt her face flush hot.

He grinned, rubbing his chin, his eyes locked with hers. "I accept."

It sounded to Lovie like a challenge, and she felt the need to give a perfunctory nod. At the same time, her heart hiccupped, launching into a thumping rhythm that felt like excitement. It had been ages since she'd felt anything like it, but she couldn't deny the thrill coursing through her veins.

"Unless Miss Wright is uncomfortable."

She swallowed and pressed her lips into a smile. "Permission granted."