The Bride's Necklace (6 page)

Tory shook her head. “The earl may be wicked, but I don’t believe he is the sort to hit a woman.”

Though why she believed that she had no notion. So far she had misjudged the man completely. She had come to believe he was different from other men, more open-minded, a bit less condescending. It bothered her more than it should have to discover that he was also completely lacking in scruples.

Whatever sort of man he might be, tonight she intended to teach him a lesson in the consequences of trying to seduce an innocent young girl.

Cord flicked another glance at the clock on the mantel, as he had done at least twenty times. It was two minutes after midnight. Wearing only his shirt and breeches, he reclined on the bed, hoping his plan would work, that his latest strategy would win him the game.

That sacrificing a pawn would net him the queen.

It was a dangerous move and he knew it. Still, Victoria Temple was a difficult opponent and he had been forced
to come up with a different approach than he had intended.

Cord grinned at the sound of four sharp raps at his door. Not the soft, tentative knock Claire would have used, but the firm, furious tapping that could only belong to her sister.

“Come in,” he drawled, then waited as the door swung open and Victoria marched in. She stood in the shadows so he couldn’t see her face, but he recognized her shorter stature and the belligerence in her stance.

“You’re late,” he said with a nonchalant glance at the clock. “I specifically instructed you to be here at midnight. It is now three minutes past.”

“Late?” she repeated, the fury in her voice unmistakable. “Three minutes or three hours, the fact is Claire is not going to come.”

Victoria stepped toward him, out of the shadows and into a shaft of moonlight streaming in through the window. He saw that her hair was unbound, curling softly around her shoulders and glinting with burnished highlights. He itched to run his fingers through it, to know the silky texture. Beneath her wrapper, her breasts rapidly rose and fell with her breath, and he wanted to cup them, to bend his head and take the fullness into his mouth.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, my lord, but your plan for seduction has failed. Claire remains safely upstairs in her room.”

Cord came up off the bed and paced toward her, a lion with his prey in sight. “As well she should be.”

“What are you talking about? You sent Claire a note. You told her to come. You planned to seduce her. You—”

“You’re wrong, lovely Victoria. I told her to come
because I knew you would not let her—that you would come in her stead.” He reached her then, settled his hands on her shoulders, felt the tension thrumming through her. Very slowly, he drew her toward him. “It’s you I want, Victoria. It has been almost from the start.”

And then he kissed her.

Tory gasped as his mouth settled softly over hers. For several moments, she simply stood there, letting the heat flood through her, absorbing the taste of him, only dimly aware of the hard male body pressing into hers. Then she remembered why she was there, that it was Claire the earl truly wanted. Tory pressed her hands against his chest, turned her head, and shoved hard enough to get free.

“You’re lying!” She was breathing fast. She told herself it was anger. “You’re just saying that because I am here and not Claire.” She took several steps backward. “You…you would take whatever woman happened to appear in your bedchamber.”

The earl shook his head, stalking her, matching her step for step until her shoulders came up against the wall and she couldn’t retreat any farther.

“You don’t really believe that? We were playing a game, you and I. You were the prize I wanted, not Claire.”

“That can’t be the truth. Men always want Claire.”

“Claire is a child, no matter her years. You’re a woman, Victoria.” He pinned her with his lion’s gaze, caught her chin, held her so she couldn’t glance away. “Deep down, you know it’s you I want and not Claire.”

She swallowed, stared into those hot golden-brown eyes and fought not to tremble. She remembered that same look the night he had come to her room, remem
bered the way he had kissed her in his study. She remembered the vague hints that he wanted her as his mistress, and God in heaven, she believed he was telling the truth.

The earl tilted her chin up, bent his head and captured her lips. It was a gentle, persuasive kiss, softly taking, convincing her with every touch, every taste. He kissed the corners of her mouth, pressed his lips against the side of her neck.

“If you’re telling the truth,” she whispered, “why didn’t…why didn’t you send the note to me?”

She felt the faint pull of his smile. “Would you have come?”

She wouldn’t have, of course. “No.”

“I didn’t think so.” And then he kissed her again.

Tory’s hands came up to his chest, fluttered, flattened against the front of his full-sleeved shirt. Sweet Lord, it was heaven, the softest, hottest kisses, his lips hard-soft, perfectly fitted to hers, coaxing and demanding, giving and taking all at once.

“Open for me,” he whispered, his tongue sliding over her lips, sending warm shivers across her skin. He deepened the kiss and pleasure made her legs go weak. Her arms slid up around his neck and he pulled her more snugly against him, tasted her more completely, let her taste him.

Tory trembled.

She knew she should stop him. He was the earl of Brant, a rake and a rogue, a man who would ruin her if she let him. He cared nothing about her. He only wanted to satisfy his lust. And yet she sensed a need in him, had since that night he had barged into her room.

Her own need surfaced, pulsed to life with every
stroke of his tongue, deepened with the feel of his hands on her breasts, smoothing over them, molding them through her robe, sending little curls of heat sliding into her stomach. Her legs were trembling. He kissed the side of her neck as he parted the blue quilted wrapper and slid his hand inside, over her thin cotton night rail to cup her breast, his thumb stroking over her nipple.

“God, I want you,” he said, pulling the little blue bow at her throat, reaching in to caress the fullness of her breasts. Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t swallow. Her nipples swelled, pressed into his palm. “Give yourself to me,” he said softly. “I know you want to.”

God’s breath, it was the truth. She had never wanted anything so badly. She wanted to see where all this heat would lead, wanted him to touch her, kiss her all over. He was every wicked dream she’d ever had, every wanton fantasy. She had known that about herself, that she wasn’t like Claire, that she had desires and wants, and she wanted the earl of Brant.

Tory shook her head, tried to step away. The earl held her firmly in place.

“Don’t say no. Let me take care of you. You’ll have a better life. And you can take care of Claire. Neither of you will want for anything.”

He was saying it straight out. He wanted her to become his mistress. He didn’t want Claire, he wanted her, Victoria, the sturdy sister, not the beautiful one. The notion left her feeling light-headed. Considering the life she faced and the desire she felt for him, it wasn’t a bad proposition.

Tory simply could not do it.

She was surprised to feel the hot sting of tears. Shak
ing her head, she eased a little away, forced herself to look up, into that sinfully handsome face.

“I can’t. In a way, as wicked as it might be, I wish I could, but…” Another shake of her head. “It just isn’t something I can do.”

He ran a finger gently down her cheek. “Are you certain? It isn’t so wicked between people who share similar needs, and you’ve Claire to think of. It would ensure both of your futures.”

Claire.
She felt guilty. She should do it for Claire.

But perhaps that was just an excuse.

Either way, she simply could not compromise her principles in that manner. And, of course there was the not-so-small matter of the robbery and attempted murder of her stepfather. She stifled a sudden urge to blurt out the tale, to throw herself into his arms and beg him to help her.

She couldn’t take the risk. “I am quite sure, my lord.”

Very gently, he bent his head and kissed the tears on her cheeks. “Perhaps in time you will change your mind.”

Tory stepped away from him and drew in a shaky, courage-building breath, though in that moment she wanted nothing so much as to let him kiss her again, let him make love to her.

“I won’t change my mind. Say you will not ask me again. Say it, or I shall have to leave.”

There was something in his expression, a turmoil she could not read. Several long moments passed, then he sighed.

“If that is truly your wish, I won’t ask you again.”

“I want your word as a gentleman.”

The edge of his mouth barely curved. “After tonight, you still believe I am one?”

She managed a tremulous smile. “For reasons I am at a loss to explain, I do.”

He turned, moved even farther away. “All right, I give you my word. You are safe from me, Mrs. Temple, though I am certain to rue this day for as long as you are employed in my household.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She turned to leave, telling herself she had done the right thing, feeling more wretched than she had since the day she had received word that her mother had died.

The echo of the softly closing door slid through him like the edge of a blade. His body still pulsed with desire, ached with unspent need. He had wanted her so badly, more even than he had guessed. And yet the feeling that washed through him now could only be described as relief.

There was no denying that over the years he had become somewhat jaded, somewhat insensitive where women were concerned. But he had never stooped so low as to attempting the seduction he had planned tonight.

He could have justified the results. As his mistress, Victoria, along with her sister, would have been well taken care of. He would have seen to their financial security, even after his liaison with Victoria was over.

And yet, in some perverse way, he was relieved that she had not agreed. In the weeks she had been in his employ, he had come to respect, even admire her. She did her job—no matter the little cooperation she received from the rest of the servants. She was intelligent and clever, spirited, and loyal to those she loved. And
she had a strong set of morals—she had proved that tonight.

She deserved far better than the brief sexual liaison she would have had with him.

Still, he wanted her. Even as he stripped off his shirt and breeches and prepared himself for bed, his body throbbed with desire for her. He remembered her innocently passionate kisses and groaned with the ache the memory stirred.

But Victoria Temple was safe from him now. Cord had given his word and he would not break it. She would remain his housekeeper, nothing more.

I
n some ways, at least, fate seemed to be on Tory’s side. As the days continued, nothing more surfaced about the theft of the necklace or the attack on Baron Harwood. Undoubtedly there would be gossip among the
ton,
but Lord Brant was far too busy to pay attention to rumors and scandal.

Brant.
Tory did her best not to think of him. She didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to look into those tawny eyes and remember his scorching kisses, the way her body had melted into his the moment he had touched her. She didn’t want to feel the awful, wicked temptation that she had felt that night.

Or battle her desire to be with him that way again.

Fortunately, she had succeeded in hiding her turbulent thoughts from Claire. Her sister had been waiting when Tory returned downstairs. She had told Claire the note had simply been a misunderstanding, that the earl had written
midnight
but meant
midday
and that he had merely been interested in discovering whether she and Tory were happy in their jobs.

It was an utterly ridiculous story, one that only someone as completely naive as Claire would believe. Tory felt guilty for the lie, but thanked the Lord that her sister had accepted it and put the matter to rest.

Since that night, she saw the earl only when they chanced to pass in a hallway. Each time he was exceedingly polite and reserved. Maddeningly so, Tory secretly thought.

In his study, the chessboard sat forlornly in the corner, and whenever Tory saw it, she battled the urge to move one of the pieces, to challenge him again. She didn’t, of course. She knew where that would lead and the road was one that could only end in disaster.

Then this morning, at the bottom of today’s
London Chronicle,
a reference was made to the search still being conducted for crimes against Baron Harwood. Fortunately, Tory made this morning’s newspaper, like the last, mysteriously disappear.

Still, she wondered how much longer she and Claire could continue hiding in Lord Brant’s household. They were madly saving every farthing should the need arise for a hasty escape, but the longer they were gainfully employed, the more money they would have and the better their chances of getting safely away.

And there was always the slim hope the baron might tire of his search and simply return to Harwood Hall, or that he might believe they were hiding somewhere in the country. Tory prayed each night that happen-stance would occur.

In the meantime, the earl had left word that he would be having a small dinner party that evening. The guest list included his cousin Sarah and her husband, Lord Aimes; Colonel Pendleton of the British War Office;
and Lord Percival Chezwick. The Duke of Sheffield was also invited, along with Dr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Chastain and their eldest daughter, Grace.

The last name on the list gave Tory’s heart a jolt. She knew Gracie Chastain. They had attended finishing school together. At Thornhill’s, Gracie had been her dearest friend.

That seemed eons ago. Another time, another life. After the baron had forbidden her return to school, Tory had heard little of Grace beyond an occasional letter. With the troubles facing her at home, Tory’s replies had been sluggish at best and the friends had drifted apart.

Still, Grace would know her immediately, even in her dreary housekeeper’s uniform. Tory would have to make a point of staying well away from the dining room.

“Ah, there you are, Mrs. Temple.”

Tory stiffened at the sound of the familiar deep voice coming up behind her. Taking a steadying breath, she turned to face the earl.

“Good afternoon, my lord.”

“I just wanted to check, make certain you have everything in order for tonight.”

“Yes, my lord. I was just making out the place cards.”

“You understand how the guests should be seated?” He seemed so aloof, so distant, as if he had never had the slightest interest in her at all. She wished her interest in him would fade as quickly.

“The guests should be seated by rank, my lord.”

He nodded. “Then I shall leave the matter in your hands.” Turning, he walked away. Tory watched him disappear down the hall, trying not to notice the width
of his shoulders, the long legs and graceful way he moved. She tried to ignore those strong hands and the memory of them caressing her breasts, stroking over her nipples. She tried not to think of the overwhelming pleasure he had made her feel.

“Tory!” Claire flew toward her down the hall. Her sister had been working below stairs, where Tory had asked her to help with preparations for the dinner party. Which really meant she was to make certain the serving women got the necessary work done.

“What is it, darling?”

“Mrs. Reynolds just quit. She was angry that you wanted her to add more spices to the partridge stuffing—the thyme and rosemary? Then she refused to add more rum to the fruit-soaked cakes. When she found out you wanted her to put lemon juice in the sauce for the asparagus, she took off her apron, threw it on the table and slammed out the back door. Mrs. Whitehead, her helper, went with her.”

“They left? Both of them?”

“They said they wouldn’t be back till…till hell freezes over, and then only if you were no longer in his lordship’s employ.”

“Oh, good Lord.” Tory raced for the stairs leading down to the kitchen. “I can’t believe it. I may not be a cook but I know what tastes good. The food Mrs. Reynolds prepared was edible, but it was basic and entirely too bland. I thought…I’ve been reading this wonderful French recipe book I found in the library. I thought by adding a few more spices, a bit more pungent flavors, everything would taste far better.”

“I guess Mrs. Reynolds didn’t agree.”

“I guess not.”

The kitchen was in chaos when Tory arrived, pots boiling, steam rising, flames leaping up beneath the skillets on the stove. Miss Honeycutt’s eyes looked liked saucers and Mrs. Conklin’s thin hands were shaking.

“Gor, Mrs. Temple,” the older woman said. Broad-hipped with kinky blond hair and a faint cockney accent, she had been one of the few serving women who had ever been polite. “What in the world will we do?”

Tory glanced round the kitchen, saw the bowls of raw oysters still waiting to be made into soup, the asparagus not yet trimmed, the joint of beef roasting over the spit jacks in the wall, sending black smoke up the chimney.

She straightened her shoulders, tried to sound calm and confident, which she wasn’t in the least. “Does anyone else on the staff know anything at all about cooking? Mrs. Rathbone, perhaps?”

“No, missus. None of us but Mrs. Reynolds and Mrs. Whitehead and both of them are gone.”

She released a steadying breath. “Well, then, first we shall remove those skillets from the fire so the sausages don’t continue to burn, then we shall finish the dinner ourselves.”

“But, missus…we don’t—Miss Honeycutt and me—we don’t usually work in the kitchen. We don’t ’ave the least idea what to do.”

Tory grabbed a towel, folded it and used it to grab the handle of the heavy iron skillet and set it off the flames.

“Well, it can’t be that hard, can it? Not when most of the food is at least half prepared.”

Mrs. Conklin warily eyed the stove. “I dunno, missus….”

Tory lifted her skirts, walked purposefully across the kitchen, picked up Mrs. Reynolds’s apron and tied it round her waist.

“We’ll simply have to do the best we can. Between the four of us, we’ll figure things out as we go along.” She forced herself to smile. “I have every confidence this dinner will be one his lordship’s favorites.”

But several hours later, as she wiped grease off her hands and brushed flour off her apron, she knew that would have been far too easy.

Instead, she filled a silver terrine with too-salty oyster soup, loaded a silver tray with slices of overcooked beef and another with roast partridge still pink in the joints. As she scooped scorched sausage stuffing into silver bowls, Tory ordered the footmen to keep the wineglasses filled to the brim and prayed the guests would be so inebriated by the time the food actually reached their fancy gold-rimmed plates they wouldn’t notice.

At least working in the hot, steamy kitchen all day, she and Claire, Miss Honeycutt, Mrs. Conklin, and the newly hired footmen, Mr. Peabody and Mr. Kidd, whose services she had enlisted, had developed a certain camaraderie. And during that time, she had gleaned all manner of gossip.

There were few secrets in a household the size of the earl’s. Chiefly notable was Lord Brant’s ongoing search for his cousin, Captain Sharpe. Even more intriguing, Miss Honeycutt, through bits and pieces of conversation picked up between the earl and his cousin, Lady Aimes, informed her that Lord Brant intended to wed an heiress.

“His father, the late earl,” Mrs. Conklin put in, “left
his son in a bit of a pickle—God rest the poor man’s soul. Lost most of ’is money, ye see. But the son—he’s a smart one. He fixed things back the way they was before.”

Still, his goal, it seemed, wasn’t simply to replace the losses but to make the Brant fortune increase.

It was information she almost wished she hadn’t learned.

“Here come the footmen.” Miss Honeycutt’s voice drew her thoughts back to the chaos in the kitchen. “’Tis time to serve dessert.”

They began to scurry around, helping Mr. Peabody fill the dessert trays while Mr. Kidd hefted one of them up on his shoulder. All four of the women grinned as a silver dome was placed over the rum-soaked fruit cakes—very rum-soaked—and carried in to the guests.

“Those ought ta finish ’em off,” Mrs. Conklin said. “By the time they get through eatin’ those and drink a bit more wine, they won’t notice the molded heart looks more like the face of a pig.”

Claire cast Tory a glance, clamped a hand over her mouth, but couldn’t stifle a giggle. As hard as she tried not to, Tory started laughing, too.

It was true. The molded heart looked exactly like a pig. Miss Honeycutt and Mrs. Conklin joined in, filling the room with gales of mirth.

The laughing came to a very sudden halt when the kitchen door slammed open and the earl walked in. He took one look at the stacks of dirty pots and pans, the food strewn all over the counter and the flour on the floor, and his eyebrows climbed toward his forehead.

“All right—exactly what the devil is going on?”

Claire’s whole face turned pink. Mrs. Conklin and
Miss Honeycutt began to tremble in terror. All Tory could think was how her hair was sticking out in ugly little curls beneath the mobcap she had retrieved during the afternoon’s debacle and that her skirt and blouse were spotted with grease.

“Well, Mrs. Temple?”

“I—I’m sorry, your lordship. I realize the meal didn’t turn out quite as well as we planned, but—”

“Quite as well as you planned!” he roared. “My guests are reeling drunk, and the meal—if you could actually call it that—tasted like something you dug out of a slop bucket.”

“Well…I suppose some of it was pretty awful, but—”

“But?”

“At the very last moment, the cook quit and so did her helper, and the rest of us…well, we tried to do the best we could.” She flicked a glance at the other three women. “To tell you the truth, with a little more practice, I think in a pinch we could rub on very well.”

A flush rose under the bones in the earl’s handsome face and a muscle tightened in his cheek. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively calm.

“I’d like a word with you, Mrs. Temple—in private, if you please.”

Oh, dear, he was angrier than she thought. Tory braced herself and tried not to let her nervousness show. Walking ahead of him, she shoved through the kitchen door and preceded him down the hall, far enough away that they wouldn’t be overheard.

She squared her shoulders and turned to face him. “As I said, I’m sorry about the dinner. I had hoped it would turn out better.”

“Did you, indeed?” Hard, golden-brown eyes bored into her. “I gather you are having more trouble managing your duties than I imagined.”

Something in the way he was looking at her…as if she might as well have been Mrs. Rathbone or one of the footmen. As if he had never made advances, as if he had never kissed her, never caressed her breasts. Something in the blandness of his expression made all common sense rush out of her head.

“Actually, I am not having the least amount of trouble. Some of your staff, however, are having trouble accepting me as their superior—and the fault is entirely your own!”

His eyes widened. “Mine!”

“It wasn’t fair of you to hire me in Mrs. Rathbone’s stead and the rest of the servants know it.”

One dark eyebrow arched in disbelief. “You’re not suggesting I dismiss you?”

“No! I mean…no, I need this job. And I believe I am better suited to the position than Mrs. Rathbone ever will be. In time, I intend to prove it. Once I do, the problem will be solved.”

Lord Brant frowned. He studied her face for several long moments. Then he turned and started walking. “You needn’t trouble yourself further, Mrs. Temple,” he said over his shoulder. “Tomorrow I shall solve the problem for you.”

“What!” Tory raced after him. Grabbing his coat sleeve, she forced him to turn around. “You can’t possibly interfere! You’ll only make things worse!”

“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Wh-what are you planning to do?”

“Ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said, ignoring
her question. “Make sure the entire staff is present. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you began your search for another cook.”

Tory watched his tall figure disappear back up the stairs, returning to the dining room. Dear God, why had she said those things? She wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink until she found out what the earl planned to do.

The dinner was a disaster, and yet as he sat in the dining room, enjoying brandy and cigars with the men, Cord couldn’t help a flicker of amusement. Seeing Victoria so utterly disheveled and completely undone, with flour on her nose and her hair a riot of curls, was almost worth the awful food.

That even under such circumstances she’d had the courage to speak her mind simply amazed him. She was, he realized, quite an amazing woman.