Bold Seduction (2 page)

“Can someone take me up to Lord Hornsby?”

“William! Don’t unload the gin! I be comin’ back with ye.” The old woman stood and reached for her bag.

“Wait, where are you going? Where are the servants?”

“I be it, and be damned if I stay here with a trollop. Ye are one; I can see it. Tell his nibs I quit and to send me wages with the next wagon.”

William continued his trek of bringing in the packages. How dare the old harridan leave her alone in this mess with a strange man? The reference to being a trollop stung. It must have been tattooed on her forehead. Regardless, unease picked at her insides. A flush of anger joined her discomfort.

“Then go, old woman. As housekeepers go, you are sadly lacking. I can smell the liquor off you. I have never seen a more disorganized and grimy working area.” Phil sniffed.

The woman blanched, narrowing her gaze in contempt. “How dare ye talk to me in such a way? Uppity prossie.” She stomped out of the kitchen. William, seemingly ignoring the whole drama, continued to pile the packages on the table.

After one last trip, he turned to face her. “This be your last chance. Won’t be back for about a week, weather willing. Are you coming?”

The thought of sharing the wagon with that filthy, smelly old woman churned her guts. Her stubbornness prevailed. “No, I will stay. See you in six days.”

William shrugged and closed the door behind him. Phil stood in the grubby kitchen and listened to the sound of the horses and wagon as it disappeared.

She was well and truly stuck.

Might as well head upstairs and make her introductions. Phil placed her bags on a bare spot on the counter. She removed her wool coat, shawl, gloves, and bonnet. At least a roaring fire crackled in the hearth, warming the space.

After locating the back stairs, Phil took a deep breath and started to climb them. God knows what manner of man would greet her.

Phil did have a fondness for reading Gothic novels. In fact, she’d brought a copy of Elizabeth Gaskell’s
The Doom of the Griffiths
with her. Never dreamed she would find herself in a Gothic setting, but here she stood, smack in the middle of one.

The hallways were dark and narrow, which made traversing difficult. Everything smelled of damp and decay. The lighting in the place consisted of a strange combination of candelabras and oil lamps, which showed how new mixed with old. With each step she took, the floor groaned and squeaked in response. At the end of the long hallway, a light flickered from under the door. The sound of barking dogs startled her; she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Justinian, Theodora, quiet!”

Phil stopped dead in her tracks at the deep, commanding voice. The animals immediately silenced. Who wouldn’t at such a tone? It must have been the professor. Taking a deep breath, she stepped to the door and knocked. No response. She tried again. Nothing.

To hell with it.
She turned the handle and crossed the threshold. What struck her all at once was the coziness. A fire blazed in a large stone hearth on the left side of the room. Before it laid two large, gray dogs the size of ponies.
Good God. The hounds of hell.
They eyed her with indifference, but a keen intelligence shone in their gazes, which they kept firmly on her. What were the beasts, wolfhounds? Enough speculation on the dogs. Phil swung her gaze to the large, ornate desk at the front of the room and the man sitting behind it.

The professor sat hunched over, his pen scratching furiously. He was a great hairy man with nary an inch of skin showing through. From the light of the lamp on his desk, it appeared his long wavy locks contained a curious mix of gold and brown as they hung forward like a curtain. He did not look up.

Phil scanned the room. Bookcases stuffed with ancient tomes filled every wall. On either side of the desk were two tables, the surface covered with books, maps, scrolls, and a thin layer of dust. No doubt the man himself would smell as musty as this room with dust and cobwebs collecting on his shoulders.

“You may leave the tray, Mrs. Brickell.”

Phil gave herself a moment to let the sultry and deep rumbling tone of his voice seep into her being. The sound lingered and made her weak in the knees. Quite a surprise, since most men didn’t garner any response from her at all. His voice, though cultured and refined, held the dangerous purr of a large predatory cat.
Oh enough, Phil.

Suddenly, he stopped writing, flipped through a stack of papers, stroked his beard, glanced at the nearby bookcase, and muttered a quiet “oh.” He rose from his chair, and the loud creak that accompanied his movement meant the source to be either the banker’s chair or the professor. Revulsion moved through her upon seeing him lurch toward the bookcase to retrieve a stack of yellowed and stained parchment, keeping the same bent posture he had while sitting.
Bloody hell, was the man a cripple?
Another important fact those idiotic bastards neglected to mention. She shook the shocking revelation from her mind. The professor then moved swiftly back to his chair and sat all the while keeping the same crooked stance. Another disturbing creak could be heard, and she exhaled as she realized the sound came from the oak chair. The poor man was a hunchback. Well, no matter. She was paid to do a job regardless of the customer’s appearance.

“If you are referring to that drunk, putrid, old woman lurking about your filthy kitchen, I regret to inform you she’s done a runner.”

The professor laid his pen on the desk and slowly lifted his head, cocked his thick eyebrows, and gazed at her. “Indeed?”

Good God, she was correct, a great hairy beast. His unruly hair stuck out in all directions, as if it hadn’t been combed in many days. He stared at her with great owl eyes. His spectacles were huge, taking up one half of his face while the other half was covered in a bushy beard of all shades of color.
Wouldn’t be surprised to find a swallow making a nest in it.
The attraction that occurred at hearing his voice dissipated like a morning fog. This man resembled one of the filthy beggars frequenting the streets of London. A duke’s son? Impossible.

Finally, he asked, “And who are you, her replacement?”

Her? A housekeeper? Should she pretend to be a servant?
Bugger that.
“Hardly. I believe the old hag had plans to leave anyway as her bag was packed and at the ready. I’m here at the invitation of two of your acquaintances. Mr. Jacob Williamson and Mr. Clive Christopher.”

The professor frowned. At least she thought he did. It was hard to read his expression under the wiry thatch of hair surrounding his mouth. He rifled through a pile of unopened correspondence. “Oh? I do not recall any recent note from those gentlemen.”

“I believe I am to be a surprise present for your birthday tomorrow.”

His owl eyes blinked rapidly as if he could not process what she said. “I do not require a maid, though you tell me Mrs. Brickell has departed. It appears I could use a housekeeper…”

He had absolutely no idea why she came to him. His mind did not even consider the fact it could be for carnal reasons. What a sheltered life he must lead. “I’m no servant, though you need tidying up as much as your home does. You bear a striking resemblance to a painting of a French Canadian trapper I saw in a book once. All wild and shaggy--all that is missing is the plaid coat and the beaver pelts.” She gave him a sweet, smug smile.

With his lips pressed into a straight line, he sat back and regarded her. “Oh? You read a book once?” His elegant voice dripped with self-righteous sarcasm.

“Touché, Professor. Well aimed. A direct hit.” Phil pointed to the dogs who still stared at her. Their unblinking attention followed her every minute move. “Should I be afeared for my life? Your animals are intimidating.”

“Justinian. Theodora. Easy.” The hounds relaxed at his command, laying their heads on their paws. “They are Irish Wolfhounds. ‘Gentle when stroked, fierce when provoked.’”

Phil placed a hand on her hip. “Does that saying apply to you as well, Professor Hornsby?”

Did he smile slightly? Again, hard to tell under the facial hair. Phil pulled a chair toward the desk and placed it a few feet away. She raised one leg to the chair.

“Now, I don’t claim to be a blue-stocking, but I am able to read.” Phil grasped the hem of her green striped gown, and with a slow, deliberate movement, raised it past her ankle boots. She glanced at the beast behind the desk. His gaze remained steady as it slid down to where she continued to raise her petticoats to reveal one of her shapely legs. At least she’d been told they were shapely. No matter. Running her hand over the sheer white stocking, she lingered near her silk garter. “I do not think they are blue. You better come closer and inspect the shade of my stockings for yourself…Professor.”

He coughed and looked away. She made him uncomfortable, and she would wager to guess--a little aroused. No sound could be heard in the room except a whimper from one of the dogs and the huge clock in the corner ticking away the awkward minutes.

Hornsby faced her. “Who are you, madam, and why are you here?”

She continued to fondle and caress her leg, and having the unkempt man watch her caused a slow roll of heat to travel through her. Again,
his voice.
Like molten gold or a cello played by a master that vibrated with life, power, and resonance.

“My name is Philomena McGrattan. I am indeed a madam and hired to relieve you of your virginity.”

There was no further reaction from the professor whatsoever. This did not bode well.

Of all the replies this strange woman could give, that one Spence did not expect. Damn his interfering friends. The last time he’d been in their ignominious company they teased him mercilessly of his virgin state. Never should have admitted to such a confidence, but he had one too many brandies and his tongue loosened. At the time, they did not chortle at him, but merely commented the state should be taken care of--and soon. The teasing, he supposed, could be considered good-natured; it wasn’t cruel. He knew the difference.

A sudden and slow simmer of anger stirred inside him. Were his so-called comrades lounging at a club in London, laughing with mirth at their joke? Sending a woman for hire all this way to bed him? Spence’s gaze narrowed. Perhaps this tart was in on it.

She made for quite a vision, standing there stroking her leg. A ripple of desire caused his dormant prick to twitch a little. Her gown, though garish, showed a certain style. Philomena the madam possessed an attractive figure and a pretty enough face, if not for the gaudy paint. Her hair shimmered with various shades of the midnight sky and glowed with health and vitality. His birthday was tomorrow, really? It must have meant Christmas had come and gone for another year. He did have turkey for dinner last week come to think of it. Back to the matter at hand.

“Please remove your limb from the chair, Madam McGrattan, and take a seat.”

She gave him a brief pout but did as he asked.

“I am not sure what manner of payment my acquaintances promised you for carrying out this means of humiliating me, but I will match the amount if you will leave me alone.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “In the first place, Professor, your friends were genuinely concerned for your isolated life-state. This is not a joke at your expense, nor would I participate in someone’s mortification. Second, I’m stuck here for the week. Under the circumstances, we can hardly avoid each other. If you think I will be bringing in trays of food to you, or looking after those great beasts of yours, you are bloody well mistaken.”

Justinian woofed, raised his shaggy head, and after a few moments, rested it on his front paws, ignoring them both.

Her light brown eyes shone with determination.
Quite an attractive shade, like tea after the milk had been added
. One week. The place was large enough they could manage to avoid each other. He couldn’t very well turn her out into the teeth of cold, winter weather. Sharing accommodations with a stranger would upset his equilibrium; however, he must make an effort and keep his anxieties well hidden.

“On the second floor there are a few rooms. Pick one of the least dusty ones, and there you may stay until Boyle returns with the wagon in a week’s time.”

The madam crossed her arms across her ample chest, and the enticing glimpse of her bosom caused his cock to twitch again. “I can see to the meals as I’m able to cook, but you will eat in the bloody dining room with me. As I said, be damned if I’ll wait on you. You do have one?”

“Yes. Though the room hasn’t been used in some time. Is your verbosity always this colorful?”

“A lot of men like it. Yes, I suppose my talk could be considered salty.”

“Much like your cooking I’ll wager to guess,” he murmured.

Philomena smiled. “I like a man who gives as good as he gets. It bodes well for the task ahead.”

“There will be no ‘task’ between us, Miss McGrattan.”

She stood straight. “We’ll see on that score. I always follow a job through. Now there is plenty of food. I’ll see what I can scrounge up. I’ll come and fetch you when it’s ready.”

Philomena turned on her heel and marched from the room, her chin held high.

Theodora gave him a questioning woof.

“I know, old girl. I’m not sure what to make of her either.”

* * * *

In Phil’s exploration of the second floor, she found many rooms in a sorry state of neglect. One room, however, looked quite livable. Must be his lordship’s. Though most of the furnishings were plain and serviceable, the cleanliness is what surprised her. Obviously the old hag housekeeper hadn’t kept it spotless. It must be the professor. The bed had a wooden ornate frame and headboard, like one an aristocrat would own with its carved scrolls and crests. Deep gold and brown bedding and rugs matched the draperies. They were open to let in the light. Too bad there wasn’t any. Twilight hovered on the horizon, the skies even more ominous than before. Could a storm be brewing? No snow as of yet, despite the cold temperatures.

Phil moved to a side alcove where his toiletries were laid out in a neat row. He hadn’t seen a razor in a few months, but evidence suggested he at least washed; there’s a mercy. She lifted the cake of soap to her nose and inhaled. Sandalwood, one of her favorite fragrances. Shame on her for snooping, but curiosity urged her to continue exploring. In the wardrobe, five white shirts and three pairs of trousers hung neatly on hangers. Pulling open the drawers located below, a few pairs of socks and smalls were folded neatly next to embroidered handkerchiefs. The stitching looked fancy, “SMH” etched in gold thread. She trailed her finger over the initials. Phil couldn’t help but smile at the deliberate arrangement of the items in the drawers. Who in bloody hell folded their socks? Closing up the wardrobe, she turned in a circle, inspecting the rest of the room.