Desire Me Now (8 page)

“Stay with me tonight,” he said.

She shook her head. There would never be any escaping him, even if she tried to avoid
him. “You mistake me. I’m not the kind of woman you think me to be.”

“I never make mistakes,” was his sure response.

Because there was nothing she could say to that, she leaned away from him to retrieve
her cane. It took everything in her not to look back at him as she limped steadily
out of the library. This time, he didn’t call her back.

W
here was his self-control? Nick pressed the flats of his hands against the desk. He
wanted to follow her upstairs. He wanted to go to her even though she was gone. He
wanted her to himself, damn it.

To be ruled by desire was to be ruled by emotion. And men ruled by emotion made mistakes
he couldn’t afford to make. His life was built on quick decisions. Some—very few—of
his choices had undesirable outcomes, but for the most part, he did well and had found
a great deal of success.

He couldn’t gamble on Miss Grant for so many reasons, the first being that he didn’t
want to lose her. The one thing he couldn’t figure out was exactly what he wanted
from her. Or why her at all?
Lillie
, he reminded himself. Though now that he was getting to know Miss Grant, there were
striking differences between the two women. But that didn’t change the fact that every
time he looked at his secretary, he saw a little bit of Lillie.

It was no secret that he had a knack for finding and taking in broken souls, and perhaps
that was where the issue lay. He’d had his pick of women over the years, but they
had all been vapid and empty inside. Then there was Victoria, whom he’d broken off
with only a week ago, but he’d never wanted her like he wanted the woman walking away
from him now.

None of those women had looked at him the way Miss Grant had, with her heart open
and mind ready for any challenge. There was a tenacity to her that he didn’t often
find in a woman. By all appearances, she had an unwavering spirit that wanted nothing
more than to be free, and that feeling was familiar to him. Women like her didn’t
hide in the shadows for long. They weren’t afraid to experience life to the fullest.
Did she want to experience the fullest with him? Because he could give her that. He
wanted to give her that. He wanted to cloister them up in his bedroom . . .

There he went again; allowing himself to be ruled by this desire and the strange sense
of feelings he had for Miss Grant. Avoiding her just wasn’t possible. Keeping away
from her, even knowing she wasn’t ready for his advances, was impossible.

He wanted her in so primal a fashion that the fine line he walked as a society man
was on the cusp of shredding whenever she was near. While no one would mistake him
for a gentleman—nor did he pretend to be one—no one would ever question his acuity
as a businessman. Except perhaps when he was with Miss Grant. Because he had no inclination
to work when she was around. He wanted to arouse her curiosity of him.

Entering his study, he poured a dram of scotch into one of the crystal tumblers stocked
on the sideboard. Taking his drink over to his desk, he sat heavily in the chair.
He forced himself to sip the spirits, giving Miss Grant ample time to fall asleep.
Once finished, he blew out the candles and turning down the lamps in the study and
made his way upstairs.

Unable to keep away from her, even though he’d let her escape earlier, he tapped his
knuckles feather-light on her door. If she was awake, would she open the door to him?
He braced his arms around her doorframe, a sorry attempt at holding himself back.
It was better she left him in the hall. Better that she refuse him, or she might consume
his every thought, his every need. Not that she didn’t do that already. God, what
was wrong with him? She didn’t need this from him.

After a few moments, he tore himself away from her door and headed down the corridor
to his bedchamber, doubting sleep would find him easily.

A
melia woke with a start. As she scrambled to a sitting position, she reached down
to cover her legs, prepared to defend herself.

Had she been dreaming of
that
night again?

She wasn’t certain when the last time was that she had slept through the night uninterrupted.
And it wasn’t just the incident with Sir Ian that caused her sleeplessness. She wrapped
her arms around herself, rubbing her hands up and down her upper arms as a chill brushed
right through to her bones.

There was a clock on the dressing table, but she couldn’t see it in the darkness that
cloaked her room.

Amelia stared at the intricate plaster design on the ceiling, trying to make out one
angel from the next, as she listened to her surroundings. Everything seemed to have
gone silent in the house; all she could hear was the pounding of her heart in her
chest, though the pace slowed with each breath she took. She was wide awake now.

Just as she resigned herself to getting up for the day, a second crash thudded from
somewhere deep in the house. Shooting fully out of her bed, Amelia flinched as a vicious
yell came from the hallway, followed by another crash. Was there an intruder? She
grabbed the night robe that Jenny had loaned her and cinched it tightly at her waist.

Hurrying from her room, she saw Huxley standing outside Mr. Riley’s room. The candle
stub in the holder burned low as he stared at her through narrowed eyes that were
not the least bit tired-looking. “Back to your room, Miss Grant,” Huxley snapped.
“There is nothing you need worry about here.”

She stood her ground for reasons she didn’t want to consider, her chin jutting out
and her back ramrod straight as she stared at him without flinching from his cold
gaze. “I heard something fall or break, I’m not sure which.” She didn’t have the slightest
idea how she
could
help. Nor was she certain that Huxley intended to enter Mr. Riley’s bedchamber.

With his usual scowl firm on his face and the candlelight flickering harshly over
his scars, Huxley looked intimidating, and Amelia might have found him so if she hadn’t
already known that he had nothing but kindness in him.

“You cannot scare me off so easily,” she whispered. When she brushed past him and
reached for the door latch, he settled his hand firmly over hers.

“I’m telling you once more: leave this with me.”

She turned to look at him so that he could see the resolve burning in her eyes. She
would not be persuaded from the path she intended to take. If Mr. Riley needed help,
she would never walk away. Especially considering everything he’d done for her.

Huxley didn’t say another word; he only backed up a step to allow her admittance,
although with a look that almost dared her.

Before she could think about what she was doing and what she might see, she lifted
the handle and pushed the door open. Twisted in his sheets, Mr. Riley lay in the middle
of a monstrous four-poster bed, mumbling incomprehensible words as he tossed around
in the grips of a nightmare. The only evidence of something being knocked over was
a three-stemmed candelabra on the floor, but she wasn’t here to look for the source
now; she was here to assist Mr. Riley.

Huxley came into the room close behind her, his face somber, but not surprised by
what he saw. Was this a regular occurrence? That was not a question she would dare
ask. At least not right now.

There was a moment of regret as she approached Mr. Riley, and her face started to
burn red as she realized that he did not wear clothes to bed. Though there was no
feeling of desire as she approached his twisted, agonized form—only worry. All she
wanted to do was help him as he’d helped her, to stop what pained him in his sleep
in hopes that one day someone could help her through the nightmares that haunted her
sleeping hours.

She took the candle stub Huxley had been holding and edged closer to the bed, using
her softest voice to call Mr. Riley back from whatever tortured him in his sleep.

“Mr. Riley. You need to wake.”

The pain that gripped his face broke her heart, and she hated to see him reduced to
a man drowning in so much pain. Sweat beaded across his forehead and drew a damp line
over his temples. The closer she got to the high bed, the more she realized that perhaps
Huxley had been right when he’d told her to leave. But she couldn’t leave now. Mr.
Riley needed her. Well, maybe not her, but he needed someone to help him, and she
refused to walk away from anyone in need.

She set the candle on the nightstand next to the bed. His body was level with her
chest, as the mattress rested on a high platform.

“Mr. Riley.” She kept her voice low, soothing, hoping he would hear her if she kept
repeating her request. “Let go of what pains you. Come back to us.”

How could she break through his nightmare?

She reached toward his forearm, only to have Huxley yank her violently away. “You
don’t want to touch him. He isn’t quite right when he is in this state.”

“Best you head back to bed, Miss Grant. I can handle this.”

There was something about Huxley’s stark gaze that frightened her. Amelia wrapped
her arms around her midsection and nodded. Leaving the candle behind, she made her
way out of the room. She paused at the door to look back at Mr. Riley, still twisting
around on his bed, mumbling incoherently.

Huxley caught her gaze again; he was waiting for her to leave so she wouldn’t be witness
to whatever came next. Reluctantly, she closed the door. She released a ragged, broken
breath with the finality of her action.

Hand over her heart, she found her center after a few deep breaths and leaned on the
wall as she headed back to her own room. Her ankle throbbed worse than it had before;
she’d been foolish to run to Mr. Riley’s aid without taking care of her injury.

She sat on her bed listening to the old creaks in the house, as one question turned
over and over in her mind: what secrets haunted Mr. Riley so deeply?

And then she had to ask herself if Huxley would mention to Mr. Riley that she’d seen
him at a great disadvantage. She must bring it up with Huxley first thing in the morning.

She was quite awake now, so decided she might as well get dressed for the day, even
though it was close to half past four. Too early to break her fast, she resigned herself
to getting some work done in the study. She had every intention of finishing Mr. Riley’s
invitations today and finalizing his calendar so that she might be available for more
important tasks, preferably something more challenging; she disliked being idle.

Mr. Riley didn’t come down to the study all morning. The first person she saw was
Huxley, who advised her that breakfast was being served in the dining hall. Before
she could ask him what had come of Mr. Riley the night before, Huxley held up his
hand, stalling the words before they could leave her lips.

“Don’t ask questions to which I can give no answers. Just forget last night.”

She pinched her lips together. That was one thing she couldn’t promise to do. How
did Huxley expect her to forget what had happened? Couldn’t she at least inquire as
to Mr. Riley’s state of mind once he woke? “If his nightmares are a regular occurrence,
it might be in both our best interests to know how I should deal with the situation
in future.”

“You’ll not need to deal with anything, Miss Grant. A man needs to keep some of his
life private, and prying would be unwise.”

Not satisfied with his answer, she boldly asked, “Are you suggesting that my further
examination of the events last night will cost me my job here?”

Huxley wasn’t expecting the question, she knew, because he turned from her suddenly
and repeated in a far sterner voice, “Breakfast is being served in the dining hall.”

Taking up her cane, she followed Huxley down to the kitchen, angry with herself for
caring, and especially angry with Huxley for being such a stubborn mule about the
whole situation. His warning, however, was unlikely to deter her from going to Mr.
Riley again, should she hear him tossing around from another nightmare.

Whether Huxley had informed her employer about her witnessing the events of last night,
she couldn’t say. But she had to assume they discussed it, because she didn’t see
Mr. Riley for the remainder of the day.

I
t had been a feat but one she’d conquered without Huxley’s help in all of two days.
Amelia stuffed the last response in an envelope and set it on top of the stack of
letters and RSVPs that needed to be posted in the morning. She sat back in her chair
with a triumphant yawn and wondered what Huxley would have her do tomorrow.

Voices carried to her from the next room, just as a light flickered on in Mr. Riley’s
study. She recognized the soothing tone of her employer’s voice, but there were two
other gentlemen with him. Not wanting to repeat her rudeness from two nights ago,
she rose to her feet just as Mr. Riley came into the library.

“Why are you still here?” His eyes lingered over the desk where her accouterments
were neatly lined up.

“I wanted to finish the invitations and correspondence before the day was through.”

She reached for her cane, but Mr. Riley reached it first, and his arm came under hers
to guide her into the study. She hated to admit that she’d been counting down the
hours until she would see him again.

Why did she always find herself breathless in his presence? It meant she was full
of foolishness, and she silently scolded herself for that.

Delicately clearing her throat and focusing her thoughts away from the steady warmth
of his body so very near to hers, she said, “I planned to head to the kitchen before
I went to bed.”

She winced at the suggestiveness of her words. Did he think she was inviting him to
eat with her or join her in bed?

“Let me introduce you to some friends before you retire for the night,” he responded.

As they walked into the study, two men stood from the leather chairs.

“Landon Price, Lord Burley,” Mr. Riley said, indicating the shorter man, though he
stood taller than Amelia. “This is my new secretary, Miss Grant. And she is currently
handling all correspondence, so your wife will not need to read Huxley’s chicken-scratch
writing anymore.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Grant.” Lord Burley’s hand engulfed Amelia’s
as he bowed slightly and kissed the back of her knuckles. His hair was dark, though
gray feathered through it at the temples, and his eyes were a rich brown.

“Likewise,” Amelia responded.

“Landon and I share an interest in wool shipments,” Mr. Riley said, explaining their
relationship further. Amelia recalled accepting an invitation for Mr. Riley to a soiree
at Lord Burley’s house next week. “Landon is trying to convince me to visit his farm
in Scotland, so I can see firsthand the start of the process.”

“Aye, my wife thinks you need some time in the country. Help you get rid of the tension
you always carry about you.”

Amelia heard a slight Scottish lilt in Lord Burley’s comment. Before she could ask
him about his farm, the other man stepped forward, his hand out in invitation. When
she put her hand in his, he turned it over and brushed a kiss across the back of it.

“Hart,” he said. “I have known Nick for about as long as I can remember.”

It was difficult to tell if he, too, was a peer. In fact, she wasn’t altogether certain
if he had just introduced himself with his first name or his last. The man’s clothes
spoke of similar wealth to Mr. Riley’s—the fine material was pressed and without a
wrinkle, even so late in the day. His waistcoat was a checkered silver and blue silk
that complemented his light blue eyes and fair coloring. His smile was alluring, and
it probably had seduced many an unsuspecting woman, but it didn’t have the same effect
as Mr. Riley’s intense stares had on her.

She frowned with that thought.

“Will Miss Grant be replacing Huxley?” Lord Burley asked.

The last thing Amelia had planned this evening was to sit with Mr. Riley. Her stomach
chose that inopportune moment to rumble in protest. She hoped no one heard it, though
Mr. Riley glanced over to her, amusement dancing in his eyes.

He turned back to his guests. “She is taking over his old position, yes,” Mr. Riley
corrected Lord Burley. “I won’t keep you, Miss Grant.”

Amelia ducked her head cordially to everyone in the room. “It was a pleasure to make
your acquaintances. Good evening, Mr. Riley.”

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought Mr. Riley was reluctant to release his hold
on her elbow.

Mr. Riley’s guests bid her a good night, allowing her to make her escape. She wasn’t
sure if she was happy to have had such a short interlude with Mr. Riley or disappointed
that she hadn’t spent more time with him alone. She furrowed her brows, not overly
impressed that her thoughts were so consumed by her employer.

When she arrived in the kitchen, no one was about. The hour must be later than she
suspected.

Although she was not sure whether she was allowed to avail herself of whatever was
in the kitchen, her stomach’s grumbling protest decided her path. Searching through
the larder, she found a half a loaf of bread, a plate of covered cheese, and some
butter. She settled herself to making a sandwich and sat on the stool off the side
of the room to enjoy her dinner. She’d think twice before forgetting dinner again.

The steady pace of someone approaching stopped her midchew. She hadn’t done anything
wrong by coming down here—or at least she didn’t think so.

The master of the house stepped into the kitchen area, one eyebrow quirked when he
saw Amelia sitting in the chair.

He was down to his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. When he crossed his arms and leaned
against the doorframe, she could clearly make out the sinew of his arms flexing beneath
the crisp white linen.

“You do know that if you miss a meal, Joshua sets aside a plate,” he said. “On cold
days, he keeps stew warm on the coals.”

She swallowed her half-chewed bite of food as she tore her gaze from his strong body
and looked him in the eye. She shook her head. In the silence, she took the opportunity
to slide off the stool and straighten out her dress where it had folded at her hips.

“You needn’t get up on my account,” Mr. Riley said.

“I beg to differ.” She walked—well, limped—over to the chopping board in the middle
of the room and set her sandwich on a cloth napkin. When he continued to watch her
every move, she asked, “Is there something you need from me, Mr. Riley?”

He stepped into the room, his presence having a devastating effect on the rate of
her heartbeat.

“Many things, Miss Grant. Many things.” He stared at her in a way that had a new awareness
skittering across her body and replacing the hunger pangs with something that made
her ravenousness for something other than food.

She knew very well that he didn’t require her in a secretarial sense, and she swallowed
against the bubble of nerves that gave her goose bumps from the not entirely unpleasant
sensation she always felt when they were alone together.

She picked up her cane and leaned into it, partly for support and partly in fear that
her jelly-like legs would give out at any moment. “I must meet Huxley at eight tomorrow
morning. Unless you would like me to get someone for you.”

“As I was saying”—he walked over to the larder and bent down to one of the lower shelves
to pull out a plate wrapped in cloth—“Joshua always prepares extra plates when someone
misses dinner.” He set the dish on the cutting block in front of her.

“Are you not hungry?” she asked.

“I ate at the club, Miss Grant. But thank you for your concern.” He pulled the stool
over to the table. “I insist you take a seat.”

She did, not out of obedience, she told herself, but because the food smelled heavenly
as she unwrapped it, revealing a pie decorated with a rabbit on the top to identify
the contents. It was still warm to the touch, and she felt her mouth water; this was
a far better meal than the one she’d prepared. There was even a fork tucked along
the side of the dish, but she hesitated to pick it up; she put her hand back in her
lap. It seemed strange to eat while Mr. Riley watched her. She swallowed against the
hunger building in her and tore her gaze from the tasty-looking pastry.

“Don’t wait on my account,” he said.

It was silly to feel nervous around him. But questions had burned on her tongue since
the last night they’d seen each other, and only Mr. Riley could shed light on those
answers.

She picked up the fork and stabbed it through the pie crust, which was flaky and looked
delicious. She took a bite, her mouth melting around the still-warm filling of rabbit,
turnip, raisins, and other ingredients she couldn’t distinguish. The pie was sweet
and savory at the same time.

While she ate, Mr. Riley watched her with quiet regard. She pushed the plate toward
him, wondering if he’d come down here to find an evening meal or if he’d followed
her once his guests had left.

He took the fork from her hand and scooped up a bite for himself before handing the
empty utensil back to her. She tried not to think of his mouth having been where she
now placed hers, but she allowed the utensil to linger in her mouth longer than needed.

When she offered him the fork again, he shook his head.

“I insist you eat your fill.”

She pulled the plate closer and picked through the last half of the pie, feeling more
than full but enjoying it too much to let it go to waste.

She wasn’t sure what prompted the question, but she said, “I wanted to ask what you
did to your hand.” Mr. Riley didn’t so much as cringe. Perhaps she had assumed wrong
on what had caused his cuts. Even now, he unashamedly displayed his bruised and abraded
hand in plain sight. And she didn’t pretend she hadn’t seen the damage to his knuckles.

“That, Miss Grant, is a question I believe you do not truly want answered.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because the answer might unsettle you.”

She looked away from him and back down to her pie. She forced herself to take a few
more bites. Needing to hear the truth from Mr. Riley’s mouth became imperative, and
before she could think better of her question, she blurted out, “Did you have anything
to do with Sir Ian’s current circumstance?”

He unfurled his hand and laid it flat on the table as he continued to watch her. More
than ever, she needed to know what his involvement had been, though she feared she
already knew the answer. Had in fact always known the answer.

“It’s a crime to exert force over those who are weaker than you are. And that so happens
to be one thing I cannot and will not tolerate from anyone.” He reached across the
table and lightly touched the side of her face with the back of his hand. “If I had
something to do with his current circumstance, what would you do?”

Amelia swallowed. Sir Ian had deserved what he got. And thinking that might make her
a terrible person, but if someone hadn’t dealt harshly with him, as she presumed Mr.
Riley had, Sir Ian might do far worse to the next unsuspecting worker under his care.
Though that didn’t explain why was she so forgiving of Mr. Riley when she should be
appalled. Because no one had ever stood up for her before now, not even her own flesh
and blood.

“I’m not entirely sure what I would do.” She scrutinized him for a moment; there was
no denying that he would be much stronger than Sir Ian. “I suppose I would ask why.”

Could you possibly ask a stupider question, Amelia?

“Can you not guess?” he asked.

She could only mentally shake her head at herself. Because he wanted her and had admitted
as much. What disturbed her was not that he’d just admitted to Sir Ian’s injuries,
but the fact that she was thrilled he’d cared enough to right something that had gone
so wrong for her.

She set her fork down, not sure how to extract herself from his company without seeming
rude. This man twisted up her thoughts, and she needed to get away from him before
she admired him any more than she currently did. He stood and took her plate.

“I can do that,” she said, making her way to her feet too.

“Easier for me, I think.” He disappeared into the next room but was back at her side
within a minute. “Let me accompany you upstairs.” It was a friendly offer.

She nodded. She couldn’t very well say she wanted to go alone because he might ask
why. And what answer would she give him?
Sorry, Mr. Riley, but I’m worried that I will ask you to kiss me again if we don’t
go our own ways
. That certainly wouldn’t do, so she took his proffered arm and let him lead the way.

He was kind enough to pause at each stair landing to let her sore ankle rest. Who
knew three flights of stairs could wind her so easily?

Unable to keep their silence, halfway up their ascent, she asked, “Did you sort out
the business with your manager changing the ledgers?”

Mr. Riley’s hand tightened at her elbow. Was he surprised by the question? “Not yet.”

He didn’t expand on that, so she would ask Huxley for an update in the morning. If
she was to be his secretary, it would not be in name only. “Mr. Riley.”

“Miss Grant.”

“I think I should make a few things clear.”

Before they cleared the top landing, Mr. Riley backed her up against the wall. An
ornate picture frame, at least five feet tall and just as wide, dug into her shoulder
and back. He loomed over her, forcing her to tilt her head back to look up at him.
She noticed a hint of mischief in his eyes. It was odd that she didn’t feel threatened
by his show of dominance.

“What should be made clearer?” he asked.

“My position, for one. I will not be shielded from business dealings. I cannot do
my job efficiently or very effectively if I’m not given all the information I require
to do my job.”

“Fair enough.” Mr. Riley braced one hand against the wall near her arm and leaned
in closer.

“When I ask you a question, I would prefer that you did not skirt around it.”

“So you want to know what happened to the manager. Nothing, actually. We are waiting
to catch him in action.”