Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction (6 page)

Carver laughed at that. “Yes, well. I can’t have her knowing what I’m up to. She’ll only try to meddle and tell me I’m doing it all wrong.”

Hobbs sighed. “No doubt.”

“I’m sure you and Phipps can find somewhere to put them all.” Carver waved his hand through the air, dismissing the counselor’s concerns. “You can do anything, Hobbs.”

“If you say so, my lord.”

“And I’m thinking about a school too,” Carver muttered, rubbing his chin. “Somewhere these children can go for a basic education, but not in subjects like Latin, that will be of no use to them.”

This was far enough for poor Hobbs, who had been caught in the midst of his breakfast. “My lord, your father would never have condoned a school for the poor.”

“Exactly. My father was stuck, Hobbs my good fellow, in the past.” And he was not. Not anymore.

She came to him at the end of the month. Carver had just returned from a ride with the Baroness Schofield and had not yet wiped the mud of Hyde Park off his boots. Or grass stains from the knees of his breeches. As he marched into the drawing room, she stood from the chair in which she’d waited and gave the usual bob curtsy.

The butler’s warning had prepared him, of course, but he was still startled by her appearance in a jaunty green bonnet and matching coat. Today she had shaken off the guise of a servant. Cheerful spring sun, beaming through the tall window, cast her in a far better light than the gloomy, rain-patterned shadows of their meeting in his library.

Everything improved in sunlight, he supposed, searching for a reason why she should cause his pulse to quicken, his hands to lose their grip on his riding crop so suddenly. That warm shade of her emerald coat and the hint of verdigris lace inside her bonnet made her small face glow today.

“Miss Robbins.” He set his gloves over the seat of a nearby chair before she made him drop those too.

“Your lordship.” He caught her glance at his muddied knees, and then saw her lips squeeze together in that familiar way, while her impertinent right brow rose half an inch. She never missed a chance to look at him with scorn. The burden of carrying that halo around must make her head hurt.

Carver straightened his shoulders and snapped, “To what do I owe this dubious honor? Are you allowed on this side of Town, Miss Robbins? It seems a trifle unfair, if I am not allowed on yours.”

Her response was crisp, no-nonsense, ignoring his comment. “As promised, I have brought the first payment in person.”

She could have left it with Richards, but apparently it was important to her that she put it directly into his hands. Since he did not reach for the notes in her hand, the Mouse finally placed them reverently on a small table by the window. She looked at his knees again, wayward sparks finding their way out from under her lowered lashes.

“Did you suffer a fall, your lordship? I hope you did not hurt yourself.”

Carver scowled at her. He still hadn’t forgiven this woman for leaving his household and forcing him to seek her out on the other side of Town, just for a glimpse of her damnably doubting face. “No,” he snapped. “I was not hurt.” The Baroness Schofield always provided an adequately soft landing.

“Those breeches should be tended to at once with white vinegar to remove the grass stain.”

He wondered why the state of his breeches should concern her, since she was no longer his employee and clearly relished the fact. Bloody woman. “My valet will see to the matter.”

Her gaze lifted to his, brown eyes apparently saved from the sun’s glare by the peak of her bonnet. “I shall return the rest of the loan to you in due course. As stated in the agreement.”

“Hmm.” In truth, he could not remember much about that agreement. Except for one clause and the annoying Mr. Tom Follerie. She stood before him in a streak of sunlight, waiting for something, hovering on the tips of her toes. Any minute now she would turn and walk for the door. Who knew when he might see that frowning face again? He thought desperately for some way to delay her exit. “You recovered from your cold, Miss Robbins.”

“Oh yes, your lordship. My landlady, Mrs. Lotterby, makes an exceedingly beneficial chicken broth. She looks after me very well.”

Perhaps the landlady’s broth was responsible for putting more color in her face and that extra curl in her hair. Margaret “Molly” Robbins bloomed with the spring, he concluded. “Business is going well, it seems,” he muttered gruffly.

“Indeed, your lordship.” Her face very solemn, she curtsied again and moved toward the door. Suddenly, she stopped and turned to him. “It was not necessary to involve your mistress, the Baroness Schofield. I am capable of finding my own clients.”

“What makes you assume—”

“Do please credit me with some sense, your lordship. I may be a country wretch, raised by simple folk rather than among the
grand
sophisticates
of Town, such as yourself”—she appeared to bite down on a chuckle, while her eyes once again studied his dirty knees—“but I am not naive. I have also borne witness to your high jinks for half my life.”

He should have been angered by that remark, but something about her funny little face and her fascination with his breeches made it impossible to lose his infamous temper. Yet. A dent in her lower lip was in danger of absorbing his attention for too long. “Half your life?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“Then you know I am an unconscionable cad.”

“Yes.” No equivocation there.

“So why would I help by sending customers to you? Why should I care what becomes of an ingrate who abandons a good, steady, well-paid post in my household and has the gall to accuse me of—what was it—
high
jinks
? You can hawk your wares on a street corner and down a quart of gin a day, and it won’t make a ripple in my life.”

“I assume you want your investment returned.”

“Two hundred pounds? Do I strike you as a gentleman in need of it?”

“Do I strike you as a woman who lacks the determination and wherewithal to find her own customers and achieve her own success?”

There was a little feathery seed caught in her hair by her temple, just visible under the brim of her bonnet. Must have blown there in the spring breeze as she walked through the nearby park on her way to Danforthe House. Carver badly wanted to raise his hand and take the seed out for her, but then he would have to touch her hair. It would be soft, warmed by the sun. The curls would twist around his finger. He might not be able to stop there, and he didn’t want his fingers bitten.

He felt a sharp pain, like a toothache. Wincing, he quickly lifted that same tempted hand to rub his cheek, and then it seemed as if she thought he was laughing at her, for the young woman’s anger visibly mounted. When she stepped toward him, Carver could see more color in her face, more detail in the deep, warm, chocolaty depths of her eyes.

“And for your information, sir,” she added indignantly, “I’ve never touched a drop of gin.”

“Perhaps you should. Might make you smile for once.”

“I do not believe in the overconsumption of alcohol. I’ve seen what fools it makes of people.” Her face was pert, censorious. “Like you, for instance.”

Oh, she was getting far too bold now, and he’d let her stretch her legs far enough. It was time he reined her in. “I daresay you also learned a lesson from your father’s misfortune.”

That caused the prissy madam a jolt. Her eyes widened. “What can you mean by that, pray?”

“Was he not the village drunk?”

“He most certainly was not!”

“But he was drunk the night that carriage ran over him. Had he not just been tossed out of the local tavern?”

Her cheeks flushed a dainty shade of pink. “My father was on his way home from market that evening. It was late, and he was tired.”

“And soused.”

“How dare you!”

“It’s true. My sister told me. She heard all about it from Rafe Hartley’s aunt and uncle.”

Her lips parted. Her lashes flickered. Some of the high color in her face drained away.

“Perhaps your mother wished to save you from the truth,” he added, realizing he might have gone too far in his eagerness to put her in her place again.

She turned away swiftly, and the fresh, sweet scent of lavender tickled his nose as the sway of her gown released a soft wave of fragrance into the air. He waited. What could he say now? It wasn’t as if he had any experience in making apologies.

“In any case,” she managed, recovering quickly, “had I wanted meddling in my business, your lordship, I would have asked your sister for a loan. Not you.”

Meddling?
Meddling?
He was speechless and so annoyed that he forgot his toothache and any thought of apologizing.

Now came the thrust of her sharp tongue, getting her vengeance. “Please do not send any more of your women to me.”

She made it sound as if he kept a tribe of them in the cellar, along with a collection of fine wines. An amusing idea and quite practical actually, when he considered it. Carver always swore he would never devote himself to just one woman. Far better to have lots of
Buffers
, as he liked to think of them.

After that brief loss when he mentioned her father’s drunken mishap, his assailant was now getting her color back. Had she much bosom, it might have been heaving with the exertion of her temper, but her shape was carefully guarded from his assessment, securely buttoned up under the armor of her green coat. He considered that first button, imagined his long fingers slipping it free of the hole and then proceeding to the next. And the next.

“Get a hold of yourself,” he muttered. “There is no occasion for hysterics.”

“Clearly you don’t understand the cause of my distress.”

Her
distress? Oh, she had no idea. “Well, there does seem to be a blasted lot of it, but then females are prone to exaggeration in general.”

She sucked in her cheeks and stared at him.

“Is your corset too tight?” he offered politely. “That could be your problem.” One he would willingly help her out of.

“Your lordship, let me explain
my
problem
in plain terms. The baroness ordered three day gowns and three for evening. You will pay for those gowns, therefore, paying back your own loan. Which means, your lordship, that this is not a business loan to me at all, but a gift. That was not what I asked from you.”

“So what? So it is a gift.” Laughing uneasily, he rocked on his booted heels. “Most women would take it and be damned grateful.”

“As we already ascertained, I am not
most
women.”

No indeed, she was not, he thought bleakly. He could neither seduce nor frighten her. There went the jabbing pain in his tooth again.

“I don’t want gifts from you,” she continued. “I don’t want anything I cannot repay promptly. Money may not be very important to you, as it has always been in your possession, but for me it is a serious matter. I certainly do not want anyone thinking I’m one of your women, taking you for every penny while your transitory, puppy-dog attention lasts.”

“Puppy-dog?”

“I came to you for a loan because I thought that you… I mean
it
…would be simple.”

“Aha! Now that was a slip of the tongue, was it not? You assumed I would blithely give you money and forget about it the next day, because I am too stupid to take an interest.”

“Not give.
Loan.
I don’t want you to
give
me anything. I’m not another of your loose women. I was raised to have some self-respect.”

“Ah yes, your blessed virtue. What bothers you more, Mouse? The money I spend, or the women I spend it on? Perhaps your real disdain is for them.” Her lashes were very full and lush, he noted for the first time as they blinked impatiently. There! He caught her looking at his grass-stained knees again and, if he was not mistaken, something above them. Interesting. “Or…perhaps you’re jealous.”

Her eyes widened, flicked back up to him and dragged him closer. Carver found himself staring down into treacherous, bottomless wells. He very nearly lost his balance, but she was the first to retreat.

“Don’t be nonsensical,” she sputtered, taking two steps back. He followed with three. In her next movement she backed against a corner china cabinet. “As if I care how you throw your attentions about so indiscriminately. Your lack of a moral compass, or theirs, is not my concern. My reputation, however, is.”

He laughed huskily, still thinking of her too-tight corset and what he might do to ease her distress.
“My moral compass?”

“I don’t suppose you know what that means. I doubt they teach you that at Eton and Oxford.” Each breath shot out of her with a jagged edge, as if ripped out haphazardly. It was a rare display of temper that shredded her usually prim and cool demeanor.

“I’ll be damned if my sister’s lady’s maid, one of my household servants, is going to lecture me on my principles.”

“I am no longer a servant.” The words tumbled out in haste and filled the narrow space between them, making the air thick and hot.

“Then why take such an interest in the state of my breeches?”

She hesitated and then muttered sullenly, “Some habits are hard to break.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Better get out of that one, Miss Robbins. If gentlemen find you staring at their breeches, they might get the wrong direction from your…moral compass.”

She raised a hand between them, her palm inches from his chest. He could nibble upon her fingertips if they came several inches higher. “Kindly step back.”

“This is my drawing room,” he replied with more calmness than he felt, “and I’ll stand where I choose.”

“You will keep a discreet distance.”

“Will I? And you, the little girl from a one-horse village, will set the rules for the Earl of Everscham? The man who took her in and gave her a position in the first place. Fed her, clothed her, and gave her a bed for a dozen years. You will tell me what to do, is that it?” He smiled, trying to take the sting off his words. Not that she ever bothered with her own. Carver could no longer recall how this quarrel began or who made the first strike. But it was like a runaway cart rapidly bumping downhill, unstoppable by any but the most desperate of measures. Unless it was left to crash and splinter into a hundred pieces.

“I am no longer in your employ,” she replied, breathless. “I am a woman of business.” She stuck her small twitching nose in the air. “And we have more than one horse in Sydney Dovedale.”

He closed another step between them, and she was forced to lower her hand or else let it make contact with his lips. The more he fought the need to touch her, the more he warned himself of the danger, the more he wanted to do it. What would it feel like, he wondered, to hold this woman who was so very different than any other he knew? What would it be like to kiss her?