No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(46)

Julia stared at him. “A group of women in the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“They stood outside in the rain?”

“That’s what I said. They’re here for the cook’s position. What do you want me to do with them?”

The cook’s position! Of course. The advertisement must have run in the Times. “Send them to the parlor.”

He frowned. “Then they’ll drip on the rug.”

She waved her hands. “Then keep them in the kitchen.”

“How do we prepare breakfast?”

Julia let out a huff. Men and their stomachs. But she could hardly be annoyed when Wraxall was apparently prepared—again—to cook the morning meal.

“Very well. What do you suggest we do with them?”

“Put them in the entryway. There aren’t any rugs, and they’ll be out of the way.”

“Fine.” She stepped out of her room and closed the door. “You send them to the entryway, and I’ll bring the first one to the parlor to interview.” She started down the stairs to the kitchen with Wraxall right beside her. Finally, they would have a cook. One of her problems would be solved. She would not think of the other half dozen she faced—namely, what she would do when Slag confronted her at the Darlington musicale.

They reached the bottom of the staircase, but before she could push the door open, Wraxall pulled her back against the wall. Julia caught her breath. She had never thought about how narrow the servants’ staircase was or how enclosed and private. She could hear the prospective cooks’ voices on the other side of the door, but in the stairwell, she and Wraxall were quite alone.

“What are you doing?” she whispered. Did he think to kiss her again? Her heart clenched with hope while her belly fluttered with fear. She did not want him to kiss her again. Did she? Certainly not here and not now? But her gaze drifted to his mouth and her lips suddenly felt quite dry. She licked them, and Wraxall’s hand, which had been reaching for her, paused in midair.

“Don’t tempt me,” he murmured, low enough for her to hear but not loud enough to carry over the din in the kitchen. His voice slid over her like warm velvet.

“Tempt you?” she hissed. “If you think I want you to kiss me, you are sorely mistaken.”

“I don’t think you want me to kiss you,” he answered.

Well, that was good then. She had at least made one point clear to him the night before.

“I know you want me to kiss you.”

Julia sputtered, too shocked to form a coherent thought or sentence.

“But that is not my intent.” He reached for her again, but this time she caught his wrist.

“Do not touch me.”

He lowered his hand and shrugged. “Fine. Go in like that.”

“Fine.” She turned to the door, then looked back at him. “Like what?”

He twirled a finger, indicating her head. “With that new style in your hair.”

Julia gasped, her hands flying to her head. She’d completely forgotten her hair was only half-pinned. And she’d thought he wanted to kiss her. No doubt he wanted to laugh just looking at her in all her ridiculousness.

She moved back from the door, but he anticipated her. “There’s no time now,” he said and reached for her again. This time, she didn’t move quickly enough, and his hand slid into her hair. She stiffened, unable to move as his fingers searched deftly for the pins she’d slid into the mass to secure it. Her scalp tingled as, one by one, he removed the pins, dropping them into his hand. Her hair fell down about her shoulders. When she glanced at him again, she felt very young and somehow more vulnerable with her hair loose.

“That suits you better. You look too matronly with your hair wound on top of your head.”

There were more flattering styles, but one needed a hair dresser to achieve those, and before he’d come, Julia hadn’t cared what her hair looked like as long as it was out of her way.

“I am the matron of this house, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t allow me to forget that point. And as such, you cannot interview these ladies with your hair undone. You need…something…” He tapped his finger on his lips. “Ah!”

This time, she swatted his hand away when he reached for her bosom. “What are you about, sir?”

He caught her hand and smiled at her. It was a rogue’s smile if she’d ever seen one. She knew she should not have trusted him.

“Not what you are thinking, though you seem to have found a way to make even drab gray look enticing.”

She looked down at her muted dress, a dress she had put on without much thought this morning. “What do you—”

He reached for the bodice again, but when she would have slapped him away, he murmured, “Trust me.”

Those were exactly the words that should have sounded the alarm in her head and her heart. Instead, she stood completely still while his fingers caught hold of the dark-blue ribbon adorning the dress’s bodice. The bodice did not have a particularly low neck, but it was a dress suitable for multiple occasions. As it was morning, and she was supposed to be the head of the orphanage, she had tucked a thin, gauzy fichu in the bodice to cover the modest flesh exposed by the rounded style. Wraxall’s fingers crushed the flimsy material as he pulled the ribbon from its bow and gently tugged it free from its moorings.