Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(21)

“Come in.” Luke kept writing as someone entered the room. “I'm busy,” he muttered. “Unless it's important, I don't want to be dist—” He broke off as he glanced at the intruder. It was Miss Billings.

So far their encounters had been brief and impersonal; chance meetings in the hall, a few words here and there about Emma. Luke had noticed that the governess avoided him whenever possible. She didn't seem to like being in the same room with him. No woman had ever been so cold to him, so unaware of him in every way.

As always, her face was pale and tense. Her figure was fragile, her waist so slender that he could have easily wrapped his hands around it. When she moved her head, the light slid over her ebony hair, making it gleam. She stared at him with those exotic eyes, looking like an underfed cat. After waking up next to Lady Harcourt's voluptuous cream-and-peaches warmth, Luke found the sight of the governess jarring.

He had no idea why Emma liked her so much. Yet Emma seemed happier than she had been in months. Luke was afraid his daughter was becoming attached to the governess. A pity, since Miss Billings would be leaving soon. The month was already half-over. Emma would just have to get used to someone else. It didn't matter how much good the governess did for his daughter, she still wasn't going to stay. Luke didn't trust her. She was sly, mysterious, haughty…all the qualities of a cat. He hated cats.

“What do you want?” he asked curtly.

“Sir, there is a matter I wish to discuss with you. It concerns one of the housemaids, Nan Pitfield.”

Luke's eyes narrowed. This was something he hadn't expected. “The one who's been dismissed.”

“Yes, my lord.” Rosy color swept up her face, softening the parchment-white skin. “Everyone is aware of why she's being forced to leave. The young man who fathered the baby—one of your footmen, as I understand it—has abandoned all responsibility. I've come to ask you to give Nan a little money, to help her survive until she's able to work again. She comes from a poor family. It will be difficult for her to find employment anywhere, certainly nothing above five pounds a year—”

“Miss Billings,” he interrupted, “Nan should have considered all of that before she decided to indulge herself in a backstairs romance.”

“It wouldn't take very much to help her,” the governess persisted. “A few pounds would make no difference to you—”

“I'm not going to reward a servant who hasn't done her job adequately.”

“Nan works very hard, my lord—”

“I've made my decision. I suggest you turn your attention to what I'm paying you for, Miss Billings, and that's to give lessons to my daughter.”

“And what kind of lesson are you teaching her, sir? What is Emma to think of your behavior? You're acting without a shred of compassion or mercy. Why must your servants be punished for having ordinary human needs? I don't approve of what Nan did, but neither can I blame her for trying to find some happiness. Nan was lonely, and she succumbed to a young man who said he loved her. Must she be made to suffer for it the rest of her life?”

“That's enough.” His voice was unnaturally gentle.

“You care nothing about your servants,” she continued recklessly. “Oh, you're willing to give them butter and candles—it's a small price to pay for having everyone think of you as the benevolent lord of the manor. But when it comes to really helping your servants, really caring for them, you can't be bothered. You'll just cast Nan out and forget all about her, while she'll starve, or become a prostitute—”

“Get out.” As Luke shot to his feet, the tip of his hook slashed into the glossy surface of the desk, ruining the antique wood.

The governess didn't move. “Do you conduct your life so chastely that you are fit to judge her? If I'm not mistaken, you've just returned from a liaison of your own!”

“You're about to be dismissed with Nan.”

“I don't care,” she said passionately. “I would prefer to walk the streets myself than live under the same roof with such a heartless man—a hypocrite!”

All at once his temper exploded. Luke strode around his desk with a snarl, catching the front of her bodice in his large hand. She gave a whimper of fear. Luke shook her briefly, like a dog with a rat. His knuckles pressed hard against her sharp collarbone. “I don't know who the hell you were before you came here,” he growled, “but you're a servant now. My servant. You obey me without question. My word is the last in all things. If you defy me again—” Suddenly Luke stopped. He didn't trust himself to speak further.

She refused to look away, though terror filled her eyes. Her breath fluttered against his chin, and her small hands came over his, plucking helplessly. The word “no” came to her lips, soft shape without sound.

Luke breathed in uneven gushes of air. The urge to conquer, to dominate, was overwhelming. His blood sang with primitive masculine urges. She was very small, her weight dangling from his grip on her dress. He kept her off-balance, forcing her to lean into his hold. He could smell her skin: soap, salt, a trace of roses. He couldn't stop himself from lowering his head, drinking in the scent. There was a responsive ache in his groin, his flesh filling with hot blood and sensation. All at once he wanted to shove her down to the desk and lift her skirts, and take her right there. He wanted to feel her stretched beneath him, her nails digging into his back, her body arching to take him deeper. He thought of her slim legs clamped around his waist…and he closed his eyes hard against the image.