Desired by a Lord (Regency Unlaced 5) Read online

  A hard lesson to learn, but Xander had learned it well.

  He could not help but admire Emily Marsden and her audacity—desperation?—for having succeeded where so many had failed these past twenty years.

  Or wonder if it had indeed been desperation that had controlled her actions.

  He inspected his visitor anew. Emily Marsden was very young, of course. Her clothes were well made, but the material was not of the finest quality, nor was she wearing a cloak, despite the fact the weather had turned from summer to autumn some weeks ago. Her black boots were slightly scuffed, and her lace gloves showed signs of having been darned, expertly so, but darned nonetheless. And not by a maid, because she did not have one, implying Emily had done the work herself.

  All leading Xander to the conclusion that Edmund Marsden had not provided well for his young widow even after his death. That she was, in fact, in need of the fee Xander had intended paying her husband for his services. Services this young woman said she was capable of doing in her husband’s stead.

  Except…

  She was a woman, not a man. A young woman. A not unattractive young woman, and unaccompanied by a maid. She was also a widow.

  Xander’s youthful experience had given him a cynicism in regard to matters of the heart; consequently, he had never married. At eight and thirty, he considered he still had plenty of time for marriage and the setting up of his nursery.

  Nor did he have any female relatives living with him who might act as chaperone. Society had some damned funny rules, and the inadvisability of a woman—even a widow—moving into a bachelor’s household was certainly one of them.

  Not that Xander wished to have some elderly female relative foisted upon him. Bad enough that his estranged father had allowed Whitney Park to fall into such disrepair in the fifteen years since Xander had last visited, without the added burden of being bequeathed the care of some twittering, elderly female relative.

  None of which answered the question as to what he was going to do with Mrs. Emily Marsden.

  The rational side of his brain said he should offer her refreshment and send her on her way back to Derbyshire. The more so because of the interest he already felt to know more about this woman.

  His heart—which he did possess, despite the opinion of some of the more bitterly disappointed ladies of the ton—wondered exactly what he would be sending her back to. She had obviously been desperate enough, for some as yet unexplained reason, to travel to Whitney Park under false pretenses.

  Perhaps she was fleeing a persistent lover?

  Her husband’s debts?

  Or the thought of a winter spent alone in Primrose Cottage?

  For the moment, Xander would settle for offering her refreshment and so allow himself to delay making any decision either way until he was apprised of all the circumstances. All that this woman would share with him, at least, for as he had already suspected, he was now surer than ever that Emily Marsden kept many secrets hidden behind those challenging, long-lashed green eyes.

  He rang for Clarke, knowing by the speed with which his father’s elderly butler answered the summons that the other man must have been standing outside the door of the study this whole time. Eavesdropping on the conversation? Almost certainly.

  So far, Xander had not got round to dealing with the staff at Whitney Park, having been too occupied to date with trying to bring order to the estate and house. The opportunity to dispose of the elderly staff and bring in new had never seemed quite right. First there had been their grief at his father’s passing. Now the season was heading toward winter, and it seemed a harsh and inappropriate time to cast out the elderly and loyal members of his father’s household. Even if most of them made no effort to hide their disapproval of him. Including Clarke. Especially Clarke.

  Having dealt with instructing the butler to bring the refreshments, Xander now turned his attention back to the young woman, who looked up at him with hopeful eyes. “You have traveled for some time to get here, Mrs. Marsden.” He quickly disabused her of any misconception she might have that offering her refreshment meant he was also offering her employment. “I would see that you are given a warming drink, at least, before you leave.”

  It felt rather like kicking an injured puppy as he watched the hope fade from those deep-green eyes.

  What on earth was he about today, allowing himself to become intrigued by a prim-looking widow and thinking of mice and puppies!

  He had never been a particularly empathetic man. That early lesson of a woman’s capriciousness had taught him to be careful in regard to relinquishing his heart a second time. His complete estrangement from his father fifteen years ago following the death of his mother, meant Xander had struggled financially himself for some years, to the degree he had concentrated all his attention on making his own fortune. The fact he now possessed that fortune, completely independently of his family, was testament to how single-minded he had been in that endeavor.

  Which was perhaps a good enough reason to now offer assistance to someone he believed was also struggling, for whatever reason, to survive in a world that could often be exceedingly cruel.

  Xander’s emotions might recognize that, but the cool logic inside his head reminded him that minutes ago, he had actually viewed this mousy-looking woman with a lust that seemed to have affected a completely different part of his body.

  He returned to his seat behind the desk as a way of hiding the evidence of the burgeoning cock inside his pantaloons. “I live alone here, Mrs. Marsden.”

  “Yes…” She appeared puzzled by the statement.

  Xander sighed his irritation. “You are also alone. Consequently, there is no female here to act as chaperone.”

  Her brow cleared. “I am a widow, my lord.”

  “A young and attractive one.”

  A delicate blush colored her cheeks. “If you allowed me to stay, I would be no different from the housekeeper or maids, also in your employ, and therefore would have no need of a chaperone.”

  Xander disagreed with that conclusion. But it was not his reputation to lose. It was one of the double standards of Society that it was the lady who risked losing her reputation if the gentleman who had compromised her then refused to marry her. “I doubt your family would feel the same way, Mrs. Marsden.”

  Emily blinked. “My family…?”

  “You are obviously well-spoken, and also educated, if you are capable of cataloguing a library. Which means your family must be also.”

  “I do not have any family,” she stated flatly.

  “Everyone has family, Mrs. Marsden.” The derisive tone of Xander’s voice made his opinion clear in regard to his own family.

  “Mine are all dead.”

  “But who were they? Come, Mrs. Marsden, it is a simple enough question to answer, surely?” he snapped as she remained stubbornly silent.

  It was not a simple question to answer for Emily. If she gave Whitney the answer he wanted, then all would be over for her. For there could be none in Society who did not know the name of Stanwick and the notorious and bloody scandal attached to it…

  Chapter 3

  Clarke arrived with the tea tray immediately after Xander asked his probing question.

  “Thank you.” Xander accepted the cup of tea Emily Marsden had poured and now handed to him, no doubt as a way of continuing to delay answering his question.

  But Xander had seen her reaction: the paling of her cheeks, the shadows that appeared in her eyes, the slight trembling of her hand as she poured the tea into the two cups.

  It led him to believe this woman’s family was another of the secrets hidden behind those cool green eyes.

  Or perhaps the one that led to all the others?

  Either way, Xander’s interest in her and the answer to these questions was growing stronger by the minute. Indeed, she was the first amusement he’d had these past four months.

  In view of how it upset her, he decided to let the subject of her family be for the momen
t. If necessary, he could always instruct his lawyer to ascertain that information. Or one of his close male friends in London. He believed Lucien Brooke, Viscount Brooketon, enjoyed poking about in intrigues such as Mrs. Emily Anne Marsden.

  If Xander decided to employ her. “Do you now live completely alone in Ashingdon, Mrs. Marsden?”

  She nodded. “Apart from a young girl from the village who comes in to do the heavier part of the cleaning twice a week.”

  And so the mystery deepened. A well-educated young woman marries a man six and thirty years her senior, and is then widowed five years later. She is obviously short of funds. Refuses to talk about her family. Employs no maid or other household staff. Lives completely alone in her little cottage—the girl from the village coming in twice a week surely did not count.

  And Emily Marsden could be a murderess for all Xander knew. Could have poisoned her husband or bludgeoned him to death in his sleep.

  Unfortunately, she was also the closest thing Xander had found to a diversion from his boredom in months. “You may stay.”

  Her teacup clattered as she attempted to return it to the saucer, having been in the process of lifting it to her lips to take a sip when Xander made his pronouncement.

  She carefully placed the teacup and saucer back on the silver tray before answering him. “I may stay?”

  He nodded abruptly. “You may.” He might have cause later on to regret that decision, but for the moment, he was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  She eyed him curiously. “Why, my lord?”

  Xander frowned as he put his own cup down on his desktop. This, the mistrust in those wary green eyes, was what he received in return for feeling charitable? “Do you want the position or don’t you?” he demanded icily. “Because I am sure there are plenty of your husband’s peers who—”

  “I want the position,” Emily hastily interjected. “I was merely surprised at the suddenness of your decision. But yes, my lord, of course I wish to catalog the library here. My late husband spoke very highly of it.”

  Whitney gave a hard smile. “I have no intention of letting you loose on the Whitney Library until I am assured of your ability. My late father may have allowed the estate and library to deteriorate these last fifteen years, but I do not intend to let you or anyone else add to that disarray.”

  This man was too mercurial in temperament for Emily to be able to keep up with his conversation. “But you just said—”

  “I said you may stay,” he drawled. “But you must first prove to me you can do the work before I will allow you to so much as touch any of the priceless books in my library.”

  Emily was even more confused. “And how shall I go about doing that?”

  “With those books there.” He nodded to the wall of his study behind her, stacked with heavily laden bookshelves. “Prove to me you can bring order to those, and I may consider allowing you to continue into the library.”

  Emily’s heart sank as she glanced along the bookshelves and saw, from the titles, these tomes were mainly to do with farming and livestock. A subject about which she knew absolutely nothing.

  But she could learn, she told herself determinedly. She was intelligent, quick to learn new things. How difficult could it be to catalog a few hundred farming journals? She accepted the challenge. “Very well, my lord.”

  “Excellent.” Whitney gave a satisfied smile. “And, Mrs. Marsden…”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “As you are to stay, you may call me Whitney. Or Xander, if you prefer.”

  “Xander?”

  “It is what my friends call me.” He shrugged those magnificently wide shoulders.

  Emily swallowed before speaking. “I would prefer… If you insist upon this lapse in formality…”

  “I believe I do, yes.” Blue eyes glittered with mocking amusement at her obvious discomfort.

  Her chin rose. “Then I would prefer to call you Whitney.” The use of this man’s first name was far too…intimate for a mere employee, even if in another time, another world, she might once have been his social equal.

  “Very well.” He nodded, sitting forward to look at some papers on his desk, the interview apparently over. “While you are settling into the bedchamber I instructed prepared for your husband, I will have Clarke organize a desk to be brought in here for your use.”

  Emily blinked. Of course Whitney would expect her to work in here. Where else would she work, when the books were in here? It would also, she realized, allow him to keep watch on her. To ensure she was not here for some nefarious purpose, as he had earlier implied she might be.

  Which in turn caused her to question how often Lord Whitney would also be working in his study? Even a few hours a day might be too much, in light of Emily’s heightened and unexpected awareness of him.

  She was a healthy woman aged almost three and twenty, and could surely be excused such folly when it came to such an impressively male gentleman as Lord Alexander Whitney. She dared even the sophisticated ladies of the ton to remain immune to this arrogant gentleman’s rakish handsomeness and fitness of form.

  “You are having second thoughts, Mrs. Marsden?”

  She glanced across to see Whitney had now raised one arrogant brow. “Not in the least,” she assured him briskly. She was a grown woman, a widow moreover, and in need of employment that paid money. What did a little physical discomfort matter? “I thank you for this opportunity, my—Whitney.” Her cheeks felt warm at the informality.

  He nodded. “You have one week to prove to me I did not make the wrong decision,” he announced.

  Emily knew her capabilities to be more than adequate to pick up the gauntlet this man had thrown at her feet.

  It was the challenge of her unexpected attraction to Whitney himself which would prove the more difficult.

  By late the following morning, Xander had already realized the impracticality—and physical torture—of having Emily Marsden in his study with him—or without?—for hours on end.

  The previous evening, Clarke had informed him that Mrs. Marsden was fatigued from her journey. That she had been down to the kitchen to collect tea and biscuits and taken them up to her bedchamber with the intention of retiring for the evening.

  Xander had been disappointed. After four months of seclusion—he had refused all invitations from his gossipy neighbors, avoiding both their company and relieving him of the chore of having to return the politeness—he had actually been looking forward to having female company at the table with him for dinner.

  Consequently, when she entered the study this morning, it was the first time he had seen Emily Marsden’s hair uncovered. As he had surmised yesterday, it was a vivid shade of red. Quite beautiful, in fact, if not for its lustrous color being diminished by the severity of the unbecoming and tight bun once again secured at Mrs. Marsden’s slender nape.

  At least she was not wearing more widow’s weeds this morning, but instead had on a gown of a small-red-and-green-check material. Something Xander felt sure she had fashioned herself, no doubt to allow for maximum comfort during her task of going up and down a stepladder—brought into the study earlier by one of the footmen, under Mrs. Marsden’s instruction—and removing books from their shelves, her height such that she could not reach the top two shelves.

  The bodice of the gown was as prim as the one she had worn yesterday, full-sleeved and buttoned up tight to her throat. But there was something different about the skirt. The material seemed to be joined together between her legs, to all intents and purposes making it into a pair of baggy trousers.

  Xander found himself watching in fascination every time she climbed the ladder to take a book from one of the top shelves, at which time the material would pull tight, often exposing a delectable glimpse of her shapely ankles and calves.

  In truth, his cock had been up and down as many times this morning as Emily Marsden had climbed the ladder!

  Not a particularly comfortable circumstance. In fact, it was n
ot only uncomfortable but also damned frustrating when in connection to a young widow who was not to his usual taste at all.

  For her part, Mrs. Marsden went about her work as if completely unaware Xander was even in the room with her.

  Which, for some reason, he found more irritating, possibly even insulting.

  He was known as something of a rake in Town, and he could only assume this was chagrin on the part of marriage-minded mamas because of his having ignored their debutante daughters Season after Season, and so avoided the parson’s mousetrap for so many years. He had certainly never broadcast the sexual liaisons he had with older, more experienced women. Nor had he ever been at a loss for women who wished to share his bed, or for him to share theirs.

  Emily’s concentration on her task was such that she treated him as if he were a piece of the furniture, to be walked around if he should happen to be in her way and ignored the rest of the time. A circumstance Xander was starting to find intolerable.

  “Did you design that gown yourself— Careful!” he warned sharply as Emily turned to look at him so suddenly, the stepladder on which she was standing began to wobble precariously beneath her.

  Xander rose quickly to his feet as he saw the look of horror on Emily’s face when she knew she had lost the battle to regain her balance, and the stepladder began to slide to one side, with her clinging to it, white-knuckled and white-faced.

  Years of swordplay and boxing had not only kept Xander fit but honed his reflexes, and he brought those into play as he crossed the room in two long strides. “Jump,” he instructed grimly, booted feet planted firmly on the blue Aubusson carpet as he readied to catch her.

  Two wide green eyes stared down at him in disbelief.

  “Leave go of the ladder and jump. I promise I will catch you.” He spoke in the voice that his subordinates in the army had known to their peril not to ignore.

  Emily jumped.

  Skirts raised, arms outstretched, hands reaching, she launched herself away from the ladder toward him.

  Emily’s eyes were closed, heart pounding loudly, as the stepladder clattered to the wooden floor even as she found herself encompassed by two strong arms and held against a hard and muscular chest. She was just thankful that, instead of allowing her to make painful contact with the floor, possibly breaking a few bones in the process, Whitney had kept him promise to catch her.