Last Night's Scandal (The Dressmakers 5)

She was a force of nature, unstoppable, irresistible.

What the devil was he to do?

He couldn’t rely on her and he couldn’t trust himself. Look at what he’d done, mere hours after they’d agreed it must not happen again.

I don’t want to ruin your life, and I know you don’t want to ruin mine.

“Speaking of romantic,” he said.

“If you apologize for what happened on the roof, I’ll strangle you,” she said.

“If we hadn’t been interrupted—”

“Yes, I know.” Her brow knit. “I have to think about this. I’m sure there’s a solution. But I can’t find it now. It’s been a long day.”

A lifetime, he thought.

His life. It was changing, irrevocably, unstoppably. It had started changing from the moment his lips touched hers—no, before that. From the moment he’d found her in the ballroom.

“Eventful, certainly,” he said.

“But the heart of the matter . . .” She frowned. “Here’s what’s in my mind. We’re in dire need of a butler. It’s clear that Edwards, wherever he may be, will not return. We’re in dire need as well of Scottish servants. London servants don’t belong here. They don’t like it, they don’t understand it, and they don’t fit. Someone, clearly, wants to undermine our work here. We need to get to the bottom of that. Too, we need a stable staff we can rely on, people with ties to the place.”

Though it had been a long day, he was too uncomfortable and too angry with himself to feel weary. He was supposed to be the strong one. Yet he’d found her on the roof and he’d seen the stars in her eyes and he’d done exactly what he’d vowed he wouldn’t do again.

All the same, he couldn’t ignore what she was saying. Facts. She’d summed up the situation as logically as he might have done, if he hadn’t been so bollixed up with feelings.

“You’re right,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “I am?”

“We have a problem, but that isn’t the only problem,” he said. “We came here to rebuild. We came to solve the castle’s problems. That’s what we need to concentrate on. If we do that—”

Her mouth quirked up. “No time for misbehaving.”

“The devil makes work for idle hands,” he said.

“I never noticed that I needed his help,” she said. She gave a short laugh and moved away. “Well, then, we’ve a plan of sorts. And we can tackle it tomorrow.” She bade him good night, and vanished into the south wing.

Olivia kept the amused expression on her face until she was safely behind the doors and on her way up the stairs.

Then she stopped and clutched her head.

What were they going to do?

Desire was a terrible thing, not what she’d always imagined it to be. It was unbearable. To stand there, looking at him, and wanting to touch him and wanting to be touched.

What had happened, on the roof, that wondrous feeling.

She knew what it was. She had, after all, read Great-Grandmama’s fascinating collection of erotic literature, and she’d learned how to pleasure herself.

But that was a pale imitation.

Think about something else, she ordered herself. And so she thought about butlers and how to lose them and how to find them. She thought about ghosts that weren’t ghosts. She listed domestic problems as she climbed the winding stairs to her room.

She went to bed without much hope of sleeping well, but the day’s events had done for her. She laid her head on the pillow and the next she knew, grey morning light had filled the room and Bailey was standing by the bed, tray in her hands. From it the aroma of chocolate wafted to Olivia’s nostrils.

Gorewood Castle great hall

Morning of Tuesday 18 October

The Harpies hadn’t risen yet, and probably wouldn’t be up and about until noon. That was their usual time, Lisle supposed, when they weren’t being harassed by forces of nature.

Though feeling far from peaceful inwardly, he’d enjoyed a quiet breakfast.

He hadn’t realized how unpeaceful the previous ones had been until now.

He heard the servants’ light footsteps as they went about their work . . . the wind whistling through the chinks and broken windows . . . the fire crackling in the grate.

The environment was far from ideal, and he was hundreds of miles from where he wanted to be and the work ahead of him didn’t fill him with excitement. But he had peace about him. And order. And a moment of quiet in which to ponder the irony of Olivia’s having created it.

She came in as he was finishing the cup of coffee Nichols had made for him.

Lisle rose.

She stood next to him, and peered at the tiny cup on the table. “Is that Turkish coffee?”

He nodded. Her clothing rustled at his ear. He could smell her, the faint, floral fragrance. Or was it more spicy than floral? Very faint. Not bottled scent. Dried herbs and flowers, most likely, with which her clothes were stored.

“I’m used to it,” he said. “I’m not fanatical about it, though. I’ll drink what’s available. But Nichols has strong feelings regarding the care of his ‘gentleman.’ He wouldn’t dream of making do with whatever happens to be on hand. Wherever we go, he carries Turkish coffee. Wherever we are, he prepares it every morning. Would you like some?”

“I would, indeed.” She moved away and sat down. “Great-Grandmama has it often, but her maid is very jealous, and won’t show Bailey how to make it.”

“I’ll tell Nichols to teach her,” he said, taking his seat again. “Nichols scorns petty jealousies.” And he wouldn’t mind teaching a pretty maid whatever she wished to know, including some things she didn’t know she wished to know.

Though Lisle didn’t ring, Nichols appeared, as he invariably did when wanted. “Sir?”

“Turkish coffee for Miss Carsington,” Lisle said.

“Certainly, sir.”

“And when Miss Bailey has a moment, you are to teach her how to make it.”

“Certainly, sir.” Though Nichols’s tone did not change, Lisle noticed the spark in his eyes.

Olivia must have seen it, too. When the valet had disappeared behind the kitchen passage door, she said, “He is not to think of seducing my maid.”

“I’m having enough trouble with my own morals,” he said in a low voice. “You can’t expect me to be responsible for everyone else’s. And I certainly can’t tell him what to think. He’s a man.”

“I’m only warning you,” she said. “I can’t be held responsible for what Bailey will do. She has a low opinion of your sex.”

“Nichols can look out for himself,” Lisle said. “As I mentioned yesterday, he’s stronger than he looks. A simoom once lifted him off his feet and carried him a short distance before dropping him amongst some Bedouins. He helped them clear out the sand and made them coffee. They lent him a camel. When he returned to me, he apologized for being ‘so abruptly absent.’ ”

She looked at him, laughter and skepticism mingling in her blue eyes. “You’re making that up.”

“Don’t be absurd,” he said. “I have no imagination.”

The heated fantasies and even more uninhibited dreams had nothing to do with imagination, he told himself. To a man, those sorts of things were reality.

“I should like to know who made that up,” she said.

He followed her gaze to the minstrels’ gallery. “The ghostly visitation, you mean.”

“I want to look it over again, by daylight,” she said. “Maybe nothing was there, and Lady Cooper only imagined it or dreamed it. But that seems unlikely. Somebody’s been playing at ghosts for the last several years. Why should they stop now, when they have a fresh audience?”

“Why should they have started in the first place?” he said. “Why frig

hten someone away from a place?”

“Because you want it for yourself or because it’s got something you want,” she said.

“Clearly, no one wanted it for himself,” he said. “Mains hasn’t been able to entice a tenant, and I saw no signs of anybody living here for free.”

“Mains,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about him.”

Nichols reappeared with the coffee. He filled Olivia’s cup and refilled Lisle’s and disappeared.

Olivia turned and watched him go. “That is a gift,” she said. “Have you ever noticed how few men can make themselves unobtrusive? Usually, they’re demanding attention in every way they can think of.” Her gaze came back to him. “Not you, though. I suppose it comes of living in Egypt, doing what you do.”

“Moving quietly is an important skill,” he said.

“I should like to learn it,” she said, “but one can’t in these clothes.”

Today she wore a brown dress. Being meant for daytime, it covered her up to the throat. Otherwise, it was like the dress she’d worn last night: Immense sleeves and mountain of flaring skirts, propped up by layers of petticoats. . .