A Difficult Disguise (19 page)

“Your master has need of you,” Beck intoned gruffly, turning away as the sight of Rosalie’s large green eyes began to do strange things to his backbone. What was a little seasickness, compared to the look in those eyes? He took three steps down the hallway before turning back to add meaningfully, “I’ll be just down the hall, in my room, if anyone should need me.”

“So loyal, and so nearly brave,” Fletcher crooned, waving Beck on his way as he pulled Rosalie into the chamber and firmly shut the door. “And now, halfling,” he continued as he walked to the center of the room and untied the tasseled sash of his burgundy banyan, “might I believe that you have come prepared to begin your new duties?”

Chapter 8

R
osalie looked warily about the room, her senses quivering like those of an alert hare that has just picked up the scent of a nearby fox.

It was a large chamber, with a prominent bed pushed against one wall; a thoroughly masculine room that intrigued her even as it intimidated her. The paintings, hangings, and furniture were all distinctly male, with no hint of any softening feminine influence, but attractive just the same.

The bed bothered her most, and the obviously full bathtub sitting before the cold fireplace. For someone who had been dreaming of spending the remainder of her life relaxing in just such a contraption, it amazed her how she now dreaded the mere sight of the thing.

Her gaze darted apprehensively to the bathtub and the extra pails of rinse water standing ready beside it, then back to Fletcher, now divested of his banyan, who stood in front of her dressed only in flowing white shirt and breeches.

“You’ve just bathed?” she ventured desperately, noticing that his thick blond locks were unruly, but not damp.

“No.”

“You’ve had your tub brought in so that I may have a bath?” She knew her question seriously stretched the imagination, but hope wasn’t a crime, was it?

“No, again.”

Her heart sank to her toes. “You—you’re going to bathe?”

“Third time lucky, halfling,” Fletcher congratulated her brightly, slowly beginning to unbutton his shirt, so that his broad, hairy bare chest came into view.

“I—I’ll go then,” Rosalie stammered, turning for the door.

Fletcher’s next words effectively stopped Rosalie in her tracks. “Yet again, brat, you unman me with your overweening modesty, not to mention your total disregard for your new duties in this household. You will not be going anywhere. You’re going to assist me with my bath.”

Rosalie wildly searched for a way out of her dilemma. “About—about this new arrangement, sir,” she said quickly. “I’ve been down the hall in the lovely room you’ve given me, and I’ve been very careful not to sit anywhere, as I wouldn’t want to soil anything. And I’ve been thinking. Hedge, well, he really does need me, sir.”

“And I do not?” Fletcher broke in, two more buttons falling open.

“W-e-ll,” Rosalie squeaked, her gaze riveted to Fletcher’s bare chest and the soft down of blond hair, “I suppose I just feel guilty, sir. Yes! That’s it. I feel guilty. I mean, what with the gelding being spavined and everything, and—and all those horses. We have to work dawn to dusk with the two of us working. However will Hedge be able to manage without me.”

“I commend your devotion to Hedge, who I am sure would be gratified to hear it. However, as I have already assigned another lad to the stables, you can set your mind at rest.”

Fletcher knew his actions must seem heartless, watching as Rosalie’s small shoulders slumped, but he refused to give into the pity he felt for her. After all, had he detected any betraying signs of that emotion in her beautiful green eyes while he’d made a rare cake of himself, all but drooling over her when he believed her to be a boy?

No, he hadn’t.

The snow-white shirt slid silently to the carpet and Fletcher’s hands dropped to the buttons on his breeches.

A look of utter astonishment on her face, Rosalie turned her back and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, wondering if she were about to go stark, staring mad. Why didn’t she stop him? Why didn’t she say something, anything—even tell him the truth, confess her deception, put an end to this nonsense? What perverse imp kept her silent?

The slight noises behind her could only mean that Fletcher had removed his breeches, to become as naked as he had been the night he’d slipped into bed beside her at the inn. A moment later the sloshing sound of water being displaced told her that Fletcher had stepped into the tub.

She opened her eyes, believing it might be possible that she would be able to think better if she could see, and looked straight into the mirror that hung above a small bureau.

“Oh, my Lord,” she whispered soundlessly, her jaw dropping open.

The mirror reflected the room at an angle, gifting her with no more than a glimpse of Fletcher’s bare thigh as he sank into the tub, until all that remained visible were his head, his extremely broad, well-defined shoulders, and one bare arm.

She would burn in hell forever and ever. She had become depraved, morally bankrupt, the most wicked, perverted, brazen hoyden ever born, but she could not drag her gaze away from that mirror. She believed she could actually begin to feel herself sinking farther and farther into the murky but definitely exciting depths of depravity.

“Oh, Bil-ly.”

Fletcher’s lilting voice shot through Rosalie like a bolt of white-hot lightning as the strong premonition of impending disaster that had been with her all day exploded in her brain. “What?” she exclaimed, her voice unnaturally shrill.

“It occurs to me that I might need some help with my back.”

Rosalie’s small hands bunched into fists, as it occurred to her that, if a person were to do murder, they could only hang that person once. “You—you want me to put soap on—on your person?” she asked, grimacing at the inanity of her last words.

“On my person? That would be one way of putting it,” Fletcher responded with a chuckle, knowing himself to be safely submerged beneath a concealing layer of bubbles, and not averse to stretching out his little game as far as Rosalie dared.

Rosalie continued to be a puzzle to him, and it was not only to pay her out for taking him in like a goose that he had determined to play out this little farce.

She had traveled alone in the district, for one thing—something gently reared females definitely did not do.

She had been sleeping in the Lakeview stables for more than a month, with none but Hedge for company.

Her language was not of the best, nor her general attitude.

Although she might show signs of maidenly modesty, she hadn’t seemed at all shocked to see the barmaid at the inn in bed with a man.

In short, Fletcher could not be quite sure exactly what Rosalie Darley was. He knew who she was, and could admit to being intrigued by her, attracted to her, and not overly disappointed that his tenure as a bachelor showed all the damning signs of being about to come to an end.

She was William Darley’s sister, and they didn’t come any better than William. If William said his sister had been gently nurtured, then she had been well-raised and taught well enough to know that she was being thoroughly compromised by her guardian and had been repeatedly almost from the moment they had met.

He had to believe that Rosalie was just a high-spirited, still-innocent hoyden. Any other answer was unacceptable. But still, he had to be sure.

Fletcher could feel his muscles tensing as he looked across the room to where Rosalie stood, her back still turned to him. Her calves were shapely above the large, ugly boots, and he could, with his excellent imagination, picture the delicate shape of her bound-to-be-slim ankles.

Her hair, nearly as dark and sleek as Pagan’s coat—although not nearly so well groomed—could be a true crowning glory once it was washed and tamed into some sort of style. His eyes narrowed as he contemplated the changes a soft, clinging gown would make, then he deliberately cleared his mind.

What was he doing? He was sitting, naked, in his bath, with the young woman he had been fashioning romantic fantasies about standing directly across the room. Maybe Beck had put his finger on the problem: perchance, just perchance, he was crazy.

Just as Fletcher determined to open his mouth, ordering Rosalie out of the room, she turned and walked, head high, toward the tub, the aristocrat marching bravely to the guillotine.

“I will need the soap,” she said, looking somewhere to the left of the top of his head, her expression so woebegone that he knew his never fully developed fears for her chastity had been unfounded. He had to put a stop to this, now. He couldn’t possibly go through with his plan to humiliate her.

“Never mind, halfling,” he said, careful not to disturb the thinning layer of bubbles covering his lower body. “Just pour a bucket of hot water down my back and then retire until we meet again at dinner. I can see that you’re weary.”

Rosalie could feel her teeth begin to clench. That was all? That was it? He had driven her to the very brink of hysteria, just to send her away? Granted, Fletcher couldn’t know exactly what he was doing, exactly who she was, for Rosalie, in the confidence of youth, could not believe that Fletcher had indeed succeeded in penetrating her disguise. As far as she was concerned, he had merely teased her because it was in his nature to enjoy teasing people.

Thinking her to be Billy Belchem, runaway, Fletcher believed himself to be getting some of his own back for the pain Rosalie Darley, another runaway, had brought him. That was the only reason Rosalie could come up with for his behavior, and it appeared, at least to Rosalie, a reasonable explanation.

But now, goaded beyond endurance by Fletcher’s little game, Rosalie forgot her crushing embarrassment, forgot her licentious, betraying thoughts, cast aside her recent vows to behave herself, and acted purely on impulse.

“More water, you said?” she asked sweetly, dipping her forefinger into one of the pails to check on the temperature of its contents. “My only happiness in life remains to please you, sir.”

Fletcher, who had quietly been congratulating himself for having withstood temptation, started up as Rosalie’s too-sweet voice and ridiculous subservience warned him—too late—of her intentions. There was nowhere to go, not unless he wished to stand up, which he most definitely did not want to do.

And so, his eyes squeezed shut, his shoulders hunched forward as if to ward off an attacker, Fletcher gritted his teeth and waited for the inevitable.

His wait was mercifully short. Within a matter of a heartbeat, a forceful waterfall of ice-cold liquid cascaded over his head, ran into his ears and mouth, and splashed off his bare back.

“Oh, dear,” he heard Rosalie exclaim in patently false accents of horror while Fletcher bit his tongue so that he would not cry out. “What a lamentable accident! I do believe I might have picked up the wrong bucket. That was cold water, wasn’t it? How can you ever forgive me?”

His teeth chattering, Fletcher desperately tried to gather the scattered bubbles toward his chest, gritting tightly, “It’s no matter, brat. Just go now, please, and I’ll finish by myself.”

“Of course, sir,” Rosalie piped up, happy once more. “But I won’t be able to join you for dinner, as I have no clothes fit for the table. I’ll take my mutton with Hedge in the kitchens, as usual, sir.” She turned to leave the room, throwing the only towel in the room to him without warning, so that it landed in front of him, in the water. “Good day to you, sir.”

The moment the door closed behind Rosalie, Fletcher leapt from the tub, shivering and with nary a single romantic thought left in his wet head, to dive into his banyan, once more convinced that any punishment he had devised for her was totally justified—and probably not strong enough.

Lethbridge was confused. His master had installed a scruffy stable boy in the house, spouting some nonsense about the untrained boy serving as his personal servant. Yet the boy was assigned to one of the best bedchambers and not the attic servant quarters, as should be the case. As a matter of fact, the boy’s room was better than the butler’s own small chamber and sitting room, located just behind the pantry.