A Proper Mistress (6 page)

"Poor what?"

"Well, to have to walk miles in the heat and dust. And he seems so unhappy about this."

He offered up a sudden grin, which crooked his mouth. "I have never seen a day when 'poor Burke' hasn't been anything but the worst doomsayer in England. You'd think he'd be happy working in a stable that boast the kind of horseflesh as my brother owns. But don't you go pitying him. He's well paid, and he'll get to Twyford and demand the best ale for himself and their best care for his master's horse. And he'll get them, too."

"You sound rather fond of him."

"Oh, Burke's a good enough sort. Once you get past the sour side of him. Taught me how to ride in fact."

"What? He hardly looks old enough to be shaving!"

"That's his size. I've a suspicion he had ambitions once to ride as a jockey—he certainly did for my father for a time."

"And why did he not continue? Did something happen?"

He glanced at her, eyes puzzled and black eyebrows lowered flat. "My sweet Sweet, I don't go inquiring into the personal lives of my father's servants. It would be damned prying and rude of me!"

"As I'm being now?" She turned away. Propping up her feet, she folded her hands on her knees.

"Taken a pet now?" he asked, his voice coaxing.

She wouldn't look at him. "No, I have not."

"Oh, come along. We've hours to pass, and I don't fancy spending them staring at sheep and grass."

Glancing at him from the corner of her eyes, she asked, "Does that mean I may ask prying, rude questions then?" She added a belated, "Ducks?"

"I suppose it does," he said, his eyes lightening with humor. "Though it don't mean I'll answer them."

"Then I'd rather talk about myself. Did you know that I once lived in India? I am rather proud of that, for I think it gives me a touch of the exotic. Don't you think, ducks?"

"No. But you must have looked exotic there—that red hair and pale skin among all those Hindus."

"Not all the natives are Hindu—but they are all rather remarkable people. I rather miss them. And the food. Oh, the spices are heaven. And the land is one of the most extraordinary contrasts of beauty and harsh ugliness. But I don't miss the heat. Not at all. But what about you? Have you traveled?"

He stood and stripped off his coat, which he tossed to the ground beside his hat before stretching out again. He looked even better, she thought, sneaking an admiring glance, without his coat on. The white sleeves of his shirt billowed loose, and his waistcoat hugged his lean, muscular body.

Propping himself on one elbow, he plucked a blade of grass and began to chew on the pale end of it. "Not particularly. Though it's my plan to do so after my father disowns me."

"Won't that upset your mother—and your brother?"

He gave a short, harsh laugh. "I don't see Terrance being upset in the least about anything. And my mother's dead."

She nodded and said, her tone matter of fact, "Mine is too."

Theo lay still for a moment, surprised. He had expected, and braced himself for, her to offer the usual artificial sympathy for his loss, the sort that generally masked the unspoken relief that tragedy had struck elsewhere. Now he realized how harshly he had spoken, in anticipation of any pity from her.

She seemed not even to notice, however, for she just sat there with her knees pulled up close to her, looking more like a girl than a woman of ill-repute.

Lifting her head, she undid the strings to her bonnet, and he smiled as she took it off. What a pleasure she was to look at, with that glorious hair and those enticing curves. No wonder she cost what she did for a night. And he had her for far more than that—'course, it was all supposed to be look and no touch, but he had not yet tried to persuade her into just a bit more.

"I was—what, ten—no, I was nine when she died," she said, eyes distant. "Cholera. Everyone dreaded it. At least the Europeans and English did. The natives had a rather fatalistic view—karma—they called it, I think." She turned to him. "What about you? How old were you?"

He lifted a shoulder and looked away, not wanting to touch those memories. "I hardly remember."

She made an understanding sound and he glanced at her again. She had her cheek resting on her hand and her head turned toward him, and she looked adorable.

"What do you think is better—to have lots of memories?" she said, rocking herself gently. "Or to lose a parent before it really matters? I had a younger brother, but he died on the voyage to India. I only know about him because my mother once showed me a locket with a snippet of his hair. And I could only feel guilty, for I honestly could not work up even a single tear over him."

He sat up and leaned closer. "That's it exactly. I can only remember my father making everyone dress in black, and no one allowed to do anything. No running, no playing. I used to escape to the woods just so they wouldn't see me enjoying myself while everyone else went around with faces like black clouds."

"It's difficult, isn't it? My uncle used to say that tears are only about feeling sorry for yourself, for if you believe in a heaven, you ought to be happy for anyone who's gone there. He used to say he liked to think of them as having gone off to Brighton for holiday."

Theo gave a snort. "Brighton? Not exactly my idea of heaven. But who do you mean by them?"

"Why my father and mother, of course. I lost them both—such an odd way of putting it, as if I mislaid them, but it sounds so harsh to just say they died."

He stared at her. She had not a trace of self-pity in her eyes or expression, but gazed back at him, a slight smile lifting her lips, her eyes bright.

"You are an extraordinary woman," he said, his voice soft. Her laugh bubbled loose, giggly as a girl's. He couldn't help but grin back. "What? What is so funny about that?"

"I'm as ordinary as you can find—other than for my hair. Plain Molly Sweet, a bit of a girl with no family and not much else going for her other than God's grace. And there are times I wish that stretched just a bit further than it has for a common girl like me."

He sat up. "Now who filled your head with such nonsense? Common! Does Sallie tell you that?"

"Oh, no, Sallie's been one of the better blessings. But the workhouse..." Even in the warmth of the day, she shuddered.

He knew little enough about such places, other than that they were established to help the poor—give them shelter at the least, and perhaps opportunities to find a position if someone came to them. Frowning, he asked, "I thought they're supposed to take care of you in such a place?"

With a shake of her head, she looked away. "I don't want to speak of it." She looked back, smiling, her accent roughening again. "Let's talk of good memories, ducks. Why don't you tell me about your brother?"

And so he did, happy to amuse her.

He told the story of how he had once followed Terrance, thinking to discover his brother's favorite fishing spot but had instead found his brother intimately entangled with a neighbor's wife. And how Terrance had first brought him to London and shown him the gaming hells to avoid and the brothels to frequent. And how Terrance and he had once held up the mail coach. "We actually didn't steal anything—we only wanted to see if anyone would actually 'stand or deliver' but Terrance's horse kept wanting to bolt with him every time he started to shout and I just about fell off my own horse laughing."

She had laughed at that herself, and he decided he could not have asked for a better audience. At the more outrageous stories—such as the time Terrance was caught at a ball in an indiscreet position with not one, but two ladies, both of them older than himself—her cheeks pinked. And he found himself wondering how she had managed, at Sallie's house, to keep the ability to blush.

He also found himself telling more and more of the disreputable stories, just to see her mouth pucker with prim disapproval, as if she had no such similar stories in her own past.

With a rueful laugh, Molly shook her head. "Your brother sounds an incorrigible knave—and you sound proud that he is."

"Incorrigible? Now that's a fine word, coming from you."

"I'll have you know—" Molly broke off her protest, realizing she had been about to proclaim her virtue. Face warm, she lifted one shoulder. "Some of us are bad because we don't have much choice in it."

And she would have added more disapproval of his brother, except that she had heard the pride in Theo's voice. Even during the worst stories, it had been there—a thread of admiration for his brother's daring, his lack of concern for what others thought, his growing notoriety.

In truth, his brother sounded a disaster. But to say that to Theo seemed as if it would only be courting an argument.

As she thought on it, she realized a pang of envy lay under her faultfinding.

How lovely to have someone to care about. To have close family and ties.

She straightened. Might as well wish to have wings. She really had to keep in mind that she had come with this handsome fellow for his fifty pounds.

Only it was rather difficult with him gazing at her, a bemused smile lifting the corner of his mouth, his eyes sparkling with some mischief.

"Penny for your thoughts, ducks," she asked, curious now just what did stir that light in his eyes.

His smile widened, and he said, "I'm thinking about how much I want to kiss you."

Molly stared at him. Her pulse beat faster in her throat. The drone of a bee hummed past her ear. The breeze, soft and light, touched her cheek, and it lifted the lock of black hair that lay across Theo's forehead. His eyes had gone dark, as deep and vivid a blue as the open sea.

If she sat still, he would kiss her. She knew it. Knew it in her muscles and bones and in the blood that sang through her—with fear or anticipation?

Mouth parched, she could think of no answer to give him. No quip as Sallie might have to turn away desire. And no reason for her own mad curiosity as to what his lips might feel like on hers.

Utter, utter madness.

He would know in an instant that she lacked any skill. She might be only a cook in a house of ill-repute, but she had overheard and had seen what went on—a good deal of it carried out not behind closed doors but in hallways and in Sallie's parlor and even once she had glimpsed them on the stairs. And she had never been kissed—never could kiss anyone—like one of Sallie's girls.

Or could she?

He leaned closer, his movement slow, almost as if he, too, drifted nearer on the breeze. The smile on his lips faded and a curious intensity lit his eyes.

Why must he be so handsome
, she thought, her pulse hammering faster now? The faintest shading of beard darkened his jaw. She noted the twin furrows that lined his forehead.
He worries too much over something,
she thought. And she wanted to smooth those grooves with her fingers.

But she held still. Afraid to move. Afraid to betray herself. Afraid that he would soon know she wasn't the loose woman he thought her.

And since she did not know what else to do, she fastened her stare on his mouth—a beautiful mouth, lower lip full, top lips curving at the center and thinning at the ends. His lips parted, and hers copied them. She pulling in a deep, ragged breath and held it.

I can't do this!

Only she would.

His mouth hovered over hers, nearly touching, his breath mixing with hers in a hot caress.

A shout and the beat of hooves startled them both. Theo jerked upright and away from her.

She turned as well, letting out the breath she had been holding with a giddy sense of relief edged by irritated disappointment. Perhaps God looked after her better than even she knew. But it would have been nice if that shout had come just a few moments later.

A wicked thought, indeed. She really would have to mind these wayward inclinations that this fellow stirred in her or she might well end up one of Sallie's girls.
Remember your fifty pounds and your inn
, she told herself sternly.

Taking up her bonnet, she rose, saying brightly, "Burke is back."

"So he is," Theo grumbled, pushing himself to his feet.

The groom rode in a gig, next to what looked a gentleman farmer with his loose fitting brown coat, his black top-boots, buff breeches, and black slouch hat. Two horses trotted behind the two-wheeled carriage, led by long lines that Burke held.