Master of Pleasure (17 page)

When their eyes met, she knew
exactly
what he meant. “I see.”

He threw back his head and stared up at the ceiling as if to avoid further eye contact. “If only nudity were the problem. It was so obscene it might as well have been happening.”

A giggle escaped her. It was hilarious knowing a man of Lord Brayton’s size was avoiding eye contact while saying it. “I didn’t realize you were prone to blushing.”

He leveled his head and stared. “I’m not. This face wouldn’t even blush if I dangled it over a fire. I basically spent the last three days scrambling to dig these damn lithographs out from every corner and crevice of this house. Holbrook and this idiot had so many, between the two, they couldn’t even remember where they stashed them all. The only reason I’m even telling you any of this is because I’m worried that during any extensive cleaning you’ll be doing, you’ll find them. I don’t want you thinking they’re mine. Because they’re not.”

Oh. Now she understood. The gentleman in him was protective of his reputation. She bit back a smile. “I promise I won’t hold anything I find against you.”

“Good. Thank you. I’m hoping there isn’t anything left, but the reality is, Holbrook was paranoid about getting arrested.” He rolled his eyes, set his shoulders. “Allow me to formally introduce you to your new domain. I ask that you forgive its dire state.”

He swept a hand toward the kitchen around them. “The rust on the stove has to be scoured and black leaded. If you require more coal than we have on hand, inform me of it, and I’ll have more delivered. According to Holbrook, the last cook ended up taking some of the pots and pans, so I apologize in advance for the few that are left. I’ll offer you a weekly allowance of half a guinea for the kitchen. That will permit you to purchase whatever you need.”

“No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll pay a third of it out of the weekly allowance you give me, seeing Jacob and I will be taking from the kitchen.” She paused and knowing she had to say it, regardless of his pride, she blurted, “I won’t take more than ten shillings a week, Lord Brayton. I simply won’t. You can’t afford it. I naïvely assumed with you being an earl you had some money. I refuse to accept your generosity knowing you live like this.”

His expression grew somber. Almost brittle. He searched her face. “You think I’m poor?”

She blinked. “There is no need to be embarrassed. I don’t think any less of you. I’m as rag poor as they come. I simply...You’ve been so kind to me, please know that I don’t need all of the money you earlier spoke of, because I’m not going to Shrewsbury. I’m not interested in listening to my aunt’s explanation as to why she let me and my son struggle all these years. I plan to stay here for however long you need me and will gladly work for whatever you can afford.”

His features softened. “You honor me.”

Leona tried not to linger on how he made her stomach flutter. “Don’t get soft. It’s only money.”

His features remained soft. “I have more than enough to get me through the world. So you needn’t worry about me.”

“Looking around this house, it’s hard not to worry.” Smoothing her hands against the sides of her calico gown, she glanced toward the open cupboards that held empty sagging burlap sacks of what used to be sugar and flour. “When was the last time this kitchen was serviced?”

He still regarded her. Intently. “I don’t know.”

She tried not to get nervous given the way he kept looking at her. “How can you not know? You’re living here.”

“I’ve always eaten at other establishments. Never here at the house. I’ve only been in London for a little over two months, so I really don’t know what was and wasn’t done with the kitchen prior to my arrival.”

“I see.” She sighed. “I’m not familiar with this area. Will I have to go far to find shops or vendors that will make it possible to stock the kitchen?”

“No. There are several shops within close vicinity and various vendors come through with their carts all the time. You won’t have to walk beyond anything more than a block.”

That was nice. There were very few vendors by Mrs. Henderson’s tenement. She usually had to walk over two miles to find anything worth buying. And it was almost always all gone by the time she got there. “Good. That is one less thing for me to worry about.” She hesitated. “Aside from all the cooking and cleaning, given there are no other servants now in the house, am I expected to answer the door?”

“You needn’t worry. No one ever comes to the door.”

“But what if they do?”

“Then they do.”

“Does that mean I’ll be answering the door? Do you want me to?”

He stared her down. “You don’t have to.”

It was like talking to the door itself. “If you don’t tell me what to do, Lord Brayton, I may end up taking over the house.”

He hesitated. “I don’t mind.”

“You say that now. Until you realize my cooking will send you
and
Mr. Holbrook back to the pubs where you belong.” She walked up to the small iron stove and hefting the lid off one of the heating vents, she peered inside. Nothing but piled ash which had never been cleaned. A rat scrambled out of the ashes, making her jump. “
Ah
!” She let the iron lid drop, clanging it and frantically wiped her hands against her skirts at the thought of that thing crawling on the food she was supposed to make.

Lord Brayton rumbled out a laugh. “At sea, they become your friends.”

She paused and glanced back at him, her heart pounding. “You mean you let them stay on your ship? You don’t throw them over?”

He eyed her. “You only throw over the ones that cause trouble. In the twelve years I’ve been at sea, I’ve only ever tossed out a few.”

“Twelve years
?” She turned and made her way toward him. “You’ve been at sea
that
long?”

“Yes.” He half-nodded. “But I enjoy it.”

How fascinating. What made a man isolate himself from the world by staying at sea? “I’m rather the opposite.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. I won’t dip a toe into any water larger than a bathtub. Not to say I’m not intrigued. Where have you travelled?”

He shrugged. “Anywhere I was needed. From the Caribbean to India.” He averted his gaze. “Private matters of business.”

The Caribbean?
India
? It sounded so exotic. Something her father would do. “I’ve always been curious about seeing the world, but I’ve had an irrational fear of water well before my father died. My aunt tried to take me to Germany to visit relatives who offered to pay for our trip, but when I saw that water, I refused to let go of the port dock. I sprinted halfway into the next town to avoid it.”

His brows went up. “Why?”

She unraveled the frayed ribbon on her bonnet and grudgingly admitted, “I don’t swim.” She removed her bonnet and set it onto the table between them. “Not that learning how to swim ever helped anyone aboard a sinking ship. My father knew how to swim incredibly well but that didn’t save him. My aunt and I buried a set of his clothes and boots in his honor. They never found his body.”

His voice softened. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

She half-nodded, her throat tightening. “Thank you. I was twelve when he…well…when it happened. He chartered a small ship to visit his tobacco investments, which were failing due to droughts. He had me stay behind given Aunt Judith wasn’t feeling well. She was still recovering from being abandoned at the altar and was treating the whole affair like a disease. Men being the gravest of disease in her very bitter opinion.”

He observed her for a long moment. “You don’t share in her way of thinking, do you?”

She paused. His tone had changed. “After Ryder, I did. But it’s obvious he wasn’t intentionally trying to hurt me. Which eases my discomfort given I always considered us to be close friends. And now, after meeting you, I’m beginning to realize that—”

What in blue skies was she doing? Announcing her interest? Why? So he can laugh and admit that raising another man’s child was not in his nautical book? “Forgive me. I have a tendency to ramble. Might I ask what India is like?”

Shifting his scarred jaw, he stared. “Hot. Very hot. I never felt rested.” He still stared.

She swallowed, wondering if he was even referring to India.

He skimmed her appearance before returning his gaze to her face. “You look very different from when I last saw you. What did you put on your face?”

Her cheeks started to feel warm knowing he had noticed the rouge. Given she was blushing, she probably looked like she had slathered twice the amount needed. “Rouge. I was a touch pale this morning. Why?”

His steady gaze bore into her. “You don’t need it. You’re rather perfect without it.”

An ache rose within her, and she wondered if the years of loneliness she felt were the same years of loneliness he felt. What sort of women had he associated with? Could a man like him cast an anchor for a woman like herself if tempted? Surely his lack of finances and her lack of finances made their association a bit more…plausible. Didn’t it?

She lowered her gaze to her bonnet and traced her finger along the edge of the straw rim. “Being at sea must be lonely.”

He dragged the bottle of wine toward himself and wrapped his fingers around its neck. “It can be.”

She continued tracing her finger along the edge of the straw rim. “Do you ever try to make time for relationships? Or are you solely devoted to the sea?”

His fingers stilled on the neck of the bottle. “What are you asking, Miss Webster?”

Her hands felt moist. Flirting with an admiral
and
an earl was not the brightest idea she’d ever had. Setting aside that she was a shunned woman with a six-year-old, he was leaving in a few weeks.

Oh, God. What was she doing getting attached? She needed someone willing to stay. “I wasn’t asking anything.”

She quickly turned back to the stove, removed all the iron lids, setting them aside and opened the oven and side warmers. Grabbing the small, handheld broom crookedly hanging beside the stove and the dust pan, she bent and carefully swept all of the ashes into the dust pan. She continued to silently focus on cleaning out the stove in an effort to prepare it for cooking.

He strode toward her and lingered, his hand grazing the edge of the stove. “I think you were asking if a relationship between us is possible. Am I right?”

She cringed, turned and seeing a rubbish bin, emptied the charred ashes of coal into it. Frantically tapping the small handheld broom against the soot covered dust pan, she turned back to the stove and hung both onto their appointed hooks beside the stove. “I’ll wait until fresh water arrives before I try to clean anything.”

He said nothing.

She had certainly made things awkward. How could she be so stupid? He’d been so kind to her and here she was not only taking money he didn’t have, but was also trying to insist on a relationship. What made her so special? She wasn’t.

She had no real talent that might impress a man. She couldn’t sing. She couldn’t dance. She fell asleep at the one and only opera she ever attended. Her sewing always came out uneven. She couldn’t cook without turning everything to cardstock and couldn’t even put on the appropriate amount of rouge without making a man point out she needed less.

And yet…she wanted to be special enough to be loved beyond her very own breath.

Was that too much to ask?

Pinching her lips in an effort to pretend she was occupied, she started going around and opening cupboards throughout the kitchen to better understand what was where. Nothing was organized. Plates were stacked on top of bowls and cups were shoved in between dented lard bins. Pots and pans had forks and spoons in them and a whisk had been forcefully bent to fit in beside a tea-pot. “This kitchen reminds me all too much of my life. Maybe I should only try to organize everything and clean. Cleaning is the one thing I can do well. Stains and dirt fear me.”

Stalking toward her, he shut the cupboard before her with a bang, making her jump.

He faced her. “You didn’t answer me. Are you interested in progressing this or not?”

Her heart skidded. Why did he make her feel like a toe-dragging girl of thirteen? She lifted her gaze to his and eeked out, “But you leave in a few weeks.”

A muscle flicked in his jaw. “I’m fully aware of that. It’s up to you to decide if you want to follow me to Persia. Do you?”

She gaped. Was he insinuating that she…get on a boat? She wouldn’t even do that if she were madly in love with him.

Hoping she wasn’t overreaching, she chose her words carefully. Very, very carefully. “Even if you and I were interested in progressing this –
and I’m not saying either of us are
– my son has very fragile expectations. Ones I don’t intend to crush by introducing him to a father who won’t stay. My son needs a father more than I need a lover. Not that a lover wouldn't be amazing. It would. I’m simply waiting to be ready.”

“Are you saying you’re ready?”

She froze, uncertain of whether their conversation was progressing or flailing. It had been too long since she had associated with a man. So long, she had probably forgotten how to pucker her own lips. “Well, I…I’ve been waiting for the right man to come along.”