Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction (26 page)

The damp tip of his tongue trailed across her skin and then delved down to tend the heated little flame darting and pulsing at her core. Molly writhed and stretched, excitement racing through her from head to toe. “You’re a very good servant below stairs, my darling Danny. Most obliging and efficient.”

He couldn’t answer because he was busy lapping over her sensitive flesh with steady, possessive strokes of his masterful tongue.

“And your attention to detail is becoming…quite…ex…excep…exceptional.” A short while after this, she gave up speech herself. At least the sort of decent conversation that made any sense.

In the morning she woke to find him sprawled out on his stomach, taking up most of the room, snoring loudly into his pillow. Molly knew she should have been tired too, but she wasn’t. Not then. As she’d said to the housekeeper, there was too much to explore.

Half an hour later she was descending the grand staircase, eager to tour the house at her own pace, without him rushing her along, letting her see only what he wanted to show. This was her chance to pry.

The sun was bright that day, a cloudless sky stretching overhead, blue never ending, but inside the house it was cool, corners swathed in shadow. She stood a while in the hall, staring up at the large portraits of the previous earl and his wife. They grimly stared back, wondering, no doubt, why a mere dressmaker thought she had any right to observe them with such a searching perusal. Molly thought that if she was the countess, she would want to be painted with her husband, not separately. It would have made for a sweeter study. But from the look on the fourth earl’s face, he didn’t care much for sweet.

Feeling the chill of his stern regard, she eventually turned and walked out into the sunny day. Barely had she taken two steps across the gravel when a young foxhound ran by with a ball in its mouth, and the small whirlwind following it almost took her off her feet.

“Sorry, missus!” the boy shouted.

Instantly she recognized that bright freckled face and stopped him. “What are you doing here?” It was the boy pickpocket who used to run around the streets with his friends in London. The same boy who once impressed Carver with his knowledge of horses.

“I live ’ere, missus.” He didn’t seem to recognize her at first. “I’ve got to catch my pup.” So she let him go and watched as he ran after the foxhound. A moment later she spied the gardener with his wheelbarrow, heading around a corner of the house. Molly quickened her pace to catch up with him and ask about the boy.

“That’s young Tom, Miss Robbins,” she was told. “He’s one of the boys his lordship took in to work with the horses. You’ll find there’s a lot of ’em about.”

She learned that Carver provided shelter on the estate for many transplanted boys from the streets of London and other towns nearby. They were all learning a trade. Not only that, but in some cases their younger siblings had also been brought to live on the estate grounds. Tom’s little sister, Susie, was in training with the housemaids. A small, wide-eyed girl, too shy to speak, she reminded Molly of herself.

The children were healthy and happy, well shod, eager, and clearly looked after by the staff under whom they worked. Over the next few days she met many of them, and talking to each one was like peeling back the magician’s curtains, behind which the true Carver Danforthe had kept his secrets. He rarely spoke to her of these tasks he’d taken on. He was a man who made light of good deeds, and praise in any form made him shrug and itch and fidget, as if he had a shirt full of stinging nettles.

But he could hide from her no longer behind his beastly guise.

“Does your sister know about all your work here with the children?” she would ask him later.

“Good Lord, no. Why would I want her sticking her oar in?” And when he smiled in that mischievous way, Molly knew he took great delight in doing all this without his sister’s knowledge. How he liked his secrets, his hidden treasures.

“I wish other people knew the truth about Carver Danforthe,” she said softly.

“Why? What do you mean? Who cares what they think?”

But she longed for others to know the real Carver and to value him as she did, not to dismiss him as just another entitled, dissolute rake. It hurt her heart to think that he was not appreciated for the good things he tried to do.

“What’s this?” he demanded sternly, standing over her and raising a finger to wipe a few droplets from her lashes. “Where is all this water coming from, young woman? It will not do. I won’t have it.”

She sniffed. “I’ll cry if I want to.”

“Indeed you will not.” He cupped her face in his hands and lifted it for a kiss. “It’s not in your contract.”

***

He strode out to the stables, ready to instruct the groom on finding a sidesaddle for Margaret. He knew there must be one that had belonged to his mother or his sister somewhere about the place. But his guest was there before him and chatting amiably in the cobbled yard with the young men who tended the stables. She must have been up with the lark. Her face was flushed with good color, and she did not appear in the least weary. Irrepressible youth, he mused.

When the grooms saw him and snapped to attention, she swiveled around excitedly. “There you are. I’ve been waiting.”

He should have reprimanded her for speaking to him that way before the grooms and stable lads, but in the next moment, he had something else to worry about. She held her skirts up with one arm and, using the aid of a mounting block, swung herself up onto one of the hunters. There she sat proudly astride the beast without a saddle but with the ease of an experienced rider.

“Have we no sidesaddle?” he muttered, quite certain he should not approve. His father certainly never would have, but then his father would have approved of absolutely nothing about Margaret Robbins, a stubborn, independent woman with rebellious ideas about life.

“I don’t need one of those,” she replied, gathering the reins in her gloved hands. “I’m a country girl, your lordship. We are made of stronger stuff. I’d much rather ride like this.”

And showing off an improper length of shapely leg above her riding boots, he thought churlishly. The grooms were doing their best not to notice, but one of the young stable lads had just dropped a hay fork on his foot, prongs first.

“Do hurry,” she exclaimed, turning her horse toward the gravel path that led from the stable yard. “You did say the estate is six hundred acres, and I’ll never see it all if we don’t start soon.”

Apparently she’d taken him literally when he said he would show her the estate, although he’d really intended to take her around only a few scenic spots. Trust Robbins to insist on seeing every detail.

A second hunter was saddled and ready for him, so he mounted with no further delay, deciding there would be time enough later to lecture her on the indecency of riding bareback and astride.

But as he caught up with her, he couldn’t resist teasing. “You were once so prim and prudish, Miss Robbins. Yet here you are displaying your legs in a most indecorous fashion. What has become of you?”

She turned her head to look at him. “You corrupted me, Danny.”

He very much doubted that. The naughty Miss Robbins was there all along, hiding in his wainscoting. But it was likely she didn’t know herself back then and was still discovering her own capabilities just as she helped him find his.

Carver took her around the fields that day. Harvest would soon be upon them, and the swaying wheat was high and golden. He showed her the orchards, where workers picked fruit and stacked baskets and boxes as high as themselves. He also took her to visit the cottages bordering the estate and introduced her to several tenants. If it was any other woman, he’d known he would never have let her greet his tenants, and she would very probably not have wanted to. But Margaret displayed a keen interest in everything they saw that day, and Carver took quiet pleasure in watching her talk easily to the farm laborers and their families. There was no uncomfortable condescension, for she saw herself as one of them, and they, after the first surprise, were happy to invite her into their homes.

Phipps rode out to meet them at the tithe cottages to discuss repairs recently undertaken, as well as those that were still required. Although Hobbs had reported to him regularly on the state of his tenants’ cottages, Carver had been content simply to throw money at the problem. Now he opened his mind to the idea of more substantial changes and developments, rather than hasty fixes.

“Let’s get new thatch on all the cottages and renovate,” said Carver. “Not just those that are damaged. An ounce of prevention is worth a ton of cure.”

Phipps looked pleased in a quiet, undemonstrative way. “Very good, my lord.”

The sun was high, the air warm and flowing with the fragrance of late summer, and riding with Margaret at his side, he felt a deep sense of pride in the estate. He showed her the places he’d played as a boy, including the ditch he fell in when learning to ride.

He told her for sympathy, but of course she laughed. And how he loved to see her laugh.

In the afternoon they stopped to let the horses drink from a brook and enjoy the shade of a willow. Carver took her inside the threshing barn, where dust beams danced in the air, gilded with gold from the sun’s rays that filtered through the old planks. Stacks of hay bales were stored there now, but very soon the barn would be filled with activity once the harvest was underway.

“The people seem pleased that you are here,” she said. “You should come more often and stay longer.”

“I should.” He was looking at her as the tiny speckles of light hovered and darted around her face. Ten days left. For the first time in his life, the clocks were moving too fast.

But how could he make her stay longer? They’d both agreed to that contract, and she wanted to go back to her work. He could not keep her from it—it wouldn’t be fair, knowing how she loved it and how successful she was. Besides, he did not like more permanent relationships. A man should be free to come and go, not let himself be pinned down. There were many other women out there, and devoting himself to only one would be a mistake. What would become of him then, if she fell ill and died or left him or didn’t love him as much as he loved her?

Suddenly he was frozen to the spot, his feet like lead in his boots.

Loved
her.
Did he?

Was it possible, after all these years of avoiding any tenderness of feeling, that he, Carver Danforthe, fifth Earl of Everscham, had fallen in love with his sister’s lady’s maid?
Former
lady’s maid. A woman of incredible talents. A woman who looked at him as if he was worth looking at, worth more than his bank account and his title. Worth caring for.

“Margaret.”

“Yes?”

How did one say these things? His sister would have plenty of advice, but she was not there. She was off gallivanting in the Norfolk countryside with her farmer.

He wanted to keep Margaret Robbins in his house and never let her out of his sight. It was a dangerous thought, an impossible, potentially ruinous need, and he must be rid of it at once for the sake of his own sanity.

“From now on you will ride sidesaddle like a proper lady,” he said, barely listening to his own voice, watching only the disturbed speckles of sunlight. “And have some modesty when mounting before the grooms.”

A very slight frown crossed her brow. “I told you I prefer to ride without a saddle.”

“It is not a matter for debate. I am the master here.”

Her gaze lowered to his feet.

“It is also for your safety when riding about the estate.” His own mother had died after a hunting accident, when she boldly took a blind leap over a hedge instead of passing through a gate. An example of an obstinate woman coming to harm because she insisted on doing things her way. He could not have anything happening to Margaret.

“Very well,” she replied, but the surly downward bend of her lips warned Carver that she would not pay heed to his warnings. The wild streak he’d recognized in her long ago was even more evident now that she’d come out of her shell. Bringing her out of London had also changed her demeanor, as if she felt more at home in the country. He had foolishly not considered that possibility when he brought her there. “Are there any other rules I must follow?” she demanded crossly.

“I’m glad you asked. Yes. Plenty.”

“I’m sure.” One eyebrow curved like a bow, ready to release an arrow. Possibly poison-tipped.

“The most important one is that you will do as I say. At all times.”

“And if I don’t?”

“If I catch you riding astride again, you’ll find out. Won’t you?”

She pursed her lips and folded her arms, very unladylike.

“Now smile, Margaret. That’s an order.”

“So I’m
your
servant again?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t, because he didn’t know what she was anymore.

Rather than smile, the hussy stuck out her tongue, deliberately antagonizing and taunting him into action. He took a step toward her, and she leapt around a beam, dodging his reach. Stripping off the burden of his riding coat, he followed his mischievous playmate in and out of the hay bales and around sturdy beams. She was laughing now and breathless, as was he. It was twenty years at least since he’d played a game like this, but suddenly he was a boy again with a lifetime ahead of him. No mistakes yet, no regrets. No sadness. Just the dizzy pursuit of a pretty woman whose hair had fallen loose down her back in glorious, tumbled mahogany waves that tempted his fingers.

She tripped over a hay bale, and he followed, landing heavily on her. She didn’t appear to mind as he tugged her skirts upward without ceremony.

“Oh, sir, don’t tear my gown,” she wheezed, panting.

With a low growl, he swept her warm hair aside and nipped the back of her neck gently in his teeth. “Be still then, and submit to your master’s desire, wench.” Already his hand crept up over her stocking tops and garters.

“Oh, sir, be gentle.”

“Why should I?” He stroked the curve of her bottom through her drawers, his mind filled with images of Margaret riding astride in that reckless fashion, showing her stockings off. “You must be punished for your defiance.”

“I’ll be good, sir. From now on.”

“Yes, you will.” He spanked her, not too hard.

“Ouch. You rotten bugger!” But he noted the lift of her hips and the little wriggle, deliberately taunting. The catch in her breath, and even the way she gripped the hay bale with her fingers, told Carver she was enjoying herself.

“Now, now, wench. That’s no way to address your lord and master.” A second spank followed, and then he laid his hand over her bottom, fingers splayed, demonstrating ownership. “Promise me you will not show your legs again to any other man.”