Read What a Lady Demands Online
Authors: Ashlyn Macnamara,Ashlyn Macnamara
What a Lady Demands
What a Lady Demands
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept eBook Original
Copyright © 2014 by Ashlyn Macnamara
Excerpt from
What a Lady Requires
by Ashlyn Macnamara copyright © 2014 by Ashlyn Macnamara
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
L
OVESWEPT
is a registered trademark and the L
OVESWEPT
colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book
What a Lady Requires
by Ashlyn Macnamara. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eBook ISBN 9780553393767
Cover design: Seductive Designs
Cover photographs: © iStock/Brainsil; © Depositphotos/Halina Przeszzlo
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C
ORNWALL, 1813, BEFORE ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE
At the tender age of fifteen, Cecelia Sanford knew she was too young to be observing a nearly naked man. Especially when said man was nine years her senior and a close friend of her brother’s. Most especially when said man was Richard Blakewell, Viscount Lindenhurst.
The sight of him clothed caused an odd heaviness to settle in the pit of her belly. Clad in almost nothing but golden skin set aglow by the rays of the rising sun…The heaviness turned hot and liquid. It made her blood simmer and her own garments constrict about her body.
As she watched, he kicked free of his trousers. Her mouth went dry. Muscles rippled along his back and buttocks, perfectly proportioned like the statuary she’d seen once in London. Only, those statues were cold and dead. Marble fig leaves covered their most interesting parts.
Not Lind, as her brother referred to him. Lind was now gloriously naked. If only he’d turn a bit more and reveal the final mystery.
Except then he might catch her spying on his early morning swim, and that wouldn’t do at all. Like the rest of the household, which was sleeping away the effects of a late night, she was supposed to be in her bed. But footsteps in the corridor had awakened her—booted feet and not the furtive padding of the servants.
His
feet, as she’d seen the moment she stuck her nose outside her bedchamber door. She couldn’t help but wonder why he was abroad so early, and so she’d dressed hastily and trailed him to the pond.
He splashed into the water before she could catch a glimpse of anything better. She ought to go back to the house before he noticed he wasn’t alone, but something about him drew her. Something more than his dark good looks, vivid green eyes, and that odd half-smile that tugged at his lips when he deigned to give it. Something more than even the sight of his perfectly sculpted back and rounded hindquarters that caused her palms to itch with the desire to squeeze. Something more than the brief view of the dark hair scattered across his chest—so masculine. So adult. He possessed a fascinating darkness that called to her to plumb its depths, and an air of forbidden danger blanketed him.
Oh, no. She most definitely should not be here, but she could not uproot herself and turn back. In fact, if a particular direction compelled her feet to dislodge themselves from the stony path, it was forward. Toward the pond.
Toward Lind, who now knifed through the frigid water.
If someone should come across her, she’d be ruined before she was even old enough to mingle in polite society. Part of her wanted to be ruined. And that wicked side of herself wanted Lind to be the author of her ruination. Lind and no other.
He stood, the water now waist high, eyes closed, face raised to the sun. With both hands, he pushed back the hair plastered against his head. Biceps flexed on a pair of arms worthy of a Greek statue. Droplets slipped across flawless skin. Her fingers tingled at the thought of replacing those drops, tracing the path downward, and somewhere deep inside, an aching throb began a merciless beat.
More than anything, she burned to know where that liquid, vital awareness led. She needed the knowledge like she needed air. And like the proverbial curious cat, that urge eventually led her into trouble.
Because the next man who piqued her curiosity was clearly not a gentleman.
C
ORNWALL, LATE SUMMER OF 1821
Cecelia Sanford was never more grateful for her ability to look someone straight in the eye and lie than when Viscount Lindenhurst asked for her character references.
“Naturally, I can provide you with a few names.” Smooth as silk and just as cool, the words glided past her lips. Apparent nonchalance. That was the key. If she gave off an air of not caring, he might well pick up on it and let the matter slide.
From across the expanse of his polished desk, he arched a single dark brow. His jade-green eyes glittered. “Indeed? That would imply you’ve found previous employment as a governess.”
“I never said that.” She gave a small titter. The perfect touch. Not that she wanted him to think of her as a silly chit when she was applying to become his son’s new governess, but she must maintain her air of assurance. “You asked me to provide the names of persons who might attest to my good character, and I can do so.”
“And I trust they’re impeccable.”
Drat him, could he drop the suspicion? She had expected to have an easy go of obtaining this position.
“Surely you would accept my brother’s word, if you cannot rely on my own personal reputation.” The viscount knew her family, after all. He’d attended school with Alexander. As boys, the pair had been as close as if they were themselves related.
Lindenhurst leaned back in his massive leather chair, tapping his forefingers together. “And how might your brother vouch for you when he’s just returned to England after an eight-year absence?”
“A perfectly fair question.” One that she ought to have anticipated, dash it all. “But certainly you can rely on our past acquaintance.” As little as there had been with nine years separating them in age.
“And what of your own reputation?”
She did not even blink. She really ought to take umbrage at the question, but already this interview was not progressing as expected. “Perfectly spotless.”
Again, that eyebrow. He might as well have asked her straight out if she was telling the truth. “If that is the case, how is it you are still unmarried?”
Right. And if she didn’t take charge of this conversation, she’d never get this position. “I am hardly on the shelf, my lord.”
“How old are you?”
“Three and twenty.” She held her hands folded neatly in her lap, the very picture of a demure young miss. She hoped.
“Precisely and of good family.”
Tap, tap, tap.
The ends of his fingers met in a precise rhythm that all but echoed his skepticism. “An unmarried girl your age does not seek out a position of this nature without good reason, and I can only imagine one possibility, which hardly commends you to this situation.”
“And pray, what is that?” She was not about to put up with his hinting. If he found her unacceptable, let him come straight out and say so.
“You have done something to fall out of your family’s good graces, or they would keep you at home.” He all but added
where you belong,
blast him. “Now, why don’t you tell me the exact nature of the matter? I should like to know what drives such a young lady as you—accomplished, passably lovely, of good enough family—to leave home and seek employment that is a small step up from service.”
At
passably lovely,
her dratted heart gave a thump. She reminded herself she was no longer fifteen and infatuated with a handsome older man. In the intervening years, she’d acquired far too much experience with the opposite sex to succumb to such a juvenile emotion as a
tendre.
She’d never again be that girl.
“It seems I have no prospects, my lord. You must know the circumstances under which my brother returned from India were less than favorable. He’d hoped to restore our family’s fortune. Instead, I find myself with no dowry. I prefer not to remain a burden. Thus I seek employment.” She sought the place where the young girl she’d once been resided and widened her eyes as far as they could go. The more innocent she could make herself appear, the better. “I had hoped, since you are already acquainted with my family, you might not make matters difficult for me.”
He stood, planted his palms on the dark walnut hulk that passed for his desk, and leaned over. “If there is anything I require of my associates, much less those in my employment, it’s God’s honest truth. Enough have lied to me during my life that I will not stand for it.”
“Yes, my lord.” She tightened her grip on her hands. Normally when she talked, they tended to flutter like little birds following the rhythm of her speech, but this occasion seemed a good time to curb that particular habit. She must appear serious, dutiful, and hardworking if she wished to carry this off. “When you say
enough,
do you mean to imply that my brother is one of those people?”
“So far, he is not, but perhaps that’s because he’s spent so much time on the other side of the world. But that is of no import here. I require three things from my staff—unquestioning obedience, staunch loyalty, and impeccable morals. Do I make myself clear?”
She had to swallow before she could reply. “Yes, my lord.”
She could do this, though. Whenever scandal came looking, she’d ducked out of its path. After so many years of practice, the charade would maintain itself, and he need never find out her secret. Indeed, why would he have occasion to? An image, nearly a decade old, rose in her mind. Once again, Lind emerged from the pond, water droplets clinging to his chest, dripping along smooth skin, down and down. She suppressed the thought. So she’d nursed an infatuation for a while when she was young and innocent. He’d never discovered that little secret, and there was no reason he ought to learn of it now.
“Does that mean you’ll hire me?” she added.
“Shouldn’t you like to meet your charge first to see if the two of you suit? I’ve had the worst luck finding and keeping a qualified governess.”
“Oh, that is the least of my worries. I got on well enough with my brother’s daughters.” That was, as long as she wasn’t leading them straight into the arms of kidnappers. “Surely I can occupy the days of a small boy well enough.”
Well enough to ensure her position here. Well enough to ensure her room and board. Her upkeep. Her life. For she could not go back to her brother after what she’d done. She refused to endure his censure any longer, even if the abduction was not entirely her fault. He’d never warned her she needed to keep his girls close to the manor. In any case, the situation had ended happily enough.
“I require rather more than simple entertainment. The child is five. It is high time he began his proper schooling.”
Cecelia smoothed the worn muslin of her skirt. “I assure you, I ought to be able to teach him his letters and how to write his name.”
“I expect more than that. He must learn to read, and write with a proper hand, and do his figures.” He looked past her for a moment. “I don’t suppose you know the rudiments of Latin.”
“I am not aware of any who deem that an appropriate feminine accomplishment.” She stopped herself before she suggested he look for a qualified tutor.
“There will be time enough for that when he’s a bit older.” He faced her again. “Reading, writing, figures, a bit of history if you can manage. He’ll have to take over this estate one day.”
“Good heavens, you’ve just told me he’s all of five.”
Lindenhurst gave a curt nod. “Be that as it may, the others failed in carrying out my desires. I trust you will not?”
She swallowed past a knot that had formed and lodged in her throat when he’d uttered the word
desires.
“I’ll do my best, my lord.”
Lindenhurst eyed her until she felt he was stripping more than the very clothes from her body. His gaze pierced skin and bone clear through to her pounding heart. At last he pushed away from his desk to tug at a bellpull. “In that case, I shall turn you over to the housekeeper, and she will see to getting you settled in your quarters.”
Lind watched Cecelia glide out the door with his housekeeper. The girl didn’t so much walk as sway. Her hips swung from one side to the other, and her skirt moved in time, brushing at the hints of delectable curves beneath the faded muslin.
Cecelia bloody Sanford, all deep, sparkling black eyes, dark brown curls, and vivid smile. The last person he ever expected to land on his doorstep and beg an interview as his governess. He shouldn’t accept her for several reasons, the first and foremost among them, his supposed friendship with her brother. That alone ought to drive him to send her packing.
Lind, however, could hardly say where he stood with her brother these days. Not after everything that had happened. Not after the stilted conversation in his carriage in that damnable village back in June, the one where he nearly let on about his plans for Battencliffe. If he was at all perceptive, Sanford would have surmised something had gone patently wrong between his two old schoolmates. Perhaps he was curious enough to send his sister to fill a position and find out what she could.
Which brought him back to Cecelia and the matter of her lying. Not that he knew for certain she was, but she was definitely hiding something. Perhaps it was simply her brother’s instigation behind her presence in his home, but perhaps it was more than that.
He leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on his desk. Since his return from the war, circumstances had put him at distinct odds with so-called polite society, enough that he ignored the doings of the
ton
as much as possible.
But, damn it all, a girl like Cecelia ought to have married long since. She drew attention to herself with her throaty laugh and hands she could never keep still. She draped herself in a certain air, one that proclaimed she loved life for the pleasures it brought her, one that attracted gentlemen’s attention. She’d certainly managed to reach out and capture his notice the instant she waltzed into his study.
He may have recalled hearing of her engagement to someone or other once upon a time, but that match clearly had not come to pass if she’d turned up on his doorstep begging employment.
What if she was hiding something to do with her brother? Or better yet, Battencliffe. That would be fortuitous beyond his expectations. He could allow her stay on for now, and let the boy determine whether she actually kept her position. His refusal to progress had managed to run an entire succession of governesses off when they couldn’t satisfy Lind’s demands.
And since that situation was well enough in hand for now, he could concentrate on more important matters. Ignoring the twinge that shot down his left thigh as he stretched, he reached for the bellpull to summon his secretary. Before long, the older man, thin and balding, a pair of wire spectacles hovering at the top of a prominent nose, appeared on the threshold.
“It is past time for your report,” Lind said without preamble. “Have there been any new developments with Battencliffe?”
Archibald Boff’s face remained immutable as ever. Whether he was sad or angry or elated, one could never tell from looking at the man. He always wore the same expression of mild discomfort. “Nothing particularly new, no. My sources say he has sought credit from at least three less-than-reputable sources, but they all refused him. And a few more of his creditors have demanded payment.”
Lind allowed the smile he’d denied himself all week. The pieces were finally falling into place. “Excellent. See if you can convince some of the others to call for reimbursement.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And what do you know of Sanford?”
“Battencliffe still refuses to see him.”
“Even better.” A relief, really, given Cecelia’s presence in his house.
As long as Alexander kept his nose out of the situation, Battencliffe was done for. He’d find himself in debtor’s prison before the year was out, where he’d hopefully remain until he died. God willing, the process would be slow and painful. The bastard deserved no less. But making certain those two remained apart might still require an extra bit of insurance. “Extend an invitation to Mr. Alexander Sanford. For dinner.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And make sure Battencliffe gets wind of the meeting.”
Boff raised a pair of brows, the color as nondescript as the rest of him. “My lord?”
“If Battencliffe believes Sanford and I have renewed our friendship, he will never turn to Sanford for help.”
“I was under the impression Sanford had financial difficulties of his own and thus could not help.”
“He does.” At least according to his sister; but then, Cecelia had been playing fast and loose with the truth. Sanford’s debts couldn’t be too deep—after all, he’d scraped together enough blunt to support a wife. Sanford’s recent marriage was another oddity. He’d somehow renewed his relationship with his former betrothed and convinced the girl to wed him despite the fact that he’d thrown her over for another woman.
“Yes, my lord. Shall I include his wife in the invitation?”
“Yes, do.” Although that would mean finding a lady to fill out the places at the table, and Mrs. Sanford would require companionship after dinner while he and Alexander discussed trivialities over port. In their case, those trivialities would no doubt be confined to memories of their youth, unless Alexander wanted to expound on his experiences in India. God only knew, Lind couldn’t tell Sanford about his more recent troubles, not given Sanford’s annoying propensity to uphold the most honorable path wherever possible.
On the other hand, Cecelia must know the woman. Perhaps having Sanford’s sister about the place would not be such an inconvenience, after all.
Cecelia followed Lindenhurst’s housekeeper up two flights of stairs to the top floor, passing sitting rooms, parlors, bedchambers, all decorated with the same heavy touch. Deep, masculine colors dominated this house—blood-reds, hunter greens, midnight blues set off darkly finished oak and walnut. How utterly gloomy.
On the threshold to the governess’s chamber, Mrs. Carstairs looked her up and down. “And how long will you last, I wonder?”
Cecelia paused in the middle of the tiny space under the eaves. Thank heavens the walls bore nothing more than a coat of whitewash, rather than the heavy colors of the more formal rooms.
