Chapter 4
Chapter Four
H e’d found her. Found the sidhe who appeared and disappeared as it pleased her. This pleased him , having her alone in his study, only firelight between them. Yes, she would do nicely for the job he intended to offer her. If he must pretend to be married, why not to a woman like this, one who stood tall before him with courage in the set of her chin. More likely for Mr. Barlow to believe the ruse. Because a man like Rowan would marry a woman like her.
“Pardon me?” Her fairy features collapsed, those golden brows winging toward one another and her pink lips puckering. “Mrs. Trent! What exactly do you mean by that?”
Demanding. Confident. Curt. Perfect.
Except for the tiny detail of her current disdain.
An explanation would fix that.
“I would offer you a chair,” he said, “but I have only the one at the desk. Will you join me closer to the fire?”
She moved closer. Then bounced away. “No!”
“Please. Let me explain.”
She approached the flames carefully, gaze boring holes into him. Made his scar itch. He clenched his hand into a fist to keep it from reaching up and ruffling his hair until it fell over the semicircle. Better she didn’t have to look at it. He’d ask Coxley to style his hair differently when they traveled as man and wife to visit Mr. Barlow and win Rowan’s inn.
She wasn’t a maid. He had no Sarah Crewe in his notebook. Not one of his twenty. But she wore the distinctive green and white uniform all the Hestia maids wore. Beneath the brim of her lacy cap, her hair caught the glint of the dying flames in the grate, spun shadows to gold. Small. Delicate. The impishness he’d seen in her face before now hardened into rage. If she feared him, she did not show it. Her tipped-up chin dared the world, dared him, to underestimate her.
Yes, perfect. “There is a new position within my hotel that needs filling, and I would like you to fill it.”
“I’m a maid.”
“No, you’re not. I did not hire you. You do not receive pay from me. But you can.”
“I don’t need money.” She flinched. She’d not meant to say that.
“Very well. But you need something. Or you would not return here week after week. What is it you do need, Miss Crewe?”
“Nothing you can give me.”
“Brazen chit, aren’t you?”
She shrugged, as if being brazen were as common as breathing, barely worth a mention.
“But I know better than to believe you. Now, let us talk details.”
“Thank heavens. I begin to tire of the dark.”
“I prefer darkness.”
“And vagueness.”
“Will you let me speak?”
She spread her hands wide. “By all means. You’re the one who detoured from the primary subject of discourse.” How old was she? Surely no more than one and twenty. Rosy cheeks and diamond eyes. Blue. But they sparked. They could cut, too, he had no doubt.
“What will you do”—he tilted his head to one side—“if I banish you from Hestia?”
“I would prefer not to be banished. But I will survive.” Beneath the high, ill-fitting bodice of her Hestia gown, her small bosom rose and fell. Irritated?
“I control something you want, then. Excellent.”
Rage vibrated in every line of her body. “And what will you do with this power?”
“I already told you. Make you Mrs. Trent. Do not worry. It is only pretend, and I will pay you well. Or if you truly have no need of money, I will give you freedom to roam Hestia as you please. As long as you do no harm to my guests, my staff, or my hotel.”
“You want me to pretend to be your wife? Why?” Her eyes wide, her lips razor thin, her cheeks roses of rage. Bloody magnificent.
“I do not wish for a wife, but it seems I need one to expand Hestia beyond London’s borders. Tomorrow, I travel to Stevenage to convince the current owner of an inn there to sell. To me. He’s a family man and will not sell to a bachelor. Meet me here at half past one, pretend to be my wife all the way to Stevenage and back. Then”—he leaned against the mantel, crossing his arms over his chest—“you may do as you please at Hestia. By the way… what is it you do here? Besides the others maids’ unwanted tasks?”
She regarded him for a silent second, then stood, her shoulders pressed back. “Well. This is certainly an easy inquiry to answer.” She made her way with clipped steps toward the door. “No, thank you, Mr. Trent. There are other hotels. It’s just a building, after all.” She reached for the door.
“A building? Is that what you think Hestia is?” His blood boiled, but he doused it with ice. “Brick and mortar?”
“What else is it? And what else are you but a devil attempting to seduce a young woman to ruination?”
“True on only one count, little mouse. I am a devil, but I have no desire to seduce. Wrong, as well about this building . Hestia is a fire when it’s cold and a soft mattress when you are tired. It is a bustling family when you are sick of solitude and an escape when you need one. Hestia is a home, and I will excise any rodent who dare make it otherwise.”
“Rodent!” For a moment, her entire right side flinched, as if she might storm across the room and slap him, but she trained her arm to her side and glued her feet to the floor.
There were other maids. He didn’t need this one. Scurrying about as if she owned these halls, doing only Lucifer truly knew what. But he found himself saying, “If you deny me this request, you are banished. You shall never find whatever it is you seek at Hestia. I’ll post my most-muscled footmen at every entrance simply to keep you out.”
“I will discover another means of achieving my ends.” She pressed her back against the door. “Good day, Mr. Trent.” She sank into a curtsy dripping with ire, with mockery. Not one of the small bobs his maids gave, but the sort of elegant sweep ladies gave the Queen when presented at court.
Bloody hell.
A lady. She had to be. At the very least educated as such. A poor relation of some minor peer. Her voice gave her away as well. He should have known as soon as she’d said her first word, but he’d been too distracted by looking at her, by her honied voice pouring across his skin.
There were other maids. Actual maids, eager for an extra pound in her pocket for easy enough work.
He didn’t want them.
She turned to open the door, but he crossed the room and slammed his palm into it before she could budge it an inch. She gasped, froze. He had her pinned—her body between his and the door, his hand braced against the frame above her head. Her shoulders pulled almost into her ears. Uncomfortable? Afraid? Good. He needed something from her, as she did from him. She wanted Hestia. He wanted her.
No. He wanted the Stevenage inn.
“Little mouse,” he said, keeping his voice low, “perhaps we can discuss this further.”
“I am not a mouse.”
No. Not at all. “But perhaps you can be my wife. Pretend to be. Not a difficult job. A few hours of time, then Hestia is yours. You can make a little mouse hole and poke about as much as your heart desires.”
She whipped around as if moved by a strong and sudden gale. Just as quickly, she shoved him away, her hands branding his chest where they pushed. He staggered backward, toward the fire, and she paced toward him.
“Do you often abuse the maids who work here, you villain? Promise them marriage, then leave them lost and alone, without a position and—”
“No. Of course not.” He steadied himself against the fireplace mantel.
Her face contorted. “I’ll not warm your bed.”
“I’m not asking you to.” But God, now images flashed like lurid sketches from the most erotic books across his mind. That gown gone, those legs spread. For him. Her hair unbound and wild. On his pillow. He slammed his eyes closed. He’d been wrong. This would never work. She was not right for this job at all. “Leave.”
“Gladly.” She stepped away, and the loss of her heat made his knees weak, his heart stutter a silent wail. Her curt footsteps across the room told him she cared not at all, felt not a fraction of what boiled through him.
The door creaked open, then snapped closed, shutting him in the lonely dark once more. He’d find another maid. Miss Sarah Crewe would never do. She was the brightest of lights, and he was allergic to the sun.
Isabella screamed, though she didn’t make a sound. As she followed Mrs. Smith into the dark stairway, the scream she could not let loose echoed off her ribs, her skull, her heart. To think, she’d stood before the hotel owner composed, as if she didn’t care one way or another that he could control her, could strip from her that which she needed.
Banished from Hestia.
Banished .
She gripped the wall to keep from wobbling, each step down dragging heavier than the one before.
True, there were other hotels, other ways to listen and gather information like precious jewels. But this one avenue would never offer up its riches again. Its hallways would offer nothing but secrets from this day forward.
All because she’d refused to do that devil’s bidding. Pretend to be his wife? Impossible, even for a day. And it was not simply the scandal that would ensue if she were caught. It was him . Too big, too menacing, too powerful, but worst of all, too rousing. She did not even like dark-haired men, had never given them a second glance. She liked golden-haired princes with lovely manners and… and… Well, she had never found any of that sort rousing, especially not to the point of worry.
No, she could not possibly do as he’d asked, which meant she must sacrifice the Hestia. And that, well, it felt like stepping into the darkness of the unknown.