Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Where Light is Shed on a Misunderstanding
She couldn’t sleep.
A thunderstorm had rolled in after sunset, snow turning to rain that pelted the windowpanes in steady, disturbing thumps.
Franny had never liked storms. That night in Gerald’s parlor, a downpour had hammered the sparkling new shingles of his home.
A deluge that washed down her face as she stumbled from the house and into a waiting conveyance.
She didn’t often conjure that incident, or tried not to, but when it rained like this, she couldn’t help herself.
Clutching her portfolio to her chest, she searched for the library Mrs. Walker had shown her, a space that wasn’t in quite as dismal a state as most of Rose Hill.
Although in need of loving care, she was enchanted by the estate.
Absolutely enchanted. Turrets and moats, portraits a hundred years old, room after room, stories this place would tell.
Humming softly, she turned down a corridor, her footpads muted on the runner, then came to a swift halt.
Candlelight spilled like mist from an open door.
With a tightly drawn breath, she advanced. Despite the risk. There was likely only one person still awake .
But Franny could be honest with herself if no one else.
She was attracted to Lord Remington.
And had been from the moment she’d seen him crouched before that escritoire. The way he’d studied her over the breakfast table this morning, his eyes near the color of the vast sea she’d crossed to get to him, suggested he felt something as well, however slight.
However for men, attraction was rarely significant.
For women, it could be deadly.
She should know.
Franny paused in the doorway. It wasn’t the library but rather a deserted chamber the viscount appeared to be using as his workshop.
There were tools scattered atop a length of stained linen being used to protect the floors.
Aged planks she wasn’t sure needed protecting.
Remington was on his haunches beside a partially constructed desk, working sandpaper over a rounded wooden block in his hand.
Of most interest to her were the sketches he’d crudely tacked to the walls.
Paintings had been removed to allow for this, dull squares stamped over faded wallpaper.
Knowing no way to make a delicate entrance, she wandered inside, crossing to the drawings.
They were unrefined but workable diagrams, mostly of desks in some version of creation.
She’d begun to see pieces scattered about the house that she assumed were his.
The style bold and unmistakable, lodged somewhere between elegant and contemporary.
For a moment, the sound of the rain striking the windowpanes was the only sound flowing between them.
“Miss Shaw,” Remington said after a charged pause, his voice wavering slightly. It was then she noted the brandy bottle by his hip, the half-empty glass beside it. “You’ve found me. What a surprise.”
She turned from her study of his schematics, unclear what he’d meant by the statement.
Unclear about the heat behind his words.
Gone was the profligate he presented to society.
This man was a simmering cauldron, the ruthlessness he tried to hide shimmering like firelight around him.
Perhaps he found it easier to sell the simpler version of himself.
She did that every day.
He gave the wood in his hand, what looked to be a table leg, a vigorous buff.
“You’ve made changes during your short time in residence.
Managing this house less like a governess and more like a woman who has managed her own.
Decorations on the banisters and hearths.
The parlors open to light, drapes beaten of dust, the scent of decay vanquished.
You’re friendly with the servants even.”
“You mean I actually talk to them. I ask their names and about their families. You should try it. Everyone wants to be valued in this way.”
“I wasn’t raised to converse with domestics. Including governesses.”
Franny settled back against the wall, clutching the portfolio to her chest. “You’re angry with me.”
Katherine was sleeping like a child who’d had a wonderful day. They’d decorated the house, brightening up what was a dismal residence. Had she done something untoward with the girl? Was it interrupting his meeting with the woman who was rumored to be his mistress?
She didn’t want to contemplate the fury that had sizzled through her when Lady Chapman-Holmes’s lips grazed his cheek. The seductive smile on her face speaking of ownership.
She’d wanted to do a very uncouth thing and sock the woman in her patrician nose.
Franny’s desire to sketch the man was overruling common sense. And what little breeding she had.
Remington went to his knee to steady himself and, placing the wood aside, lifted the glass to his lips.
“When you create a hinge for a gate leg, you have to round the teeth’s edges so the hinge swings freely.
But not too freely. You bullnose the corners.
It’s a negotiation with the wood.” He sipped, his gaze finding hers across the distance.
“Like life, a negotiation between what one wants and what one gets .”
She drew a delicate breath, helplessly drinking him in.
Competing shafts of light fought for his attention.
The wall sconce above battling the candle at his side.
His jaw was stubbled in grain so dark he looked like a pirate.
His overlong hair tickled the crisp fold of his collar.
His shirttail hit his hip; tattered trousers covered his long legs.
Working clothes. Nothing he’d wear in the city.
The muscles in his shoulders flexed as he stared at her staring at him, controlled displeasure.
“What have I done?” she finally asked, fine to be the one who buckled. Women were used to removing pride from the equation.
The viscount released a bitter huff, setting the glass to the floor with a clink. “You look at me like I’m cream, and you’re a starving cat when you’re engaged to Hillsdale? I begin to feel sorry for a reprehensible bloke I don’t like .”
Franny’s exhalation left her lungs in a rush. So that was it. “I’m not engaged,” she whispered. “The agreements are not signed.”
“Are you sure about that, Miss Shaw?”
“I have to agree,” she said, temper sparking her words. “I’m not engaged.”
“You’re also not a governess.”
She swallowed, desperately wishing for a sip of brandy. “For the next two weeks, I am.”
“Perhaps,” he murmured and refilled his glass. Then he gazed at her through the curtain of inky hair falling across his brow.
Scooting the glass toward her, he nodded. Have some.
She wasn’t going to deny the offer. Perhaps an English woman would, but an American one would not.
“Why did you do it?” Remington asked as she stepped closer, placing her portfolio on the floor and reaching for the glass.
She had to go to her knees, putting them on equal, intimate footing.
His scent, leather and something peppery, crept in to tease her senses.
As if she needed more to snag her awareness.
“To secure a destitute viscount? Couple notches higher than a baron, true. Although deception isn’t typically the Duchess Society’s style.
Isn’t Hildy’s style, I should say. I’ve known her since we were in leading strings. ”
Franny was taking a sip when he made his claim.
She coughed and scrubbed her wrist across her lips, the liquor burning a path down her throat.
“Is that what you think? Hildegard Streeter had nothing to do with this. She was against the idea. Believe me.” Franny would never forgive herself should her bit of whimsy damage his relationship with his friend.
“I was there, in the corner of the room when you burst in. I volunteered for this.”
He rocked back on his heels, giving her a thoroughly carnal review.
She was dressed informally as well. Too informally.
A sleeping gown covering every inch of her, but without the undergarments in place to contain her generous curves.
Her hair braided and hanging over one shoulder, stray strands she could never control dusting her brow and cheek.
She looked a fright, she was sure.
He lifted the bottle to his lips, his gaze inscrutable. “Not possible. I would have noticed you.”
“We’ve attended at least two of the same events in the past six months. Maybe three. Occupied the same parlor four days ago, and you had no idea I was there. I can prove it. Mrs. Streeter, she called you Chance.”
He scowled, the arrogant cur not liking to lose even so much as a silly argument.
“You must have been hiding. I would have seen you.” He dragged the bottle across his bottom lip.
Her belly clenched, a perilous signal to her growing attraction.
Oh , he was beautiful in the light. “The enchantress has teeth, I see.” With a wicked expression she couldn’t decipher, he snatched her portfolio from the floor, untied the leather bind, and began flipping through the sheets. As if he had the right to.
“I saw you once before, at the earl’s musicale,” Franny blurted, breathless and panicked, aroused and bewildered.
When he saw her sketches, the jig was up.
“You were running your hand over an escritoire. I was on the veranda. I noticed you through the window. I wanted to sketch you, that’s why I told Hildy I would come.
Truthfully, I forced her hand.” He continued to flip through the sheets, blinking rapidly, engrossed, while she babbled.