Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Ten minutes later, I stand outside the study in the east wing, my palms slick with sweat.
My pulse pounds so hard that its reverberations reach my clit.
Loneliness has my mind conjuring up a dozen different scenarios: the handsome widower professing his devotion, inviting me to sit on his lap or ordering me to bend over for his pleasure.
Lord knows it’s been an eternity since I’ve had a man’s touch. Sometimes, I hate myself for leading with my libido. But sexuality has kept me alive these past years. It’s probably too late for me to change.
In a second, my pussy will become slick and urge me to flirt with Mr. Rochester. Shame washes through my veins like acid. Why does my body choose now to wake up?
Clenching hard, I force myself to breathe. This is just a meeting. Nothing more. Or an update on the little girl’s typhus fever.
The thirsty bitch inside me keeps circling the timing of Mr. Rochester’s summons. It was right after that handwritten note, telling me to wave back. Now I’m picturing him as the man from the lawn. The one who haunts my dreams, panting and thrusting, hidden behind that mask.
Shit. I really need to get laid. Or find something brutal enough to silence the relentless need.
Movement from behind the door snaps me out of those thoughts. I roll my shoulders, raise a hand and knock.
“Come in.”
His voice hits low and deep, and my thighs clamp like they’re trying to trap the sound.
Suppressing a sigh, I step into a wood-paneled study lined with leather-bound books.
A huge mahogany desk sits in the center, stacked with writing materials.
An old fountain pen lies atop it, still dipped in ink.
But the high-backed chair behind it is empty.
I step inside, wiping my palms on the skirt of my dress.
“Hello?” My voice echoes through the elegant space.
Silence. It’s the kind that makes me shudder.
I turn, my gaze sweeping the room until I spot an alcove between two bookshelves I hadn’t noticed from the door.
Seated behind a smaller desk tucked in shadow is Mr. Rochester. He doesn’t look up, just continues writing with an old fountain pen. His dark hair catches the lamplight, accentuating the sharp line of his jaw. The muscles work beneath his skin as he concentrates.
Lamplight brings out the mahogany in his black hair, casting a bronze glow across his brow. It frames cheekbones sharp as blades and a jaw cut from stone. Rugged and brooding, he bends to his writing, lips pressed tight. I sigh. How can one man be so devastatingly beautiful?
I wait for him to look up. To acknowledge my presence. But he gestures toward a small wooden stool in front of his desk without lifting his eyes from his document.
“Sit.”
My stomach dips, and I swallow back a surge of disappointment. Was I expecting him to gaze up at me and say something roguish? Maybe. I walk toward the stool, letting my heels click against the hardwood floor.
Most men would look up at this point to check out my footwear. Or at least glance up to see what’s making the sound. Mr. Rochester acts as if he’s immune to feminine company.
I settle onto the stool, which puts me slightly below his eye level. It’s a power move, but I play along. The fabric of my dress pulls tight across my lap as I sit, exposing my thighs. One glance at Mr. Rochester tells me he’s either completely disinterested or drawing out the tension.
Irritation has my jaw clenching. If he wanted me on my knees, he could have just said the word. And maybe that’s what I find most frightening. Clearing my throat, I adjust my neckline, pull back my shoulders, and arrange my legs to their best advantage.
But he keeps writing.
Silence stretches, along with my last nerves.
He remains so preoccupied with his work that my skin prickles.
I fidget on the uncomfortable seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs.
My molars grind. If he was so busy, why did he summon me to his office?
Was it because I chased after that groundskeeper?
Or snooped around the cottage? Or ventured back to the cliff?
It can’t be because I tried talking to that little girl. He would have said something earlier.
“Mr. Rochester—”
“One moment,” he says.
I force back a huff, hating myself for speaking first. This time, I wait as if I don’t give a damn. The man sitting in front of me is completely different from the one who told me to make myself at home.
Minutes pass, and I clench my fists to stop my fingers from drumming with impatience. Finally, without looking up, he speaks.
“Are you settling in well?” His voice is completely detached. Like he’s asking about the weather. “How are you finding your new position?”
I lean forward, letting my voice drop to my bedroom register. “It’s lovely, though I have to admit, I’ve been feeling a bit isolated.”
“Mmm.” He makes a note in the margin of whatever he’s writing.
“Mrs. Fairfax mentioned there were only two of us working in the estate. But I saw a man—”
“How long have you been here? Two weeks?” he asks.
“Three,” I reply, hoping he isn’t about to say I’m no longer needed. Anxiety flutters in my gut as I imagine what might happen if he decides he no longer wants a nanny. In my most playful voice, I ask, “Edward, is this the part where you decide if I’m worth keeping around?”
He sets down his pen and finally meets my gaze. Those dark eyes sweep over my face with a cold, clinical assessment. A chill skitters down my spine as I wait for his reply.
“You were hired for the child, not for me.”
The words hit like a slap. My confidence, already shaky, takes a nosedive. So much for breaking the ice with flirty humor.
I pivot to safer ground. “When do I meet Adele? Is she getting better?”
Mr. Rochester folds his hands, studying me like I’m a specimen under glass. “These things take time.”
“I see her at the window,” I say, fishing for information. “But she never waves back. Does she know I’m here for her?”
“Difficult to say.” His tone is thoughtful, almost philosophical. Like we’re discussing the meaning of life instead of his sick child.
I push harder. “Has she been seen by a doctor? I mean, isn’t typhus fever serious? It’s been nearly a month, and—”
“Mrs. Fairfax takes care of her needs.” The dismissal in his voice is absolute.
Silence falls between us like a curtain, broken by the thud of my heartbeat, and the distant tick of a grandfather clock. I would ask why he brought me here when he knew the girl was sick, but if he orders me to leave, I’m beyond screwed.
Still, something about this situation is fishy. Nobody hires a nanny for a child too sick and contagious for company. And I’ve seen no sign of a doctor, let alone medicine.
Mr. Rochester’s gaze drifts down, quick as a snake strike, to my cleavage. It’s not salacious, just another cool, clinical observation, like he’s cataloging my assets.
Breath hitching, I sit straighter, unable to tell if this is a good or bad sign.
He rises from his seat. “Thank you. That will be all.”
My stomach dips. Wait. That’s it? I rock forward in my seat. “What about the other staff? Who was that man? And where does Mrs. Fairfax go during the day? I haven’t seen her around since—”
“Miss Burlington.” His voice cuts through my questions like a blade. “You are dismissed.”
The words sting more than they should. Since leaving home, I’ve had all kinds of shitty encounters with men: I’ve been ghosted, dumped, coerced into murder. But never ordered out like a servant.
Mr. Rochester stares down at me, those austere features hawkish and impatient.
He doesn’t need to tell me twice.
I rise off the stool on unsteady legs, smooth down my skirt, and meet his cold gaze before walking toward the door.
It had been stupid of me to hope he wanted companionship.
Men like Mr. Rochester aren’t interested in the help.
Even if they were, it wouldn’t last longer than the time it takes for the cum to cool.
As I leave, he calls out, “Miss Burlington, one more thing.”
I turn back, hope fluttering in my chest like a trapped bird.
“Address me as Mr. Rochester or Sir. We are not familiar.”
The last of my hope dies a quick, ugly death. “Of course. Mr. Rochester.”
I leave the study with whatever dignity I have left, but the house feels colder. Darker. The hallways seem longer, the shadows deeper. Every portrait on the walls seems to be judging me for thinking I had a chance of impressing the master of the house.
By the time I reach the second floor, I’m questioning why the hell he even summoned me to his study. And did I imagine that moment when his gaze lingered on my breasts? I’m probably so desperate for male attention that I’m mistaking indifference for interest.
A plate of food waits on the floor outside my room.
I pick it up, lift the metal dome to find two slices of bread, a slab of meat, a pickle, and a blob of pale butter.
No cutlery. No tray. No note. Mrs. Fairfax’s meals have become progressively more basic.
It’s like I’m a prisoner being fed through a slot.
Sighing, I take it into my room, close the door, and lean against the wood. I kick off my shoes and try to console myself that tonight wasn’t really a disaster. He wasn’t even that attractive, but then no one falls in lust faster than a fugitive with nowhere else to stay.
I take the food to the small desk by the window and arrange the meat into a semblance of a sandwich, while I replay every second of our encounter. Mr. Rochester’s detachment. His clinical assessment of my body. The way he looked at me like I was something to be cataloged and forgotten.
Maybe murder has made me lose my edge. Maybe I never had much of an appeal.
The night I met Gil, I was more interested in his boss.
But Gil swooped me up, took me to a storage room, and made me feel like dynamite.
Now, it’s obvious I was being handled. Powerful men always seem to be immune to whatever I’m selling.
I take one bite of the mystery meat sandwich, finding it overly salted, and follow it with another and another, washing down the dry fare with my refilled water jug. By the time I’ve finished, my eyes droop, and my stomach feels like lead.
A sharp knock against the window makes me freeze with a glass of liquid halfway to my mouth.
Then there’s another knock, sounding like a pebble hitting the pane.
My pulse kicks up again, my system flooding with anticipation. I set down my water and walk to the balcony doors, my bare feet silent on the wooden floor.
Through the glass, I find the masked man standing in exactly the same spot as that first night. Moonlight cuts across the gardens, turning everything to silver and shadow. He stares up at me, unmoving, patient as death.
Then he waves.
This time, I don’t hesitate. I raise my hand and wave back.
He rocks forward on his feet, and even through the mask, I can sense his pleasure. He beckons me down with one gloved hand. When I don’t move, he mimics turning a key in a lock.
Panic shoots through my chest like electricity. I stumble backward, away from the window, my heart thudding. What the hell am I doing? What the hell is he asking me to do?
I shut the curtains, grab my water and down its contents. What the fuck? After making sure the doors are locked, I undress, retreat to my bed, and pull the covers up to my chin. Not like they can protect me from whatever game he thinks I’ve just agreed to play, but I’m out.
But even as I squeeze my eyes shut, I can still feel him down on that lawn. Watching. Waiting. Willing me to open that balcony door. And that pulse between my legs tells me I want to go to him more than I want to stay safe.