Читать книгу Second Chance Cinderella - Carla Capshaw - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Rose blinked rapidly as she struggled to form a sensible reply. How she wished Mrs. Pickles hadn’t gotten the name wrong and had given her time to prepare for being face-to-face with Sam. “Hello...”

“It’s been a long time.”

“Yes.” Her lips wooden, she stared helplessly as simultaneous joy and agony overwhelmed her. Her gaze roved over Sam’s face in a frantic, failed attempt to take in all the details of him at once.

Time had erased the last traces of the boy she’d known. His face was leaner, his features sharper, his jaw more defined than when he’d left Ashby Croft. As tall as she remembered and even more handsome, if possible, with his thick, black hair and chocolate-brown eyes, he was dark for an Englishman. As children they’d fancied he must have gypsy blood since his sun-warmed complexion set him so far apart from the many pasty-faced boys of the village.

“What are you doing here, Sam?” Registering the smoldering fury in his dark eyes, she took a self-protective step back. “How...how did you find me?”

“Funny thing, that. I saw you on the street this morning and followed you to Malbury’s.”

“This morning?” Even as she noted his polished accent, her eyes widened with sudden recollection. “You’re the man I saw in the square. The one speaking to the paperboy.”

She took his silence as confirmation. His anger spread to her like a contagion. A multitude of questions swirled through her brain until she felt lightheaded. Praying she wouldn’t fall apart in front of him, she swallowed the sob of emotion lodged in her tight throat. “Where have you been all these years? Why did you never come back?”

A silky, black eyebrow arched with unconcealed derision. “Where have I been? Why, here in London, of course. Right where I said I’d be.”

Sam’s frigid tone dripped with enough scorn to penetrate Rose’s dazed senses. Her Sam had never spoken to her in such a fashion—as though he loathed even the faintest knowledge of her existence.

“The better question is—” his square jaw tightened “—where have you been?”

A shiver rippled through her that had nothing to do with her damp garments or clammy skin. Any hope she’d ever cherished for a pleasant reunion vanished. This severe man looked like Sam—albeit a more mature version—but he bore no resemblance to the lively, brash and indomitable boy she’d loved. He might as well be a stranger.

The tick of a mantel clock marked the silence. Her shock began to fade. Other emotions raced through her in quick succession. Anger and confusion gave way to disbelief, then fear as she pieced together the truth of the situation. Sam had arranged this meeting to knock her for six and he’d succeeded. She didn’t understand his apparent loathing, but his intentions were clear. He’d always wanted to shine. Obviously, he’d made his fortune and sought to rub her nose in the fact that he’d forgotten her without so much as a by-your-leave. Why else would he plot to bring her to this magnificent house to act as his servant when he’d ignored her for the past nine years?

The meanness of his scheme tweaked her pride and renewed her anger. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She did honest work. How dare he treat her so shabbily? He was the cad who’d lied to her, abandoned her, ground her heart into dust. If he expected her to rant and rave like some forsaken fishwife, he’d be disappointed. She refused to give him the pleasure of seeing her make a fool of herself, especially when he deserved nothing but contempt for his selfishness. He may have been amassing a mountain of money all these years, but she’d been seeing to the important task of raising their son.

She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “If you must know, I was in Devonshire until two days ago. Just as I said I’d be.”

Dark eyes fringed with thick, black lashes narrowed with disdain. “You’re such a good liar. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe you straightaway.”

“Me, a liar?” She lifted her chin. “That’s rich coming from you, Sam.”

“Mr. Blackstone, if you please. Kindly remember I’m your employer at present. Nothing more.” He rounded the desk and moved toward her. Instinct warned her to run, but she held firm. She’d done nothing amiss, but he had much to answer for.

Bristling with tension, she focused on his shirtfront for that seemed the least threatening spot. Dressed in formal attire of black and white, he looked like a seething tiger with an elegant bow tied round his neck.

He stopped before her, close enough to touch. She breathed in deep, taking in his scent of soap and the subtle hint of sandalwood cologne. Desperate to feel indifferent, she detested the traitorous way her heart refused to calm.

“Stay away from me.” She clenched her trembling fingers into fists to keep from reaching for him. She prayed he’d maintain a proper distance, but then again he’d never been the least bit proper.

A sly grin tugged at his firm, sculpted lips. “Make me.”

The whisper-soft touch of his fingertips along her jaw silenced her. Tremors raced down her spine and her feet grew roots to the floor. A sigh feathered in her throat as he lifted her chin.

Their eyes met. Instantly ensnared by the rich, brown depths of his gaze, she lost track of time and all sense of good judgment. Blood rushed in her ears and her knees began to quiver like an aspic left in the sun. She swayed toward him. The fleeting thought of how much their son resembled him evaporated the same moment his thumb caressed her full bottom lip.

He leaned closer. His warm, mint-scented breath fanned across her cheek and tickled her ear. “You want me to kiss you, Rosie. Admit it.”

His smug expression rubbed her raw and restored some order to the chaos of her senses. How could she have let her guard down? Sam may have embodied home and safety for her nine years ago, but no longer. In fact, no one seemed more dangerous to her body, livelihood or peace of mind.

Please Lord, give me strength.

She released a shaky breath. “Is that an order, Mr. Blackstone? Am I to understand that although you’re my employer I’ll have to be concerned about untoward advances from your corner?”

He laughed. “Untoward? Debatable. Unwanted? I think not.”

Her cheeks burned. She wished otherwise, but she’d never had any strength of will when it came to Sam and she hated that he could see her weakness while he was the picture of strength. “Think what you like, sir. If I may, I’d like to return to work.”

She turned, desperate to leave, to regain her breath and her bearings. Somehow she managed to navigate halfway to the door before he stopped her. “There’s no use for you in the kitchen.”

She stumbled midstep, then whipped around to face him. Sheer panic seized her. “Are you sacking me?”

He studied her for such a long moment she squirmed like a butterfly pinned to a board.

“That depends on if you’re nice to me or not.”

“I’ve never been cruel to you, Sa...Mr. Blackstone. Unlike you and how you’re treating me at present.”

“Is that so?” He returned to his desk and sat in his imposing leather chair. “Then I suppose you thought you were doing me a favor when you ran off and married another man?”

Her knees buckled and the room tipped to an unnatural angle. Only God’s mercy kept her upright. She gripped the back of a chair, her fingers digging into the soft leather. Had she heard him correctly? How did he know about her marriage? Did he know about his son?

Fear invaded the deepest recesses of her being. Having inhabited a lower rung in society all her life, she was used to being powerless. More than once she’d seen the rich get away with all sorts of evil simply because they had the means to buy their own justice. Was that why he’d brought her here? To show her he had the wealth to bend the law to his will? Was he simply funning with her before he revealed his knowledge of Andrew and that he meant to snatch their son from her care?

Nausea soured her stomach. How could she live without her child?

“How...?” She cleared her throat. Voices in the hall competed with the rush of blood in her ears. “How did you learn about Harry?”

He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

“What is he? A footman?” His lip curled. “No, my money’s on a groomsman. You always did want a horse.”

“He was a farmer, if you must know,” she said, irked that he didn’t answer her. “A good and godly man. He deserves your thanks for helping me, not your scorn.”

He surged to his feet. All six feet two inches of lean, hostile muscle. “I’ll be flayed alive before I thank the likes of that clodhopper. You were my girl, Rosie! You promised to wait for me forever if need be. Those were your words, not mine. Imagine my surprise when I went to fetch you in Ashby Croft and learned your definition of forever meant less than eight measly months.”

In the wake of his outburst, a hush fell over the room. “You came for me?” she whispered, unable to accept he told the truth.

“Of course.”

“Of course?” She balked at his arrogance. “There’s no of course about it. You said you’d return in a few weeks.”

Color scored his high cheekbones. “Settling in and learning my trade took longer than I expected. Stark had me working eighteen hours a day for months...I wrote to you. I hoped you might get your friend, Lizzy, or that layabout of an innkeeper you worked for to read my letters.”

“Letters? As in more than one?”

He weaved a letter opener between his long, elegant fingers before letting the ivory-handled implement clatter to the desktop. He cleared his throat. “The post isn’t always reliable. I wanted to be certain you heard from me.”

Her heart plummeted. If he was telling the truth, where had those messages gone? Had they truly been lost or had someone stolen them? How different their lives might have been if she’d received even one. “None of them reached me.”

He shrugged. “Water under the bridge now that you’re wed.”

She flinched at the accusation in his voice. Whatever he knew of her marriage, he mustn’t be aware that she’d been widowed within weeks of saying her vows or that Harry’s wounds had made it impossible to make a true union. Was it possible he didn’t know of Andrew’s existence, either?

Hope buoyed her for the first time since she’d entered the study. “I did wait for you, but I’d been ill and—”

“Are you ill now?”

“No, but—”

“Then details aren’t worth a farthing as far as I’m concerned. What it boils down to is you didn’t have enough faith in me and you ran off with the first available chap to come along. But don’t worry. It didn’t take me long to get over you, either. As you might expect, a city as lively as London offers countless diversions.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “With a little imagination a body can’t be bothered to wallow in the past for long, and it didn’t take much for me to realize I’d be better off without you.”

She gasped at the spike of pain that pierced her heart. “I see.” Hating that her eyes misted with tears, she glanced out the window. Gas lamps glowed along the street, alleviating the darkness and eerie wisps of fog.

Bitterness welled inside her at the unfairness of the situation. While he’d been playing away in London, uprooting her from his heart, she’d been expecting his child, terrified and lonely to her bones.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Honesty insisted she tell him he was a father since he’d given no indication he knew about their son, but for now Andrew seemed to be her secret. She planned to keep it that way until Sam proved he could give her a fair hearing. Since he harbored such ill feelings toward her, he would no doubt use Andrew as a weapon to punish her for her supposed wrongs, and she’d be mad to give this wrathful, unforgiving stranger such a powerful means to ruin her life.

Besides, her heartache demanded she let him stew for a little while longer. All of his indignation was for show. He may have been disappointed when he learned of her marriage, may have even convinced himself he’d been heartbroken for a time, but unlike her, he’d recovered from their separation with far too much ease to claim his love had been of the eternal variety.

What a fool she’d been to believe they’d shared something special. She’d been no more to him than a habit he’d easily broken. She hated that she’d missed him when he didn’t deserve such sentiment almost as much as she loathed the inviolate hope that whispered time was all they needed to clear the air.

Yet, how could they become reacquainted when they were no longer equals? To others they were as different as gold and rust. She’d grown up in a small village, but she wasn’t completely ignorant of the ways of the world or society’s expectations. Sam’s wealth placed him head and shoulders above her. She couldn’t see him coming to the kitchen to chat while she peeled potatoes.

No, he was one of the privileged now, a fact he must realize given how easily he’d used his higher status to intimidate her.

“Since you’re over me, why did you bring me here?” she asked past the lump in her throat. “To make a display of yourself and show me what a fool I’ve apparently been for not pining for you all these years?”

“That’s part of it,” he answered flatly.

“Then I didn’t miss a thing.” The chiming of the clock almost drowned out her strained whisper. “You’re petty and coldhearted. I’m fortunate I never tied myself to a cad like you.”

His dark eyes shimmered with thinly veiled rage. She teetered on a knife’s edge, stunned by her outburst when she had so much to lose. Certain he’d send her packing, she felt every nerve in her body clench with dread.

A knock on the study door shattered the tension.

“What?” Sam snapped.

Robert opened the door and took a hesitant step into the room. The shiny, brass buttons of his uniform glistened in the lamplight. Although he seemed a bit winded, his sallow face had been wiped clean of emotion. “Forgive me for interrupting, sir, but Mr. Hodges sent me to inform you Lord Sanbourne and his daughter, Miss Ratner, have arrived. Mr. Hodges installed them in the drawing room, but Miss Ratner—”

“Has declined to wait,” a feminine voice announced from the corridor. A petite beauty with light brown hair breezed past the footman and into the study without further introduction. Artfully wrapped in a silk lavender gown, she made her way straight to Sam and kissed him in greeting. “I think it’s positively ghastly to suggest I do so when you should at least pretend to be on pins and needles waiting for your hostess to arrive.”

Aggravated by the brunette’s pawing of Sam, Rose noted he didn’t untangle himself with any haste. Obviously, he approved of Miss Ratner’s brazen ways.

At the end of her patience, she headed for the exit without waiting for Sam’s permission to leave. Robert withdrew first, but she managed a narrow escape just before the door clicked shut in her wake.

* * *

Sam watched Rose dart for the door and checked the impulse to call her back. The newspaper boy might as well have stabbed him in the vitals when he confirmed that Rose Smith did, indeed, work for Baron Malbury. Used to dealing with the ’Change’s unexpected variables, he rarely suffered from surprise. However, the knowledge that Rose lived within striking distance had knocked the wind from his lungs and he had yet to catch his breath.

How dare she act as though she were the injured party? He’d done nothing wrong. He’d sought to make a better life for them. She had forgotten him like week-old rubbish the moment someone new came along.

“Sam?”

“What?” He blinked and focused on Amelia. Glad for the distraction of her arrival, he detested the noxious mix of resentment and regret coursing through his veins.

“Are you listening to me, darling?”

“Of course.” Using all his powers of concentration, he forced Rose from his mind, although she refused to go without a fuss. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m more than a little overcome by how lovely you look this evening.”

She smiled and angled her trim body to show her gown to best advantage. The shining silk and lace belonged on a duchess instead of the daughter of an impoverished viscount, but Amelia wasn’t one to burden herself with such pesky distinctions. The bright blue ribbons framing her oval face and the sapphire gems at her throat reminded him of Rose’s eyes. He gritted his teeth. Everywhere he looked today, Rose was there to taunt him.

“You seem distracted.” As was her wont in private, Amelia dismissed propriety and sank gracefully into one of the leather armchairs. “I saw you on Oxford Street earlier today. You looked rather harassed. I had my driver hail you, but you quite had your head in the clouds.”

“I’ve been preoccupied with a personal matter.” His gaze drifted to the door. How was it possible that Rose was even lovelier than he remembered? Over the years he’d forgotten the blueness of her eyes and the natural blush of color in her smooth, fair cheeks. Worse, no one made him feel more invigorated than she did. The moment she entered the room he lost track of all else. “It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

She glanced at him from under downcast lashes. “It’s not financial difficulties, I trust? After the grandeur you’ve become accustomed to, one doubts the Marshalsea would suit your tastes in the least.”

Compared to the squalor he and Rose had lived in once the orphanage closed its doors, the notorious debtor’s prison qualified as a palace. “I’d manage.”

“I’m certain you would. I find it excessively appealing that you’ve remained a scrapper beneath all the polish you’ve acquired, but I’m quite certain I’d die if I ever found myself in such a hideous place.” Her gloved hand soothed the silken folds of her gown. “If you are in dire straits, I hope you will remember you can come to me should you ever need a confidant—”

“I’m much obliged, but you needn’t fret.”

“As long as you know I’m always here for you.”

He tamped down the cynical suspicion that her loyalty depended on the sum of his bank accounts. “Your friendship is dear to me.”

She smiled. “As you’re aware, I want very much to be more than just your friend.”

Still rough from his confrontation with Rose, he leaned back against the desk. His fingers clutched the lip of the desktop, his right ankle crossed casually over the left.

This wasn’t the first time Amelia had made her wishes known. Just as she’d hinted on several occasions, he should probably marry her. In truth, he’d been considering a proposal for weeks. Her father’s hapless investments had made her family desperate enough for funds to overlook his guttersnipe background, and Amelia would make the perfect wife for a man who had everything except a permanent place in society.

“My father agrees we’d make a splendid couple,” she continued, undaunted by his lack of comment.

“I’m certain he does,” he said drily. In fact, he could think of a million reasons why.

The provocative gleam in her dark eyes faded. “Darling, what’s gotten into you today? You’re too sullen by half. I wish you’d reconsider and come shooting with us at the Digby estate in Devonshire next month. A nice long holiday would do you good.”

“It wouldn’t be much of a holiday, I’m afraid. I grew up in Devonshire. The area is filled with memories I’d rather forget.”

“Even more reason to come with us.” She stood and moved close enough to brush up against him. Her perfume, though subtle, carried a powdery scent that made his nose twitch. “It will give us a chance to replace those bad memories with fond, new ones.”

He gave her a cool half smile. “I’ll consider it.”

“That is all I ask. Her gloved hands reached for his cravat and began to refashion the knot. “You are quite a catch, you know. You may not be a peer, but you are divine to look at, charming when you choose to be and—”

“Rich.”

She pouted. “I’ve told you before, it’s vulgar to mention money, but since you have, yes, your wealth is, shall we say, one of your finest assets. It saddens me greatly because I am so fond of you, but without your fortune to make up for other things...”

“You wouldn’t be seen within a mile of me.”

“You needn’t be harsh. You’re aware of my circumstances.” She patted his chest. “Nor must you be unfair in your judgment of me. My family expects me to wed, if not well, then at least lucratively.”

Her snobbery both amused and revolted him. “And why should I want to marry you?”

“You must be joking. I’m the daughter of a peer.”

“You can also be a crick in the neck.”

“True, but you’re a philistine.” She laughed. “We’ve been dancing around an agreement for weeks, so since we’re being honest, let’s face facts. An alliance between us is a most sensible option. You have everything except a family to carry on your name and eventually squabble over the fortune you’ve amassed. I, thanks to my father’s missteps, am in need of...protection, shall we say. We understand each other and get on well most of the time. You can help my family, and I can open doors for you that your background prohibits you from entering on your own.”

“You assume I want to cross those lofty thresholds.”

She frowned as though she’d never heard such a ridiculous notion. “Of course you do, Sam. You don’t have to pretend with me. Everyone, even those who deny it, want to be part of the crème de la crème.”

“I don’t lack for invitations as it is.”

“Yes, however, these invitations will be from people who matter, not those boorish tradesmen or stuffy politicians with whom you usually conspire. All I ask is that you contemplate the possibilities. Imagine I’m a new stock and consider your potential rate of return.”

He already had. The Ratners’ decline in circumstances may be recent, but their title and mortgaged properties were centuries old. To a man whose own roots went no deeper than the day of his birth, buying a branch on the Ratners’ lauded family tree held a certain appeal.

Best of all, he wasn’t in any danger of falling in love with Amelia, nor did she expect him to. Their union would be little more than a mutually beneficial business arrangement. No deep emotions to make him feel helpless or dependent on anyone but himself for happiness.

“I’m always calculating variables.”

“Brilliant.” Voices passing in the corridor drew Amelia’s attention. “I’d best see to the dining room before our guests descend. Everything must be perfect tonight.”

“Speaking of variables—” he opened the door to help usher her out “—something popped up today and we’re short a footman this evening.”

Amelia paled. “How can that be?”

“I’ve made other arrangements with Hodges.”

“That old fossil you call a butler should have been put out to pasture a decade ago. I gave him strict instructions to send word to me if the slightest mishap occurred.”

He refrained from mentioning that Hodges had been in a dither himself when he’d informed the older man that he’d given Frank the night off and that Rose would fill his position.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she moaned. “I’ve planned every detail and now all is ruined!”

“Hardly. A kitchen maid has already been found to replace him.”

“One of the maids?” Amelia’s hand fluttered to her chest as though she might faint. “I’m aware you’re not fully educated in these matters, but a woman serving...are you mad? That will never do.”

Amused by her dramatics, he wondered vaguely if there were any smelling salts on hand just in case she keeled over. “It’s already been decided.”

“I’ll send for one of ours—”

“There’s no time.” The first muffled notes of a violin being tuned bolstered his point. He led her to the door. “We’ll have to make due. You are the one interested in all the latest fashions. Perhaps we’ll usher in a new one.”