He gave a gentle pull, but the wig caught at its anchor pins, stinging her scalp.
“Pins,” she murmured and managed to reach up and pull them from behind each ear. She was helping him? Yes, she was, she realized. She suddenly wanted very much to stand before him as herself, with no more guise or lies between them. Her hands hesitated, then lowered to her sides. Heart hammering, and more self-conscious than ever, she waited. Waited for him to bare her hair. Her identity.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled the wig from her head. He asked, bemused, “You just happened to have this lying about?”
“I meant to wear it for a masquerade.”
He chuckled, deep in his throat. An intimate sound that warmed her. “And you certainly did. The longest masquerade in history.”
He set the wig aside, his eyes lingering on her face, her hair. He reached up, stroking a tendril at her temple that had come free when he’d pulled the wig away.
Then Nathaniel cupped the sides of her face once more. He leaned near, lowering his face toward hers, tipping her chin one way, angling his the other. His eyes roamed her cheeks, her eyes, her lips.
She felt warm and flushed, as though she had sipped orange wine. He leaned nearer yet, and she could smell his sweet peppermint breath and shaving soap.
Her voice sounding young and nearly giddy in her ears, she asked, “Are you certain, sir, you ought to kiss a housemaid?”
No answering chuckle. “I have never been more certain of anything in my life,” he whispered, his breath tickling her upper lip with each syllable.
He was going to kiss her. Sweet heaven. Nathaniel Upchurch was going to kiss her. Her knees suddenly felt weak, her heart shot through with electricity.
His head dipped and his lips touched hers, softly, faintly. Too faintly. She couldn’t help it. She leaned up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth more tightly to his. In a second, his arms were around her, molding her body to his in an embrace that stole what was left of her breath.Is this what love is? Oh, what I have been missing!
He pulled his mouth away, grasped her shoulders firmly and took a half step back. “Forgive me, I should not. Not so...”
He cleared his throat. If Nathaniel had lost his self-control for one moment, now by painful degrees he mastered it again. He removed his hands, and she felt bereft, nearly chastised, for she had been as overcome with passion as he. For a moment she feared he regretted the kiss, but he leaned forward and kissed her cheek, chasing those doubts away. He then placed his fingertip where his lips had been, tracing the hollow beneath her cheekbone.
She asked, “How long have you known?”
“Ever since I saw you coming from your bath with a towel around your head.”
“So long! And you never said a word?”
“At first I thought I must be imagining things. Then I feared you would be mortified to be discovered in such a role. Finally, I decided I needed to learn what was going on—why you were here, and what you were running from—before I tipped my hand.”
“And have you?”
“I learnt of your coming inheritance and of Sterling Benton’s desperate financial situation. That coupled with the installation of his favorite nephew under his roof led me to believe he was pressuring the two of you to marry. The pressure must have been strong indeed to cause you to run away. To”—he gestured vaguely toward her discarded wig and feather duster—“drive you to this.”
She nodded. “You’re right.”
His gaze roved her face. “I am glad you came to Fairbourne Hall.”
She glanced at him, uncertain. “Are you?”
“Yes,” he said, mouth quirked in a lopsided grin. “We needed a new maid.”
He leaned in for another kiss.
Voices in the corridor brought them both up short. This was not the best manner nor place to end her charade. She quickly slicked back her hair and pulled the wig into position. He tugged on her cap for her and crossed to the door while she replaced her spectacles.
Fiona pushed open the door and started at seeing Nathaniel just inside. “Pardon me, sir.”
“No matter, I was just leaving.”
Fiona gaped at Margaret, brows high. Margaret hoped Fiona didn’t notice her eyebrows, or lack thereof.
In return, Margaret shrugged and gave Fiona a bewildered look. It was no doubt convincing.
