Is that threatening? Exhaling slowly, I force the fingers of my free hand to unfurl. No need to unnerve my employee if she ever deigns to turn around.
“I know what you meant,” Madeleine says serenely. “There’s really only one way to interpret feedback like that. So I started opening the windows, your lordship.”
Madeleine is shorter than me by several inches; short enough that she’ll have to use the step ladder to reach the highest bookshelves. From this close, I can examine every loop and bulge of the braid hanging down the center of her back. Not only that, I can smell her cinnamon scent stronger than ever now thatI’m here with her in person—though, I have to admit, it’s not nearly as over the top as I’d assumed.
It’s subtle. Tantalizing. A silent hint that a person might want to draw her bare arm to his nose, might want to inhale at the crook of her inner elbow; that he would be rewarded with the most appetizing scent…
Christ. My grip flexes on my cane.
“You can’t throw all the windows wide open in winter, Madeleine. The indoor plants will die.”
“Well, I can’t change the way I smell. I already shower plenty.” At that, she throws a glare at me over her narrow shoulder, as though daring me to argue. To accuse her of poor personal hygiene or some other nonsense. My knee throbs, and I shift my weight further onto my good leg.
…No. Even tied up in knots as I am, I’ve never thought that the problem was Madeleine smellingbad.
It’s that she smells too fucking good, and I can’t concentrate. Can’t complete writing up my research when that scent is in my lungs, and all I can think about is hunting her down in this vast building, undressing her, and inhaling every inch of her bare body.
“Leave them closed, then,” I order, trying to sound like the decisive lord of this estate, and not like a man knowingly signing his own death warrant. If the choice is between dooming my plant specimens and dooming myself, well, my ruined leg is evidence of my priorities. “We can’t risk the cuttings.”
“Gosh, no.” Madeleine finally spins to face me fully, leaning back against the bookshelves and tipping up her chin to meet my eye. There’s a glint in her gaze. She’s bold, daring. The sort of person who is completely unsuited to the silent servant’s role—and yet, the words that would send her packing don’t come to my tongue. They never have, despite lecturing myself dozensof times that she’s too much of a distraction. “We’d never risk those.”
Up close, getting a clear look at her at last… Madeleine is arresting. As compelling as any rare flower or hardy lichen I ever found on my travels. Somehow, I knew she would be.
Her brown eyes are large, framed with sooty lashes, and her top lip forms a cupid’s bow. Her skin is smooth and olive-toned, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She looks young—mid twenties, perhaps—and a hot prickle of shame crawls down my neck as my gut twists with interest.
I’m too old for Madeleine Price. Too pained, too cranky, too exhausted with the world. Too much her employer. And far too late to wonder otherwise, after insulting her deeply already.
Excellent work, West. You moron.
“You don’t smell… bad.”
The words are clunky. Awkward. I force them out anyway, my face heating beneath the scruff of my beard. When was the last time I trimmed my facial hair? Was this shirt ironed when I put it on this morning? Just how unkempt do I seem right now to this rare flower?
Whatever humiliation I am feeling, at least I deserve it.
“Go on,” Madeleine says, waving a hand between us. “Say more non-awful things.”
“I…”
“Just try it, your lordship.” There’s a smile playing around her mouth now; a teasing sparkle in her eye. The tension has finally bled from Madeleine’s shoulders, and though I wouldn’t say the atmosphere is comfortable in this study, at least it’s no longer hostile. “Just for fun. Call it more research.”
“No one calls me ‘your lordship’.” I sound pained.
“Lord Westmore, then?”
“Or West.” My throat is thick when I swallow, and Christ, I didn’t realize how out of my depth I was with this woman until afew seconds ago when she turned around. Now I’m floundering. “Friends call me West.”
“You have friends?”
Her question is honest and automatic, the doubt crinkling her pretty forehead. It hits me like a blow to the solar plexus, and I can’t help the way my body stiffens. My palm is slick against my cane.
Had.I had friends. Before…
No, I can’t think about that now. Can’t think about it ever. Pain lances up my leg, a white-hot warning to guard my thoughts.
“Oh,” Madeleine says, horror dawning as her own words catch up with her. “Oh god, no, I didn’t mean—”
“No, of course you didn’t.”
