Do not go there. She’s your employee, for God’s sake. What kind of degenerate are you?
“As Mrs. Wood is new to her position,” Brunswick said with quiet dignity, “I am merely suggesting that you give her a chance.”
Ethan inhaled for patience. “I am not going to throw her out, if that is your concern. Go fetch her.”
Before departing, the butler gave Ethan a look that he’d become accustomed to. Since his injury, the people in his life had frequently given him that look. As if they didn’t trust him to behave like a civilized human being. It was infuriating…and embarrassing because he couldn’t blame them. His moodhadbeen beastly, driven by his rumination about his hand, his music, his family…everything he’d lost.
He would brood, brood, brood about the unfairness of it all.
Then emotions would ambush him. He could be riding in the carriage in a fine mood one moment, then shaking with rage the next. This very thing had happened before his first meeting with Mrs. Wood. Although she hadn’t taken him to task for leaving her in the rain, he wasn’t a complete idiot and knew that his behavior had annoyed her. The thing of it was, he hadn’t intended to be unchivalrous: he’d left her for her own good—to protect her from his devil of a temper.
While he’d always been a fellow of strong passions, before his injury he’d had an outlet, pouring himself into his music. The lulling beauty of a sonata. The exuberance of a concerto. Even the practice of technique held pleasure: the absorbing rigor of scales and arpeggios, the demanding precision, the feeling that one was honing one’s potential. Piano had always come easily for him, and unlike his siblings, he’d never complained about practicing. When it came to music, he had limitless ambition and self-discipline. In fact, his parents often had to pull him away from his instrument to prevent him from missing out on other things.
As much as his family loved him, they didn’t understand what music meant to him. It wasn’t a hobby or amusement. A vehicle for fame and fortune. Playing the piano had been who hewas. When the keys had glided beneath his fingertips, he’d felt alive, powerful, unstoppable. He’d felt touched by destiny, by joy…by God.
Without his music, who was he?
Nothing and no one.
Which led to his present dilemma. He was in no shape to deal with an attraction to Jane Wood. Losing his ability to play had affected his overall confidence and, as lowering as it was to admit, the fiasco with Constance had made things worse, making him question his appeal to the opposite sex. He was on shaky ground all around. Moreover, he was not the sort of man who chased after housemaids. Papa had taught him and his brothers that gentlemen of honor respected women and never took advantage of those who were vulnerable.
Even at the pinnacle of his debauched youth, Ethan had taken lovers who were his equal. Experienced ladies who liked to play the same naughty games. Thus, how was he going to handle his unacceptable reaction to his housekeeper? Perhaps it was just a one-time thing. Perhaps her proximity last night and the fact that she’d interrupted his dream of Sirena had resulted in his sensual awareness of her.
Yet Mrs. Wood’s effect on him was more than physical. The truth was she intrigued him. It was obvious that she had deliberately concealed her attractiveness. This led him to question why she’d done so. And what else she might be hiding. He suspected that all was not as it seemed with his housekeeper.
Brunswick ushered Mrs. Wood into the breakfast room. Ethan rose; despite her mousy appearance, she was the kind of woman who kept a man on his toes. She curtsied, then peered at him through the spectacles that were once again in place. It was too late, however. He saw her now: those big, brown eyes and thick lashes tipped with auburn, the sprinkle of freckles over her nose. The mouth that was a little too wide and much too sensual for a woman trying to pass herself off as plain.
“You, um, wished to see me, my lord?” she asked.
Her voice had a husky warmth that felt like a caress against his groin. Recovering from a head cold, indeed. The woman had more excuses than a cat had fleas.
He looked at his butler. “You may go.”
On the way out, Brunswick bestowed a look of encouragement upon Mrs. Wood that made Ethan feel like an ogre. For God’s sake, he was going to take her to task, not eat her. Out of nowhere, his wicked banter with Sirena surfaced.
“Do you eat me?”she’d asked.
“I savor you.”
“What is this about, sir?”
Mrs. Wood’s question dispelled the memory. She looked nervous, rubbing her palms subtly against her apron. Her clean, herbal scent teased his nose; he’d noticed it last night when he carried her.
He cut to the chase. “You said you could cook.”
“You, um, didn’t like the dishes I prepared?”
Understatement of the year.
He curled a finger at her. “Follow me.”
Obediently, she accompanied him to the sideboard, where he uncovered the first dish.
“Eggs, overcooked and inedible.” He removed the next dome. “Sausages, undercooked and inedible. Then there’s this.” He unveiled herpièce de résistance, a congealed blob the color of a fresh bruise. “I don’t even know what the devil it is.”
“Black pudding, sir,” she mumbled.
So that was the identity of the mysterious glop.
