Lord Trent: Love's Price Part 2

"Yet you would defy me anyway?"

"Yes."

"Are you dimwitted or are you daft?"

"I'm neither. I simply don't like you, and as I've been gravely offended and I never intend to see you again, there's no reason for me to be civil."

"Have you any notion of the power I can wield? You sa.s.sy little jade, I could do anything to you."

"You don't scare me."

"I don't?" He actually chuckled. "What is your name?"

"It's none of your business."

"But Mrs. Ford sent you?"

"Yes, to my ultimate regret."

"Dammit," he muttered.

She turned and ran.

CHAPTER TWO.

"Miss Stewart will be perfect for you."

"I agree."

James Harcourt, Earl of Westwood, smiled across the desk at Mrs. Ford. She preened under his avid scrutiny.

"I apologize for the misunderstanding," she said.

"Think nothing of it."

"Miss Stewart is typically very mild-mannered. I don't know what came over her."

"Women are often fl.u.s.tered around me. I seem to have a disturbing effect on them."

He graced her with another smile, and she giggled like a schoolgirl, but quickly, she regrouped and composed her features.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and shortly, the elusive Miss Stewart walked in.

"Here she is now," Mrs. Ford beamed.

James stood and bowed. "h.e.l.lo, Miss Stewart. We meet again."

On seeing him, Miss Stewart stumbled to a halt, appearing so disconcerted that he wondered if she might faint.

"Sit, Helen, sit." Mrs. Ford gestured to a chair.

Miss Stewart glared at James, then the door, then James again, anxious to stomp out, but she didn't dare.

James had already coaxed Mrs. Ford into revealing that Miss Stewart's previous post had ended, so she was unemployed and in immediate need of income. The impertinent vixen wouldn't be able to refuse him.

She slid into the chair Mrs. Ford had indicated, but she perched on the edge as if-with the slightest provocation-she would leap up and race out.

"You remember Lord Westwood, don't you, Helen?" Mrs. Ford asked.

"Yes, I remember him." If looks could have killed, he'd have been dead a hundred times over.

"I have the most marvelous news," Mrs. Ford gushed.

"What is it?" Miss Stewart grumbled.

"After your interview yesterday, Lord Westwood was so delighted that he called on me personally to let me know that he's giving you the job."

"I don't want it!"

At the vehement declaration, Mrs. Ford was taken aback. Scowling, she s.h.i.+fted in her seat and cleared her throat.

"Nonsense, dear. Of course you want it."

Miss Stewart counted his sins on her fingertips. "His ward hates me. He has friends over who gamble for high stakes. He laid his hands on me, because he a.s.sumed I was a...a..."-she leaned nearer to Mrs. Ford and whispered-"prost.i.tute he'd ordered from a brothel."

"A minor mistake, I a.s.sure you." Mrs. Ford made a wiggling motion with her wrist, dispatching James's horrid gaffe with a wave. "Lord Westwood has explained everything."

"Has he!"

Miss Stewart glowered at him, her striking emerald eyes narrowed with disgust. It was obvious she didn't like him, and he was fascinated by her disregard.

Women loved him. They were desperate to please him. They never told him no.

From his earliest memories as a tiny boy with his first nanny, he'd always gotten his way, and in the intervening decades, nothing had changed. With his being a thirty-year-old n.o.bleman, the most beautiful females in the kingdom wrangled to be his paramour. The wives of acquaintances pleaded for trysts. Mothers of debutantes tried to lure him into marital traps baited with their innocent daughters.

Only Miss Stewart seemed immune, and he was greatly humored by her obstinacy. If she hadn't been so violently opposed to working for him, he wouldn't have given her a second thought, but when she was so adamant, how could he fail to insist?

Besides, he had to hire someone to fuss with Miranda. Why not the intriguing, stunning, and amusing Miss Stewart? His home would never be dull with her in it.

Miranda had come to town uninvited, claiming she'd intended to visit his brother, Tristan, but she was aware that Tristan was gone. He was a s.h.i.+p's captain, and he'd sailed a few days prior, so James didn't know what game she was playing. Nor did he care.

He simply wanted her out of his hair, but he couldn't kick her out on the street. At the same juncture, he couldn't have her alone and unchaperoned at the house. He was a renowned scoundrel, and every bit of his low reputation was deserved, so she had to have a companion.

Miss Stewart would do nicely, and he would receive the added benefit of proving to her that he could act however he chose. The previous afternoon, as she'd insulted him in his own driveway, she hadn't comprehended that he could be an absolute beast-and she was powerless to stop him.

"I trust this matter is settled to everyone's satisfaction?" he said, standing. "May we go?"

"Go!" Miss Stewart hissed. "Go where?"

"Why...to my home. Where would you suppose?"

"I'm not going anywhere with you. I'd rather live in a haystack."

"Miss Stewart!" Mrs. Ford scolded, and she peered over at James. "I beg your pardon Lord Westwood. As I mentioned, Miss Stewart is usually so good-natured."

"It's quite all right," he amiably stated. "This is all happening a tad fast. She'll adapt swiftly enough; she'll be fine."

He glanced over, tickled to note that, when Mrs. Ford had summoned her, she hadn't had time to put up her hair. The golden locks flowed down her back, restrained with a single green ribbon that matched her emerald eyes.

The lengthy tresses were the oddest shade, not blond and not brown, but somewhere in between. He'd never seen hair like it, and he decided that-so long as she was employed by him-he wouldn't let her hide it.

She was pet.i.te and slender, willowy and lithe, yet she was curved and shapely, so he wasn't surprised to find himself evaluating her in a thoroughly masculine fas.h.i.+on. He was only human after all, and he wouldn't ignore the fact that she was very pretty or that he enjoyed looking at her.

"May I ask what is happening?" Miss Stewart demanded, her rage barely contained.

"Isn't it obvious?" he replied. "I've hired you to be a companion to my ward."

"You better not have." She whipped her hot gaze to Mrs. Ford. "Tell me it isn't true."

"Oh, but it is," Mrs. Ford confirmed, "and I couldn't have found you a more prominent position. I'm thrilled to provide Lord Westwood with one of my best girls."

"Best girls indeed," she fumed. "I know what kind of girl he wants, and it's definitely not a lady's companion."

"Miss Stewart"-Mrs. Ford had a steely tone in her voice-"you've insulted the earl several times now, and I command you to desist immediately."

Miss Stewart nearly retorted, then she bit her tongue. She turned to him, appearing furious and aggrieved.

"I won't do it!" she snapped. "I don't care how much you swagger and bully me. I won't do it! I won't!"

She was carrying on like a spoiled toddler, and he grinned. The money had already been paid, and Mrs. Ford-for all her accommodating ways-was a shrewd businesswoman. With the bank draft having been deposited in her cash drawer, she would never give it back.

"You humor me with your protests," he advised Miss Stewart, "but they grow tedious. Shall we go? I've had your room prepared, so you can unpack quickly, because Miranda needs you to accompany her on a shopping excursion."

"I must speak privately with Mrs. Ford," she said, fit to be tied. "Would you excuse us?"

"No."

She growled with frustration and strutted past him so she could whisper in Mrs. Ford's ear, but James was only a few feet away. He could hear every word.

"Don't make me to this," she begged.

"Why are you in such a dither?" Mrs. Ford responded in a temper. "You're embarra.s.sing me."

"Have you any idea what the result will be if I work for him? When I'm finished, my reputation will be in shreds."

"What foolishness! After you've been in his employ, every woman in town will want to hire you. Now get going."

"I can't imagine what-"

Mrs. Ford cut her off. "You will take this position, and you will perform your duties with as much grace and courtesy as you can muster, or you will no longer use my placement agency. Am I making myself clear?"

Miss Stewart's shoulders slumped with defeat. Mrs. Ford's agency was the best in the city. If she declined to continue with Miss Stewart, the girl would very likely never find another job. Miss Stewart knew it, and he knew it, though he tried not to be too smug.

He tamped down another grin.

"Shall we go?" he said again.

"I have to get my bag."

"Mrs. Ford had it put in my coach."

"Fine then. Yes, we can go."

She swept by him, regal as any queen, and he followed her out, watching how her shapely hips moved under the fabric of her horrid gray dress.

It was the same one she'd been wearing the prior afternoon, and it occurred to him that perhaps she didn't have any others, and he made a mental note to have his clerk order her some clothes.

She might be a lowly lady's companion, but he liked to see pretty women display their charms, and if he had to have a new servant underfoot, he refused to have a drab.

They walked outside, and as she espied his coach, he was amused by her reaction. Deliberately to intimidate her, he'd arrived in his grandest vehicle that was pulled by a team of magnificent white horses. Their manes and tails were braided with red ribbons to match the red and gold livery of the driver and six outriders.

He loved traveling in it, loved how heads turned when he pa.s.sed by. The petty vanity was irksome, but he couldn't set it aside and he'd given up trying.

The ostentatious carriage was the first item he'd retrieved after his father had died and James had inherited the t.i.tle and bankrupt estates that went with it. The vehicle had been his father's pride and joy, but he'd lost it in a bet. James had been a seething adolescent when the new owner had come to seize it, and James still reeled with irritation whenever he recollected the humiliating episode.

His life had been spent observing his father fall apart from gambling and drink, and James was determined to recoup the family's fortunes. His father had been a weak and despairing man who'd made one bad decision after the next. Nearly everything that could be wagered had been, and the games hadn't been won by strangers-but by his father's so-called friends. They'd taken advantage of his wretched condition to plunder what never should have been theirs.

Upon becoming earl, James had sworn to himself and to his brother, Tristan, that-eventually-he would get it all back, whether through fair means or foul. He was well on his way to financial security, though a few knaves had eluded his grasp.

One in particular, Charles Sinclair, Earl of Trent, needed to be brought low. Before the year was out, James planned to have his revenge.

"This is your coach?" Miss Stewart inquired, peering up at him.

"Yes."

"I might have guessed it would be pretentious and extravagant-like the owner."

James laughed. "What is the use of having money if you don't flaunt it?"

She scoffed and marched to it, pausing to ensure that her portmanteau was indeed strapped to the rear. The bag was small and tattered, a sorry symbol of her reduced circ.u.mstances, and he wondered what it would be like to be able to carry all your worldly belongings in a single satchel.

When her situation was so pitiful, he couldn't fathom why she would balk at his offer of employment. She ought to be grateful. She ought to be down on her knees and thanking him.