Chapter 8
Assaulted with the alluring scene of Lord Rigsby alone at a writing desk with a piece of paper gripped between his fingers and his golden hair standing out in every direction, mumbling to himself, Henrietta turned on her toes and fled.
No. She would not cower in face of a challenge. She pushed through the door and studied him more closely, setting a concrete barrier in place around her heart as she did so. And he looked extremely agitated. His cravat hung limp and sloppy around his neck. His coat, though stretched across broad shoulders, looked rumpled in the afternoon sun flooding through the window, and his fingers, long and strong, drummed a chaotic rhythm on the rich mahogany. Lust shot through her. She wanted those fingers on her.
Mercy. Panic raced through her at the stark realization of her desire. His almost kiss yesterday had opened a floodgate inside her. She needed more of him.
She couldn’t do this—work closely with him—even if it meant accomplishing her goal sooner. She’d crack. She’d shatter. She’d grab him by the lapels and toss him down on a settee and …
She was no coward, but she was no fool, either. In certain circumstances, retreat became the wisest course of action. She’d find another way to facilitate his marriage to Lady Willow. But it had become clear she could not help him while occupying the same room as him. Best intentions aside, her body did as it pleased. And Grayson pleased it. Immensely. She turned around, hoping to leave as quietly as she’d entered, but found a maid, short, auburn-haired, dressed in black, standing right in front of her. “Ack!”
The maid echoed her exclamation and put a hand to her chest. “I’m sorry, miss! Didn’t mean to scare you. I’m supposed to meet—”
“Me.” Grayson strode around Henrietta with a warm smile for the maid, whose eyes widened and fingers fidgeted. He gestured to a seat. “Sit, please. I’ll be right with you.” He turned to Henrietta. “Join me over there?” His head jerked across the room toward the desk he’d recently vacated, then he strode in the indicated direction, propped a hip against the desk’s edge, and waited, arms crossed over his broad chest.
Henrietta obliged him, propping her hip against the desk, too, and faced him with her arms crossed over her chest. But the gesture did not grant her as much power as it did him. Her shorter height meant her waist more than her hip bit into the desk, and her crossed arms created the appearance of a plate serving up her breasts for his delectation. She itched to cross them over her stomach instead but kept them in place. Well, what else were low-cut gowns for? She knew, better than most perhaps, the power such a garment gave to the wearer. She wouldn’t hide it. Instead, she held his gaze, wondering if it would dip below her eyes, lips, chin, to—ah, there it was. His glance shot back to her face as quickly as it had dipped below it. She smiled the smug grin of the victorious.
Mercy, she wasn’t here for these games! Why did he distract her so?
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
She’d come to help, decided not to, but then been caught. Silent escape was no longer an option. It seemed she must stick to her original plan. “I’ve come to help interview the maids.”
He shook his head. “I’m not in need of assistance. Though,” he said, his brown eyes melting like warm chocolate in a pot, “it’s kind of you to offer.”
“You asked for my assistance.”
“I did. Should not have done so. I was not considering your feelings.”
“Or Lady Willow’s.”
“Or Lady Willow’s.”
“And now you are?” she asked.
He nodded.
She nodded, too. He offered a way out of her lust-addled predicament, yet she found herself saying, “I want to help you. Our goals align, after all. We both want your marriage with Lady Willow to move forward, you know. Your …” She swallowed. “Your future wife cannot patronize my shop until she is wed and her mother no longer controls her wardrobe. And two heads working toward a mutual goal are better than one.” She spoke the truth. If she just focused on those two words—future wife—she could suppress her inappropriate lust.
His brows drew together rapidly, and his mouth shot open, but he snapped it closed. When he next spoke, he did so slowly, deliberately. “You can succeed in your goals without Lady Willow, without my marrying Lady Willow.”
He didn’t understand, and she wouldn’t explain it. Lady Willow was the key.
“Let me help. Did you know the Earl of Stonefield employs one hundred and fifty-two servants? And not a one of them is new? Apparently, the Earl and Countess are considered perfect employers. No one leaves or does anything to lose their position.”
He groaned. “That many? I knew the number was likely high, but …” He groaned again.
She had him. “How have the interviews gone so far today? Any clues?”
He scratched behind his ear. “No. But the last maid I interviewed is sending in another who may, apparently, have pertinent information.” He glanced across the room at the waiting maid. “That’s her. I’m not convinced she’ll say a word, though, even if she does have useful information. They’ve closed ranks against me.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“You’re exhausted,” Henrietta said. “I can help. They may have closed ranks against Lord Rigsby, but perhaps Miss Blake will have more luck.”
He scoffed. “Miss Blake has an earl for a grandfather and one of the richest men in England as a father. Don’t pretend you’re other than you are.”
Her gaze dropped to the floor then strayed to the window. “I am other than you are, and that is what matters.”
Silence strung between them, tightening her chest.
