“Rodent!” For a moment, her entire right side flinched, as if shemight storm across the room and slap him, but she trained her arm to her side and glued her feet to the floor.
There were other maids. He didn’t need this one. Scurrying about as if she owned these halls, doing only Lucifer truly knew what. But he found himself saying, “If you deny me this request, you are banished. You shall never find whatever it is you seek at Hestia. I’ll post my most-muscled footmen at every entrance simply to keep you out.”
“I will discover another means of achieving my ends.” She pressed her back against the door. “Good day, Mr. Trent.” She sank into a curtsy dripping with ire, with mockery. Not one of the small bobs his maids gave, but the sort of elegant sweep ladies gave the Queen when presented at court.
Bloody hell.
A lady. She had to be. At the very least educated as such. A poor relation of some minor peer. Her voice gave her away as well. He should have known as soon as she’d said her first word, but he’d been too distracted by looking at her, by her honied voice pouring across his skin.
There were other maids. Actual maids, eager for an extra pound in her pocket for easy enough work.
He didn’t want them.
She turned to open the door, but he crossed the room and slammed his palm into it before she could budge it an inch. She gasped, froze. He had her pinned—her body between his and the door, his hand braced against the frame above her head. Her shoulders pulled almost into her ears. Uncomfortable? Afraid? Good. He needed something from her, as she did from him. She wanted Hestia. He wanted her.
No. He wanted the Stevenage inn.
“Little mouse,” he said, keeping his voice low, “perhaps we can discuss this further.”
“I am not a mouse.”
No. Not at all. “But perhaps you can be my wife. Pretend to be. Not a difficult job. A few hours of time, then Hestia is yours. You can make a little mouse hole and poke about as much as your heart desires.”
She whipped around as if moved by a strong and sudden gale. Justas quickly, she shoved him away, her hands branding his chest where they pushed. He staggered backward, toward the fire, and she paced toward him.
“Do you often abuse the maids who work here, you villain? Promise them marriage, then leave them lost and alone, without a position and—”
“No. Of course not.” He steadied himself against the fireplace mantel.
Her face contorted. “I’ll not warm your bed.”
“I’m not asking you to.” But God, now images flashed like lurid sketches from the most erotic books across his mind. That gown gone, those legs spread. For him. Her hair unbound and wild. On his pillow. He slammed his eyes closed. He’d been wrong. This would never work. She was not right for this job at all. “Leave.”
“Gladly.” She stepped away, and the loss of her heat made his knees weak, his heart stutter a silent wail. Her curt footsteps across the room told him she cared not at all, felt not a fraction of what boiled through him.
The door creaked open, then snapped closed, shutting him in the lonely dark once more. He’d find another maid. Miss Sarah Crewe would never do. She was the brightest of lights, and he was allergic to the sun.
Isabella screamed, though she didn’t make a sound. As she followed Mrs. Smith into the dark stairway, the scream she could not let loose echoed off her ribs, her skull, her heart. To think, she’d stood before the hotel ownercomposed,as if she didn’t care one way or another that he could control her, could strip from her that which she needed.
Banished from Hestia.
Banished.
She gripped the wall to keep from wobbling, each step down dragging heavier than the one before.
True, there were other hotels, other ways to listen and gather information like precious jewels. But this one avenue wouldnever offer up its riches again. Its hallways would offer nothing but secrets from this day forward.
All because she’d refused to do that devil’s bidding. Pretend to be his wife? Impossible, even for a day. And it was not simply the scandal that would ensue if she were caught. It washim. Too big, too menacing, too powerful, but worst of all, too rousing. She did not even like dark-haired men, had never given them a second glance. She liked golden-haired princes with lovely manners and… and… Well, she had never found any of that sort rousing, especially not to the point of worry.
No, she could not possibly do as he’d asked, which meant she must sacrifice the Hestia. And that, well, it felt like stepping into the darkness of the unknown.
Chapter Five
Could a man so well muscled, so well-endowed, and so well situated between a woman’s thighs really scowl so terribly? Apparently, he could. Did the artist sketch the scene from memory or from imagination? Hopefully the latter, but then why would he imagine such a scowling liaison?
“Italian artists must have odd ideas about fornication,” Isabella said. “They take it quite seriously it seems.” She peeked at the parlor door—closed—before turning the page of the battered notebook she held gently in her hands. She tried not to consider what residue might have created the stains on its cover. She moved the pages gently. They seemed fragile, corners torn in places. Clearly much loved.
Around the circle, her sisters chuckled. Imogen, Felicity, and their older sisters Lottie, Andromeda, and Prudence. They’d all had their turn to take a peek, and Isabella felt their amused gazes on her as she flipped from sketch to sketch.
