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  When she started to resist, he dared to drag his hand over the curve of her breast, hoping to tempt her more. She wore heavy wool and a thick corset, but still, she shuddered at the touch. She would be so beautifully responsive if he could just—

  She placed both hands on his chest and shoved. She was not a small woman, and she did not hold back her strength. She might have succeeded with a smaller man. Ash held his place, but dropped his arms, releasing her. He wanted her to be as willing and ready as he.

  “Then I will remember not to walk in the garden with you again, my lord.”

  She stomped off, leaving him to find his own blind way back.

  It had been worth it, he decided in satisfaction. Miss Christie was no helpless servant. She was a passionate woman and appeared to be exactly what he needed to release this frustration eating at him.

  He just needed to find out who she really was so he could formulate the necessary argument to persuade her to his way of thinking.

  Harriet’s agitation must have been evident when she returned to the salon. Even the spirits swirled incoherently in her head. Moira sent her a questioning look and suggested tea. Tea couldn’t erase the delicious taste of Ashford from her lips. Never had she been kissed with such hunger and passion. Or experience, she reminded herself.

  Her heart was breaking, and she couldn’t even explain to herself why she must leave this most desirable position. How could she possibly explain to anyone else? She couldn’t. No one who could see her would believe the handsome, commanding marquess of Ashford would have an interest in her, even if he was blind. He might have a rakehell reputation, but not with unmarried ladies, and certainly not with ugly spinsters.

  Was that the problem? Did he not believe she was a lady? Or a maiden? Had she done anything to convince him otherwise? Since she wasn’t who she said she was, she certainly couldn’t argue her case effectively.

  So, she should leave. And go where? It would be April before she had money of her own. She didn’t even know when she could expect payment for her services in Ashford’s household.

  She struggled with the dilemma the rest of the morning.

  To her utter dismay, the marquess joined them for luncheon. She swallowed hard and tried not to watch the chiseled lips that had seduced her, but he’d deliberately taken the end of the table at her right. She couldn’t ignore his impressive size or provocative proximity or forget how it had felt when he’d touched her. Her breast burned in memory.

  “Miss McDowell, I trust the salon is arranged. I need to borrow Miss Christie this afternoon. My lamentable correspondence continues to pile up,” he said, locating his teacup where the footman had carefully placed it.

  “What about your two earls and a duke, my lord?” Harriet asked, without the sarcasm he deserved.

  “They are unfortunately unable to deal with my correspondence,” he said, with just the right wry humor. “But if you would sit in the meeting with us, you could take notes. The next batch of letters will no doubt reflect today’s discussion.”

  He sat there as aloof as any employer, concentrating on finding the prepared sandwiches on his plate. They’d been cut to be devoured in two bites, so he needn’t deal with floppy bread or slippery ham. Viciously Harriet considered exchanging plates just to see if she could embarrass him as he had her.

  But she’d been embarrassed so many times before that she could not convince herself that the crime deserved the punishment.

  “I know it is not always obvious,” she said frostily, “but I am a lady. A female, as you will. You cannot expect me to sit in on a closed meeting with four gentlemen, even had I the ability to understand a word said.”

  “Yes, but I am an Ives, and as you have no doubt been told, I have little care for what society believes about females, ladies or not. I am only interested in what they can do. These particular lords are morons, and I am quite certain even a monkey is perfectly capable of understanding far more than they utter.”

  Moira spluttered her water. Harriet had to bite into a sandwich to keep her mouth from falling open in shock. By the time she’d finished chewing, the marquess was looking satisfied with himself. Having gained control again, Harriet replied with the same frost as earlier. “You are incorrigible. I will have Lady Aster begin searching for a chimpanzee to act as your secretary.”

  One of the spirits in her head was frantically trying to convey panic and the other was laughing in approval. No wonder she thought of herself as two people. Even the voices in her head didn’t agree.

  She shut out the headache they caused and turned to Moira. “Please, if you would, could you ask your cousin if she might know of a quiet companion’s position in some rural abode? It need not be for a long term, but it would be preferable if the house did not contain any insolent males.”

  With that, she rose from the table and left the room before the marquess could even find his feet. Or his tongue.

  She needed a good country walk so she might work off the steam boiling her blood. No one had ever infuriated her so much.

  Well, to be perfectly honest—which she hated to do under the circumstances—no one had ever paid enough notice of her to deliberately infuriate her. Perhaps it was all this unaccustomed attention that was leaving her a little . . . frazzled.

  If only she did not feel the marquess’s pain and frustration so much! Perhaps that was it. She felt what he did and had begun to express it in the same way—even more reason to leave. She didn’t want to turn into a witch on top of being ugly and unlovable.

  Although if she gave that much thought, perhaps becoming a witch was just what she needed, were such a thing possible. She’d turn Townsend into a toad and simply take over one of her properties without a qualm.

  Until the miraculous happened, however, she had to hide.

  7

  Jacques Ives-Bellamy paced Ash’s office Friday morning, stopping every so often, presumably to examine the paintings on the walls. Ash would ask his half-brother to describe them, but the news Jacques had brought was more pertinent.

  “I have a letter right here on my desk from Townsend offering to trade his daughter’s hand in marriage for his help in defeating Wellington’s administration. And now you tell me the wench is missing?” Ash rubbed his brow, hit the scar, and scowled. “Do I really need to hear this?”

  Jacques began shuffling through a bookshelf. “You told me to look into Miss Christie’s reference, which came from Miss Harriet Townsend. When I made inquiries, I was told Miss Townsend had recently left to stay with a cousin. So I hung about a bit in the local pub, lifted a mug or two with some of the kitchen staff. They gave me the name of her cousin.”

  Ash had known the lady was lying. He wasn’t certain if he was ready to hear it proved. With a low growl, he leaned his chair back and followed his half-brother’s pacing. The office had no window, but he thought he saw a flicker every time Jacques walked past a lamp.

  He’d mentioned the flickers to his physician back in Surrey. Dr. Joseph had said that merely proved his impairment was neurological rather than ocular. Ash translated that to mean it was in his head, not his eyes, and did not feel comforted.

  “Go on,” he said, trying to imagine where this might be going and failing.

  “Her cousin lives a few hundred miles away, so I was reduced to sending letters. Keep in mind that Miss Harriet Townsend is an unmarried female of twenty-four, and it appears she took no maid or family carriage on this journey.”

  “Which she made directly after writing her companion a reference,” Ash said, following his train of thought. “And after Miss Christie told me her employer was in London to buy her trousseau, presumably for an upcoming wedding. Runaway bride? Have you had any responses to your letters?”

  “The cousin in question is visiting a friend in Cornwall. I have not tracked her down,” Jacques said in a tone that expressed his annoyance. “If Townsend is attempting to marry off his stepdaughter, when Miss Christie says Miss Townsend is planning a wedding,
there appears to be some discrepancy in their stories. Perhaps we should ask the baron where his stepdaughter has hared off to so precipitously.”

  “Most likely, she objects to being traded for votes,” Ash said with cynicism. “Pity. We could have offered to marry Miss Townsend off to Bryghtstone and gained his two boroughs.”

  “Townsend?” Aster asked from the doorway. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “It was on that letter of reference you brought me from Miss Christie.” Ash had given up any attempt at privacy. The townhouse contained too many people and was too blasted small. He really ought to sell it. Except it was an excellent size for finding his way around. Perhaps he ought to sell off his relations, instead, as Townsend meant to do.

  “Townsend, yes,” Aster mused aloud. “I didn’t pay attention to the signature. I’m pretty certain the name is in my files somewhere. I shall have to look.”

  She was gone in a breeze of exotic scents. Aster favored the jungle her father had sent home in his youth, Ash had learned. He thought her soap might be sandalwood today. And her perfume was decidedly un-English.

  “Let’s wait to see what Erran has discovered about Lord Townsend. Then perhaps we should invite him over to tea to discuss his vote.” Ash leaned back in his chair and plotted the entertainment such a visit might provide. Now that he thought about it, it was interesting that Miss Chris had not provided a reference from the baron.

  “Visitors wait in the anteroom,” Moira said, pacing the smaller front chamber adjacent to the foyer and drawing room. “They must be shown Ives’ wealth and grandeur.”

  “At the same time, they are likely to be dripping wet or covered in snow,” Harriet pointed out. “A tile floor, perhaps, with a good wool Axminster carpet.”

  She had no difficulty speaking in housekeeping terms since that was all she’d had to occupy her mind for years. If she could just stay away from the mad marquess . . .

  “The Axminster looms burned a few years ago,” Moira replied, her thoughts obviously traveling onward. “They might have some limited stock left, or we could buy second-hand and save a few guineas. Or look at Turkey carpets. I like the idea of marble tile. We’d need the carpet first, to determine the other colors.”

  Harriet sat at a writing desk, jotting notes. Lady Aster whirled in, trailing a smocked and aproned young girl missing most of her fingers on one hand.

  “Muster is our new housemaid. She’ll be keeping the fireplaces clean and lit this winter. I need to show her around, but first, Miss Christie, we need to talk about your previous employer.”

  Harriet had learned that Lady Aster and her family trained and employed workhouse women while they toiled tirelessly to support the labor bills the conservatives refused to consider. Little by little, she was grasping the importance of Ashford’s position and was in awe of what the women of his household could accomplish.

  Mention of her previous employer, however, meant her new position here might be in more jeopardy then she’d feared. She tried not to look nervous or guilty. “Miss Townsend? Is there a problem?”

  “She is the baron’s stepdaughter, is she not?” Aster sent the maid to the next parlor with a gesture.

  “Yes,” Harriet said in puzzlement.

  “What is her full name and her mother’s name?”

  Harriet didn’t know how to reply. Lady Aster appeared to be emanating distress and excitement equally. “Russell is her father’s name,” she said, offering as little as she could.

  “Ah, yes, the Russell is familiar. That will help, thank you! Did you know your former employer appears to have gone missing?” Aster started from the room after her new housemaid.

  “Gone missing?” Moira called after her. “Aster, come back here!”

  “Later,” the copper-haired lady said with a wave. “Let me do the research first.” She cast a look back at Harriet. “You said your birthday was in April, did you not?”

  She had given the lady her correct birthday when she’d first arrived. Moira had explained that drawing zodiac charts was her cousin’s hobby. Harriet nodded and lifted her eyebrows questioningly, but the lady merely looked satisfied and swept out. Harriet had the distressing notion that she should have lied about her birthday as well.

  Despairing over where she could hide next, she apparently grew so quiet that Moira noticed. The slender blonde stopped her chatter to pat Harriet on the back sympathetically. “Sometimes it is difficult to adjust to a strange place, is it not? And this place, admittedly, is stranger than most.”

  “I fear I am out of my depth,” Harriet agreed with a sigh—the bold Christie had left the room. “I think, perhaps, I should just go home. I only meant to find a place where I could be useful.”

  “You have been so marvelously useful that I fear I cannot bear to ever part with you!” Moira cried. “Tell me what we must do to keep you until you learn to endure our eccentricities. I truly have hopes of opening my own shop someday, with your help, of course.”

  Harriet let Moira’s fantasy distract from her worries. “Your family would allow you to open a shop?”

  Moira waved a dismissive hand. “What else will they do with me? They have six daughters, and my father’s estate is entailed to his only son. Emilia has a large dowry from our grandparents, but my annoying sister is in no hurry to marry and help us out. We’re all Malcolm gifted, which threatens the wealthy gentlemen who might want wives for mere ornamentation. My mother spends her time helping our father with politics. I am nothing.”

  “Malcolm gifted?” Harriet was fascinated with the idea of a large family. She’d had no notion that one could feel lost with so many others around.

  “It is why Aster keeps charts,” Moira said, returning to measuring the windows. “Our ancestry dates back to a family of so-called witches centuries ago. Or further back, to the Druids, if one believes our old journals. Aster has a gift for prediction based on the stars. I merely bring happiness by matching my designs to the people who will live with them—which is why it’s so frustrating working here!”

  That was almost too much for Harriet to absorb at once, but it certainly distracted from her own fears. And here she’d just been wishing she was a witch who could turn people into toads!

  She let the impossible about witches and Druids pass by while she concentrated on Moira’s emotions. The lovely blond lady truly was vexed.

  But how did one match room designs to people to make them happy? “You cannot give the marquess the design he needs because he cannot see it?” Harriet guessed.

  “Possibly.” Moira made a mark on the woodwork with her pencil. “But if I could make the people around him happy, that might improve his humor. Except look at all the people around him! And none of them actually live here. How do I work with that?”

  “You cannot,” Harriet said, thinking of the crowds of people passing through these rooms, and the marquess living here essentially alone while his family led their lives without him. “You will have to expand your abilities to encompass strangers. What will make them happy to be here so they’ll deal more pleasantly with Ashford?”

  She could not believe she’d just said that. She actually believed Moira could make people happy with draperies and upholstery?

  But Moira visibly brightened and hastened down the ladder to pick up her sketchbook. “That might work! I’ve never done anything like it. Usually I need only please a bored lady or her children. But the marquess’s guests . . . Perhaps my instincts were right . . .” Her voice trailed off as she sketched.

  Harriet really did not wish to give up this wonderful new life she could see sparkling in her future like an inviting green-land path filled with fairies and . . . Druids. Here, she didn’t mind being plain and lumpish because in this fantasyland, people listened to her anyway. She could say what she thought and not be told she was a stupid cow. She could be regal Christie or the amusing Miss Chris.

  And even though it was about to break her heart, she couldn’t dither any longer. She had
to leave, tonight, if possible. If Ashford was looking into her reference, she would be out on the street soon anyway.

  8

  Ash sat in his bedchamber playing with fire.

  It wasn’t as if he had much else to do while everyone else slept. Perhaps he should find a woman desperate enough to marry a mad blind marquess just so he had a woman to read to him on sleepless nights. Although right now, he’d prefer a woman for a far different purpose.

  He struck one of the new lucifer matches Erran had brought over and could see the sparks drop to the hearth. Erran had said the flames could be explosively large and dangerous, but all Ash saw was a vague glimmer against the perpetual darkness.

  If he stood close enough, he could see the coals burning in the grate. He added more lumps from the bucket and thought he saw the fire flare.

  Of course, that could just be wishful thinking.

  The old stairs creaked overhead. He tilted his head and listened to the wind howl and almost dismissed the sound as part of the orchestra of noises a house like this produced. Windows rattled, doors shook, stairs creaked.

  But this was a steady, methodical squeak on the back stairs when all the servants should be in their beds. If that was Hartley out to feed another damned puppy . . .

  But no, Hartley was faster and lighter on his feet. Only one other person in the household would be creeping down those stairs at this hour.

  He should let her go. Last spring, he would have said good riddance. If she was a spy, she’d learned nothing new. If she was out to steal the family jewels, she’d discovered there weren’t any.

  Except, in these last months, he’d had ample time to lie in his lonely bed and examine what was left of his life. When he’d been whole, he’d taken a great deal for granted that he could no longer expect to ever have again. Women and bed play were part of that loss. They had been his release from the tedious duties of his life, a vital pleasure that he missed almost as much as his sight.