Because he would never love any woman but Lavender, he did not contemplate a life sentence with another. He had always known Lavender’s parents would not consent to her marrying a man in trade. He had always known he was not gently born; yet when she’d told him both, he took her rejection like an angry child...until sanity rescued him. He had nothing to offer the well-bred beauty, nothing but a head full of dreams and a home he shared with his mother and young sister, nothing but love and the will to better himself, both of which she had spurned.
Soon after, she’d married a wealthy banker.
Determined to prove himself good enough for anyone or die trying, he left for the goldfields in Ballarat. Within the next two years, he’d earned enough money to leave his parents’ dilapidated warehouse and begin the empire he now owned. However, no amount of money could replace the haughty beauty whose smile had brightened the dreariest winter, whose body had warmed the coldest bed.
And nothing could make him trust another woman with his dreams.
* * * *
“Water’s hot, Mr. Seymour.”
Alasdair grunted. He rolled onto his back as the bedroom door closed behind Ellen. As always, he raised his arms, stretching and lacing his fingers together, turning his palms uppermost. Then he eased each arm to the side, connecting on his right with a fleshed presence.
“Sorry. I forgot you were there.”
“I shouldn’t be,” said the shopgirl, the supposedly ex-laundress, the assuredly ex-whore, her expression guarded. “In a house this size, no one needs to share a bed.”
“To convince the servants of our hasty marriage, we do.” He yawned. “That’s why I needed a female like you. I could hardly ask an innocent to sleep with me.”
“You let me think—”
“I don’t enjoy sharing any more than you do. I’m used to sleeping in the middle.” He sat up and glanced at her. “What happened to your hair?”
Her assessing eyes examined his face. “Lice,” she said finally, sliding out of bed. “Little crawly things. When they breed in your hair, you get your head shaved.”
“I wasn’t wondering why you don’t have long hair. I meant your hair looked...” He could hardly say “pretty.” In this forced bed-sharing situation, a compliment could be misconstrued. “Softer.” He scratched his neck, hoping the itch wasn’t due to a bite.
She pressed her lips together and averted her gaze. “What should I do today?” she asked in a casual voice.
“Stand beside me. Smile when you meet my sister.” He swung out of bed, tangled in the nightshirt. Normally, he slept naked. “For the next two weeks, you’re my dutiful wife.” He walked over to the hot water, hauling the blasted nightshirt over his head. After tying a clean towel from the rack around his waist, he picked up his hairbrush, which had snagged a few long, curly, brown hairs. He put the brush down again.
As he stropped his razor, his conscience pricked him. “Perhaps you ought to use the water before I shave.”
“I had a bath last night.”
“And you’ll wash every morning, too. Hurry. I don’t want to stand around half-naked.” In the future, he would get Ellen to fill two basins.
He turned toward the window. Low brick walls and paths sectioned the back area into herb, vegetable, and flower gardens, with fruit trees along the sidewall of the coach house and stables, from behind which the sun was emerging. From where he stood, he could see straight ahead to the trickling river.
Derry, the gardener, had begun to weed. The housemaid, Ellen, walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. She smiled. Derry stood, shading his eyes and grinning back. The two were clearly smitten, although no betrothal had been announced as yet.
After a little splashing, Starling said, “Thank you for the new underclothes.”
“I said I’d buy the trimmings.”
“The trimmings are pretty. With ribbons.”
“Good.”
She splashed without speaking, then she said, after clearing her throat, “Need the chamber pot.”
He turned to face her. “I need the chamber pot.”
“After you.” She tilted her head to the side, like a big-eyed bird hoping for a morsel.
He crossed his arms. “Don’t throw orders at me. If you want the chamber pot, say, ‘I want the chamber pot,’ and if you expect me to listen to you, say ‘please.’”
“I need the chamber pot, please.”
“I don’t have one.” Fortunately. As her employer, he was already forced into more intimacy with her than he wanted. “There’s a privy room near the stairs. I’ll show you where if you’ll just wait for me to put my trousers on.”
“Be pleased.”
“I’d be pleased.”
Her eyes widened. “Well, then, you should’ve put them on before.”
He laughed, surprised by her neat trap.
After her trip down the passage, she didn’t dress, and she showed no signs of preparing to do so before Ellen entered bearing the best silver to set his table for breakfast.
“Was the bed comfortable, Mrs. Seymour?” Ellen asked.
“Lovely.”
“I hope the master—”
“Careful,” Alasdair warned. “It might be safer if you brought in breakfast without speaking.”
“I was just going to say that I hope that the master enjoyed—”
“Ellen!”
“Supper last night, by himself. I thought he shoulda—”
“For God’s sake, bring breakfast!”
Ellen scuttled out of the room.
Alasdair couldn’t imagine why he’d assumed Ellen was asking about his wedding night. Maybe she had meant to. She could be scurrilous at times.
His “wife” sat silently while the maid served breakfast. Alasdair watched in amazement while Ellen set a slab of butter beside Starling, a full toast rack, and three eggs. He was left with one slice of toast and one egg. Ellen left the room with her nose in the air.
He rested his hands in his lap. Starling waited. He cleared his throat. She stared at him.
“Use the butter. The toast is getting soggy.”
“I was waitin’ f’you.”
He wondered why she had suddenly developed a strange accent when he had hired her because she spoke well. Or was she trying him again? If she continued, he would simply make sure she kept that rather lush mouth of hers closed most of the time. “Perhaps you don’t know that ladies begin first.”
She picked up her knife, cut off a portion of butter, and began to spread it on her toast. Fortunately, she had graceful movements. She would pass as respectably born should she behave with the modesty and decorum he expected.
When she reached for a second piece of toast, he noticed her chapped hands and ragged fingernails. He lifted his eyebrows. At least their work-worn condition showed that she could do something other than spread her legs.
She piled her butter high, her shoulders lifted with expectation. “The food ’ere’s good. Do the cook serve lunch’n, too?”
“Yes. Ladies have luncheon, gentlemen have a midday repast, and we all have dinner at eight.”
“Will