Not knowing whom she'd find seated at the table, Marty reluctantly entered the breakfast room. Last night's festivities had left a sour taste in her mouth. Both Greshams--Gregory and Giles--had ogled her past the point of comfort. And if she'd momentarily enjoyed physical contact during the dance with Gregory, it had immediately vanished when he'd made that inane comment about being easy to satisfy.
Sex. That was all men of his type wanted.
The breakfast room was empty. She couldn't have overslept again. No, her watch and the grandfather clock stationed next to the sideboard showed the time as five minutes after eight. Silver dishes were stacked near domed platters on hot plates. Decanters of beverages--hot and cold--sat next to delicate cups of china. Everything was ready, so where was everybody?
A fumbling at the door attracted her attention. Nardo entered carrying a heavy stack of newspapers.
"You're here," he muttered.
He made it sound like an accusation.
"That's right. Am I too early for breakfast?"
Struggling under the weight of the papers, Nardo pulled one off and dropped it at the head of the table. He repeated his actions until eight different newspapers were placed at even intervals. Then he finally answered, "Too late, more like."
Late? "Excuse me?"
"It's Sunday, miss. The family left fifteen minutes ago t'hear the vicar's sermon."
Marty took another look at the damask tablecloth. Its pristine whiteness was blemished with a few remaining crumbs and coffee stains.
"Mr. Gresham gave orders for you not t'be disturbed. Didn't think you'd want t'go t'church," the butler continued.
Orange juice beckoned so Marty poured herself a glass. "He thinks I'm a heathen?"
"Aark!" Nardo sputtered and coughed. His face turned vivid pink and that nose of his shortened even more. "No, miss. I didn't mean t'imply..."
Grinning, Marty patted him on his meager arm. "Of course not. I was just pulling your leg."
He glanced down at his lower limb as if she intended to follow through with her words.
"It's okay, Nardo. Really. Look, I'll just get a bite to eat and wait 'til the others get back. How's that?"
The butler lowered his head and shuffled his feet back and forth on the polished, hardwood floor. "Didn't mean t'tork you off, miss. You see, his lordship gave me a chance, he did. Took a shining to me way back when. Worked my way up to this position."
Nardo coughed again. "I can tell his lordship likes you, miss. And we--the staff, I mean--we hope he'll get all his marbles back. He's a good master."
His concern for his boss genuinely touched her. For the first time since arriving at Embrey Hall she was truly glad she'd accepted this position. "I'll do my best to help the viscount. I promise you that."
He bobbed his head and held out a chair for her to sit. "Allow me, miss."
After settling her in, he then offered tray upon tray of still-steaming, mouth-watering food. As a final gesture, he picked up the Sunday Times and placed it by her side. He gave her a nod, a wink, and then with a squeak from his shiny black shoes, slipped out of the room.
Smiling to herself, Marty perused the first page of the newspaper. Only in England two days, and already she could count Lottie, Compton, Nardo, and the viscount as friends. Too bad the rest of Embrey Hall wasn't as easy to win over.
* * * *
Inside the tiny country church, the intruder sat, worrying. It was easy to feel like an outsider in a place like this--townsfolk piously bending their heads as they listened to the old windbag drone on and on about personal redemption or whatever his hobbyhorse was this week. Who had anything in common with these insignificant, boring little nobodies?
Personal redemption. That phrase stuck in the intruder's craw. And why shouldn't it? Personal redemption was definitely at stake here. Or personal happiness. Everything the intruder had worked for was now precariously perched on the edge of a precipice.
Hiring Ms. Marty Jackson was turning out to be a colossal mistake. Why hadn't Smythe-Davis mentioned the fitness trainer's sex? Not only was the doddering viscount besotted by the bloody tart, but Gregory Gresham was as well. Which could lead to serious complications.
The congregation stood, and the intruder followed suit. Yes, Marty Jackson could very well upset the applecart. Something would have to be done about her--and soon. Maybe as soon as today.
The intruder opened the musty hymnal and prepared to sing with the rest of the people. If the omens were favorable, then the next time this congregation met, it would be for a funeral.
* * * *
Marty was well into the Sunday Times when the breakfast room door opened. Florence Whipple peeked her matronly face inside. "So here you are hiding! I've been looking everywhere for you."
She lumbered over to the sideboard and lifted a gleaming, silver pot. "How about a nice cup of tea?"
"No, thanks. I've already had my coffee."
Setting down the pot, Florence's thin lips drooped. "Pity you won't share a cup with me. Our special brew, you know."
Marty knew. If all it took to please the woman was to drink some tea, then she'd be foolish to refuse it. "All right, you've convinced me."
The older lady beamed and poured some for Marty.
She took a sip. Florence's tea actually tasted pretty good. Marty smiled at the woman. "Is everyone home from church?"
"Dearie me, no. I slipped away early. Some kind of bake sale right after services. Normally, I love to attend but..." Florence fluttered a handkerchief to dot at perspiration around her sagging neck. "...but Raymond doesn't seem to need me today."
Melancholy enveloped the woman so thickly, it was almost visible. Poor Florence. Some people's self-esteem depended upon their caregiving roles. Restless, Marty had an urge for exercise. "Since no one's home yet, would you like to go for a walk with me?"
"What an absolutely fabulous idea! I'll show you my special garden where I grow all my herbs and vegetables."
Florence actually glowed with happiness. Talk about a fast-turnaround.
"First let me change into sturdy shoes. Be right back, dearie."
Marty returned to her bedroom to get her wide-brimmed hat. Not that the sun threatened to freckle her nose. In fact, the grey clouds looked swollen, readying to dump a torrent of rain. The air hung heavy with a damp, earthy smell.
Once outside, Florence led Marty through the wrought iron gates, down the brick pathway through one flower garden, past an area with rows of shaped hedges, and on into a small, abundant vegetable plot.
"These are my babies." Florence clapped her hands together with obvious maternal pride. "Just look at the size of these cucumbers. Big enough to bat a ball with! Now look at the succulent peas--why, aren't they the sweetest things? What about these potatoes? Most impressive, I think. And my chives flourish the year round. Lovely, don't you agree?"
Clearly, the woman had a green thumb.
She lowered herself to her knees and began weeding. "Too bad, though. You just missed the bloom on the chives. Raymond adores their purple flowers."
Grabbing a bushy, green growth, she pulled out a carrot. "Here, shake off the dirt and eat it. Have you ever tasted anything so divine? Embrey Hall is almost self-sufficient." Florence puffed up with obvious pride. "Fruits and vegetables. Even the milk comes from estate cows."
Marty wiped the carrot clean, then nibbled on it. "You're right. It is a bit of heaven."
From Florence's pleased expression, it looked like Marty had said the right thing.
A light drizzle began falling but Florence didn't seem to notice. Getting ready to leave, Marty glanced around the vegetable garden when she noticed a long-stemmed plant. About four feet tall, it had dramatically veined, heart-shaped leaves and clusters of small white flowers.
"This plant is unusual, Florence. What do you call it?"
The older woman removed her pince-nez, rubbed the lenses with a handkerchief, then replaced them back on her nose. For some reason, she mumbled her response. "That? Dearie me, I have no earthly idea."
Thunder rolled once...twice, then buckets of rain drenched the garden...and every living thing in sight. Marty helped Florence to her feet, and they both hurried to the Hall.
All the way back, Marty brooded. Why did she get the feeling that Florence wasn't telling the truth about that weird plant?
* * * *
Why was the path to salvation paved with tedious sermons? At least, it seemed that way to Gregory. And why not? After all, the blasted country vicar was as dry as week-old toast.
While Raymond held an umbrella to ward off the downpour, Gregory navigated his father's wheelchair through puddles of rainwater and up the slate stones to the entry door. Without warning, lightning, then thunder clashed, causing him to jump with guilt at his impious thought.
"Devil take it, Gregory. I don't want to f-fall off the demmed... chair!"
"A thousand pardons, sir. I'll get you safely inside."
His father's harumph indicated that he also was in an ill-humor, perhaps for the same reason as Gregory. If so, they weren't done suffering. The source of today's discontent brought up the rear in the line now entering Embrey Hall. Vicar Patrick along with his double chin and bulging stomach would no doubt avail himself of the custom to stay on for lunch, even though he'd only been invited for a glass of sherry.
Gregory handed the dripping umbrella to Nardo, brushed wetness from the sleeves of his jacket, and watched as the others crowded into the dimly lit entryway. Helena, in the manner of a dog shaking itself dry, managed to send droplets of water flying.
"Upon my soul! Manners." Raymond turned an alarming shade of red. "Don't you young folk have any manners? Demmed pack of... snivelers, anyway."
For once, Helena looked chagrined.
But that was beside the point. Raymond couldn't afford to get upset. Signaling to Compton, Gregory placed his other hand on Raymond's right shoulder. "It's been a long morning, sir. Here's your valet now. He'll get you comfortable. Then you can have your session with Ms. Jackson before lunch."
His father jerked Gregory's hand away. "Don't placate me, you demmed p-puppy. Sometimes I think Ms. Jackson is...the only sensible one in the house."
Gregory exchanged a worried glance with Compton as the valet wheeled Raymond away. It wasn't like his father to be so cantankerous.
Giles cracked his knuckles and yawned. "I'd say our Ms. Jackson will have her hands full today."
Helena wrinkled her long nose. "Pish! Who cares about her? Why don't we have a drink to the viscount's health?" She leaned over to speak into the vicar's chubby ear. "The sherry here is divine."
As if Patrick didn't know.
Helena trotted past Gregory, then turned around to gaze up at him. "Coming, darling?"
Gregory cleared his throat. "Er, no. Not just yet. I must...er, ring up my associate. Business." A white lie, harmless but necessary. He'd had enough of these people for a while. "You go on."
Helena took on the hostess duties and patted the vicar on the arm. "You and Kitty must stay for lunch. Without a doubt, Cook is preparing the traditional roast beef. I do so love meat as rare as blood."
Evidently, Patrick also did, for he licked his lips. Kitty gave Gregory a demure smile then followed her husband and Helena to the rose salon. Only Giles hung back. Standing in front of the hall mirror, he adjusted his tie. "Your pater's in a bit of a snit, hey?"
"He's not used to so many visitors. Perhaps it's too much activity...and too soon." Gregory could sympathize. Nine times out of ten he preferred his own company to the likes of those now inhabiting the rose salon.
Giles finished with his primping. "Planning to return to London tonight?"
"Yes, yes I am. The air gets very stifling around my fiancée." Gregory took an impatient step. "What about you? Do you need a lift back to town?"
"No. Actually I thought I'd stay here and be a comfort to Uncle Raymond."
Obviously his cousin spoke tongue-in-cheek. But Gregory knew the real reason Giles was keen on staying at the Hall.
Gregory narrowed his eyes. "Ms. Jackson is our guest here. Leave her alone."
Giles' laugh had a contemptuous tone to it. "Gregory, old boy, if I didn't know any better, I'd swear you were a trifle over-fond of the girl. Care to bonk her yourself?"
Gregory growled. "Just leave her alone."
Taking the stairs two at a time, he struggled to get his emotions under control. Part of the problem was that he did indeed wish to...er, have sex with Marty.
Who wouldn't? He had normal sex drives, and she was something out of the ordinary.
Well, put your hormones on hold, Gresham. Marty Jackson is not a typical one-night stand.
And he had neither the time nor inclination to get involved with an American. Not to mention that he was already engaged, a fact he increasingly kept forgetting.
Gregory would look in on his father, throw an indirect warning Marty's way about Giles, and then go pack his suitcase. For the first time in memory, he couldn't wait to leave Embrey Hall.
* * * *
Much to Marty's chagrin, Florence entered the back door into the kitchen with a bang, then made a mad dash through the busy working area.
"Dearie me," Florence exclaimed. "Must get dry. I can't be seen like this! What if Raymond finds out?"
Her very actions thwarted her spoken intentions. All four staffers in the room stopped their actions and turned to watch the waterlogged woman exit.
Which left Marty standing exposed. Removing a dishcloth hanging on a rack, she remained where she was to towel off.
"Got caught in the rain," she commented. Good grief, but it was cold inside.
Explanations were unnecessary. One younger worker snickered, but everyone returned to work.
Marty placed her drowned hat on the counter. It had all the substance of soggy cornflakes. A few swipes with the dishcloth ensured she wouldn't drip all over the floor. Not wanting to disturb anyone further, she tiptoed from the bustling kitchen into a darkened corridor. The sooner she got warm, the better.
Now where was she? Trying to find her bearings, she bumped headlong into something...or someone...or...
Of all the luck! She'd collided into none other than the honorable Gregory Gresham.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" She'd never spoken truer words. Talk about looking like a mess. Her T-shirt was plastered to her body, her hair hung down like wet noodles, and goose bumps the size of mole hills littered her bare arms.
Body heat from the oh-so-attractive and dry Mr. Gresham indecently seeped into her skin. Already she'd lingered one second too long against the solid feel of him. It wouldn't do for him to get the wrong idea. She stepped away. He lifted an eyebrow and folded his arms across his broad chest. Good thing he didn't seem to mind the wet stain darkening his business suit. "Take a dip in the river?"
"No, I--" Was there a look of amusement twinkling his grey eyes? Following his gaze, she glanced down at her T-shirt. There, showing through the soaked material, were her nipples, full and hard.
Intense embarrassment heated her cheeks. Why weren't bras made out of iron? Either she could cross her arms over the explicit display or she could pretend she wasn't standing in front of an appealing hunk, with her every curve and crevasse revealed to his obvious enjoyment. Cripes. What a choice. She pulled the shirt out, away from her skin, then tossed a dripping lock of hair off her forehead. "I...ah, I like to shower outside."
Her attempt at humor didn't sit well with him. An angry cloud descended over his features and he pointed a finger at her. "Where the devil were you? You should be dancing attendance on the viscount. That's what we're paying you for. Not to go cavorting around nearly naked."
The unfairness of the attack took her breath away. His steely gaze bore into her, which made her straighten. How dare he imply she intentionally walked around like she was practicing to enter a wet T-shirt contest. She thrust out her jaw, readying for a showdown.
One of Embrey Hall's workers walked into the corridor, causing Gresham to grab Marty around the upper arm and yank her into an empty room like a sack of potatoes. "Can't have anyone seeing you like this." He took off his suit coat and handed it to her. "Here, put this on. It will prevent gossip."
"Will it? I'd say me wearing your jacket would be more newsworthy than me coming in drenched from the rain."
She refused to take the garment. Heading for one of the windows in the informal sitting room, she passed a table abundantly stocked with bottles of liquor. Someone at Embrey Hall certainly liked to drink. She reached the window, then lifted a sheer curtain to stare out at the now-fine mist drizzling the landscape.
"Which, by the way, is where I was--outside, with your aunt. Since your father was at church, I saw no harm in exploring the gardens with Florence."
Gresham didn't answer. Marty turned around to find him regarding her with the strangest look in his eyes.
He cleared his throat, then held out his coat again. "For pity's sake, put on the blasted jacket!"
She shrugged. "Sure." Slipping on the jacket, she had to withhold a laugh. She must've looked a sight with her arms flopping about in the overlong sleeves.
A masculine scent enveloped her, and she paused to identify it. It was his woodsy aftershave. She admitted to herself she rather liked the sensation.
Marty shook herself out of her reverie. "Ah, I'll change now and see if your father is ready to exercise."
Again, he didn't respond.
"Is that okay with you, Mr. Gresham? I wouldn't want you to think you weren't getting your money's worth."
Gresham took his time rolling up his shirt sleeves, then poured a drink from a brandy bottle. He didn't bother to offer her one--not that she would have accepted. "What I think about this financial transaction is irrelevant, Ms. Jackson."
She watched in amazement as he polished off the drink.
He poured another. "You may go, Ms. Jackson."
"With pleasure." She couldn't get out of there fast enough. With the coat's sleeves flapping in the breeze, she zoomed into the corridor and headed for her bedroom.
Mom always said her daughter had a sharp temper buried below the easygoing surface. At least when Marty was around Gresham, Mom was right. Something about him scrambled her brain. Pompous know-it-all. But why did it hurt just to think about him?
Marty rested against the staircase's mahogany banister and took a deep breath. Forget Gresham. You have a job to do.
A startled cry caught her attention. Looking down the hallway, she spotted Helena Devoe glaring at her. By the expression on the nose-in-the-air, blue-blooded lady's face, Marty Jackson was not going to live to see her twenty-ninth birthday.