Steven considered the woman before him. Petite, with golden hair tied in a knot at the nape of her neck, she stood ramrod straight with her head held high, much like he imagined a defendant might do while facing judgment.
A stray curl grazed one cheek, drawing his attention to the smoothness of her skin, which was as pale as freshly poured milk. Eyes, the bluest he’d ever seen, seemed to scrutinize him in return from behind a fringe of long black lashes. A delicate nose sat immediately above a pair of lush lips which were shaded a deep rosy hue so vibrant they looked like they must be painted. Impossible, since such was not permitted for servants, which meant this scullery maid had been born with a beauty most upper-class women would envy.
“What’s your name?” Steven asked, applying the same no nonsense tone he always used when dealing with employees and business associates.
The woman opened her mouth.
“Jane Smith,” Mr. Greene said, cutting her off before she could make a sound. He glared at her as if she were refuse. “Answer promptly, girl.”
“Yes, Mr. Greene,” Miss Smith replied though Steven doubted that was her real name. It struck him as far too ordinary – the sort a woman attempting to hide her identity might apply.
And then there was the manner in which she’d spoken which caught his attention. There was something about it. Something different he couldn’t quite pinpoint. He looked at Mr. Greene, suddenly irritated by the man’s interference. “You may go.”
A stupefied expression came over Mr. Greene’s face. “Sir?”
“I can manage the rest of this interview on my own,” Steven told him. He nodded toward the door. “Thank you.”
Mr. Greene hesitated a fraction of a second longer than Steven would have liked, departing as if he’d been kicked from the room. He sent Miss Smith a scathing look on his way out. Clearly, there was some discord between the two, no doubt on account of the hair in the gravy, though Steven now wondered if there might be other reasons as well.
He waited for the door to close before he gestured toward a vacant chair standing opposite his. “Please have a seat.”
Miss Smith regarded the chair as if she half expected it to transform into a torture device the moment she settled into it. Clearly she’d expected a swift dismissal, which was in fact what Steven had intended for her until she’d managed to spike his curiosity. Instinct born from experience told him there was more to this woman than met the eye. Once he learned what it was, then he’d let her go.
His intrigue grew as he watched her sit. Miss Smith did not drop into the chair, nor did she slouch or show any hint of surprise over the plush velvet comfort it offered. Indeed, she perched herself upon it as if she’d been bred to sit in lavish parlors. Her back was straight and her shoulders back. Hands neatly folded in her lap, her poise was perfect.
Steven almost laughed. Indeed, maintaining an inscrutable expression turned into a chore, for there was no way in hell the woman who presently sat before him was of lowly birth, or that she could do no better than be a scullery maid in his kitchen. He instinctively frowned on that thought and settled into his own chair.
“Tell me about yourself, Miss Smith.” He wanted to hear her speak so he could figure out what it was about her speech that drew his attention.
Her eyes widened and it was as though he stared at a sun-kissed ocean. “I beg your pardon?”
I beg your pardon. Not ‘what’, or ‘excuse me’, or a more impolitely spoken ‘why’. It was impossible not to smile just a little. “Where are you from?”
She stared at him as if he were as baffling to her as she was to him, which Steven found strangely amusing. Truth be told, he’d surprised himself too with his interest in her.
Leaning back in his chair, he waited for her to reply.
“New York,” she said once a moment had passed.
“And what, pray tell, brings you all the way to England?”
She broke eye contact then. Her throat worked as if she were unsure of how much to say. Steven fought the urge to lean forward in anticipation of what she would choose to reveal. Instead, he arched a brow and waited, conveying the same cool control he’d used when making the deal on this property, when in fact his pulse had been racing.
Miss Smith drew a deep breath and slid her gaze back to his. Her eyes were harder now, more determined, like cornflowers pushing up through the resisting soil. “I came to get married.”
The statement slammed into him with the unexpectedness of a low hanging tree branch during a race through the woods. Instead of satisfying him with a simple answer, she gave way to more questions which now paraded around his brain in an endless circle. Steven straightened himself and asked, “To whom?”
A weary sigh quivered upon those rosy lips. “It no longer matters.”
Her brief responses would likely drive him mad before they were through. They were like tiny pebbles creating a trail one agonizing minute at a time. With his appetite for more considerably whetted, he finally gave in and leaned toward her. “Indulge me.”