flash of pity that crossed Robert’s expression gave her pause. “He’ll see you now.”
Trepidation snaked through her as he opened the door. The peculiar situation couldn’t be discounted. Employers usually took as much notice of their lower servants as a fallen leaf in the park.
With nervous fingers, she brushed damp tendrils off her face and tried to smooth the wrinkles from her skirt before she hesitantly crossed the threshold.
The scent of lemon polish and leather greeted her. Despite the glow from the fireplace, shadows lurked in the corners of the masculine room. Shelves crammed with books lined the walls and her exhausted brain began to ache at the thought of trying to decipher even the simplest among them.
“That will be all, Robert.”
Gasping, she spun in the direction of the deep voice.
Sam’s voice.
Disbelief coursed through her. Her heart clamored in wild abandon even before she found him standing behind a wide, polished desk at the head of the room.
“Hello, Rose.”
Chapter Two
Rose blinked rapidly as she struggled to form a sensible reply. How she wished Mrs. Pickles hadn’t gotten the name wrong and had given her time to prepare for being face-to-face with Sam. “Hello...”
“It’s been a long time.”
“Yes.” Her lips wooden, she stared helplessly as simultaneous joy and agony overwhelmed her. Her gaze roved over Sam’s face in a frantic, failed attempt to take in all the details of him at once.
Time had erased the last traces of the boy she’d known. His face was leaner, his features sharper, his jaw more defined than when he’d left Ashby Croft. As tall as she remembered and even more handsome, if possible, with his thick, black hair and chocolate-brown eyes, he was dark for an Englishman. As children they’d fancied he must have gypsy blood since his sun-warmed complexion set him so far apart from the many pasty-faced boys of the village.
“What are you doing here, Sam?” Registering the smoldering fury in his dark eyes, she took a self-protective step back. “How...how did you find me?”
“Funny thing, that. I saw you on the street this morning and followed you to Malbury’s.”
“This morning?” Even as she noted his polished accent, her eyes widened with sudden recollection. “You’re the man I saw in the square. The one speaking to the paperboy.”
She took his silence as confirmation. His anger spread to her like a contagion. A multitude of questions swirled through her brain until she felt lightheaded. Praying she wouldn’t fall apart in front of him, she swallowed the sob of emotion lodged in her tight throat. “Where have you been all these years? Why did you never come back?”
A silky, black eyebrow arched with unconcealed derision. “Where have I been? Why, here in London, of course. Right where I said I’d be.”
Sam’s frigid tone dripped with enough scorn to penetrate Rose’s dazed senses. Her Sam had never spoken to her in such a fashion—as though he loathed even the faintest knowledge of her existence.
“The better question is—” his square jaw tightened “—where have you been?”
A shiver rippled through her that had nothing to do with her damp garments or clammy skin. Any hope she’d ever cherished for a pleasant reunion vanished. This severe man looked like Sam—albeit a more mature version—but he bore no resemblance to the lively, brash and indomitable boy she’d loved. He might as well be a stranger.
The tick of a mantel clock marked the silence. Her shock began to fade. Other emotions raced through her in quick succession. Anger and confusion gave way to disbelief, then fear as she pieced together the truth of the situation. Sam had arranged this meeting to knock her for six and he’d succeeded. She didn’t understand his apparent loathing, but his intentions were clear. He’d always wanted to shine. Obviously, he’d made his fortune and sought to rub her nose in the fact that he’d forgotten her without so much as a by-your-leave. Why else would he plot to bring her to this magnificent house to act as his servant when he’d ignored her for the past nine years?
The meanness of his scheme tweaked her pride and renewed her anger. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She did honest work. How dare he treat her so shabbily? He was the cad who’d lied to her, abandoned her, ground her heart into dust. If he expected her to rant and rave like some forsaken fishwife, he’d be disappointed. She refused to give him the pleasure of seeing her make a fool of herself, especially when he deserved nothing but contempt for his selfishness. He may have been amassing a mountain of money all these years, but she’d been seeing to the important task of raising their son.
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “If you must know, I was in Devonshire until two days ago. Just as I said I’d be.”
Dark eyes fringed with thick, black lashes narrowed with disdain. “You’re such a good liar. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe you straightaway.”
“Me, a liar?” She lifted her chin. “That’s rich coming from you, Sam.”
“Mr. Blackstone, if you please. Kindly remember I’m your employer at present. Nothing more.” He rounded the desk and moved toward her. Instinct warned her to run, but she held firm. She’d done nothing amiss, but he had much to answer for.
Bristling with tension, she focused on his shirtfront for that seemed the least threatening spot. Dressed in formal attire of black and white, he looked like a seething tiger with an elegant bow tied round his neck.
He stopped before her, close enough to touch. She breathed in deep, taking in his scent of soap and the subtle hint of sandalwood cologne. Desperate to feel indifferent, she detested the traitorous way her heart refused to calm.
“Stay away from me.” She clenched her trembling fingers into fists to keep from reaching for him. She prayed he’d maintain a proper distance, but then again he’d never been the least bit proper.
A sly grin tugged at his firm, sculpted lips. “Make me.”
The whisper-soft touch of his fingertips along her jaw silenced her. Tremors raced down her spine and her feet grew roots to the floor. A sigh feathered in her throat as he lifted her chin.
Their eyes met. Instantly ensnared by the rich, brown depths of his gaze, she lost track of time and all sense of good judgment. Blood rushed in her ears and her knees began to quiver like an aspic left in the sun. She swayed toward him. The fleeting thought of how much their son resembled him evaporated the same moment his thumb caressed her full bottom lip.
He leaned closer. His warm, mint-scented breath fanned across her cheek and tickled her ear. “You want me to kiss you, Rosie. Admit it.”
His smug expression rubbed her raw and restored some order to the chaos of her senses. How could she have let her guard down? Sam may have embodied home and safety for her nine years ago, but no longer. In fact, no one seemed more dangerous to her body, livelihood or peace of mind.
Please Lord, give me strength.
She
