A Proper Mistress Read online

  Sallie's plump, stubby fingers closed on her shoulders and Molly allowed herself to be pulled around again. But when Sallie tossed apron and cap onto the floor, Molly snatched them back. "Really, now. What has gotten into you?"

  "I want you to meet a gentleman."

  Molly froze. Anger fired, sizzled through her, warming her skin. She'd thought this business settled at last between them, but it seemed it would never be.

  "Sallie—" she started, her tone warning, but Sallie was already shaking her head and starting to lead her upstairs, an arm over her shoulders.

  "It's not like that, ducks. He's not looking for a tumble. And he's got fifty pounds in his pocket—all just meant for you!"

  "I do not care if he...fifty pounds?" Molly stuttered over the words as the sum registered. She did not care to think of herself as mercenary, but she had learned to be as practical as any girl in Sallie's house. And fifty pounds! Gracious, that deserved more than practicality. That sum merited full consideration. But she still had her worries.

  Eyes narrowing, she asked, "Fifty pounds for what, exactly?"

  "Nothing much. He just wants some fancy piece to act up a bit in front of his family—you know, carry on as if you're enamored with him. Why, you could consider it a holiday, almost. A paid one at that! I wouldn't ask, ducks, but then I thought to m'self, I thought, Sallie, why not just offer our own dear Molly a chance at some of the easiest money ever. You've been good enough to me, ducks, and I'd like to help you get that inn you talked about wanting so dearly."

  Sallie grinned.

  Molly hugged her apron and cap even tighter. It had been such a mistake to sip too much of that lovely sweet port Sallie had bought Christmas last. That was the one holiday when the house closed, and Molly had always delighted in fixing a proper feast for the girls. But last year, with the candles guttering low, and the smell of pine in the house, and the goose and ham and mincemeat pies and plum pudding eaten, she had sat with Sallie. And she had drunk too much and started to talk about her dream of an inn—a place where she could be mistress and make a respectable name for herself as a cook.

  Oh, she never ought to have confided so much.

  The next day Sallie had again suggested a means for Molly to double her income. And Sallie had not stopped offering persuasion until Molly had threatened to walk out. However, she knew—and Sallie did, as well—that her threat carried no real weight. Respectable London houses were not like to hire a cook whose only reference came from a house of ill-repute. And life in another house such as this might not prove so comfortable.

  But Sallie had relented. At least she had back then.

  Chin raised, Molly fixed her employer with a firm stare. "What else does he want for his fifty pounds?"

  Sallie started up the stairs again. "That's just it, ducks. He may have the ready at hand, but you have the goods, he needs, so to speak. And what he needs is not a good time between the sheets, but a smart girl who can handle herself well—which means, you name the tune, and he pays the piper!"

  A shrewd look had come into Sallie's eyes as she spoke, and Molly knew she had been unwise to show any interest. How could she even think of hiring herself out to some stranger? She knew the answer, however. She still could remember what it had felt like at twelve to be cold, hungry and alone—and terrified. One could do anything, given the right circumstances.

  So what would she do for fifty pounds?

  She earned twenty pounds a year from Sallie, and with London prices being what they were, she managed to save but five or six pounds a year. Last year she had tucked away a solid nine pounds and six pence. But with fifty pounds in hand, she would have enough at last that she could start to look for that inn she wanted.

  Her own place.

  Her thoughts spun faster and faster, imagining it—the tidy kitchen garden, a front parlor and a upstairs as well, and a kitchen with windows that looked out to the garden, and room for her own chickens and geese and ducks, and…and they had reached the landing on the first floor and stopped outside Sallie's best parlor.

  Sallie smiled at her and clucked a thumb under her chin. "Look, ducks, I've always told you that keepin' company with any gentleman on a paying basis is safe as houses. Set the terms up front, and you can't go wrong. And all this gent wants is a gal who'll pretend to be his bride and mortify his family. That ain't much work for the kind of money he's offerin'."

  Molly frowned. "Pretend to be a bride? That sounds a bit daft—or is this some sort of wager?" She might be the cook in a bawdy house, but even she knew that betting occupied a good deal of any fashionable gentleman's attention.

  "He ain't touched, ducks." Sallie glanced behind her at the parlor door before she looked back at Molly, her eyes sharp as drops of ice. "But you just look 'im over for yourself afore you make any final answer."

  Suspicion chilled Molly's skin. Just what was Sallie plotting?

  In truth, she would never call Sallie wicked. Sallie might have the morals of a London stray tabby and be as canny as one, but she had her own sort of code, odd as it was. Molly had never seen her offer any unkindness to any of her girls, and to be fair, she had never coerced any girl into service. From the tales the girls told of other houses, such consideration was not always the case. Still, Sallie had a sly look to her just now, as if she had not been completely honest.

  But if she said the gentleman only wanted companionship, perhaps that was the case. And there was that lovely temptation of fifty pounds.

  "Come on," Sally urged. "Just meet him at least. What's the harm in that?"

  Molly took her lower lip between her teeth and glanced at the closed parlor door. That seemed to be all the hesitation Sallie needed, for she grabbed Molly's hand, saying, "I always knew you for a fly one."

  Sallie might think her knowing, but right now she felt quite the opposite. Her chest tight, Molly asked, "Should I perhaps change my gown first?"

  "Oh, he won't be looking at that, ducks. And don't you fret that he won't take to you—he's partial to redheads."

  Molly's stomach gave a lurch as if she had just pulled a burning pie from her enclosed oven. Just after they had first met, Sallie had introduced another gentleman with a fondness for redheads to her—a florid-faced banker to whom Sallie had tried to sell Molly's favors. A few pungent words from Molly had changed his mind about his preference, and she'd had more words with Sallie until the shouting had gathered the attention of everyone in the house. After Molly had broke every vase in her room, and smashed one chair even, Sallie had agreed to Molly's terms that she worked in the kitchen or not at all. They had gotten along very well on those terms since.

  But now a tremor of apprehension fluttered into Molly at the thought of having to meet up with any gentleman in Sallie's house.

  She thought of everything else she had been through in her life—the barely remembered early years in India, the long voyage home with her heart still grieving, that time alone in London when she'd not known a single soul, and that desperate time in the workhouse. She squared her shoulders. She had been through worse than this.

  And hadn't her late uncle always told her: "A soldier stands fast, Molly-may."

  She could still hear his gruff voice. He had certainly faced his own death brave enough, so to honor his memory she would face this gentleman.

  After all, she had made no promises that she would agree to this preposterous bargain.

  Still, she had to take a breath as Sallie pulled open the gilt-edged door to the drawing room. She found her apron and cap plucked from her cold hands, and a hand pushing on the small of her back as Sallie whispered to her, "And if you don't think those are the loveliest blue eyes you've ever seen, you're blind, ducks."

  With a firm shove, Sallie sent Molly into the room.

  The gentleman turned from where he had been standing near the window and Molly blinked.

  Gracious, those were indeed the loveliest eyes. Quite the most startling shade of deep blue, like the sky at twilight. They stared
at her with a startling intensity from a face that she had not expected either, and which had her blurting out the first words that came into her head.

  "Why, you're hardly more than a boy yourself! Why ever do you want to go hiring a woman from this house to act as your bride?"

  CHAPTER TWO

  At the sight of a short, curvaceous redhead being thrust into the room, Theo started to smile. But those tempting, full lips parted and her words cut into him like a butcher's knife. Hardly more than a boy!

  Eyes narrowing, he glared at her, his mood souring into a return of her critical judgment. Young, was he? Well, she was not what he'd call aged. Not the least. And she was a bit on the small side. And plump. Yes, decidedly plump, with an oddly fresh look to her for a girl from this house. Faint freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, as if she were a country lass, not a London harlot. But, like many a redhead, she had skin smooth as cream under the freckles.

  However, he was being critical of her, he reminded himself. This whole business rode on her, after all.

  Only as he tried to find fault, he found himself thinking that that pert nose of hers and that nicely rounded chin and that oval face were all attractive enough. And she might not be too plump, for those curves kept distracting him in a way he rather liked.

  But he at once realized the truth.

  Sallie must have coached her. Yes, that must be it. She had come in, determined to show him that she could be a shrew.

  His shoulders eased and he offered a smile. "Lord, you could shave the hair off an ox with that sharp a tongue. But you don't have to put on any airs for this—I've no need for you to try and sound a lady."

  "Airs?" she said, sounding rather affronted.

  "Oh, don't you worry, Mr. Winslow," Sallie said, stepping into the room and pausing only to kick back with her foot at some bit of white cloth that now lay in the doorway. Theo could not quite see what it was, but it almost appeared to be the ties to an apron. An absurd notion that.

  "Molly here can speak a proper Cockney, she can," Sallie said as she turned to the girl, and Theo could almost swear that Sallie winked at her.

  Understanding appeared in the girl's eyes—wide-set, green eyes, Theo noticed, quite fetching, with a sparkle that glimmered like dew on new grass.

  Turning to him, the girl said, her words only a little hesitant, "Yes, I suppose I...I mean, 'course I can...ducks."

  Theo frowned at that awkward speech. Was the girl shy? Is that why she had to be pushed into the room? That wouldn't do. It'd take a girl with brass to face his father and not crumble, spilling the whole tale out as well, no doubt. That was one of the reasons he had decided he needed either an actress or the sort of woman who was hard as February ice.

  Tucking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, he frowned and tried to put on what he hoped appeared an all-business attitude. No need to let Sallie see that his pulse—and his hopes for carrying this off—had both lifted. She'd only try to raise the rates along with it.

  "Come here, then, and let's have a look at you," he said.

  The girl stiffened, color pinking her cheeks as if she was embarrassed that he wanted to inspect her. Didn't she get this every night when she paraded herself to be sold?

  Sallie put a hand on the girl's back and pushed her forward. "Go on, ducks. No need to hold back as if you was waiting to hear how much he'd pay. We all know the terms, so we can all be nice and friendly."

  The girl shot a rather odd look at Sallie—a look Theo could almost swear held a good deal of resistance. Had she not yet agreed to this?

  "What's the problem here?" he asked, glancing at Sallie. "Is she shy?"

  Sallie's smile widened, but before she could speak the girl answered. "I am not the least shy. And you do not—I mean, no need to talk about me as if I weren't here...ducks."

  The endearment came out in a rather hostile tone and Theo glanced at her, misgivings tightening his shoulders. He rubbed the back of his neck. Perhaps he had been wrong to state his attraction to redheads—they could have the devil's temper. But she did have quite the most glorious tumble of curls. Copper highlights glinted in the red, along with golden threads and darker mahogany tones. She also had the sort of figure to draw any man's notice—round, high breasts and hips that just begged for a fellow to take hold. Not too plump in the least, really.

  "I beg your pardon," he said. And an awkward thing it is to be apologizing to a prostitute as if she were a lady.

  It dawned on him that her high-and-mighty attitude struck the perfect note. Yes, he needed a female who seemed to have long claws well into him, and wasn't about to let go. She had brass, right enough, and not just in the color of her hair.

  Starting to smile, he came forward. "Perhaps, Sallie, you should start us off with a proper introduction?"

  Sallie agreed at once. And Molly found herself unable to say much of anything as Mr. Winslow—Theodore Winslow, she learned—kept smiling at her. He had a dimple near the left corner of his mouth and the most disarming smile. It put a mischievous gleam in his eyes, and made her want to smile back in a ridiculous, empty-headed fashion.

  He took her hand with his ungloved one. She glanced down at his touch. Strong fingers closed over hers. Her mouth dried. Lifting her hand, he touched soft, warm lips to her skin, before he turned her hand over and pressed a kiss into her palm. Hot pleasure washed through her.

  A week with him would be no hardship. Oh, gracious, what was she thinking? Was she thinking? Why, she hardly knew him!

  She wet dry lips with the tip of her tongue and said, the words tripping out without any grace, "You still have...haven't answered my question. Why do you need to hire a bride?"

  His smile disappeared, blue eyes darkened and she found herself facing a rather daunting gentleman. He dropped her hand. Cool air brushed her skin where a moment ago his fingers had held hers.

  "Molly Sweet, eh? Well, that, my sweet Sweet, is my business. Just play your part as a vulgar sort of grasping female before my family—or at least enough so to get me disinherited—and we shall all be happy."

  She blinked up at him. Disinherited? She had heard of odd situations that required a gentleman to marry to gain an inheritance, but she had never heard of one where a pretend bride would lose a legacy. Perhaps he was just a bit touched upstairs?

  But while she did not know as much about men as did Sallie, she had spent years enough dealing with London fishmongers, grocers, and merchants that she could judge a man. And this gentleman had an honest look to him. He also had an obstinate set to his mouth, and the pulse beat rapid in a jaw clenched tight.

  Stubborn as a street dog with a bone to chew, she decided.

  "Very well, if that's your business, then what part is mine?" she asked.

  Black eyebrows lifted with arrogant affront. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Well, what am I to know about you? How did we meet? How did you come to fall in love with me—at least I presume you did since you proposed marriage? And why are you taking me to meet your family? Why not just run off with me? And how can I act anything if all you tell me is just to be vulgar? Oh, and grasping—just what am I to be grasping at?"

  His frown tightened into a scowl. "Devil a bit, but you like questions! She always so impudent?" he asked with a glance at Sallie.

  Before Sallie could say, the girl answered back. "Will you stop talking around me, as if I were not here! I am not some horse for hire. And I require at least some information before I say yes to this...this bargain."

  "Not much of a bargain for my purse," Theo muttered. Folding his arms, he glared at the girl. Perhaps he should walk out now. Only, blazes, but she exactly suited his requirements, freckles and all. No proper lady would ever have such a common complexion. And if she could raise his hackles with just a few words, she should be able to provoke his father into one of his rages. Which is what he wanted.

  The satisfaction of finally serving his back father some of his own trickled through him. Dropping his arms to his sides, he decided t
o humor her curiosity. He had few enough options just now, after all.

  "If you must have a story, you may make up whatever you wish. Just make it believable, and I should think it obvious that what you're grasping for is a ring on your left hand. As for why I'm taking you home—oh, make something up there, too. You want to inspect your future manor, or some such thing. And for the rest, you can say the utter truth—that we met in a brothel and that I bought your time." He grinned. "My father will have an apoplexy if you do, in fact."

  She stared at him, eyes widening and face paling. "What! Do you want to kill him."

  "Of course not. Must you be so literal? I already told you I just want him to cast me off. That shouldn't be so difficult to understand? And now you can tell me if you're my girl, sweet Molly Sweet—and was there ever such a badly named female as you, for you're as tart as lemons!"

  "Some consider that a fine taste. Besides, it sounds as if you want a female who'll make you trouble," Molly shot back to him. Remembering she really was supposed to be talking more like Sallie and not herself, she pressed her lips tight. What answer should she give him on his proposition, either in her own words, or with Sallie's odd mixture of London Cockney and artificially polished tones?

  If he had seemed a libertine, if his face had shown signs of hard dissipation, or if he were not so sinfully handsome, she would have said no at once. Even for fifty pounds. But she had no sense of danger from him—and her perception for that had been well honed by the past dozen years of her life.

  He could be no more than in his mid-twenties, she guessed, and he sounded honestly desperate to be rid of this inheritance. She could not imagine why. She had never been willed more than her mother's locket and her father's sword—both now long gone, taken from her when she'd been found on her own at the London docks and sent to St. Marylebone. But how lovely to have someone care enough to bequeath something to one—only he seemed not to think so.

  So did she help him or not?

  And did she help herself to fifty pounds?