"Don't say no. Let me take care of you. You'll have a better life. And you can take care of Claire. Neither of you will want for anything."

He was saying it straight out. He wanted her to become his mistress. He didn't want Claire, he wanted her, Victoria, the st.u.r.dy sister, not the beautiful one. The notion left her feeling light-headed. Considering the life she faced and the desire she felt for him, it wasn't a bad proposition.

Tory simply could not do it.

She was surprised to feel the hot sting of tears. Shaking her head, she eased a little away, forced herself to look up, into that sinfully handsome face.

"I can't. In a way, as wicked as it might be, I wish I could, but..." Another shake of her head. "It just isn't something I can do."

He ran a finger gently down her cheek. "Are you certain? It isn't so wicked between people who share similar needs, and you've Claire to think of. It would ensure both of your futures."

Claire. She felt guilty. She should do it for Claire.

But perhaps that was just an excuse.

Either way, she simply could not compromise her principles in that manner. And, of course there was the not-so-small matter of the robbery and attempted murder of her stepfather. She stifled a sudden urge to blurt out the tale, to throw herself into his arms and beg him to help her.

She couldn't take the risk. "I am quite sure, my lord."

Very gently, he bent his head and kissed the tears on her cheeks. "Perhaps in time you will change your mind."

Tory stepped away from him and drew in a shaky, courage-building breath, though in that moment she wanted nothing so much as to let him kiss her again, let him make love to her.

"I won't change my mind. Say you will not ask me again. Say it, or I shall have to leave."

There was something in his expression, a turmoil she could not read. Several long moments pa.s.sed, then he sighed.

"If that is truly your wish, I won't ask you again."

"I want your word as a gentleman."

The edge of his mouth barely curved. "After tonight, you still believe I am one?"

She managed a tremulous smile. "For reasons I am at a loss to explain, I do."

He turned, moved even farther away. "All right, I give you my word. You are safe from me, Mrs. Temple, though I am certain to rue this day for as long as you are employed in my household."

"Thank you, my lord." She turned to leave, telling herself she had done the right thing, feeling more wretched than she had since the day she had received word that her mother had died.

The echo of the softly closing door slid through him like the edge of a blade. His body still pulsed with desire, ached with unspent need. He had wanted her so badly, more even than he had guessed. And yet the feeling that washed through him now could only be described as relief.

There was no denying that over the years he had become somewhat jaded, somewhat insensitive where women were concerned. But he had never stooped so low as to attempting the seduction he had planned tonight.

He could have justified the results. As his mistress, Victoria, along with her sister, would have been well taken care of. He would have seen to their financial security, even after his liaison with Victoria was over.

And yet, in some perverse way, he was relieved that she had not agreed. In the weeks she had been in his employ, he had come to respect, even admire her. She did her job-no matter the little cooperation she received from the rest of the servants. She was intelligent and clever, spirited, and loyal to those she loved. And she had a strong set of morals-she had proved that tonight.

She deserved far better than the brief s.e.xual liaison she would have had with him.

Still, he wanted her. Even as he stripped off his shirt and breeches and prepared himself for bed, his body throbbed with desire for her. He remembered her innocently pa.s.sionate kisses and groaned with the ache the memory stirred.

But Victoria Temple was safe from him now. Cord had given his word and he would not break it. She would remain his housekeeper, nothing more.

Chapter Six*.

In some ways, at least, fate seemed to be on Tory's side. As the days continued, nothing more surfaced about the theft of the necklace or the attack on Baron Harwood. Undoubtedly there would be gossip among the ton, but Lord Brant was far too busy to pay attention to rumors and scandal.

Brant. Tory did her best not to think of him. She didn't want to see him, didn't want to look into those tawny eyes and remember his scorching kisses, the way her body had melted into his the moment he had touched her. She didn't want to feel the awful, wicked temptation that she had felt that night.

Or battle her desire to be with him that way again.

Fortunately, she had succeeded in hiding her turbulent thoughts from Claire. Her sister had been waiting when Tory returned downstairs. She had told Claire the note had simply been a misunderstanding, that the earl had written midnight but meant midday and that he had merely been interested in discovering whether she and Tory were happy in their jobs.

It was an utterly ridiculous story, one that only someone as completely naive as Claire would believe. Tory felt guilty for the lie, but thanked the Lord that her sister had accepted it and put the matter to rest.

Since that night, she saw the earl only when they chanced to pa.s.s in a hallway. Each time he was exceedingly polite and reserved. Maddeningly so, Tory secretly thought.

In his study, the chessboard sat forlornly in the corner, and whenever Tory saw it, she battled the urge to move one of the pieces, to challenge him again. She didn't, of course. She knew where that would lead and the road was one that could only end in disaster.

Then this morning, at the bottom of today's London Chronicle, a reference was made to the search still being conducted for crimes against Baron Harwood. Fortunately, Tory made this morning's newspaper, like the last, mysteriously disappear.

Still, she wondered how much longer she and Claire could continue hiding in Lord Brant's household. They were madly saving every farthing should the need arise for a hasty escape, but the longer they were gainfully employed, the more money they would have and the better their chances of getting safely away.

And there was always the slim hope the baron might tire of his search and simply return to Harwood Hall, or that he might believe they were hiding somewhere in the country. Tory prayed each night that happenstance would occur.

In the meantime, the earl had left word that he would be having a small dinner party that evening. The guest list included his cousin Sarah and her husband, Lord Aimes; Colonel Pendleton of the British War Office; and Lord Percival Chezwick. The Duke of Sheffield was also invited, along with Dr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Chastain and their eldest daughter, Grace.

The last name on the list gave Tory's heart a jolt. She knew Gracie Chastain. They had attended finishing school together. At Thornhill's, Gracie had been her dearest friend.

That seemed eons ago. Another time, another life. After the baron had forbidden her return to school, Tory had heard little of Grace beyond an occasional letter. With the troubles facing her at home, Tory's replies had been sluggish at best and the friends had drifted apart.

Still, Grace would know her immediately, even in her dreary housekeeper's uniform. Tory would have to make a point of staying well away from the dining room.

"Ah, there you are, Mrs. Temple."

Tory stiffened at the sound of the familiar deep voice coming up behind her. Taking a steadying breath, she turned to face the earl.

"Good afternoon, my lord."

"I just wanted to check, make certain you have everything in order for tonight."

"Yes, my lord. I was just making out the place cards."

"You understand how the guests should be seated?" He seemed so aloof, so distant, as if he had never had the slightest interest in her at all. She wished her interest in him would fade as quickly.

"The guests should be seated by rank, my lord."

He nodded. "Then I shall leave the matter in your hands." Turning, he walked away. Tory watched him disappear down the hall, trying not to notice the width of his shoulders, the long legs and graceful way he moved. She tried to ignore those strong hands and the memory of them caressing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, stroking over her nipples. She tried not to think of the overwhelming pleasure he had made her feel.

"Tory!" Claire flew toward her down the hall. Her sister had been working below stairs, where Tory had asked her to help with preparations for the dinner party. Which really meant she was to make certain the serving women got the necessary work done.

"What is it, darling?"

"Mrs. Reynolds just quit. She was angry that you wanted her to add more spices to the partridge stuffing-the thyme and rosemary? Then she refused to add more rum to the fruit-soaked cakes. When she found out you wanted her to put lemon juice in the sauce for the asparagus, she took off her ap.r.o.n, threw it on the table and slammed out the back door. Mrs. Whitehead, her helper, went with her."

"They left? Both of them?"

"They said they wouldn't be back till...till h.e.l.l freezes over, and then only if you were no longer in his lordship's employ."

"Oh, good Lord." Tory raced for the stairs leading down to the kitchen. "I can't believe it. I may not be a cook but I know what tastes good. The food Mrs. Reynolds prepared was edible, but it was basic and entirely too bland. I thought...I've been reading this wonderful French recipe book I found in the library. I thought by adding a few more spices, a bit more pungent flavors, everything would taste far better."

"I guess Mrs. Reynolds didn't agree."

"I guess not."

The kitchen was in chaos when Tory arrived, pots boiling, steam rising, flames leaping up beneath the skillets on the stove. Miss Honeycutt's eyes looked liked saucers and Mrs. Conklin's thin hands were shaking.

"Gor, Mrs. Temple," the older woman said. Broad-hipped with kinky blond hair and a faint c.o.c.kney accent, she had been one of the few serving women who had ever been polite. "What in the world will we do?"

Tory glanced round the kitchen, saw the bowls of raw oysters still waiting to be made into soup, the asparagus not yet trimmed, the joint of beef roasting over the spit jacks in the wall, sending black smoke up the chimney.

She straightened her shoulders, tried to sound calm and confident, which she wasn't in the least. "Does anyone else on the staff know anything at all about cooking? Mrs. Rathbone, perhaps?"

"No, missus. None of us but Mrs. Reynolds and Mrs. Whitehead and both of them are gone."

She released a steadying breath. "Well, then, first we shall remove those skillets from the fire so the sausages don't continue to burn, then we shall finish the dinner ourselves."

"But, missus...we don't-Miss Honeycutt and me- we don't usually work in the kitchen. We don't 'ave the least idea what to do."

Tory grabbed a towel, folded it and used it to grab the handle of the heavy iron skillet and set it off the flames.

"Well, it can't be that hard, can it? Not when most of the food is at least half prepared."

Mrs. Conklin warily eyed the stove. "I dunno, missus...."

Tory lifted her skirts, walked purposefully across the kitchen, picked up Mrs. Reynolds's ap.r.o.n and tied it round her waist.

"We'll simply have to do the best we can. Between the four of us, we'll figure things out as we go along." She forced herself to smile. "I have every confidence this dinner will be one his lordship's favorites."

But several hours later, as she wiped grease off her hands and brushed flour off her ap.r.o.n, she knew that would have been far too easy.

Instead, she filled a silver terrine with too-salty oyster soup, loaded a silver tray with slices of overcooked beef and another with roast partridge still pink in the joints. As she scooped scorched sausage stuffing into silver bowls, Tory ordered the footmen to keep the winegla.s.ses filled to the brim and prayed the guests would be so inebriated by the time the food actually reached their fancy gold-rimmed plates they wouldn't notice.

At least working in the hot, steamy kitchen all day, she and Claire, Miss Honeycutt, Mrs. Conklin, and the newly hired footmen, Mr. Peabody and Mr. Kidd, whose services she had enlisted, had developed a certain camaraderie. And during that time, she had gleaned all manner of gossip.

There were few secrets in a household the size of the earl's. Chiefly notable was Lord Brant's ongoing search for his cousin, Captain Sharpe. Even more intriguing, Miss Honeycutt, through bits and pieces of conversation picked up between the earl and his cousin, Lady Aimes, informed her that Lord Brant intended to wed an heiress.

"His father, the late earl," Mrs. Conklin put in, "left his son in a bit of a pickle-G.o.d rest the poor man's soul. Lost most of 'is money, ye see. But the son-he's a smart one. He fixed things back the way they was before."

Still, his goal, it seemed, wasn't simply to replace the losses but to make the Brant fortune increase.

It was information she almost wished she hadn't learned.

"Here come the footmen." Miss Honeycutt's voice drew her thoughts back to the chaos in the kitchen. " 'Tis time to serve dessert."

They began to scurry around, helping Mr. Peabody fill the dessert trays while Mr. Kidd hefted one of them up on his shoulder. All four of the women grinned as a silver dome was placed over the rum-soaked fruit cakes-very rum-soaked-and carried in to the guests.

"Those ought ta finish 'em off," Mrs. Conklin said. "By the time they get through eatin' those and drink a bit more wine, they won't notice the molded heart looks more like the face of a pig."

Claire cast Tory a glance, clamped a hand over her mouth, but couldn't stifle a giggle. As hard as she tried not to, Tory started laughing, too.

It was true. The molded heart looked exactly like a pig. Miss Honeycutt and Mrs. Conklin joined in, filling the room with gales of mirth.

The laughing came to a very sudden halt when the kitchen door slammed open and the earl walked in. He took one look at the stacks of dirty pots and pans, the food strewn all over the counter and the flour on the floor, and his eyebrows climbed toward his forehead.

"All right-exactly what the devil is going on?"

Claire's whole face turned pink. Mrs. Conklin and Miss Honeycutt began to tremble in terror. All Tory could think was how her hair was sticking out in ugly little curls beneath the mobcap she had retrieved during the afternoon's debacle and that her skirt and blouse were spotted with grease.

"Well, Mrs. Temple?"

"I-I'm sorry, your lordship. I realize the meal didn't turn out quite as well as we planned, but-"

"Quite as well as you planned!" he roared. "My guests are reeling drunk, and the meal-if you could actually call it that-tasted like something you dug out of a slop bucket."

"Well...I suppose some of it was pretty awful, but-"

"But?"

"At the very last moment, the cook quit and so did her helper, and the rest of us...well, we tried to do the best we could." She flicked a glance at the other three women. "To tell you the truth, with a little more practice, I think in a pinch we could rub on very well."

A flush rose under the bones in the earl's handsome face and a muscle tightened in his cheek. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively calm.

"I'd like a word with you, Mrs. Temple-in private, if you please."

Oh, dear, he was angrier than she thought. Tory braced herself and tried not to let her nervousness show. Walking ahead of him, she shoved through the kitchen door and preceded him down the hall, far enough away that they wouldn't be overheard.

She squared her shoulders and turned to face him. "As I said, I'm sorry about the dinner. I had hoped it would turn out better."

"Did you, indeed?" Hard, golden-brown eyes bored into her. "I gather you are having more trouble managing your duties than I imagined."

Something in the way he was looking at her...as if she might as well have been Mrs. Rathbone or one of the footmen. As if he had never made advances, as if he had never kissed her, never caressed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Something in the blandness of his expression made all common sense rush out of her head.