Synopsis from Amazon:Gabriel Fairchild's valor during battle earns him the reputation of hero, but costs him both his sight and his hope for the future. Abandoned by the fiancée he adored, the man who once walked like a prince among London's elite secludes himself in his family's mansion, cursing his way through dark days and darker nights. Prim nurse Samantha Wickersham arrives at Fairchild Park to find her new charge behaving more like a beast than a man. Determined to do her duty, she engages the arrogant earl in a battle of both wit and wills. Although he claims she doesn't possess an ounce of womanly softness, she can feel his heart racing at her slightest touch. As Samantha begins to let the light back into Gabriel's life and his heart, they both discover that some secrets -- and some pleasures -- are best explored in the dark ....
My rating: 5 stars
Excerpt:
Chapter 1
England, 1806
My dear Miss March,
I pray you’ll forgive me for being presumptuous enough to contact you in this rather unconventional manner…
“S o tell me, Miss Wickersham, have you any experience?”
From somewhere deep in the sprawling Jacobean mansion, a tremendous crash sounded. Although the portly butler who was conducting the interview visibly flinched and the housekeeper standing at rigid attention beside the tea table let out an audible squeak, Samantha refused to so much as blink.
Instead, she drew a neat packet of papers from the side pocket of the battered leather portmanteau resting at her feet and held them out. “I’m sure you’ll find my letters of reference are in order, Mr. Beckwith.”
Although it was midday, the light in the modest breakfast parlor was abysmal. Shafts of sunlight bled through the cracks in the heavy velvet drapes, striping the rich ruby weave of the Turkish carpet. The wax candles scattered across the occasional tables filled the corners with flickering shadows. The room smelled musty and close, as if it had gone unaired for ages. If not for the absence of black swags over the windows and mirrors, Samantha would have sworn someone very dear to the household had recently died.
The butler took the papers from her white-gloved hand and unfolded them. As the housekeeper craned her long neck to peer over his shoulder, Samantha could only pray the dim light would work to her advantage, preventing them from studying the scrawled signatures too closely. Mrs. Philpot was a handsome woman of indeterminate age, as sleek and narrow as the butler was round. Although her face was unlined, silver frosted the black chignon anchored at her nape.
“As you can see, I served two years as governess for Lord and Lady Carstairs,” Samantha informed Mr. Beckwith as he gave the papers a cursory thumbing-through. “Once the war resumed, I joined several other governesses in volunteering to treat sailors and soldiers who returned from sea or the front with debilitating wounds.”
The housekeeper could not quite hide the faint tightening of her lips. Samantha knew there were still those in society who believed women who nursed soldiers to be little more than glorified camp followers. Immodest creatures who wouldn’t even blush to look upon a strange man’s nakedness. Feeling heat rise to her own cheeks, Samantha lifted her chin another notch.
Mr. Beckwith examined her over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles. “I must confess, Miss Wickersham, that you’re a trifle bit… younger than what we had in mind. Such strenuous duty might require a woman of more…maturity. Perhaps one of the other applicants…” At Samantha’s arch look, he trailed off.
“I don’t see any other applicants, Mr. Beckwith,” she pointed out, sliding her own ill-fitting spectacles up her nose with one finger. “Given the generous, even extravagant, wages you offered in your advertisement, I fully expected to find them lined up outside your gates.”
Another crash came, this one even closer than the last. It sounded as if some sort of massive beast were lumbering toward its den.
Mrs. Philpot hastened around the chair, her starched petticoats rustling. “Would you care for some more tea, my dear?” As she poured from the porcelain pot, her hand trembled so violently that tea splashed over the rim of Samantha’s saucer and into her lap.
“Thank you,” Samantha murmured, surreptitiously dabbing at the spreading stain with her glove.
The floor beneath their feet visibly shuddered, as did Mrs. Philpot. The muffled roar that followed was peppered by a string of mercifully unintelligible oaths. There could no longer be any denying it. Someone—or something—was approaching.
Casting a panicked look at the gilded double door that led to the next chamber, Mr. Beckwith lurched to his feet, his prominent brow glistening with sweat. “Perhaps this isn’t the most opportune time…”
As he shoved the letters of reference back at Samantha, Mrs. Philpot whisked the cup and saucer out of her other hand and deposited them back on the tea cart with a noisy rattle. “Beckwith is right, my dear. You’ll have to forgive us. We may have been entirely too hasty…” The woman pulled Samantha to her feet and began to tug her away from the door and toward the heavily curtained French windows that led to the terrace.
“But my bag!” Samantha protested, casting the portmanteau a helpless glance over her shoulder.
“Don’t worry, child,” Mrs. Philpot assured her, gritting her teeth in a kindly smile. “We’ll have one of the footmen bring it out to your hack.” As the thunderous crashing and cursing swelled, the woman dug her nails into the sturdy brown wool of Samantha’s sleeve and yanked her into motion. Mr. Beckwith dashed around them and whipped open one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, flooding the gloom with bright April sunshine. But before Mrs. Philpot could urge Samantha through it, the mysterious racket ceased.
The three of them turned as one to gaze at the gilded doors on the opposite side of the room.
For a moment there was no sound at all except for the delicate ticking of the French gilt clock on the mantel. Then came a most curious noise, as if something were fumbling, or perhaps even scratching, at the doors. Something large. And angry. Samantha took an involuntary step backward; the housekeeper and butler exchanged an apprehensive glance.
The doors came flying open, striking the opposite walls with a mighty crash. Framed by their wings was not a beast, but a man—or what was left of one after all the genteel veneer of society had been stripped away. His tawny hair, shaggy from neglect, hung well past his shoulders. Shoulders that came close to filling the breadth of the doorway. A pair of buckskin pantaloons clung to his lean hips and hugged every curve of his muscular calves and thighs. Several days’ growth of beard shadowed his jaw, lending his visage a piratical aspect. If he’d have had a cutlass gripped between his bared teeth, Samantha would have been tempted to bolt from the house in fear for her virtue.
He wore stockings, but no boots. A rumpled cravat hung loose around his throat, as if someone had attempted to knot it several times, then given up in frustration. His lawn shirt was untucked and missing half its studs, revealing a shocking slice of well-muscled chest lightly dusted with golden hair.
Poised there in the shadows of the doorway, he cocked his head at an odd angle, as if listening for something only he could hear. His aristocratic nostrils flared.
The downy hair on Samantha’s nape prickled. She could not shake the sensation that it was her scent he was seeking, her he was stalking. She had almost convinced herself she was being ridiculous when he started forward with the grace of a natural predator, heading straight for her.
But an overstuffed ottoman stood in his path. Even as a cry of warning caught in her throat, he tumbled right over the ottoman and went crashing to the floor.
Far worse than the fall was the way he just lay there, as if there really weren’t any particular point in getting up. Ever.
Samantha could only stand paralyzed as Beckwith rushed to his side. “My lord! We thought you were taking an afternoon nap!”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” the earl of Sheffield drawled, his voice muffled by the rug. “Someone must have forgotten to tuck me into my cradle.”
As he shook off his servant’s grip and staggered heavily to his feet, the sunlight streaming through the outside door struck him full in the face.
Samantha gasped.
A fresh scar, still red and angry, bisected the corner of his left eye and descended down his cheek in a jagged lightning bolt, drawing the skin around it taut. It had once been an angel’s face with the sort of masculine beauty reserved only for princes and seraphim. But now it was marked forever with the devil’s brand. Perhaps it wasn’t the devil, Samantha thought, but God Himself who had been jealous that a mere human could aspire to such perfection. She knew she should have been repulsed, but she couldn’t look away. His ruined beauty was somehow more compelling than perfection could ever be.
He wore his disfigurement like a mask, hiding any hint of vulnerability behind it. But he could do nothing to disguise the lingering bewilderment in his sea-foam-green eyes. Eyes that didn’t gaze at Samantha, but through her.
His nostrils flared again. “There’s a woman here,” he announced with utter conviction.
“Of course there is, my lord,” said Mrs. Philpot brightly. “Beckwith and I were just enjoying a spot of afternoon tea.”
The housekeeper tugged at Samantha’s arm again, silently begging her to make her escape. But Gabriel Fairchild’s sightless gaze had riveted her to the floor. He began to move toward her, slower now, but with no less determination than before. Samantha realized in that moment that she would be a fool to mistake his caution for weakness. His desperation only made him more dangerous. Especially to her.
He advanced on her with such resolve that even Mrs. Philpot melted back into the shadows, leaving Samantha to face him all alone. Although her first instinct was to shrink away from him, she forced herself to stand straight and tall. Her initial fear that he might run into her—or even over her—was unfounded.
With uncanny perception, he halted a mere foot away from her, sniffing warily at the air. Samantha wouldn’t have thought the tart, clean fragrance of the lemon verbena she’d dabbed behind her ears would be all that enticing to a man. But the look on his face as he filled his lungs with her scent made her feel like some scantily clad harem girl awaiting the sultan’s pleasure. Her skin tingled with awareness. It was as if he were touching her everywhere at once without lifting a finger.
When he began to circle her, she turned with him, some primitive instinct refusing to trust him behind her. He finally stopped, so close she could feel the animal heat radiating from his skin and count every one of the gilt-tipped lashes ringing those extraordinary eyes.
“Who is she?” he demanded, fixing his gaze just over her left shoulder. “And what does she want?”
Before either servant could stammer out an answer, Samantha said firmly, “She, my lord, is Miss Samantha Wickersham and she has come to apply for a position as your nurse.”
The earl adjusted his empty gaze downward, quirking his lips as if amused to find his quarry so small. A snort escaped him. “Nursemaid, you mean? Someone who can sing me to sleep at bedtime, spoon porridge into my mouth, and wipe my”—he hesitated just long enough to make both servants cringe with dread—“chin if I dribble?”
“I haven’t the voice for lullabies and I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of wiping your own… chin,” Samantha replied smoothly. “My task would be to help you adjust to your new circumstances.”
He leaned even closer to her. “What if I don’t want to adjust? What if I just want to be left the bloody hell alone so I can rot here in peace?”
Mrs. Philpot gasped, but Samantha refused to be shocked by his casual profanity. “You needn’t blush on my behalf, Mrs. Philpot. I can assure you that I am no stranger to dealing with childish outbursts. During my stint as a governess, my young charges often delighted in testing the limits of my forbearance by throwing tantrums when they didn’t get their way.”
At being compared to an obstinate three-year-old, the earl softened his voice to a menacing growl. “And I suppose you cured them of that habit?”
“With adequate time. And patience. At the moment it seems that you’re blessed with one and I the other.”
He startled her by wheeling toward the general direction of Mr. Beckwith and Mrs. Philpot. “What makes you think this one will be any different from the others?”
“The others?” Samantha echoed, arching one brow.
The butler and housekeeper exchanged a guilty glance.
The earl wheeled back around. “I suppose they neglected to mention your predecessors. Let’s see, first there was old Cora Gringott. She was nearly as deaf as I was blind. We made a fine pair, we did. I spent most of the time groping for her ear trumpet so I could bellow into it. If memory serves me, I believe she lasted less than a fortnight.”
He began to pace back and forth in front of Samantha—his long strides carrying him precisely four steps forward, four steps back. It was only too easy to imagine him pacing the deck of a ship with such effortless command, his golden hair blowing in the wind, his penetrating gaze fixed on the distant horizon. “Then came that chit from Lancashire. She was a rather timid creature from the start. Barely spoke above a whisper. She didn’t even bother to collect her wages or pack her belongings when she left. Just fled screaming into the night as if some madman had taken after her.”
“Imagine that,” Samantha murmured.
He paused briefly, then continued pacing. “And only last week we lost the dear widow Hawkins. She seemed to possess a sturdier constitution and quicker wit than the others. Before she went huffing out of here, she recommended that Beckwith hire not a nurse, but a zookeeper, since his master obviously belonged in a cage.”
Samantha was almost glad he couldn’t see her lips twitch.
“So you see, Miss Wickersham, I am beyond any assistance, especially yours. So you might as well trot yourself back to the schoolroom or the nursery or wherever it was you came from. There’s no need to waste any more of your precious time. Or mine.”
“Really, my lord!” Beckwith protested. “It’s hardly necessary to be rude to the young lady.”
“Young lady? Ha!” The earl threw out a hand, nearly decapitating a potted ficus tree that looked as if it hadn’t been watered in over a decade. “I can tell from her voice that she’s a tart, vinegary creature without an ounce of womanly softness about her. If you were going to hire me another woman, you could have probably found one down on Fleet Street who would have suited me far better. I don’t need a nurse! What I need is a good—”
“My lord!” Mrs. Philpot shouted.
Her master might be blind, but he wasn’t deaf. The woman’s scandalized plea silenced him more effectively than a blow. With the ghost of a charm that must have once come second nature to him, he pivoted on one heel and bowed to the wing chair just to the left of where Samantha was standing. “I pray you’ll forgive me my childish outburst, miss. I bid you a good day. And a good life.”
Reorienting himself in the general direction of the parlor doors, he charged forward, refusing to break stride or feel his way along. He might have achieved his destination if his knee hadn’t slammed into the corner of a low-slung mahogany table with enough force to make Samantha wince in sympathy. Grunting out an oath, he gave the table a savage kick, sending it smashing against the far wall. It took him three tries to find the ivory doorknobs, but he finally managed to slam the doors behind him with an impressive bang.
As he retreated deeper into the house, the sporadic crashing and swearing eventually faded into silence.
Mrs. Philpot gently closed the French window, then returned to the cart and poured herself a cup of tea. She perched on the edge of the sofa as if she were a guest herself, her cup rattling violently against the saucer.
Mr. Beckwith sank down heavily beside her. Drawing a starched handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, he mopped at his damp brow before shooting Samantha a contrite look. “I’m afraid we owe you an apology, Miss Wickersham. We weren’t entirely forthcoming.”
Samantha settled herself into the wing chair and folded her gloved hands in her lap, surprised to discover that she, too, was trembling. Thankful for the refuge the shadows provided, she said, “Well, the earl is not quite the gentle invalid you described in your advertisement.”
“He hasn’t been himself since he returned from that wretched battle. If you only could have known the dear lad before…” Mrs. Philpot swallowed, her gray eyes glistening with tears.
Beckwith handed her his handkerchief. “Lavinia is right. He was a gentleman cut from the finest cloth, a true prince among men. Sometimes I fear the blow that blinded him may have addled his mind as well.”
“Or at least his manners,” Samantha noted dryly. “His wit doesn’t seem to have suffered unduly.”
The housekeeper dabbed at her narrow nose. “He was always such a bright boy. Ever so quick with a quip or a sum. I rarely saw him without a book tucked under his arm. When he was small, I used to have to take his candle away at bedtime for fear he would sneak a book into his bed and set his blankets afire.”
Samantha was shaken to realize he had been deprived of even that pleasure. It was difficult to imagine a life without the solace books could provide.
Beckwith nodded fondly, his eyes glazed with memories of better times. “He was always his parents’ pride and joy. When he took that absurd notion to join the Royal Navy, his mama and his sisters went into hysterics and begged him not to go, and his papa, the marquess, threatened to disown him. But when it came time for him to sail, they all gathered at the dock to shout their blessings and wave their handkerchiefs at him.”
Samantha plucked at the back of her gloves. “It’s rather uncommon for a nobleman, especially a firstborn son, to seek a naval career, is it not? I thought the Army attracted the wealthy and the titled, while the Royal Navy was the refuge of the poor and the ambitious.”
“He would never explain his choice,” Mrs. Philpot interjected. “He just said he had to follow his heart wherever it would lead him. He refused to buy his way up the ranks as most men did, but insisted on arriving there on his own merits. When they received word that he had been promoted to lieutenant aboard the HMS Victory, his mama wept tears of joy and his papa was so proud he nearly busted the buttons right off his waistcoat.”
“The Victory,” Samantha murmured. The ship’s name had proved to be prophetic. With the help of her sister ships, she had routed Napoleon’s navy at Trafalgar, destroying the emperor’s dream of ruling the seas. But the cost of victory had been high. Admiral Nelson had won the battle, but lost his life, as had many of the young men who had fought so valiantly at his side.
Their debts were paid in full, but Gabriel Fairchild would go on paying for the rest of his life.
She felt a surge of anger. “If his family is so devoted to him, where are they now?”
“Traveling abroad.”
“Staying at their London residence.”
The servants blurted out their answers in unison, then exchanged a sheepish glance. Mrs. Philpot sighed. “The earl spent most of his youth at Fairchild Park. Of all his father’s properties, it was always his favorite. He has his own town house in London, of course, but given the cruel nature of his injuries, his family thought it might be easier for him to recuperate at his childhood home, away from society’s prying eyes.”
“Easier for who? For him? Or for them?”
Beckwith averted his eyes. “In their defense, the last time they came calling, he all but chased them off the estate. For a minute there, I feared he was actually going to order the groundskeeper to set the hounds on them.”
“I doubt they were that difficult to discourage.” Samantha closed her eyes briefly, struggling to regain her composure. It wasn’t as if she had any right to judge his family for their lack of loyalty. “It’s been well over five months since he was injured. Has his physician offered any hope that his sight might someday be restored?”
The butler shook his head sadly. “Very little. There have only been one or two documented cases in which such a loss has reversed itself.”
Samantha bowed her head.
Mr. Beckwith rose, his fleshy cheeks and drooping countenance making him look like a melancholy bulldog. “I do hope you’ll forgive us for squandering your time, Miss Wickersham. I realize you had to hire a hack to bring you out here. I’ll be more than happy to pay for your return to the city out of my own pocket.”
Samantha stood. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Beckwith. I won’t be returning to London at the moment.”
The butler exchanged a baffled glance with Mrs. Philpot. “Excuse me?”
Samantha moved to the chair she had originally occupied and scooped up her portmanteau. “I’ll be staying right here. I’m accepting the position as the earl’s nurse. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to have one of the footmen fetch my trunk from the carriage and show me to my room, I’ll prepare to commence my duties.”
He could still smell her.
As if to taunt him by reminding him of what he’d lost, Gabriel’s sense of smell had only sharpened in the past few months. Whenever he rambled past the kitchens, he could tell with a single sniff whether Étienne, the French cook, was preparing fricandeau of veal or a creamy béchamel sauce to tempt his appetite. The faintest whiff of wood smoke would inform him whether the fire in the deserted library had been freshly stoked or was dying to embers. As he collapsed on the bed in the room that had become more lair than bedchamber, he was assailed by the stale smell of his own sweat that clung to the rumpled sheets.
It was here that he returned to nurse his bruises and scrapes, here he tossed his way through nights distinguished from the days only by their suffocating hush. In the still hours between dusk and dawn, he sometimes felt as if he were the only soul left alive in the world.
Gabriel flung the back of his hand over his brow, closing his eyes out of old habit. When he had stormed into the parlor, he had immediately identified the lavender water favored by Mrs. Philpot and the musky hair pomade Beckwith lavished on his few remaining strands. But he hadn’t recognized the crisp, sunlit fragrance of lemons scenting the air. It was an aroma both sweet and tart, delicate and bold.
Miss Wickersham certainly didn’t smell like a nurse. Old Cora Gringott had smelled of mothballs, the widow Hawkins like the bitter almond snuff she was so fond of dipping. Nor did Miss Wickersham smell like the shriveled spinster he envisioned when she spoke. If her withering tones were any indication, her pores should have emitted a poisonous fog of day-old cabbage and grave dust.
As he had drawn near to her, he had made an even more startling discovery. Underlying that cleansing breath of citrus was a scent that maddened him, clouded what little was left of both his senses and his good sense.
She smelled like a woman.
Gabriel groaned through gritted teeth. He hadn’t felt a single stirring of desire since awakening in that London hospital to discover his world had gone dark. Yet the warm, sweet smell of Miss Wickersham’s skin had evoked a dizzying jumble of scarlet-hazed memories—stolen kisses in a moonlit garden, husky murmurs, the heated satin of a woman’s skin beneath his lips. All pleasures he would never know again.
He opened his eyes only to find the world still enveloped by shadows. Perhaps the words he had hurled at Beckwith were true. Perhaps he needed to engage the services of another sort of woman altogether. If he paid her handsomely enough, she might even be able to look upon his ruined face without recoiling. But what would it matter if she did? Gabriel thought, a harsh bark of laughter escaping him. He would never know. Perhaps, while she squeezed her eyes shut and pretended he was the gentleman of her dreams, he could pretend that she was the sort of woman who would sigh his name and whisper promises of eternal devotion.
Promises she had no intention of keeping.
Gabriel shoved himself off the bed. Damn that Wickersham woman! She had no right to taunt him so bitterly, yet smell so sweet. It was fortunate he had ordered Beckwith to send her away. As far as he was concerned, she need never trouble him again.
Chapter 2
My dear Miss March,
Despite my reputation, I can assure you that I’m not in the habit of striking up a clandestine correspondence with every lovely young woman who catches my fancy…
A s Samantha groped her way down the curving staircase that descended into the heart of Fairchild Park the next morning, she almost felt as if she’d been struck blind. Not a single window of the mansion had been left unveiled. It was as if the house, as well as its master, had been cast into some dark realm of eternal night.
A lone torchière burned at the foot of the stairs, casting just enough light for her to see that the fingertips she’d trailed down the banister were furred with dust. Grimacing, she brushed them off on her skirt. Given the drab gray of the kerseymere, she doubted anyone would notice.
Despite the stifling gloom, it was impossible to completely cloak the legendary Fairchild wealth that had made the noble family the envy of the ton. Trying not to be intimidated by the centuries of privilege on display, Samantha stepped off the stairs and into the foyer. The house had long since been updated from the dark paneling and Tudor arches of its somber Jacobean roots. Shadows danced over the gleaming expanse of rose-veined Italian marble beneath her feet. Every graceful arch of molding and cornice, every papier-mâché relief scroll of flower or vase adorning the wainscoting, had been bronzed or gilded. Even the modest bed-chamber Mrs. Philpot had assigned Samantha possessed a stained-glass fanlight over the door and walls hung with silk damask.
Beckwith had insisted that his master had once been “a prince among men.” Gazing about her at the overblown opulence, Samantha sniffed. Perhaps it wasn’t so difficult to claim such a title when one was raised in a palace.
Determined to locate her new charge, she decided to employ one of the tools in his own arsenal. Cocking her head to the side, she grew very still and listened.
She didn’t hear any crashing or shouting, but she did hear the musical clinking of dishes and glassware. A sound that grew distinctly less musical when an explosion of shattering glass was followed by a savage oath. Although Samantha winced, a triumphant smile touched her lips.
Gathering her skirts, she sailed through the breakfast parlor where her interview had been conducted and out the opposite door, following the noise. As she strode through one deserted chamber after another, she was forced to veer around several signs of the earl’s passing. Her sturdy half-boots crunched over broken porcelain and splintered wood. As she paused to gently right a delicate Chippendale chair, the cracked china face of a Meissen figurine laughed up at her.
The destruction wasn’t surprising given Gabriel’s penchant for charging recklessly through the house with no regard for his lack of sight.
She passed beneath a graceful arch. The dining room’s lack of windows denied the cavernous chamber even a hint of daylight. If not for the branches of candles blazing at each end of the majestic table, Samantha might have feared she’d wandered into the family crypt.
A pair of footmen in navy livery guarded the mahogany sideboard, standing at rigid attention beneath Beckwith’s watchful eye. None of them seemed to notice Samantha standing in the doorway. They were too preoccupied with scrutinizing every move their master made. As the earl’s elbow nudged a crystal goblet toward the edge of the table, Beckwith made a discreet signal. One of the footmen rushed forward, catching the teetering goblet before it could fall. Shards of china and glass littered the floor around the table, evidence of their earlier failures.
Samantha studied Gabriel’s broad shoulders and muscled forearms, struck anew by what an imposing man he was. He could probably snap her delicate neck between thumb and forefinger. If he could find her, that is.
His hair gleamed in the candlelight, its wild tangle combed by nothing more than impatient fingers since he’d rolled out of bed that morning. He wore the same rumpled shirt he’d worn the night before, but now it was spotted with grease and smeared with chocolate. He’d unceremoniously shoved the sleeves up to his elbows, sparing the ruffled cuffs from being dragged through his plate.
He brought a rasher of bacon to his mouth, tearing off a hunk of the tender meat with his teeth, then groped at the plate in front of him. Samantha frowned at the table. There wasn’t a piece of cutlery in sight. Which might explain why Gabriel was scooping shirred eggs out of a porcelain ramekin with his cupped hand and doling them into his mouth. He polished off the eggs, then tucked a steaming crossbun into his mouth. He swept his tongue around his lips, but still managed to miss the dollop of honey at the corner of his mouth.
Although she felt like the worst sort of spy, Samantha couldn’t tear her gaze away from that single golden drop of honey. Despite his appalling lack of table manners, there was something unabashedly sensual in the way he ate, in his raw determination to appease his appetites, convention be damned. As he plucked up a fresh chop and began to gnaw the meat directly from the bone, juice trickled down his chin. He looked like some sort of ancient warrior fresh from routing his enemies and ravishing their women. Samantha half expected him to wave the bone at her and bellow, “More ale, wench!”
He suddenly froze and sniffed at the air, his expression feral. Samantha flared her own nostrils, but all she could smell was the mouthwatering aroma of bacon.
Lowering the chop back to the plate, he said with ominous calm, “Beckwith, you’d best inform me that you’ve just brought in some fresh lemon for my tea.”
As he spotted Samantha, the butler’s eyes widened. “I’m afraid not, my lord. But if you’d like, I’ll go fetch some immediately.”
Gabriel lunged across the table, making a blind grab for the butler, but Beckwith was already disappearing through the opposite door, the tail of his coat flashing behind him.
“Good morning, my lord,” Samantha said smoothly, sliding into a chair across from him, but well out of his reach. “You’ll have to forgive Mr. Beckwith. He obviously had more pressing duties.”
Scowling, Gabriel settled back into his chair. “Let’s hope they include forging some letters of reference and packing his bags. Then the two of you can return to London together.”
Ignoring the jibe, Samantha smiled politely at the frozen footmen. With their naturally blushed cheeks, freckled noses, and tousled brown curls, neither of them looked to be much older than sixteen. On closer examination, she realized they were not just brothers, but twins. “I’m famished this morning,” she said. “Might I have some breakfast?”
Even without his sight, Gabriel must have sensed their hesitation. After all, it was hardly de rigueur for a servant to dine at his master’s table.
“Serve the lady, you fools!” he barked. “It wouldn’t be very hospitable to send Miss Wickersham on her journey with an empty stomach.”
The footmen scrambled to do his bidding, nearly knocking heads as they whisked a china plate and silverware in front of Samantha and filled a tray from the sideboard. Offering one of them a comforting smile over her shoulder, she accepted a ramekin of eggs, a crossbun, and several rashers of bacon. She had a feeling she was going to need all of her strength.
As the other footman poured her a cup of steaming tea, she told Gabriel, “I spent last night getting settled into my room. I didn’t think you’d mind if I waited until morning to begin my duties.”
“You don’t have any duties,” he replied, raising the chop back to his lips. “You’re dismissed.”
She smoothed a linen napkin across her lap and took a dainty sip of the steaming tea. “I’m afraid you don’t have the authority to dismiss me. I don’t work for you.”
Gabriel lowered the chop, his gilt-dusted eyebrows forming a thunderous cloud over the bridge of his nose. “Pardon me? My hearing must be going as well.”
“It seems that your devoted Mr. Beckwith hired me on the instructions of your father. That would make the marquess of Thornwood, one Theodore Fairchild, my employer. Until he informs me that my services as your nurse are no longer required, I shall endeavor to perform my duties to his satisfaction, not yours.”
“Well, that’s fortunate for you, isn’t it? Since the only thing that would satisfy me is your imminent departure.”
Using knife and fork, Samantha sawed a tender bit of bacon off a rasher. “Then I fear you are doomed to remain unsatisfied.”
“I realized that the moment I heard your voice,” he muttered.
Refusing to dignify the provocative insult with a retort, she tucked the bacon between her lips.
Bracing both elbows on the table, he let out a gusty sigh. “So tell me, Miss Wickersham, as my new nurse, which duty would you like to assume first? Would you like to feed me, perhaps?”
Eyeing the wolfish white flash of his teeth as they tore another hunk of meat off the chop, Samantha said, “Given your…um… unbridled enthusiasm for your victuals, I’d be a little worried about getting my fingers that close to your mouth.”
One of the footmen suffered a sudden coughing fit, earning an elbow in the ribs from his scowling brother.
Gabriel sucked the last of the meat from the chop and tossed the bone to the table, missing his plate entirely. “Am I to surmise that you find my table manners lacking?”
“I just never realized that blindness precluded the use of napkins and cutlery. You might do just as well eating with your feet.”
Gabriel went very still. The taut skin around his scar blanched, making the devil’s mark look even more forbidding. In that moment, Samantha was rather glad he didn’t have a knife.
Draping one long arm over the back of the chair next to him, he angled his entire body toward the sound of her voice. Although she knew he couldn’t see her, his focus was so intent Samantha still had to fight the urge to squirm. “I must confess that you intrigue me, Miss Wickersham. Your tones are cultured, but I can’t quite identify your accent. Were you raised in the city?”
“Chelsea,” she offered, doubting he’d had much occasion to frequent the modest borough on the north side of London. She took an overly generous gulp of the tea, burning her tongue.
“I’m quite curious to know how a woman of your, um… character came to seek such a post. What was it that drove you to answer such a calling? Was it Christian charity? An overwhelming desire to help your fellow man? Or perhaps your tender compassion for the infirm?”
Carving a spoonful of egg out of its china cup, Samantha said crisply, “I provided Mr. Beckwith with several letters of reference. I’m sure you’ll find them in order.”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” Gabriel replied, his voice gently mocking, “I wasn’t able to read those. Perhaps you could enlighten me as to their contents.”
She laid aside her spoon. “As I informed Mr. Beckwith, I served as governess for Lord and Lady Carstairs for nearly two years.”
“I know of the family.”
Samantha tensed. He might know of them, but did he know them? “After the hostilities with the French resumed, I read in The Times how so many of our noble soldiers and sailors were suffering from lack of care. So I decided to offer my services to a local hospital.”
“I still don’t understand why you’d trade spooning pabulum into the mouths of babes for dressing bloody wounds and holding the hands of men half out of their minds with pain.”
Samantha struggled to purge the passion from her voice. “Those men were willing to sacrifice everything for king and country. How could I not offer a small sacrifice of my own?”
He snorted. “The only thing they sacrificed was their good judgment and common sense. They sold them to the Royal Navy for a starched bolt of blue broadcloth and a shiny bit of gold braid on their shoulders.”
She frowned, appalled by his cynicism. “How can you say such a cruel thing? Why, the king himself lauded you for your own valor!”
“That shouldn’t surprise you. The Crown has a long history of rewarding dreamers and fools.”
Forgetting that he couldn’t see her, Samantha rose halfway out of her chair. “Not fools! Heroes! Heroes like your very own commander— Admiral Lord Nelson himself!”
“Nelson is dead,” he said flatly. “I can’t say if that makes him any more of a hero or less of a fool.”
Defeated for the moment, she sank back into her chair.
Gabriel rose, using the backs of the chairs to feel his way around the table. As his powerful hands closed around the carved finials of her own chair, it was all Samantha could do not to bolt. Instead, she stared straight ahead, each shallow breath audible to her own ears as well as his.
He leaned down so far his lips came dangerously close to brushing the top of her head. “I’m sure your devotion to your calling is sincere, Miss Wickersham. But as far as I’m concerned, until you come to your senses and resign your post here, you have only one duty.” He spoke softly, each word more damning than a shout. “To stay the bloody hell out of my way.”
He left her with that warning, brushing past the footman who scrambled forward to offer his arm. Although she supposed it shouldn’t surprise her that he would choose to blunder his way through the dark rather than accept a helping hand, she still flinched when a loud crash resounded from somewhere in the house.
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