“Then perhaps ye have no’ remarked the bed,” Payton said, sweeping his arm grandly in that direction.
Beckwith looked at it. He seemed to be studying the thick mahogany posters and the canopied top, not the red silk coverlet that Payton’s grandmother had embroidered in gold.
“What is the matter with ye, Beckwith?” Payton clucked. “’Tis no’ turned down for the night.”
“Aye, of course. I shall do so immediately—”
“No, leave it—I would prefer that she do it. She is the housekeeper after all, aye? ’Tis the housekeeper’s duty to prepare this chamber for the night.”
“I shall send her at once,” Beckwith said.
As his butler walked out of the room, Payton smiled and helped himself to a glass of fine French port.
He heard her knock a quarter of an hour later and bade her enter. She walked into his room, her enchanting face inscrutable.
“Miss Lockhart,” he said and sipped his port, turning his gaze to the hearth and letting her wait.
A mere moment later, she cleared her throat. “Ye sent for me, milord?”
He turned; she was standing in the middle of his bedchamber, her arms folded, the fingers of one hand drumming impatiently against her arm. He casually looked her over, head to toe. She was, he thought, as he let his gaze linger on her body, the most alluring housekeeper he’d ever seen. Except that the gown fit her poorly and did not enhance her lovely curves. But it was deep black and matched the color of the thick braid at her back; her green eyes seemed to leap off her face in a sea of so much black.
He put the port aside and stood. “Come here,” he said.
She arched a brow. “Where?”
“Come here,” he repeated quietly.
Mared obliged him by taking a small step forward.
“Closer,” he insisted.
Eyeing him warily, she reluctantly moved to stand before him. Payton looked down at her gown, then at her eyes. The dark green irises shimmered with the firelight, but he could see something more there. Apprehension, certainly. Curiosity, too, perhaps.
“The gown does not fit ye well.”
She shrugged indifferently.
He studied the gown a moment longer, then grabbed a handful of the black wool at her hip and pulled it taut across her belly. “It should be taken in here,” he said.
Mared did not look down, just watched him steadily. Payton let go of the material and slid his hand up her rib cage, to rest beside her breast. “And it should be let out here,” he said, looking her in the eye as he brushed his fingers across the mound of her breast. “And here,” he added quietly, his fingers skating across the other breast.
Despite the slight blush that rose in her cheeks, Mared lifted her chin. “Is there anything else?”
“Aye,” he said, letting his fingers rest on the bodice of her gown, watching her eyes. “It’s so tight that ye donna seem to be able to breathe.” He moved his hands to the buttons of the gown at her neck and casually undid the first button. “I would prefer that my housekeeper be able to breathe.”
Mared’s brow knit into a slight frown, but she otherwise did not move, did not blink.
A small smile tipped one corner of his mouth and he unbuttoned the second button, and the third. When he unbuttoned the fourth, his knuckle grazed her bare skin beneath the wool garment. Her lashes fluttered slightly and she quietly drew a long breath.
He shifted closer, just inches from her, taking in her scent as he lazily unbuttoned the fifth button. The fabric opened to show a bit of white chemise. Payton caressed the warm skin just above her cleavage with the back of his hand. His body was responding to the feel of her skin and the scent of her, and for a moment, he forgot his resolve to be free of her. He was aware of only the blood heating in his veins, and he leaned close, so close that his lips grazed her temple, and whispered, “Can ye breathe?”
Mared turned slightly, so that her lips were near his neck and responded in a whisper, “I beg yer pardon…but was there something ye wanted, then? Or did ye call to complain about the fit of my housekeeper’s gown?” And with that, she turned her face away from him and stepped aside, forcing him to drop his hand from her décolletage.
Payton chuckled low in his throat as she casually buttoned her gown. “I sent for ye, Miss Lockhart, because I had hoped that after our brief discussion this morning ye plainly understood yer duties. Did I no’ make myself perfectly clear?”
“Of course I understood, milord,” she said, fastening the last button. She turned to face him, her arms folded across her middle, her brows forming a vee above her eyes. “Ye could no’ have been any clearer, on my word.”
“Apparently I could have. Look around ye, Miss Lockhart, and tell me what it is ye have forgotten.”
She glanced around the room and suddenly smiled. “I donna believe Una has forgotten a thing,” she said with sunny confidence.
“Una?”