For a moment, his mind blanked, and he couldn’t find an answer.
What was wrong with Mariah, except that she would do anything to work at her father’s side? That ebony hair and creamy pale skin, those berry-red lips that tasted as spicy-sweet as they looked…and to his great surprise, a brilliant mind. She wasn’t some simpering young miss; she was a confident woman, one who donated her time and most of her allowance to helping children. For heaven’s sake, she knew naval battle strategy. And wasn’t afraid to use it.
She was pure challenge, every breathtaking inch of her.
If she had been any other woman except for Henry Winslow’s daughter, he would have pursued her. Without hesitation.
But she wasn’t any other woman. Mariah was the only obstacle preventing him from proving that he deserved the Carlisle name. And no one, not even an intelligent, intriguing, and achingly beautiful woman, would stop him from doing exactly that.
“Everything,” he muttered as he shoved himself out of the chair and walked away.
Ross called out after him, “Aren’t you bothered that she’s refused her invitation to St James’s ball?”
He halted in mid-step and craned around to gape at his cousin. “What did you say?”
“She declined Olivia Sinclair’s invitation,” Ross explained as Robert slowly stalked back to him.
“Impossible.” Because he divided his time between Parliament and court, Ross often heard news before the rest of Mayfair. But this time, he’d gotten it wrong. Completely wrong. “That ball’s to be her formal introduction. Mother personally arranged it with Lady St James.”
“And yet, Miss Winslow refused,” Ross insisted as he rolled the cigar between his fingers. “St James was grumbling about it yesterday in the Lords. Seems the countess was beside herself wondering what the proper protocol is for a seventh-season debutante who refuses her own introduction, while St James didn’t know whether to take it as an insult or a disaster averted.” With a shake of his head, he lifted his glass in a toast. “Foreign armies and women, Robert. Best to avoid engaging with either of them.”
Without a word, his teeth clenched so hard that the muscles in his neck jumped, Robert spun on his heel and stormed from the club.
This time, the little minx had finally gone too far.
*
An hour later, Robert charged up the main stairs at the Gatewell School, taking them three at a time. The housekeeper who’d answered the door said he could find Mariah on the second floor in the schoolroom. And God help her when he did.
How dare she attempt to ruin her introduction like this—refusing an invitation to her own debut ball! And what did she hope to gain by it? To destroy both of them? Because that was exactly what would happen if word of this got back to her father. Winslow would blame her for purposefully sabotaging her season, then blame him for failing to keep her in line.
He halted in the doorway and stared into the room. What had once been the nursery of the rambling house had been transformed into a schoolroom, filled with little desks that were now all pushed to the edges of the room and the teacher’s desk sitting before a large blackboard. Sets of rough-hewn shelves lined the walls, filled to bursting with books and stacks of slates. There was even a globe in the corner.
And in the middle of the floor, on her hands and knees, was Mariah.
She scrubbed vigorously at the floorboards with a large brush, spreading the soapy water around herself in a widening puddle. Dressed in an old blouse and soiled apron, with her skirt tied up to keep it out of her way, she looked like a scullery maid, right down to the streak of dirt across her left cheek and a mobcap perched on her head to keep her ebony hair contained. As she moved slowly forward, inch by hard-labored inch, she hummed softly to herself, and her bare legs peeked out from beneath the hitched-up skirt. With the disheveled way she looked, all sweaty and soapy and bare beneath the skirt, from her toes all the way up to where her legs disappeared beneath the hem just above the knees…Sweet Lucifer.
Only the Hellion could look more erotic dressed like a scullery maid than in a ball gown. Like a sailor lured by a Greek siren into dangerous waters, he had the sinking feeling in his knotting gut that she was drawing him toward his own destruction. Because he wanted nothing more than to join her right there in the middle of the floor, wrap those bare legs around his waist, peel away that wet blouse—
She lifted her eyes and froze at the sight of him. For a moment, as if reading his heated thoughts, she returned his stare with an unguarded expression of longing…only for it to vanish with a frown.
She sat back on her heels. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere reading your book?”
“And miss this show?” He gestured at the floor and her smack in the middle of it. “Not for the world.”
“So glad I can provide entertainment for you.” She dropped the brush into the bucket of water. “Good to know I have a future at Vauxhall.”
His lips twisted. He would have enjoyed her dry wit, if she didn’t infuriate him so much. And if she wasn’t so alluring, even sitting in a puddle of dirty water. “I was thinking Covent Garden.”
“Wise choice. The crowds will be so much larger there.” Her eyes gleamed devilishly. “All kinds of people lining up to witness something never before seen in England.”
Over his dead body. No one would ever see her looking like this. He forced a tight smile and ground out, “And what’s that?”
Her brow rose. “A society lady doing work.” She reached back into the bucket and fished out the brush. “Must be quite unsettling for your gentleman’s sensibilities.”
It wasn’t his sensibilities that were unsettled. “You don’t know the women in my family very well if you think that.”
She gave a faint humph and began to work the brush against the floor again, harder than before. Most likely imagining his face there beneath the grinding bristles. “Why are you here, Carlisle?”
“To save you from yourself.”
She stopped in mid-stroke. With both arms extended in front of her and her round bottom lifted beguilingly into the air behind her, she eyed him with distrust. “Like a damsel in distress? I don’t believe I need to be saved.”
Then she set about scrubbing the floor again as if he wasn’t there, once more humming the same lilting song she’d been half singing when he’d interrupted her.
Damn her for being so challenging! And double damn himself for letting her prick at him.
“Miss Winslow,” he began, chewing each word out through clenched teeth, “if you think—”
“Oh, Good Lord!” In frustration, she slapped down the brush and sat back to glare at him, this time so fiercely that she folded her arms across her chest and blocked his view of that tantalizingly wet blouse. “I very much appreciated the fact that you spent the morning on Bond Street, escorting the duchess and me.” She sniffed haughtily, as if it pained her to admit it. “In fact, at certain times, being in your company was surprisingly enjoyable.”
Well. That was the most backhanded compliment he’d ever gotten, but at least it was a compliment. Which was far more than he’d expected from her. His lips curled into a half grin. “Only certain times, eh?”
She ignored that and arched a brow. “Which is why I gave you that book. You were quite gracious.” She grudgingly made a half-hearted attempt at a shrug. “I thought you might like it. And now, here you are.” She dismissingly waved a hand at him. “Disrupting my afternoon and my work, to tell me how unladylike it was of me to send it to you.”
“Actually, I like the book,” he admitted. It was a nice gesture. And a wholly surprising one.
She blinked, bewildered. “You do?” Another blink, and her shoulders eased down from their defensive posture. “Then why are you here?”