And that could only mean one thing—Wraxall cared about these children. He might say he couldn’t look at them. He might dislike that the orphans reminded him of the circumstances of his own birth, but they were winning him over. Just as the boys had won her over—not that she had been a difficult case. She could grudgingly admit she had a soft heart.
Unfortunately, Wraxall was winning her over too. He’d touched her heart tonight when he’d told Walter to look around and to think what he had. The man really did see and understand what she was trying to do here and what she wanted to give these boys. And the way he’d put his arm about Walter, the way he’d spoken to him softly but firmly, the way he’d counseled him had melted her heart—Wraxall reminded her of her own father before her mother had died. Then he had been a different man, one who had always taken the time to listen to Julia’s stories and praise her childish drawings and encourage her in piano and singing, even though every instructor had declared she had no musical talent.
Not all men were kind like her father, though. She’d come to think of him as the exception, not the rule. Damien Holbrook, Viscount Lainesborough, had showed her what most men were truly like. And who was to say the Warrior was not the same as Lainesborough once the layers were peeled back? Hadn’t Damien been charming and kind when he’d courted Harriett? Hadn’t he been everything genteel and charming even after they married? Then he’d grown tired of his new wife and Harriett had come home, weeping and inconsolable because the man she’d fallen in love with was not the man she’d married. The man she’d married was selfish, callous, and lecherous. He’d gone to Town for the Season, leaving her at his country home because she had been too ill with the first symptoms of pregnancy to join him at routs and balls.
Instead, he’d found a mistress and all the papers had reported their great love affair, making Harriett look like a complete fool.
And yet, Julia might have forgiven him that behavior. She was not the sort of person to hold a grudge. But she could never, ever forgive what he’d done after Davy had been born.
And now, Julia was tempted to trust this Warrior, this Mr. Wraxall. Though she feared she would be making the same mistake Harriett had made. The sisters had grown up in the ton. They had been weaned on scandal, raised on gossip, and educated early as to the differences between rumor and innuendo. That men—and women—were often unfaithful in their marriages was no surprise. Their father had not been quite as censorious with the papers as he ought to have been, and so Julia and Harriett always knew when the Duke (or Earl or Marquess) of Somewhere and the new actress from Drury Lane (or the new opera singer or the new viscountess) took up together, leaving their respective spouses to hold their heads high and ignore the liaison.
It was simply that Julia and Harriett had always considered that sort of behavior to belong to other people. Never in their wildest imaginings did they suppose the men they married would be the one to flaunt his paramour. And when Harriett came home in just such a situation, Julia was not as shocked as her sister, but it didn’t make the blow any less painful.
If only she’d known that wasn’t the worst outrage her brother-in-law would perpetrate on the family.
Wraxall might not look as though he was made from the same cloth as Viscount Lainesborough, but how could she be certain? She’d known him but two days, and she could not allow one dizzying kiss to completely addle her brain and weaken her resolve.
With that thought in mind, she retired to bed. Unfortunately, she did not sleep well, and she was still rather groggy the next morning when Mr. Wraxall knocked on her bedroom door at barely half past seven.
She’d been finishing dressing her hair and thought it must be Charlie, as he was always awake first. “Charlie?” she asked through the door.
“It’s Wraxall.”
Julia closed her mouth. She’d been about to invite Charlie in, but she could not extend the same invitation to Wraxall. “One moment.” She gave her image reflected in the cheval glass an annoyed frown, then hurried to the door, her hair pinned on one side and loose on the other. “Yes?”
Wraxall stared at her. “Is that a new style?”
She blew out a breath. “You know very well it is not. I supposed you had come to my room with a matter of some urgency. If the matter can wait—”
He stuck his hand in the gap between the door and the casement, stopping her from closing the door. “It is a matter of concern. You have a line of women at the kitchen door. As the rain hasn’t slowed, I told one of the boys to let them in. They’re currently dripping on the kitchen floor.”
Julia stared at him. “A group of women in the kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“They stood outside in the rain?”
“That’s what I said. They’re here for the cook’s position. What do you want me to do with them?”
The cook’s position! Of course. The advertisement must have run in the Times. “Send them to the parlor.”
He frowned. “Then they’ll drip on the rug.”
She waved her hands. “Then keep them in the kitchen.”
“How do we prepare breakfast?”
Julia let out a huff. Men and their stomachs. But she could hardly be annoyed when Wraxall was apparently prepared—again—to cook the morning meal.
“Very well. What do you suggest we do with them?”
“Put them in the entryway. There aren’t any rugs, and they’ll be out of the way.”
“Fine.” She stepped out of her room and closed the door. “You send them to the entryway, and I’ll bring the first one to the parlor to interview.” She started down the stairs to the kitchen with Wraxall right beside her. Finally, they would have a cook. One of her problems would be solved. She would not think of the other half dozen she faced—namely, what she would do when Slag confronted her at the Darlington musicale.
They reached the bottom of the staircase, but before she could push the door open, Wraxall pulled her back against the wall. Julia caught her breath. She had never thought about how narrow the servants’ staircase was or how enclosed and private. She could hear the prospective cooks’ voices on the other side of the door, but in the stairwell, she and Wraxall were quite alone.
“What are you doing?” she whispered. Did he think to kiss her again? Her heart clenched with hope while her belly fluttered with fear. She did not want him to kiss her again. Did she? Certainly not here and not now? But her gaze drifted to his mouth and her lips suddenly felt quite dry. She licked them, and Wraxall’s hand, which had been reaching for her, paused in midair.
“Don’t tempt me,” he murmured, low enough for her to hear but not loud enough to carry over the din in the kitchen. His voice slid over her like warm velvet.
“Tempt you?” she hissed. “If you think I want you to kiss me, you are sorely mistaken.”
“I don’t think you want me to kiss you,” he answered.
Well, that was good then. She had at least made one point clear to him the night before.
“I know you want me to kiss you.”
Julia sputtered, too shocked to form a coherent thought or sentence.
“But that is not my intent.” He reached for her again, but this time she caught his wrist.
“Do not touch me.”
He lowered his hand and shrugged. “Fine. Go in like that.”
“Fine.” She turned to the door, then looked back at him. “Like what?”
He twirled a finger, indicating her head. “With that new style in your hair.”
Julia gasped, her hands flying to her head. She’d completely forgotten her hair was only half-pinned. And she’d thought he wanted to kiss her. No doubt he wanted to laugh just looking at her in all her ridiculousness.
She moved back from the door, but he anticipated her. “There’s no time now,” he said and reached for her again. This time, she didn’t move quickly enough, and his hand slid into her hair. She stiffened, unable to move as his fingers searched deftly for the pins she’d slid into the mass to secure it. Her scalp tingled as, one by one, he removed the pins, dropping them into his hand. Her hair fell down about her shoulders. When she glanced at him again, she felt very young and somehow more vulnerable with her hair loose.