Mitch surged to his feet as a young girl swept into the room, tears streaming down her face.
“Run!” she shouted at Mitch, then pointed a finger at Rachel. “Get away from her!”
“Chelsey, please.” Rachel rose and said to Mitch, “My sister.”
“Run now! While you still can!”
“She’s fifteen,” Rachel told him in a low voice, as if that explained everything.
Mitch looked back and forth between the two of them, bewildered. Chelsey, in the throes of an all-out hissy fit, and Rachel, somehow managing to remain calm and composed.
Chelsey approached Mitch, not bothering to wipe the tears from her puffy eyes. “She’ll take over your life! She thinks she runs everything around here! Everything!”
“Chelsey, please, this is hardly the time,” Rachel pleaded. “We’ll discuss your situation—”
“It’s not a situation! It’s my education!” Chelsey drew in an anguished gulp of air. “You’re ruining my life!”
“Chelsey—”
She flung out both arms, as if beseeching the heavens. “And no one cares!”
Mitch was nearly overcome with the need to do something. Intervene, get to the bottom of the problem, comfort one of them—both of them. Do something.
But his attention darted to the doorway as a young man ambled inside. Dark haired, brown eyed. He vaguely resembled both Rachel and Chelsey. Their brother, surely.
Mitch guessed the boy fell between the two of them in the family line, probably around sixteen years old.
He ignored Mitch and his sisters, as if he hadn’t noticed any of them in the room, and went to a low cabinet beside the fireplace. Opening the door, he withdrew a bottle of whiskey, then turned.
Mitch’s chest tightened. The left sleeve of his shirt was knotted just below his shoulder. The boy had lost his arm.
“Noah?” Rachel called, making Mitch realize that both she and Chelsey had fallen silent. “Noah, please come meet our guest, Mr. Kincade.”
With practiced ease, the boy pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth, then caught it in his fingers as he turned up the bottle. He kept walking.
“Noah?”
Rachel spoke again, and Mitch heard the quiet desperation in her voice. A knot wound so tight in his stomach that Mitch didn’t think he could bear it.
Noah managed a salute in Mitch’s direction with the bottle, then disappeared out the door.
A heavy silence hung in the room. No one moved. No one spoke.
Then Chelsey turned to Rachel. “I hate you,” she declared, then put her nose in the air and stomped out of the room.
Mitch watched her go, his gut aching. He turned to Rachel. Her cheeks had lost their pretty little blush. They were white now. Her hands were clenched in front of her. She looked small and frail, suddenly, yet she stood straight, as if she’d put up a wall to protect herself from…everything?
Mitch took a step toward her. Then stopped.
No. No, he couldn’t do this.
“I hope you’ll excuse my family,” Rachel said softly, unable to meet his eyes. She straightened her shoulders. “Uncle Stuart should be here shortly. He can explain the details of—”
“No.” Mitch shook his head. “No, our deal is off. Forget it.”
He strode out of the room.
Chapter Three
“W ait! Mr. Kincade! Please, wait!”
Mitch didn’t acknowledge the plea he heard behind him as he headed toward the foyer. He was getting out of this place—now.
“Please?”
The desperation in Rachel’s voice touched his conscience. Mitch stopped and turned. Rachel, dress hiked up to ankles, rushed toward him. He fidgeted. He had to get out of here. Leave, and not look back.
But something about Rachel held him in place. A tug he couldn’t fight, at the moment.
“It’s the tea service, isn’t it,” she said, squeezing the words out as if they pained her.
He frowned down at her. “The tea—”
“I knew it,” she declared. She pressed her lips together and, for an instant, Mitch thought she might cry, though he didn’t have the slightest idea why.
“This is my fault. All my fault,” Rachel insisted. “I should have made sure the tea service was—”
“What are you talking about?” Mitch asked, walking closer.
“It’s a winter service. Completely inappropriate for spring. I saw you eyeing it when I walked into the room,” Rachel said.
Mitch just looked at her. She thought he knew the tea set—of all things—was wrong? That he was gentleman enough to realize the error?
For an instant Mitch didn’t know what was worse: to tell her that he didn’t know one tea service from another, or to reveal the real reason he wouldn’t accept the job.
He decided to take the easy way out.
“Stuart Parker mentioned that things have been difficult for you and your family,” Mitch said.
Rachel gazed up at him, her eyes wide with hope. “You’re not leaving because the tea service is all wrong?”
A proper tea service. Why the hell would a person give a damn one way or the other about a tea service? But reputations were made—or destroyed—because of just such details. Mitch had forgotten that.
Rachel leaned a little closer and rose on her toes. The fragrance of her hair wafted up to him. A most delightful scent. She touched his arm.
“Please, Mr. Kincade, if you would just hear me out?”
She whispered the words. Her sweet breath brushed Mitch’s ear warming him, yet somehow sending a chill down his spine.
“Won’t you please come back?” she breathed into his ear. “Let me explain things. I don’t want Chelsey or Noah—or the servants—to overhear us.”
Indecision seesawed through Mitch, a condition that he almost never experienced. A head full of old memories warred with the vision of this woman standing before him. He knew what he should do. Knew what was best for him. No question about it.
But the warmth of her body so close to his called to him. Made him want to ease forward just a bit. Brush against her soft—
“Please?” she whispered.
Mitch drew back, drawing on a familiar store of willpower. All right, he decided. He would listen. Just listen to what she said, then leave.
He gave her a brisk nod then was annoyed with himself because the little smile she gave him pleased him so. He followed her swaying bustle down the hallway and into the sitting room once more.
“We’ll have some tea,” she told him, as if that would make things better.
Wrong service or not, Rachel Branford looked perfect with the delicate cup and saucer in her hand. Easy, practiced motions. Flawless movements. Grace and charm. She’d done this all her life, obviously.
Mitch accepted the tea, though he didn’t really want it. He preferred a steaming mug of coffee with cream and lots of sugar.
“Would you care for a cake?” Rachel asked, gesturing to the tray on the table.
The little cakes on the platter held no appeal for Mitch. He was hungry,