never had a personal maid before,’ Angelina confessed. ‘What does it mean?’ She saw surprise register on Miss Bates’s face, which was replaced by an indulgent little smile. No doubt she had decided that, as she was from America, her new mistress’s ignorance could be excused, that perhaps people over there weren’t as civilised or refined as they were in England.
‘Why—I see to all your personal needs—take care of your clothes—everything, really,’ she explained cheerfully.
‘Well, it seems you will have to teach me—and I have much to learn. Where I come from, unless you are very rich, one doesn’t have personal maids.’
Miss Bates seemed to be lost for words at this candid admission. ‘I’m sure you’ll soon get used to having me do things for you.’
‘Perhaps, but I simply refuse to call you Miss Bates. What is your Christian name?’
‘Pauline, miss.’
‘Then since we are to spend a good deal of time together, I shall address you as Pauline,’ she said, as two footmen entered with her trunk.
The following afternoon while her uncle was resting, and feeling hemmed in and restless at having to remain indoors because of the rain that continued to pour down, Angelina wandered through the house. Her uneducated eye was unable to place a value on the things she saw, but she was able to appreciate and admire the quality of the beautifully furnished rooms.
The library, with its highly polished floor and vividly coloured oriental carpets, was like an Aladdin’s cave—a treasure trove of precious leatherbound tomes. It was a room which, to Angelina, encapsulated every culture and civilisation of the universe, where bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, broken only by a huge white marble fireplace and long windows. Happily she browsed along the shelves, looking for a book to suit her mood, eventually finding just what she was looking for.
Unaccustomed to being indoors for such a long period, she placed her books on the desk and went to the window, leaning her shoulder against the window frame, gazing in a somewhat disconsolate manner at the garden, glad to see it had stopped raining and envying the gardener pottering about among the flower beds. Unable to resist the temptation to join him, but not wishing to dirty her dainty slippers, she dashed to her room and donned an old pair of stout boots she had brought with her.
She entered the garden by the long French windows in the library, and spent half an hour chatting to the gardener and helping him debud some of the sodden roses—which Jarvis thought highly irregular considering who she was. Then the rain came down again and the wind rose with a vengeance, so she made a dash for the house. On entering the library she was unable to prevent the sudden gust that sent some loose papers blowing off the desk all over the place and a tiny figurine from crashing to the floor.
‘You stupid, reckless little fool. Do you have to enter the house like a bloody whirlwind?’ a voice thundered.
Angelina’s face was a frozen mask. In her struggle to keep the door from blowing off its hinges, she hadn’t seen the man sitting at the desk with damp, unruly locks of raven black hair tumbling wildly over his head. Scraping his chair back, he stood up and strode towards her, his face livid.
Like an animal on the defensive, Angelina’s eyes narrowed and flashed. ‘You are just about the rudest man I have ever come across and you have a foul mouth for such a well-bred gentleman—I assume you are Lord Montgomery.’
‘Precisely, and I know who you are—Miss Hamilton.’ He seemed to lose control of his expression momentarily as his gaze passed over her, from the top of her shining head to her boots, where it froze.
Angelina followed his gaze and saw her mud-caked boots dirtying the parquet flooring. Soil clung to the front of her skirt, resisting all her efforts to brush it away. Despairing, she groaned inwardly with frustration. For two days dressed like a lady, she had waited for the master of the house to appear, and what good had it done her? Having no intention of apologising for the way she looked, ignoring the irate nobleman, she bent down and eased off her boots, placing them by the door. She then further astounded his lordship by going down on her knees and beginning to pick up the pieces of the broken figurine.
‘Leave it,’ he snapped. ‘The servants will clean it up.’
‘I made the mess so I will do it. I don’t wish to put anyone to any trouble.’
‘I said leave it. The servants are here for your convenience as well as mine.’ When she took no notice he reached out and grasped her arm, his fingers biting into her flesh. There was a loud crack as Angelina slapped his hand away. Momentarily startled, he drew back. ‘Why—you hot-headed little savage,’ he barked. ‘What the hell are you trying to do?’
His scowl bore into her as Angelina rubbed her smarting hand. ‘That will teach you not to touch me,’ she snapped, hotly irate. ‘It’s your own fault. Keep your hands to yourself in future.’
Alex’s lean cheeks flexed tensely and his grey eyes narrowed. ‘Do you have any idea how exasperating you are?’ he gritted. ‘And do you have to appear looking like a labourer?’
‘I’m not afraid of hard work,’ she snapped testily.
‘I imagine you’re not, but you will find that here you will do things differently.’
The pieces gathered up, Angelina got to her stockinged feet and placed them on the desk. ‘I’m sorry I broke it,’ she said, unaware of the streak of mud on her cheek as she faced him squarely, two fiercely indomitable wills meeting head on and each refusing to step aside to allow the other to pass. His face was as cold and hard as the stone from which his fine house was built. ‘I didn’t mean to. I suppose it was valuable.’
‘Priceless.’
‘If I had some money of my own I would offer to pay for it, but I don’t.’ Angelina recognised authority when she saw it. Everything about this illustrious lord bespoke power, control and command. The hard set of his darkly handsome face did not suggest much tolerance or forgiveness. ‘No doubt you have already made up your mind where to bury me?’
‘Not yet. But I dare say I will.’ His voice was of a rich, deep timbre. He watched as she flexed her arm. ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘You hurt my arm,’ she said crossly, her dark eyes narrowing and accusing.
‘I apologise for that—if you will apologise for appearing like a field hand.’ He waited, his grey eyes penetrating.
‘I suppose so,’ was all Angelina was prepared to relent.
Dressed in snug-fitting, calf-coloured trousers tucked into highly polished tan boots, and a fine white lawn shirt open at the throat, his body well honed and muscular, Angelina could see there was something purposeful and inaccessible about Alex Montgomery, and those grey eyes, which penetrated her own, were as cold and hard as newly forged steel. There was no warmth in them, no humour to soften those granite features.
She sensed his amazement that she had the effrontery to face him as an equal. Clearly this wasn’t what he’d expected—and certainly not what she’d intended. She knew better than to be rude to a man in his own house, but after suffering the indignity of being spoken to so rudely and manhandled, she had mentally drawn the battle lines and moved her guns into position. They looked at each other hard, suspicion and mistrust on both sides.
His expression became suddenly thoughtful and he inspected her upturned face as if something puzzled him.
‘Do you always subject people to such close scrutiny when you meet them for the first time?’ she asked directly. ‘I am not used to being looked at like that and find it extremely disagreeable. Is there something wrong with my face that makes you examine it so thoroughly?’
‘When I look at you I think unaccountably of fairies and imps and things, and have half a mind to demand whether you have bewitched Uncle Henry and my servants—according to my uncle, every one of them seems to be under your spell.’
‘I