The Hired Husband. Judith Stacy

him on the stairs and his heart thudded harder in his chest. Rachel’s lilting voice seemed to call to him, draw him closer, suggest things not meant to be suggested between the two of them.

      And her clothing. The rustling of petticoats under her skirt. How many were they? What sort of fabric caused the sound? How long would it take to slip them off?

      Mitch pressed his lips together, trying to fight off the familiar response to such a thought. It didn’t work. This unexpected desire presented itself with a special urgency. He dropped back a step, thinking the distance would help, but then his gaze homed in on her bobbing bustle and swaying hips. Mitch groaned aloud.

      Rachel stepped and turned back to him. “Is something wrong?”

      That innocent face, those big brown eyes turned up to him, the fragrance of her hair wafting over him. Mitch nearly groaned again.

      “Nothing’s wrong,” he managed to say.

      She looked at him for another few seconds then headed up the stairs. At the top she turned right down the hallway, bobbing and swaying with each step. Mitch’s condition worsened.

      Halfway down the hall, Rachel opened a door and stepped inside. She stood there for a moment, as if inspecting the room, then moved in and allowed Mitch to follow.

      “This room is one of my favorites,” she said. “It overlooks the rear gardens. They’re especially nice this time of year. I thought you’d enjoy the view.”

      “The view is spectacular,” Mitch mumbled, his gaze still on her backside.

      “Your baggage was delivered from the train station,” Rachel said, gesturing across the room to what Mitch supposed was the dressing area. “But your valet wasn’t there.”

      Valet? She expected him to have a valet? Mitch’s desire cooled. He had no valet. Never had. But Rachel thought it natural that he would.

      “I’m sure Joseph won’t mind attending you,” Rachel went on. “With Georgie away, Father ill and Noah…well, I’m sure he’ll have time. If that’s all right with you, of course.”

      “That’s fine,” Mitch mumbled, not sure just what he was supposed to do with a valet.

      Rachel waited for a moment, then finally said, “Does the room suit you?”

      He obliged her with a quick look around. The furniture was massive and ornately carved. Mahogany, Mitch thought, with black marble tops on the stands and dresser. There were spiral carvings on the bedposts, oversize claw feet on all the pieces, and a lion’s head carved in relief amid a fan crest on the armoire and headboard. A large floral arrangement, that surely Rachel had selected herself from the garden, sat atop the dresser, its blues picking up the colors of the room.

      Mitch had never slept in a bedchamber this grand. He’d seen such a room, but only to peek inside when no one was looking.

      “Mr. Kincade?”

      Rachel’s voice freed him from the memories.

      “The room is fine,” he said.

      She looked relieved. “Supper will be served at six. We’ll eat in the—”

      “That’s not necessary,” Mitch told her.

      Rachel huffed. “Why are you making it so difficult to extend you even the simplest courtesy?”

      “I made it clear to you when I accepted this job that I’m only here to work. Nothing more.”

      “Yes, you’re here for the money. I do remember that,” Rachel said. Then she smiled. “The cost of your meals won’t be deducted from your fee, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

      Mitch just looked at her, fighting off the urge to smile back.

      “Besides, we haven’t had a guest for supper in a while,” Rachel said. “A new face at the table will be welcome.”

      “Fine, then,” Mitch agreed.

      Rachel headed for the door. She stopped and looked back. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, all you need do is—”

      “Ask?” Mitch finished the sentence for her, remembering her remark in the study that had set his blood to boiling and brought a blush to her cheeks.

      Rachel smiled sweetly. “Yes, just ask…Joseph.”

      She disappeared out of the room, closing the door behind her.

      Desire roiled through him again. God, how he wanted her.

      Mitch found his way to the dining room at six sharp. He was certain that somewhere in the house was a breakfast room and a formal dining room for larger gatherings.

      But this room held a small table that seated six. The room was cozy, decorated in shades of green. The table was set with china, crystal, linens and a floral arrangement. It sparkled in the light of the overhead chandelier.

      All that silverware. Mitch studied it. Which fork, which spoon for which dish? And the stemware. So many different pieces.

      Rachel and her younger sister took his attention. They were arguing. Or at least Chelsey was arguing; Rachel seemed to be doing her best to stay calm and fend off the barrage of hostile words and accusations.

      They stopped abruptly at the sight of Mitch. Rachel looked embarrassed, Chelsey angry.

      “Good evening,” Rachel said.

      She seemed relieved at seeing him, even though her smile was forced, and for some reason that pleased Mitch.

      “Let’s all have a seat, shall we?” she suggested.

      Mitch seated both Rachel and Chelsey across the table from each other in the spots he was certain they’d occupied all their lives. The two end positions, designated for their mother and father, remained conspicuously empty. Mitch took the chair next to Chelsey.

      Noah ambled in a few minutes later and murmured a brief greeting as he sat down. The boy looked pale and drawn. His clothes—shirt and jacket, but no necktie—hung loosely on him. His brown wavy hair curled around his collar. Mitch hadn’t noticed these things earlier when he’d seen Noah. He couldn’t help but notice now that the boy smelled of liquor.

      Rachel made an attempt at small talk as the soup was served which brought a contemptuous response from Chelsey. Noah remained silent. When the main course was served—beef, maybe, and something green—Noah looked at his plate and his cheeks flashed bright red. He rose from the table and walked away.

      “Noah?” Rachel called. “Noah, please, don’t—”

      “There. You’ve done it again!” Chelsey shouted.

      “Chelsey, please don’t raise your voice at the supper table,” Rachel said, casting an embarrassed look at Mitch. “We have a guest and—”

      “You always worry about the wrong things!” Chelsey declared. “Like that ridiculous luncheon! You care more about that stupid occasion than you do us!”

      “Chelsey, that’s not true—”

      “That horrid Mrs. Chalmers means more to you than we do!”

      “Of course not—”

      “It’s true!” Chelsey burst into tears and raced out of the room.

      It was all Mitch could do to stay in his chair. He wanted to go after Chelsey and find out why she was crying, then give the cook a verbal lashing for embarrassing Noah with the meal preparation.

      But the look on Rachel’s face kept Mitch from leaving the room. Mortified, embarrassed, troubled. Yet she kept her chin up and blinked back tears of her own. He wanted to round the table, slip his arm around her, lay her head against his shoulder and make everything all right for her.

      Yet he didn’t dare.

      Instead, Mitch caught