That Despicable Rogue Read online

  His po-faced housekeeper smiled tightly and then scurried off. She really was a most humourless woman, he thought as he watched her disappear back into the house. All the other servants appeared to be quite friendly, but Mrs Preston reminded him of an icicle—cold, hard and sharp. He hoped that the woman was at least good at her job; it might well be her only redeeming quality.

  Well, that was not strictly true, he realised. Ross had always had a talent for spotting potential in things—especially things that were attractive in a woman. Behind the ugly glasses was quite a pretty face. With a little effort he suspected that she might scrub up quite well. There might even be a reasonable figure under that shapeless sludge-coloured dress as well. It was difficult to tell.

  Her letter of application had stated that she was a widow, although she did seem a little young to be one. But he knew only too well that life could be hard, and that some people dealt with its harshness by becoming bitter. Perhaps her attitude would soften towards him in time. And, then again, perhaps not. He had not exactly made the best first impression on her. She probably saw him as a lecher—or worse. The shock on her face at the sight of Francesca reclining on his bed had been quite impressive. But in his experience people thought exactly what they wanted to—regardless.

  ‘Come on, Reggie,’ he called cheerfully. ‘Let me show you around.’

  Chapter Three

  Several hours later Ross left Reggie washing pots happily with Cook and went off in search of his prim housekeeper. He found her hovering not far from the kitchen, notebook already in hand, and he ushered her into the large study and sat opposite her at the enormous desk he had brought with him from London.

  ‘I think I should be brutally frank, Mrs Preston, and let you know now that I have absolutely no idea how to manage a house or staff. I am not completely sure, if I am honest, exactly what a housekeeper does. In that regard, I was hoping that you could let me know what exactly I need to attend to first.’

  Ross watched her blink at his admission, but her face did not soften. Instead she pinned him with her scary frog stare, then tilted her head to one side.

  The motion dislodged a curling tendril of golden hair from her lace cap, which she stuffed back in ruthlessly. The fact that it was such a lovely shade of blonde surprised him. He had not even considered that she might have hair. Not that he had thought her hairless, of course, but he had assumed that it would be nondescript and colourless—much as his housekeeper appeared to be. But now that he knew that she had such luscious-coloured locks he could not help wondering why she covered it all up in that dreadful mob cap.

  Out of habit he smiled flirtatiously at her. Usually that garnered a faint blush at the very least. Mrs Prim-and-Proper Preston, though, was clearly made of granite, and she pursed her lips slightly in disgust at the overture. Then she launched into another lecture.

  ‘The role of a housekeeper is to ensure the good running of all things domestic. I will need a budget to buy the necessary day-to-day supplies, such as candles, then there are costs such as staff wages, linens, brandy and wine, et cetera. Obviously all expenditure will be logged properly by myself, in the household accounts ledger. Occasionally, as you are not married, I will have to consult with you about menus and such things—usually a housekeeper would go to the mistress of the house for that. Unless there is a mistress I need to be apprised of?’

  He could tell by the insolent raising of her eyebrow that that comment was meant to allude to Francesca or a similar type of woman. He did not care for her opinions on his morality.

  ‘No mistress at the moment,’ he replied with a wolfish smile. ‘Married or otherwise. But I am always open to the possibility.’

  He watched her lips thin and stifled a smile. He was actually enjoying irritating her. Something about disapproving people always brought out the worst in him, and as a self-defence mechanism he preferred to find humour in that disapproval rather than allow it to bother him. Mrs Preston was as prickly as a cactus. So far he knew that she disapproved of fornication and flirting, so he had plenty of ammunition already to use to rile her and he had only known her for a few hours.

  ‘I think we should start by deciding upon the new household budget, sir,’ she said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘What figure did you have in mind?’

  Ross did not have a clue. ‘My solicitor advised me on costs when the property deed was stamped, but as I have never owned or lived in a grand house with a full staff before I shall have to defer to your expertise.’

  The housekeeper blinked, and allowed herself the merest huff of exasperation before answering. ‘That depends on how much you are willing to spend, sir. At the moment the budget really only pays the servants’ wages and provides the basics. Some houses are run on a tight budget, and some of the grandest houses require vast sums of money—especially if the owner does a great deal of entertaining.’

  ‘Mrs Preston, I work with numbers. Would you be so kind as to clarify, in pound notes, exactly what you mean by “tight” and “vast”?’

  Her sandy eyebrows drew together as she considered this, and she chewed her bottom lip for several seconds. ‘Realistically, with new servant costs included, the minimum yearly budget would have to be around five hundred pounds, sir. But that would mean that I’d have to be particularly thrifty. I suppose we could reduce that if we closed up part of the house in winter and reduced fuel costs. We could also purchase the cheaper cuts of meat.’

  Ross screwed his face up in disgust. ‘We do not need to be “thrifty”, Mrs Preston. Give me a figure that will not leave me cold and chewing on gristle.’

  She smiled ever so slightly at that, but quickly covered it. Underneath all that frost she might possess a sense of humour at least. Of course it might have been wind. The expression had been so fleeting he could not be sure.

  ‘A sensible budget of around eight hundred pounds a year is probably more than enough—assuming that you do not want an army of servants, sir?’

  ‘Heavens, no! There is only me—and in a few months my mother and sister will be coming to live here. I have no need of an army.’

  Hannah could not hide her surprise. ‘You have a mother and a sister?’ She had not discovered that titbit in all her research.

  He regarded her with amusement. ‘Of course I have a mother. Did you assume that I had been created by some other miraculous method?’

  ‘Not at all, sir,’ she said hastily, ‘but I had not considered the possibility that you had a family.’

  A look of pleased affection crossed his features. ‘I do—although they drive me to distraction and nag me incessantly. At the moment they both live in a lovely quiet village in Kent, but my sister is twenty and she is begging me to bring her to town for the season. Why? I have no idea. But for the sake of peace I will do it. I thought I would surprise them with this house when it is finished. I think my mother might actually be lost for words for the first time in her life.’

  His admission made her curious. ‘Why do they live in Kent?’

  The moment the question popped out she regretted it. Servants were not meant to ask personal questions.

  However, he did not appear to mind and answered happily. ‘My business requires me to be in London, mostly at the docks, but that is not a particularly...safe place to live. This house is a good compromise. It is only an hour away from town, but far enough away not to be too close to all the dirt and danger.’

  Danger? That was an interesting word for him to use, and it said a great deal about him, in Hannah’s humble opinion. He must regularly mix with some shady characters indeed if he feared for the safety of his family in the city. Hannah had certainly never felt unsafe there. From what she remembered, Mayfair had been a charming place.

  ‘One of your main duties will be to get this house shipshape, Mrs Preston. Many of the bedrooms are in a shocking state, and the whole place looks as if it needs a touch of paint. I take it that you have had a good look around the house? Tell me, what things do you think need
doing first?’

  His question startled Hannah, so she answered honestly, forgetting to be demure as a good servant should be. ‘The main family rooms need to be sorted out first and foremost. The morning room and the dining room are looking very shabby.’

  She had been shocked at just how shabby they had become in her absence. George had certainly run the house into the ground after he had banished her to Yorkshire.

  ‘I agree,’ he said, smiling. ‘And I hate this room as well.’ He waved his hand dismissively at the oppressive panelled walls.

  Hannah had always loathed how dark the stained wood made this room. Even so, his criticism of it irritated.

  ‘I think the panelling adds a certain gravitas to the study,’ she countered, and watched his dark eyebrows draw together as he considered her words.

  ‘But it is so dingy in here,’ he finally ventured. ‘It is far too depressing to work in.’

  ‘What sort of work is it that you do?’ she asked politely, wondering how he would answer. He would hardly admit to swindling people, robbing them blind and driving them to suicide.

  ‘I make money,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘I know that is considered a bad thing to confess in this day and age, but it is the truth. I make investments. I speculate—buy and sell. Whatever looks as if it has the potential for a solid profit I will dabble in. I was not born into money, Mrs Preston, so I appreciate its value and its power. And as I spend a great deal of my time poring over ledgers and papers I need a pleasant and light place to work in. This room, quite frankly, is not pleasant. Those ugly paintings need to come down for a start.’

  He pointed to the ostentatious family portraits that her father had had painted and scowled.

  ‘I presume that they are all long-dead members of the Runcorn dynasty?’ They were—her brother, her father, grandfather and great-grandfather stared down at them haughtily from the walls. None of them had been particularly handsome men, she acknowledged. And it was difficult to remember any of them with any great affection.

  ‘They look like a bunch of pompous arses,’ he said disdainfully.

  He took her expression of shock as outrage at his use of bad language, but he was unapologetic.

  ‘Come on, Mrs Prim and Proper—surely you have heard the word arse before?’

  Something about the way she bristled amused Ross. She was so easy to rile he decided there and then to do it often. If nothing else, it would make the days go quicker. He would start this very moment, by peppering his speech with a bit more colourful language and seeing how long it took her to bite back.

  ‘Make a note to get all this blasted panelling painted a nice cheerful colour, and get those pompous arses shifted to the attic as soon as possible,’ he said dismissively, and watched her scratch his instructions down in obvious irritation.

  When she had finished she peered at him over the rims of her spectacles. ‘What colours do you consider “cheerful”, sir? Do you want something light and subtle? Like a pale primrose-yellow? Or would you feel more at home with something bolder—like bordello-red?’

  Her blue eyes glared at him defiantly. The woman had spirit. Ross quite admired her cheek, but pretended to ponder. ‘Hmm...perhaps we should save the red for my bedchamber, where it can be properly appreciated? I quite like the idea of pale yellow—but not for in here.’

  She could picture the perfect place. ‘The morning room would look lovely in pale yellow. It faces the gardens and catches the early-morning sun—’ Stopping herself abruptly, Hannah stared at her notes. She was being much too presumptuous for a servant.

  ‘Would you paint it pale yellow?’ he asked, with an obvious interest that she found strangely flattering. The man was actually asking for her opinion on something.

  ‘I would paint all the dark wood white and mix solid walls of primrose-yellow with some printed wallpapers. Flowers or vines or some such pattern—something that brings the garden into the room.’

  Her favourite room would look stunning in such a sunny shade.

  For several seconds he just stared at her, and then his face split into a devastating grin that made her pulse flutter in a most disconcerting way. ‘I do believe that you have an eye for decorating, Mrs Prim. That is exactly how the morning room should look. But I want no spindly little chairs. I was not built for puny furniture—I want something more robust. Manly. And comfortable.’

  ‘There is a lovely big sofa in the drawing room. If we had it reupholstered and found a pair of big wing chairs to go with it I think that might do quite well,’ she answered wistfully as she imagined it, caught up in the vision.

  She had always dreamed of changing the interior of the hall but had never, ever been consulted. She caught him watching her. Far from appearing annoyed at her presumptuousness, he looked impressed.

  ‘Another good idea. Jot it down. I think I will put you in charge of picking out all the colours henceforth.’

  This was a great responsibility he was delegating to her and one that she would relish. Hannah forgot herself, and grinned at his unexpected generosity. ‘Shall I make a note of the bordello-red for your bedchamber too?’ she asked cheekily, forgetting herself, and then blushed as his eyes twinkled flirtatiously.

  What on earth was she thinking? He really was dangerously charming—and manipulative. Already he had briefly made her forget how much she disliked him.

  ‘I am keen to get this house shipshape by the end of the summer.’

  ‘But it is already May! Surely you cannot seriously expect it all to be done in such a short time?’

  ‘I have quite set my mind to it—and when I set my mind to something, Mrs Prim, I usually get it. And I can be very persuasive.’

  He winked at her saucily. In her entire life nobody had ever winked at her, and she felt her lips purse in consternation. If she had not been pretending to be a servant she would have given him a proper set-down. As it was, she had to settle for stony, disapproving silence.

  ‘You can go through all the catalogues and then show me a selection of the most suitable wallpapers. I shall have to trust you to make a great deal of decisions in my absence, Mrs Prim. In the meantime, I will sort out your household accounts.’

  She could tell by the way his eyes drifted to a pile of papers stacked haphazardly on the desk that his attention was already elsewhere, so she inclined her head and went to walk away.

  ‘By the way, sir,’ she said as an afterthought, ‘my name is Mrs Preston—not Mrs Prim.’

  A slow smile crept over his face. ‘I am well aware of that, madam.’

  Chapter Four

  Ross was awoken by the spring sunshine streaming through his bedchamber window and decided that he needed to add thicker curtains to his growing list of things to buy. At the best of times he was not a morning person, but the sun in the countryside was definitely more invasive than it was in the city. It had a piercing quality that could not be ignored, no matter how hard he tried to.

  To make matters worse, he could hear too many noises outside in the hallway again. In the fortnight during which he had intermittently lived at Barchester Hall, the sounds of Mrs Prim and her battalion of maids had woken him on a number of occasions, with their rattling buckets and clattering brooms.

  Irritated, he threw the bedcovers back, dragged himself out of bed and trudged heavily towards the door. Clearly, if he was ever going to get some rest, it was time he made them understand that he really did not like being awake this early.

  ‘What is all this blasted noise?’ he barked as he threw open the door.

  Two young maids and his prickly housekeeper dropped the linens they were carrying and stared at him open-mouthed. Only then did he remember that he was only wearing his drawers. Now that he no longer lived in bachelor lodgings he should probably purchase a dressing gown, he realised as the two maids giggled shyly behind their hands at the sight of his bare chest. Out of habit, he grinned wolfishly at them, well aware that he looked pretty good in his birthday suit. The maids happily gri
nned back.

  ‘Mr Jameson!’

  He could not help but notice that Mrs Prim-and-Proper was not giggling at the spectacle. She turned towards the two maids angrily, her face glowing beetroot-red, and pointed at the pile of sheets on the floor.

  ‘Take those downstairs at once.’

  They nodded in unison and scurried away, leaving Ross alone with the woman on the landing. To rile her, he braced his arms on the doorframe above his head and smiled innocently while she did her level best not to meet his eyes. Those same eyes kept flicking to his bare chest, though, he noticed, and he was prepared to bet money that she liked what she saw.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Prim. How are you today?’ he asked cheerfully, still braced against the door to show his biceps off to their best effect.

  ‘Mr Jameson.’

  She was all pink, outraged and flustered, and the spectacle made him smile.

  ‘It is not proper for you to wander around so freely in your underclothes.’

  ‘Is it not?’ Ross responded as he idly scratched his stomach and watched her eyes lock on to that spot. ‘I do apologise. But seeing as I was rudely awoken by all the noise you were making I do think that I should be excused. I am never fully compos mentis at the crack of dawn.’

  Immediately, her gaze shot back to his face and she stared at him accusingly over the rim of her glasses. She did that a lot, he realised—and always over the rims of her thick lenses, never through them. If she did not need the awful spectacles for distance he had no idea why she would wear them. They were an abomination on her face.

  ‘Mr Jameson, this house is, as you have rightly pointed out, in a shabby and neglected state. We are presently doing our best to clean out the bedchambers, ready for the tradesmen to begin their renovations. That requires the maids to work in them. Already it is past midday—not the crack of dawn, as you claim—and we waste several hours every day waiting for you to be awake. Perhaps if you kept more regular hours then you would not be so tired in the mornings.’