Red Roses Mean Love

Chapter 8

After Hayley left him, Stephen tried to rest, but his mind was too full, his thoughts too active for him to doze off. He attempted to formulate a plan to trap his assassin, but the task proved impossible. His mind was occupied by something else.

Miss Hayley Albright.

Much to his annoyance, he couldn't stop thinking about the woman. And for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why. She was attractive, but he knew many women who were far more beautiful.

And it definitely wasn't her madcap household that drew him. Their behavior stopped just short of appalling, but it certainly would not be in his best interests to point that out to his hostess.

Restless, annoyed, and thoroughly out of sorts, he paced around the room. What the hell was it about her that stirred him so? He irritably recalled how the mere feel of her breasts brushing his arm had made his loins throb to life. He paused, trying to remember the last time he'd had a woman. With an exclamation of disgust, he realized he had last visited his mistress nearly three weeks ago. It was highly unusual for him to abstain for such an extended period. No wonder his body had reacted to Hayley. It was starved for release. The sooner he got back to London and his mistress, the better.

Physical release. Yes, that was all he needed. An extended sexual romp.

Yet even with images of lovemaking swirling in his mind, Stephen could not conjure up his petite blonde mistress's beautiful face. In his mind's eye, he kissed a tall, slim, chestnut haired woman who looked at him through incredible aqua eyes. Stephen imagined the feel of her full lips beneath his, the warmth of her body pressed against him.

Uttering a savage oath, Stephen shook his head to clear it and willed his body to calmness. He would be leaving here within a few weeks. Hayley Albright was nothing more than an on-the-shelf spinster. With eyes a man could get lost in, and a caring, compassionate heart she apparently opens to everyone. A teasing smile and a delightful, unexpected blush. Not to mention a lush, curvaceous body that begs to be touched…

Letting loose another growl of disgust, Stephen headed toward the door. If he stayed in this bedchamber for another minute with nothing to do but think of that, he was going to go mad. He made his way slowly down the stairs, and seeing no one about, he headed for the library. Perhaps reading would occupy his mind.

Once there, he studied the books and was about to select one when he spied a stack of magazines half hidden in a corner of the bottom shelf. The title caught his eye and he bent down. Apparently Captain Albright had subscribed to Gentleman's Weekly. This notion struck Stephen a bit odd as he didn't imagine it was the sort of periodical a sailor would enjoy. He picked up the top copy and contemplated it with surprise. It was the current issue, so clearly it didn't belong to Hayley's father.

Tucking the magazine under his arm, he continued looking around and discovered a set of crystal decanters. He poured a fingerful of what he fervently hoped was a decent brandy, although at this point even a horrid brandy would help, and tossed it back. The potent liquor coated his insides with a glowing warmth and he sighed in contentment. It was very good brandy indeed.

Pouring another, he settled himself in an overstuffed wing chair next to the fire and propped his feet up on a matching ottoman. He took another sip of brandy and opened his magazine.

It seemed like only several minutes later when he heard a knock. "Here you are," Hayley said with a smile, opening the door and entering the room. "I was about to give you up for lost. Are you not hungry?"

"Hungry?" Stephen looked at the mantel clock and was astonished to discover it was nearly six o'clock.

"I went to your bedchamber to see if you still wanted to eat downstairs, or if you preferred a tray. I thought you were resting," she said in a mildly scolding tone.

"I couldn't sleep, so I decided to take you up on your offer to borrow some reading material." He glanced at the empty snifter in his hand. "I also enjoyed some of your excellent brandy. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. I want you to make yourself at home. My father loved brandy and only kept the best. It's wonderful to have someone enjoy it." She plopped herself down in the wing chair opposite him. "What are you reading?"

"The latest issue of Gentleman's Weekly." He watched her gaze shift to the magazine opened on his lap, and her skin paled, a reaction he found most curious. "I must admit, I was surprised to find a stack of current issues in your library."

Her gaze snapped back to his. "Surprised? Why is that?"

"I cannot imagine Winston or Grimsley reading this magazine, and it certainly isn't a publication for women to read."

"The, ah, boys enjoy it."

He raised his brows, intrigued by her sudden nervousness. "The boys? Don't you think it's a bit sophisticated for them?"

Color rushed into her pale cheeks. "Nathan and Andrew are very intelligent, and there is nothing scandalous about Gentleman's Weekly."

"No indeed, but you must agree it is meant for men, not boys." Before she could comment he continued, "I read it faithfully myself. I particularly enjoy the serialized stories they print."

Her color heightened further, but her gaze remained steady on him. "Indeed? Which stories do you like the best?"

"There is a series written by a gentleman named H. Tripp called A Sea Captain's Adventures. Every week he tells a different tale about the voyages of Captain Haydon Mills, an old salt who's always in one scrape or another. Mr. Tripp's writing isn't the best, but the unique nature of the stories makes up for his lacking literary skills."

Her brows nearly disappeared into her hairline. "Lack of literary skills?" She planted her hands on her hips. "I believe H. Tripp is a fine writer, an opinion shared by many others based on the popularity of his stories."

He couldn't hide his surprise at her belligerent tone. "And what would you know of H. Tripp's stories, Miss Albright?"

"I've read every single one of them. And I've thoroughly enjoyed them." She raised her chin a notch, clearly challenging him to comment on her improper reading habits. Amazed though he was, he chose not to accommodate her, but at least he now understood her crimson blush.

Adopting a mild tone, he commented, "I see. I didn't think most women cared for adventure stories."

"I … I'm afraid I am not most women."

"You sound sorry about that."

She shrugged. "Not really, although I must admit that sometimes I wish I could be more like the other young women in the village-carefree and more social."

Stephen studied her over the rim of his snifter, assessing her and her words. She single-handedly cared for an entire brood of children and a bizarre household, saved stranger's lives, and was highly intelligent. Not to mention witty, honest, warm, and friendly, and she could shave a man's face without so much as a nick. And the fact that she could ride astride and read gentlemen's magazines fascinated him as much as it appalled him.

"No, you aren't most women," he said softly. And believe me, that is a grand compliment.

Dinner that evening was an event unlike anything Stephen had ever experienced. He'd taken lunch with the family yesterday and had been surprised to see the younger children eating at the table with the adults, but decided such a breach of social rules must just be for the informal noon meal.

Because he'd eaten dinner in his bedchamber on a tray last night, this was his first evening meal with the Albrights. To his surprise, Andrew, Nathan, and Callie joined the adults at the table. But his jaw nearly dropped to the floor when he realized that Winston and Grimsley also ate with the family. Hayley presided at the head of the table while her aunt Olivia sat at the foot. The chatter was lively and constant, something he was most unused to.

As a child, he'd never been permitted to eat with his parents. The duke and duchess ate in the formal dining room while Stephen, Victoria, and Gregory ate in the nursery with their governess, a stern woman who didn't encourage conversation during meals.

As a result, Stephen was accustomed to quiet meals. The boisterous voices at the Albright table amazed and disconcerted him.

Once everyone's plate was filled, Hayley tapped her goblet with her fork, garnering the group's attention. "Quiet, everyone!" When they had settled down, she stood and said, "I have an announcement to make before we start. I just want to let everyone know that we shall have the pleasure of Mr. Barrettson's company for the next few weeks, until his ribs are healed enough for him to travel back to London without causing him pain or possible further injury-"

"Does that mean he'll be able to come to one of my tea parties?" piped in Callie, a hopeful look lighting her small face.

"And can we continue grooming Pericles?" asked Nathan. "He's the finest horse I've ever seen."

"And perhaps we can ride him?" came Andrew's excited voice.

"That's entirely up to Mr. Barrettson," Hayley said in a repressive tone to the two boys. She picked up her goblet of cider and raised it, turning her eyes to Stephen, who was seated in the place of honor on her right. "We are pleased to have you join us at our table, Mr. Barrettson. I propose a toast to your full and speedy recovery." She inclined her goblet toward him.

Stephen picked up his goblet and touched its rim to hers. His eyes met hers, and he could not help but read the warmth and acceptance in them. He looked around the table, his gaze taking in all of them.

"Thank you," he said, surprised by the lump lodged in his throat. The others all picked up their goblets and toasted him.

"Whose turn is it to say the dinner prayer, Hayley?" Pamela asked when everyone was once again settled.

"I believe it's Callie's turn," Hayley replied with a smile at her little sister, who sat on Stephen's other side.

The child held out her hand to Stephen. He stared at the small palm blankly.

"We join hands for our dinner prayer," Callie said solemnly.

He stiffened. Bloody hell, did these people touch each other all the time? Clearly the child sensed his hesitation because she leaned closer to him and whispered, "Don't be afraid, Mr. Barrettson. I won't hurt you. I don't squeeze tight like Winston does."

Somewhat reluctantly, Stephen took her hand and was amazed how tiny it felt nestled in his own large one. Just then he felt a gentle touch on his other arm. He turned and saw Hayley smiling at him, holding out her hand.

He lifted his hand from his lap and placed it palm up on the table. Without the slightest hesitation, Hayley slipped her hand into his, giving his fingers a reassuring squeeze.

"Thank you, Lord, for giving us this meal, and for giving us another day," Callie said in her high, little girl voice, her chin bowed in prayer. "Please bless Hayley, Pamela, Andrew, Nathan, Aunt Olivia, Grimsley, Winston, and Pierre. Please take good care of Mama and Papa in heaven and tell them we love them." She raised her head and stole a quick peek at Stephen. "And please bless Mr. Barrettson, too, because he's part of our family now. Amen."

Everyone echoed "amen," dropped hands, and began eating. Stephen could still feel the warm imprint of Callie's tiny hand in his palm, and the tingle left by Hayley's touch on his other hand. For some reason his throat tightened, and he brought his goblet to his lips in an attempt to hide his confusion.

"That was a lovely prayer, Callie," Hayley said with a smile.

"Thank you." Callie looked up Stephen, her aqua eyes that were an exact match of Hayley's studying his face in minute detail. "Where did your hair go?" she finally asked.

Stephen suppressed a grin. "I shaved it off."

"Why?"

"Because it itched."

She nodded. "My Papa had hair on his face. I don't know if it itched him, but it itched me whenever he kissed me."

Stephen wasn't sure how to reply. How did one talk to a child? Especially a child who was speaking of her dead father? A swell of sympathy for this small girl who had lost her parents and would never be kissed by her Papa again suffused him.

Callie ate a forkful of peas, then leaned toward Stephen. "Hayley kisses me all the time, and it doesn't itch at all," she confided in an undertone. "Does that mean she shaves her hair like you do?"

Before Stephen could even think of a reply, Hayley interrupted. "Tell me what you did in the village today," she asked the table at large. Everyone began talking at once and Stephen couldn't keep up with the dialogue tossed about the room. Is this how ordinary people took their meals? In this loud, disorganized manner?

Andrew, amid numerous interruptions from Nathan, told about their visit to the bookshop. Pamela related her visit to the dressmakers, and Callie told excitedly about the sweet she'd bought and eaten on the way home.

"And how about you, Aunt Olivia?" Hayley asked, raising her voice slightly. When the woman continued to eat, showing no signs of having heard Hayley, Grimsley nudged her with his elbow. Her head popped up in surprise.

"How did you enjoy the village?" Hayley asked her aunt in a loud voice.

"Heh?"

"The village-where did you go?"

"Why, yes, dear. I'd love another potato," Aunt Olivia said with a beaming smile. Hayley grinned and passed a tray of potatoes down the table.

"Aunt Olivia accompanied me to the dressmakers," Pamela said. "She did her needlework while I picked out several things."

Aunt Olivia put another potato on her plate and then fixed her attention on Stephen. "Your appearance is much improved, Mr. Barrettson," she said with a twinkling smile. "And I see you now have some clothes that fit properly."

"Yes. I-"

Before Stephen could say another word, the door to the dining room burst open, admitting a short, dark-haired man wearing a long cook's apron. A chef's hat sat askew on his head and some sort of green leaves clung to his skin and clothing. He appeared enraged.

"Sacrebleu!" He stomped into the room, dropping soggy leaves to the carpet with every step. "Zat cat has got to go! Look at Pierre!" he shouted, indicating the sorry state of his clothes with shaking hands. "I cannot cook with zee beast underfoot. Mon Dieu, I nearly broke my back tripping on zat creature. Zee cat go, or Pierre cook him into a soufflé!"

He pointed an imperious finger at Hayley. "Mademoiselle Hayley, zee keetchen is a shambles. If you do not get rid of zee beast, Pierre will get rid of zee beast. Either way, zee beast is gone!" Leaving that ominous threat hanging in the air, the little man turned on his heel and stalked from the room, dropping several more leaves from his clothes.

It was all Stephen could do to keep his jaws from swinging open with shock. He couldn't perceive of a servant speaking in such a manner. If such an occurrence had taken place in his household, the servant would be summarily dismissed without so much as a reference. Yet the entire Albright family seemed to accept the insolent cook's words without batting an eye. He literally had to bite his tongue to keep from giving the outrageous cook the dressing down he so richly deserved. I am Stephen Barrettson, tutor. Not the Marquess of Glenfield.

"Did we mention our cook, Pierre?" Hayley asked, clearly fighting to suppress a grin.

"Callie mentioned him, but I hadn't had the, er, pleasure of meeting him."

"That was him," Nathan said unnecessarily.

"So I gathered," Stephen replied dryly. "Will he be joining us for dinner?"

"Pierre is welcome to eat with us," Hayley said, "but he only joins us occasionally. He says the constant frivolity during our meals gives him dyspepsia." She sent an arch sideways glance at her brothers.

Stephen instantly decided that whatever Pierre's shortcomings, the cook was clearly not a fool. "What cat was he talking about?"

"We have a tabby named Bertha. Her favorite place in the entire house is the kitchen. Unfortunately she's rather mischievous. Pierre threatens to 'cook her in zee pot' several times a week."

Stephen cast a quick glance down at his plate and breathed a sigh of relief. Beef. It was definitely beef. Thank God.

"Don't worry, Mr. Barrettson," said Callie, touching his sleeve. "Pierre really loves Bertha. He'd never cook her."

"That's good news," Stephen said. "For myself as well as Bertha."

Everyone joined in the laughter, and the meal resumed. Stephen answered questions when asked, but he primarily kept quiet, listening to the conversations going on around him. To him, the table resembled a great debate. Hayley acted as moderator, making sure everyone got a chance to talk. She forestalled squabbles and introduced new topics of conversation in the rare instance of a lull. Stephen was hard-pressed to decide if he was more entertained or horrified by the casual, noisy atmosphere. One thing he was sure of-by the end of the meal, his head was throbbing from all the noise.

"Are you feeling all right, Mr. Barrettson?" Hayley asked, a frown marring her brow. "You seem rather pale."

"I fear I have a bit of a headache," Stephen admitted.

"You've had a hectic day," she agreed at once. "Would you like me to prepare a draught for you?"

"No, thank you. I'm sure I just need some sleep." He rose and bowed. "Thank you for the meal. It was most, er, interesting."

Hayley smiled. "We're so glad you joined us. Sleep well, Mr. Barrettson."

"Good night, Mr. Barrettson," everyone echoed as Stephen left the room.

He paused in the doorway. "Good night."

Once in his chamber, Stephen flopped down on the bed without so much as removing his boots. His head ached and his shoulder and ribs throbbed. Yet in spite of his weariness, he couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he saw a smiling young woman with chestnut curls and aqua eyes … and long legs… and kissable lips. His pulses leapt to life and his manhood stirred.

He groaned and looked at the clock. Only nine p.m.

Damn.

It was going to be a long night.

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