She pressed her lips together, trying to suppress a smile. At least when it came time for her to leave, she would have that memory. “Well, Mr. Woodsworth, I believe that was both serious and fun. So whoever made you feel that was impossible must have been wrong.”
***
Patience was sitting there calmly reading a book. Byron, if he wasn’t mistaken. What kind of maid kissed her employer and then read Byron? Logically, the reading of Byron should have come first. He shook his head, but nothing would clear his mind. The stacks of papers he had organized with renewed fury after his scene with Miss Morgan sat unattended as he waited for Patience to either leave or speak to him again. The longer he sat waiting, the more uncertain he became about which outcome he desired more.
The book of poetry was open in her hands, but he hadn’t seen many pages turn in the fifteen minutes since she had kissed him and jauntily sat down as if nothing had happened. Why had he invited a woman to spend time alone with him in his study? He clenched his pen tighter in an effort not to reach up and touch his lips. He had wanted to kiss her. Or perhaps more accurately, he had wanted her to want to kiss him. But he had kept his dignity and integrity intact by refraining. All of his refrain was for naught, thanks to his impulsive parlor maid.
The light from the window had started to fade. He stood and brought a candle over to the fire to light it. Only after lighting the candles on his desk and the ones on the side tables near Patience did he stop to consider that perhaps lighting the candles should have been her job.
He plopped back into his chair. His desk had just as many candles as her small tables did, yet the light seemed to pool around her. His eyes were constantly pulled in her direction, but she never looked up at him. Instead she seemed absorbed in her book, a slight half-smile on one corner of her misbehaving lips.
Whatever was happening, he needed to stop it right away. He knew it was his fault. He was the one who had invited her to pretend to be something she wasn’t—a role she played remarkably well. If she were to somehow marry a gentleman, she would fit the role of gentlewoman perfectly. Patience was a complete mystery to him. She could be a social climber. She had asked him for that list. But if that were the case, wouldn’t she be more serious about what had just transpired? It was as though his mouth had been but an experiment; she had tested it, and now she was satisfied.
Or at least he hoped she was.
If she wasn’t a social climber, why had she kissed him? He cleared his throat. All told, she had been here at least half an hour. Surely that was long enough. “I’ve finished my work and will retire now.”
She took the time to finish at least a paragraph before looking up at him. Her eyes were completely serene, as if nothing had happened.
“Alone,” he added for some unclear reason. Even to himself.
Her eyes widened at the word, and she covered her mouth with her hands. “Surely you don’t think I would follow you into your bedchamber.”
“I . . . no, of course not. I only meant . . . will you be all right on your own now?”
“Yes, thank you. I don’t feel lonely anymore. You are at least as comforting as Ollie. I’ll read a few more pages and then tidy up your study before I leave.” She sighed and sank back into the chair.
Ollie. Who the devil was Ollie? And how had he been comforting her? Anthony rose from his chair and walked to the middle of the room. He didn’t need to ask. She wanted him to ask her, and it would be more infuriating to her if he just didn’t. He rubbed his face in his hands. It was no use. “Who, may I ask, is Ollie?”
“Ollie?” Her broad mouth formed the word like a caress.
“Yes, Ollie, the fellow who has comforted you in the past.” He paced in front of her. “Did you kiss him as well?”
She laughed and made a face that exuded repulsion. “No, I have definitely never kissed Ollie.”
All right. That was good. She wasn’t in the habit of kissing men. She had told him that already.
“Ollie kisses me, though, all the time. I try to get him to stop, but he doesn’t know any better.”
“He doesn’t know any better.” Anthony sputtered. “What kind of man—”
“Oh, he’s not a man.”
“Not a gentleman at any rate. Does he still contact you?”
“He’s not a man. He has no way to contact me. He is a Great Dane.”
“Oh.” The air left his lungs in a rush. Sometimes he hated his maid.
“I haven’t had the easiest last few years, and Ollie was always my solace. He loves me for who I am and not for who I am supposed to be. How can I not find comfort in that?” She spoke softly, her words tumbling out of her mouth like the stream in his Kent estate.
For the first time in his life, he considered the prospect of owning a dog. He was several feet away from her, but she still seemed close. “In the absence of your Great Dane, I’m glad to have been able to help.” He smiled, leaning toward her, then straightened and schooled his features. That wasn’t the right thing to say. Blast it, if this woman saw that as an invitation to receive any more comfort from him, he was in high danger of becoming a scoundrel.
She rose from her chair, tucked her book under the crook of her arm, and strode toward the bookshelf. Or toward him? He didn’t breathe—didn’t move, other than to follow her with his eyes. The rustle of her skirts on the ground as she passed him left a light scent of cherry blossoms. He needed to leave the room. The last thirty minutes had been excruciating. He marched toward the door and, with his hand on the knob, turned to her. He needed to establish that he was still her employer.
“I trust you won’t be making a habit of what occurred this evening.”
“Reading in your study?” She innocently ran her fingers over the binding of his book.
“No, you are welcome to read anything we own. You know what I mean.” For some reason, he couldn’t say aloud what she had done. Saying it made it more real, and he wasn’t sure he wanted it to be real.
“Oh, the kiss.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, that.”
“I won’t make a habit of it, I suppose.”
She didn’t sound very certain. He dropped the doorknob and turned to fully look at her. Her auburn curls were barely contained in the typical low knot at the back of her head. Her full lips that only moments ago had been pressed against his own were curled into a half-smile.
She shrugged. “If it happens every once in a while, when I feel that you need it, that doesn’t make it a habit, does it?”
He threw his hands to his face and ran his fingers slowly over his eyes, cheeks, and mouth. In spite of what she’d done, she seemed so innocent. How could he explain to her the precarious position she had put them in?