Virginia Heath - That Despicable Rogue

He could hardly go and find a butler. Reggie had got it into his head that he was going to be the butler, and Ross could not bring himself to shatter the oaf’s dreams like that.

‘I am so sorry for the way we were introduced, Mrs...er...’ Blast, he had forgotten the woman’s name.

‘Mrs Preston,’ the woman said tightly, and she peered at him coldly over the rims of her unflattering glasses.

‘Yes, of course.’ Ross gave her his most dazzling smile, but when it became clear that the woman had absolutely no intention of reciprocating it slid off his face despondently.

Already he was predisposed to dislike this woman. She was regarding him with complete distaste and ill-concealed disapproval. He hated it when people did that, and unfortunately it was an occurrence that happened far too often—especially since the newspapers had begun to immortalise his supposed exploits in print. However, somewhere in the back of his mind he quite liked the ruthless blackguard’s reputation he had had foisted upon him. It portrayed the image that he was a force to be reckoned with—and surely that could not hurt in the long run?

The woman was still staring at him distastefully, as if he were the lowest of the low. This really was not a good start to the interview—although he did realise that the sight of Francesca sprawled on his bed might have shocked Mrs Preston, so he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

‘I think we might have got off on the wrong foot,’ he explained benevolently. ‘What you just saw was not quite as it might have appeared.’

He grinned boyishly. That usually won over even the most hardened matron—but not this one. She stared at him levelly—a feat that was made all the more uncomfortable because her bright blue eyes were magnified in the thick lenses of her spectacles to such an extent that he was reminded of a frog.

‘Really? How else should I construe what I just witnessed?’ She was watching him so steadily that it made him feel like an errant child.

‘Francesca arrived out of the blue,’ he clarified, although why he felt the urge to do so was beyond him. ‘Nothing untoward happened.’

‘Perhaps not this morning,’ she stated coldly. ‘But I think it was plainly obvious that you and the lady have a...a special relationship. Am I correct?’

Ross felt his hackles rise at her sanctimonious tone. He certainly did not need to explain himself to this woman. Or to anybody, for that matter. He would be paying her wages. He certainly did not care whether or not she found him suitable.

‘Mrs Preston, I am a single man and these are bachelor quarters. I am sorry that Reggie inadvertently exposed you to my bedchamber—but what happens in that room is none of your concern.’

He steeled himself for the woman to storm out, but she stayed resolutely where she was, chewing her bottom lip nervously.

The awkward silence was broken by Reggie, bumbling in with a laden tea tray. He smiled proudly at Ross and deposited the tray heavily on the side table. Hot tea sloshed out of the teapot and bathed the haphazard cups in brown liquid. Undeterred, Reggie poured tea into one of them and thrust it, without a saucer, at Mrs Preston.

‘Here you are, mum, a nice cup of tea.’ A large, hot drip fell onto her skirts, and she shrieked in pain and immediately stood.

‘Oh! Let me help, mum!’ Reggie began to use the hem of his own shirt to mop up the mess, rubbing it ineffectually over the woman’s wet clothing, unaware that in doing so he was also—shockingly—rubbing her thighs.

To begin with she appeared mortified by this indiscretion, but then the most peculiar thing happened. Her features softened in sympathy and she allowed Reggie to try to help—even though he really wasn’t. It was only then that Ross witnessed the look of stark panic in the big oaf’s eyes—the look he had when he realised he had done something wrong but had no idea how to fix it.

‘It is perfectly all right now. I was merely a bit shocked.’ One of her hands came up and touched Reggie’s enormous shoulder gently. Then she squeezed it for good measure, in a comforting manner that belied her previous cold expression.

Like an obedient sheepdog, Reggie stepped back and stood awkwardly. Then once again the harsh woman surprised Ross.

‘I like one sugar in my tea.’ This was accompanied with a genuine and kind smile that instantly made poor Reggie feel better about being such a clumsy fool. As if in an afterthought she glanced back at Ross, and her features froze again.

‘Here we are, then,’ said Reggie, proffering the second cup of tea to Mrs Preston as if it were the Crown Jewels and she was the Queen.

Mrs Preston glanced at Reggie’s eager expression and her tense pout relaxed. Her lips curved in a lovely smile and she thanked him politely. ‘This looks perfect. You clearly have a talent for making tea exactly the way a person likes it.’

Reggie beamed with pride and gave an embarrassed little chuckle—already won over by this strange conundrum of a woman.

The fact that she had shown such kindness to the big oaf made Ross soften towards her immediately. She was not all bad if she could do that—most people wouldn’t. Reggie usually terrified them. Perhaps she was simply nervous. Or shy?

‘You have excellent references, Mrs Preston,’ he said eventually, while taking the cup that Reggie proffered. ‘Can you tell me what type of household you last worked in?’

Hannah tried to relax and formulate a sensible answer that sounded a tad more friendly. ‘Nair House was not a grand residence, Mr Jameson, but I oversaw a staff of ten,’ she lied.

It would not do to claim that she had vast experience of running a stately pile like Barchester Hall—such a falsity would be easily exposed—but she did want to give the impression that she was capable.

‘I oversaw everything from menu planning and budgeting to dealing with disputes amongst the servants.’

Hannah schooled her features into a neutral mask to cover her disgust at being with him. She had heard that Jameson was a shocking libertine, but she had not expected to be confronted with such overwhelming evidence of his debauchery straight away. The sight of the rumpled bedclothes and that overpainted woman wantonly sprawled across them, skirts raised suggestively to her knees, had been bad enough—but then her eyes had encountered their first sight of Ross Jameson, and that had been frankly outrageous.

He was a huge bear of a man—showing far more exposed skin than a gentleman would deem proper. Of course a gentleman would not have the body of a farm labourer either. Jameson was solid and muscled—a sure sign of his coarse upbringing. Men of class were more willowy and less...sturdy. He probably looked ridiculous stuffed into a tailored coat. She supposed that less discerning women would describe his rumpled black hair and twinkling green eyes as handsome, but he used those good looks to his advantage. He appeared to Hannah exactly what he was—a charming, dangerous and duplicitous rogue. She certainly would not trust him as far as she could throw him—which, she conceded, was not likely to be very far.

It was also obvious that his minion—Reggie?—was severely lacking in intelligence...although she supposed that he had not been employed for his ability to think strategically. He had a wide, square jaw and a nose that had been so badly broken he looked as if it had simply melted into his face. But she had already realised that behind that frightening façade he was a bit slow and was desperately seeking approval. Poor fellow. It was obvious he just needed looking after. However, she was certain his main duties were to protect his nefarious master and to threaten or maim anybody who did not fall into line. How the authorities allowed Jameson to live freely within society was indeed a mystery.