Emma Darcy - Inherited - One Nanny

Then the mad joy of finding he was taller than she was, tall enough to make her feel they were made for each other. And his hand taking hers, like a burning brand on her skin, a claim of possession, of mating. Utter madness in the light of the question that was still ringing in her ears and echoing around the emptiness it had opened up in her brain.

And he had seemed so nice, as well. Charming. She could have sworn the attraction was mutual...the way he’d absorbed every detail of her appearance, gazed into her eyes, held her hand. She’d been dizzy with exhilaration by the time she’d sat down at this table. Then with Mr. Polly’s suggestion of putting roses in Beau Prescott’s bedroom, she’d begun fantasising...

Maggie swallowed hard. She had probably needed a sobering slap in the face. The dynamic green eyes were still intensely focused on her but she found them uncomfortably piercing now. He was waiting for her reply. Not that he had any right to it—such a personal thing to ask!—but she felt pressed to clear the air between them.

Her tongue felt thick. She forced herself to produce a flat statement of fact. “The answer is no, Mr. Prescott. I’m not pregnant and not likely to be.”

He looked relieved.

Maggie was goaded to ask, “Would you mind telling me what possessed you to make such an inquiry?” She couldn’t help a somewhat terse note creeping into her voice. Disappointment, most probably. Or disillusionment. She must have been fooling herself over his reaction to her since he had jumped to the conclusion she was intimately involved with someone else.

He winced. “My grandfather wanted an heir.”

Confusion whirled. “Aren’t you his heir?”

“Yes.” A heavy sigh ending in a rueful grimace. “But he was on at me to get married and have a child to safeguard the family line. The last time I was here with him, I suggested if he was so keen to pass on his gene pool he should have a child himself.”

Enlightenment dawned like a white frost, covering and killing what had seemed like warm fertile ground between them. “You thought...that I...and Vivian...” Maggie choked. It was too awful a lump to swallow.

He at least had the grace to look discomforted. “It seemed...possible.”

“Vivian was in his eighties!” There’d been almost sixty years between them!

“A man’s libido doesn’t necessarily wear out with age,” came the dry observation. He offered a crooked smile. “And you are very beautiful.”

Maggie was not mollified. She knew perfectly well that beauty was a learnt skill. Vivian had taught her that. He’d seen the raw potential in her and taken pride in developing it. However, beauty was not really the point at issue here. Beau Prescott was horribly mistaken in his judgment and he had to be corrected. She eyed him with searing determination as she spoke.

“Even if Vivian had felt...that way...about me, and he didn’t...”

“Maggie, you exude sex. No man would be proof against it, not even an octogenarian.”

“Oh!” Her face started heating up again. “You’re terribly wrong.” It was Beau himself who exuded sex, not her. No other man had ever made her feel so sexually aware of herself. It wasn’t fair of him to transfer what had happened between them to anyone else. She tried to explain. “Vivian liked me. He was proud of me...”

“I have no doubt he adored you. From your feet up.”

“He didn’t want me like that!” she cried in exasperation, barely holding back the burning fact that Vivian had wanted her to want him! And the terrible truth was she did. Except he wasn’t turning out as nice as she’d first thought him.

Blatant scepticism looked back at her.

“Your grandfather was a gentleman,” she declared emphatically. Which was more than she could say for him, the way he was going.

“My grandfather enjoyed flirting with young women,” he countered. “He insisted they kept him young. He boasted he’d live to a hundred. He brings you into his home and he dies at eighty-six. From a heart attack. Having met you, what am I supposed to think, Maggie?”

Her stomach revolted at the image he conjured up. Her eyes flashed fierce resentment at his offensive line of logic. “A man of any sense might have made some discreet inquiries before leaping to unwarranted conclusions,” she threw at him.

“Hardly unwarranted. It wouldn’t be the first time a beautiful young woman connected with an elderly millionaire. Power and wealth are well-known aphrodisiacs.”

“Right!” Maggie snapped, furious with his cynical view of a relationship which had been precious to her. “I suppose you envisage me just lying back, closing my eyes and thinking of Rosecliff!”

“And all that goes with it.”

Her heart lurched. Hearing Vivian’s own words, though they had applied to a possible marriage to his grandson, touched a very raw place. The whole idea of giving it a chance with Beau Prescott suddenly became intensely repugnant to her. Mutual attraction did not suffice. He would see her as a gold-digger even if he was panting after her.

The cleaning brigade came in, two of the daily maids whose job it was to keep every room in a pristine state. Maggie greeted them and introduced them to their new employer. Apart from those few words she waited in seething silence while the mess was attended to. Beau Prescott also held his tongue, which was just as well, because she felt like biting it off.

Of course, Vivian’s wealth had made life easy for her, and Rosecliff was the most beautiful place in the world to live in, but she wouldn’t have come here if she hadn’t liked Vivian Prescott, genuinely liked him, and she certainly wouldn’t have stayed if he’d tried to come on to her. No way! She would have been out of here like greased lightning!

The maids left, their efficiency truly admirable. Probably the thick atmosphere in the room had hastened their work. Maggie braced herself for the task of setting Beau Prescott straight. In no uncertain terms!

He spoke first. “I like to know what I’m dealing with, Maggie.”

“My title is Nanny Stowe.” And she hadn’t given him permission to call her Maggie.

“Nannies do tuck their charges into bed,” he dryly pointed out.

“Not...this one,” she retorted in high indignation.

He shrugged. “It seemed best to be direct. Your relationship with my grandfather...”

He stopped as Sedgewick stepped into the room, bearing another coffeepot.

Maggie was so incensed with Beau Prescott’s directness she swung around in her chair and impulsively appealed for backup. “Sedgewick, Mr. Prescott wants to know if I was sleeping with his grandfather. Would you be so kind as to...”

The butler halted in horror. The hand holding the coffeepot shook alarmingly. Maggie held her breath, silently cursing herself for shocking the poor man again.

“Steady, Sedgewick,” Beau Prescott gently advised.

The elderly butler stared at the treacherous hand until it performed as it was supposed to, holding firmly. Then he raised his eyes to the ceiling, as though appealing to the heavens beyond it. The expression on his face was easily read. What was the world coming to?

“I’m sorry for upsetting you, Sedgewick,” Maggie said remorsefully.

“Not at all,” he said with lofty dignity. He carried the pot to the sideboard, set it on the hotplate with due ceremony, then swung around to face the wild child with a look of pained reproof. “Sir, Mr. Vivian did not have an illicit liaison with Nanny Stowe,” he stated unequivocally.

“Thank you, Sedgewick,” Maggie leapt in before Beau Prescott could open his big mouth. “Did you ever see him kiss me other than on the cheek or on the forehead, or, in a moment of pure old-world gallantry, on the hand?”