The Hired Husband. Judith Stacy

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      He’d allowed the valet to draw his bath, arrange his shaving kit in the bathroom, lay out his clothing for the day, brush his suit and buff his shoes. But he’d drawn the line when the valet had tried to sift talc in his underdrawers and hold them while he stepped in. He’d sent Joseph on his way.

      The bedchamber was silent now as Mitch closed the buttons on his shirtfront and eased cuff links into place. He looked down at his gray trousers. This suit had hung with the two others he owned in the massive redwood closet built to hold dozens more. His few shirts, undershirts, drawers, socks and other belongings took up only a fraction of the space in the dresser.

      He’d considered buying himself another suit before making this trip, but had decided against it. He didn’t want to pay the extra charge to have it rushed.

      Mitch wondered now if that had been a mistake.

      But his suits—few though they may be—were of the current fashion. He knew because he watched what others wore. Powerful, wealthy men always dressed well. Mitch paid attention to everything and everyone around him and figured things out as best he could.

      He looped his necktie beneath his collar and stood at the beveled mirror to tie it, anxious to get downstairs, to get to work, to finish this job and leave. He tucked his shirttail into his trousers, fastened them and pulled his suspenders into place.

      Mitch had to remind himself not to make the bed, to leave it for the servants. But he put his clothes away and tidied up the bathroom just the same.

      No use getting too comfortable living in these circumstances; no servants awaited him at home, in the room he rented over the bakery.

      Rachel floated into his mind. If she knew his real circumstances would she be appalled? Would she pity him?

      Would she laugh?

      Mitch swept his jacket from the rack where Joseph had hung it this morning and stood by the window as he shoved into it. Outside, just as Rachel had promised, the view was spectacular. At least an acre of grounds, Mitch estimated, surrounded the house. Brick walkways, fountains, shrubs, flower beds, towering palms. And with the morning sunshine just seeping over the horizon—

      Rachel.

      Mitch’s heart lurched and he leaned closer to the window. Yes, it was Rachel. He hadn’t expected to see her, of all people, up at dawn and outside on the grounds. Yet there she sat on a little stool before an easel, facing the sunrise, painting.

      Another side of this woman he hadn’t anticipated. She was a lady, of course, as she’d been raised to be, with all the social restrictions necessary to maintain that illusion. Rachel was soft and vulnerable, too.

      But he’d seen a streak of grit and determination in her when she’d negotiated his increased salary, brought about by her love and concern for her family. Rachel was a tigress fighting for her loved ones. He hadn’t expected that from her pampered lifestyle.

      Nor had he expected himself to be so completely attracted to her.

      His body had yearned for her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He’d never felt such a strong pull toward a woman—ever. The mere rustling of her skirts drove him crazy with desire. He wanted to hear her voice, smell her hair, learn everything there was to know about her.

      But that wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t.

      Mitch turned away from the window and stalked out of the room. He knew who he was, knew where he came from.

      He also knew where he was going, and nothing would stop him from getting there. Not Rachel and her rustling petticoats. Not his own want for her.

      He was here to do a job. That was all. He had a plan—a plan he’d made long ago—and he’d stick to it. He’d have what he wanted in this life. And nothing, not even Rachel Branford and her rustling petticoats, would stop him.

      A strange sensation zipped up Rachel’s spine seconds before she heard the brush of shoes against the grass. She knew—somehow, she knew—who approached.

      “Good morning.”

      Mitch’s rich voice floated over her. She turned to find him standing a few feet away, gazing at her intently. So intently that for an instant she forgot how completely unprepared she was to see anyone—especially him—at this early hour.

      When she’d looked out her window and seen the spectacular sunrise, she’d thrown on a day dress, no corset or petticoats. She twisted her hair into a careless knot, grabbed her art supplies and hurried outside. She’d kicked off her slippers to feel the grass against her toes and set to work trying to capture the sunrise.

      She wasn’t fit to be seen by anyone. It simply wasn’t done.

      Yet he looked so handsome standing there. From her seat on her little stool, he seemed even taller. The color of his suit and the necktie he wore complimented his hair, his eyes.

      Eyes that, for a moment, seemed to see straight through her and know that her heart beat a little faster at the sight of him.

      Determinedly, Rachel turned back to her easel. “I have only a few minutes to scrutinize the sunrise,” she told him, dabbing at her sketchbook with her brush.

      He stepped closer and positioned himself beside her. His nearness sent a rush through her, producing a wiggly trail of paint across the paper.

      “Is that supposed to be the sun?” he asked, leaning down, squinting at her work.

      “Yes.” Rachel picked up more paint with her brush and swept it across the paper.

      He leaned in a little farther until his face was even with hers. “Your sun looks like a circle.”

      “I’m not painting the actual sun. I’m capturing its colors.” Rachel put down her brush and sighed. “Or trying to. What I need is a spectacular shade of pink, but I’m not finding it this morning.”

      “You’re quitting?” Mitch asked.

      “Yes, for now.” Rachel rose from the stool.

      “Can I see your other paintings?” Mitch asked.

      “No,” she said, holding the sketchbook closer. Occasionally, she showed her work to others, but never the things she’d put in this particular book.

      “Why not?”

      She backed up a little. “It’s…personal.”

      “I was in a museum once,” Mitch said, easing a little closer. “There were pictures of naked people all over the place. Is that what you’ve got in your book? Naked people?”

      “Are you offering to model?” she asked.

      Rachel gasped. Her eyes widened. Goodness, had she actually said that aloud? Heat rushed up her neck and fanned across her cheeks. She saw Mitch draw in a quick breath and his gaze dip—and not to the sketchbook she clutched below her bosom.

      How embarrassing. How humiliating. Rachel wanted to melt into the ground and disappear. How could she have said that aloud—how could she have СКАЧАТЬ