The Heiress and the Hothead Read online

  “That traitor,” she grumbled.

  “Hardly. She merely realized that we should talk.”

  “Why, so you could insult me again?”

  His face was in shadow now that he’d moved in front of the candle. “Are you referring to when I kissed you?”

  “Not that.” She could barely see him, but still she caught his sudden smile and realized her mistake. “I mean—”

  “Too late to take it back.” He stepped closer. “So, you didn’t mind the kiss.”

  “It doesn’t matter if I did or not.” Deliberately, she turned her back on him to gaze out the window. “You didn’t mean it. You were just adhering to some silly English custom.”

  “There was more to it than that, and you know it.” His richly accented voice spilled over her like fine wine. “I enjoyed it. As, I believe, did you.”

  She swallowed. So he’d noticed, had he? “Why wouldn’t I? You kiss well enough . . . for an Englishman.”

  If she’d thought to prick his pride, she’d sorely miscalculated. He laughed. “So Americans kiss better than the English, do they? And how exactly do you know that?”

  “I’ve been kissed often enough to make comparisons.” She couldn’t prevent the bitterness that crept into her voice. “As the only heiress for thirty miles around my home, I’ve had more than my share of flirtations.”

  With men who wanted Montague and all it stood for. Having seen what Mama had been forced to put up with after marrying Papa and handing him her family’s mills, Amanda wasn’t about to follow in her footsteps.

  “That’s not why I kissed you,” Lord Stephen said irritably. “I did it because you were under the mistletoe.”

  “And because you thought I was someone else.”

  That brought him up short. “What makes you say that?”

  “Your familiar manner of speaking to me when you turned me around. And your surprise when you saw my face.”

  A long silence passed, as if he were deciding whether to admit the truth. Then he sighed. “It wasn’t an unpleasant surprise, I assure you.” The low thrum in his voice sent a delicious shiver through her.

  “Until you found out who I actually was.”

  “True,” he said frankly. “Though I believe you were equally annoyed.”

  She faced him. “I still am, as a matter of fact. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  As she started past him, he caught her arm. “I came in here to apologize. And I haven’t yet had the chance.”

  Pulling her arm free, she stared expectantly at him. Goodness, why did he have to be so attractive? Why must his coat fall crookedly and his cravat be slightly askew, as if someone had mussed him up on purpose to make him more appealing to her?

  And why must he thread his fingers through his wavy ash-brown hair until it stuck out, making her want to step forward to smooth it down?

  “Well?” she asked, annoyed by her reaction.

  He stiffened. “Forgive me for implying that you are as unfeeling as the rest of the mill owners.”

  “Apology accepted,” she said curtly, though it wasn’t much of one. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  “I’m not finished.” His jaw tightened. “I admit I made assumptions about you . . . but only because I don’t know you well enough. I should like to remedy that, so I can form a proper opinion of you and your mills.”

  She cocked her head. “You mean, so you can write about them—and me—as harshly as you’ve done all the others.”

  He looked startled.

  “I’m no fool, Lord Stephen. Since all anyone wants to discuss these days are the difficulties of the textile trade, sometimes the press actually deigns to interview a female like me. I presume you wish to do the same.”

  He crossed a pair of rather impressive arms over what looked to be an equally impressive chest. “And if I do?”

  “I shall regretfully have to decline. I have no desire to see you portray my mills as scenes of unspeakable horror because it suits your purpose.”

  A smug expression crossed his face. “So you’re afraid of what I might learn by talking to you.”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Then why not let me do it?”

  Did he think her a complete fool? “Because you’ll twist my words into an indictment of a business you know nothing of.”

  He recoiled as if she’d slapped him. “I may not run a mill but I know plenty about them. That’s why I came here in the first place. To see if what I’ve been hearing about Hanson Cotton Works is true.”

  “And what is that, pray tell?”

  “Why should I tell you? You don’t want to tell me a thing about your precious mills.” Triumph glinted in his eyes. “Besides, you can always go on one of your special tours, can’t you? The ones where they show you everything.”

  Arrogant rascal. “I suppose Yvette already told you that Mr. Hanson refused to give me a tour at all.”

  “Did he, indeed?” His eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t surprise me. If what I’ve heard of him is true, he wouldn’t want anyone, even a fellow owner, witnessing his methods.”

  Drat it all. Lord Stephen couldn’t have garnered her interest more effectively if he’d offered her actual designs of English machines. She wished she could dismiss his sly hints, but she knew full well that he discovered things no one else did. Someone on the inside was always willing to talk to him. It was how he exposed cases where laws were ignored, how he brought great injustices into the public eye.

  “If he’s so secretive,” she said, “how have you happened to hear of it?”

  One corner of his mouth kicked up provocatively. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Ooh, he was infuriating. But maybe she was going about this all wrong. As Mama was so fond of telling her, one could catch more flies with honey. Maybe she could make use of him, and in the process teach him a thing or two about responsible mill owners.

  “I would like to know, actually. So much so that I might even be willing to agree to your interview.”

  That certainly made him take notice. “Really?”

  “But only if you introduce me to your sources of information and let me ask them as many questions as I please.”

  His face closed up. “I can’t guarantee they’ll answer you.”

  “They’re more likely to if I’m with you, aren’t they?”

  “Perhaps.” He tilted his head, still wary. “And I suppose you expect to be given some measure of control over what I write about you and Montague Mills.”

  “Is that a possibility?”

  “No,” he said tersely.

  “What a relief. For a moment, you had me thinking that members of the English press can be bought. In America, we believe that they shouldn’t be stifled.” He was still blinking at that remark when she added archly, “Although obviously someone should have considered stifling you long before now.”

  He burst into laughter. “You do speak your mind.”

  “As often as I can.” And he was the first man to say so without its sounding like a criticism. To her annoyance, that softened her toward him. Somewhat. “So? Do we have a bargain?”

  “Not yet. There are some things to work out first. For one, you and I cannot wander the town alone together speaking with my sources.”

  She shrugged. “My mother can chaperone.”

  “For another, I heard that you’re leaving England soon. So when exactly do you mean to do this?”

  “I’d like to begin tomorrow, if you can.”

  “In the middle of the house party?”

  “Certainly. I’m not exactly the kind of woman who enjoys sitting around making silhouettes or embroidering gloves. And I doubt you’re the kind of man to enjoy shooting or fishing or whatever else gentlemen do during a house party.”

  “On the contrary, I enjoy such activities upon occasion.” A slow smile curved up his lips. “But I confess I’d much prefer squiring you about town.”

  The rough timbre of his voice affected her most
tellingly. “Well, then,” she said as she strove to ignore that. “Are we agreed?”

  “I believe we are.” He marched forward, forcing her to back up or be run down. When he halted, his gaze drifted unexpectedly to her lips. “All that’s left is to seal our bargain with a kiss.”

  That fluttering in her belly began once more. “Why would we do that?”

  With a broadening smile, he pointed overhead. “Because we’re under the mistletoe again.”

  She looked up, dismayed to see there was indeed another kissing bough hanging from the ceiling. Goodness, how many of them were there?

  Then it dawned on her. That was why he’d maneuvered her in this direction, the arrogant devil.

  And just his mention of a kiss had her heart pounding again, even harder than before. She couldn’t gather enough air to breathe, and what air there was seemed rich and thick, heavily perfumed by the Persian irises and Christmas roses of the conservatory.

  Or maybe it was just the heat simmering between them that made it seem so. Good heavens, she didn’t want to feel this for him, of all people.

  “Oh, very well, get it over with,” she said, trying for a dismissive tone.

  As if he saw right through her, he smiled. Eyes gleaming in the dim light, he tipped up her chin with one hand. “Rules are rules.”

  Then he took her mouth with his.

  And oh, what a kiss. His lips were harder this time, commanding rather than entreating. So when he ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, it seemed perfectly natural to open her mouth and let him in.

  Everything got more interesting then. His tongue sank inside to play with hers in slow, silky caresses that warmed her blood and banished any lingering reluctance. He slipped his arms about her waist to anchor her against him; she looped hers about his neck to bring him even closer.

  It was amazing, like no kiss she’d ever known. His mouth consumed hers with long, hot strokes that made something heady and wanton curl up from below to entwine her like steam.

  This must be what desire felt like. Oh, help.

  “Lord Stephen, we shouldn’t,” she whispered against his lips.

  “Stephen,” he corrected her, brushing kisses along the curve of her cheek. “And why shouldn’t we . . . Amanda?”

  If her brain had been working properly, she could have summoned up any number of reasons. But it wasn’t and she couldn’t, and now he was kissing her again. That alone kept her from answering.

  And when Lord Stephen . . . Stephen was plundering her mouth, he turned into something other than an insufferable English radical. He became a man, who tasted of brandy and smelled of wood smoke and wool, who knew how to kiss very, very well.

  Who made her blood run hot and her knees wobble.

  A noise in the hall arrested her. She pushed away from him. “Stop that,” she hissed. “Someone’s coming.”

  “I hope not.” With a grin, he reached up and plucked a white berry, then pressed it into her hand. “I’d say there’s at least . . . oh, ten more of these. We might be here all night.”

  That sent her pulse into a shameless scamper. She’d never expected Lord Stephen of The London Monitor to be such a flirt, though she was beginning to understand that Stephen was an outrageous one.

  She closed her fingers about the berry. “What have the berries got to do with anything?”

  “For every kiss, a berry must be plucked,” he said huskily, “and once they’re gone, there can be no more kissing.”

  That was the silliest thing she’d ever heard. “What’s to stop a woman from plucking all the berries from the mistletoe while no one’s watching?”

  He chuckled. “For one thing, that would be cheating. For another, the women like the game, too.”

  No point in denying that; he’d know she was lying. Because she was rather enjoying having a man tease her. The men she’d known in America were far more interested in telling her what a woman ought to do, and how she ought to do it.

  Yet this English lord was definitely flirting with her. Maybe it was time for her to try flirting back. It certainly seemed more enjoyable than fighting.

  With what she hoped was a coy smile, she held out her hand. “Well, then, if there’s to be no cheating, you must play fair. By my count, you gave me two kisses. You owe me another berry.”

  His amused gaze darkened into something more provocative. Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he reached up and plucked a second, then a third.

  When she regarded him quizzically, he took her hand and put one berry into it. “This is for the kiss we just had.” He lowered his voice to a seductive murmur as he placed the other berry in her palm and closed her fingers over it. “And this is for the one we’re about to have.”

  Oh goodness. If he kissed her any more, she would end up doing something she was sure to regret. Best to retreat while she still could.

  “Thank you for the warning.” Slipping her hand free, she ducked around him and headed for the door.

  “Hey, that’s not fair!” he cried from behind her.

  She paused in the doorway to blow him a kiss. “There you go.”

  “That doesn’t count,” he growled and started toward her.

  “It’s not my fault you plucked the berry prematurely.” She waggled her fingers at him, delighting in his scowl. “See you in the morning for our trip to town.”

  Stifling a laugh, she flew down the hall and up the stairs. She heard him grumbling behind her, but she knew he didn’t dare pursue her. There were too many people about.

  Remembering the look on his face, she entered her room and collapsed into laughter. That had been fun. She’d never had fun with a man before. Maybe it was time she did more of that, too. Flirting and fun might be a nice change.

  She threw herself down on her bed with a grin. And if in the process she also got to torment Lord Stephen Corry for his rigid opinions, so much the better.

  Chapter Three

  Alone in the breakfast room the next morning, Stephen swallowed some regrets along with his eggs and toast. He shouldn’t have kissed Amanda in the conservatory. He shouldn’t have kissed her more than once. And he definitely shouldn’t have had erotic dreams about her that would rival the activities in a whorehouse.

  Bloody hell. While his mind feared that Miss Keane was as ruthless as any other mill owner, his damned body didn’t want to believe that Amanda was anything but the sweet, artless woman whose mouth he’d ravaged beneath the mistletoe. That same mouth had featured so luridly in his fantasies that just remembering them made him hard as a—

  “Good morning,” a familiar female voice chirped. “I’m glad to see you didn’t forget about me and Mama going into town with you today.”

  Oh, God, could this get any worse?

  “I didn’t expect you to rise so early, though,” Amanda added.

  Rise? Could she actually see his arousal?

  He groaned. Of course not. But she would see it when he stood, which he must— Oh God, and now her mother was entering the room, too.

  “Good morning, ladies.” He rose and bowed in one smooth motion, hoping that it was enough to shield him, then waited until they’d swept past him to the buffet before straightening. By the time they took their seats, he was safely ensconced in his own.

  “You’re up early, too,” he told Amanda.

  “This isn’t early—at home I’m out of bed by five.”

  Just the mention of her and a bed threatened to overset his control. Determinedly, he glanced at her mother. “You, too, Mrs. Keane?”

  “Oh, I never rise before ten. But then, I don’t run the mills. Amanda insists upon being there as early as her workers.”

  The mills. Right. He should focus on that.

  Wait, she went in at the same time as her workers? How odd. Few mill owners did that. Of course, few were women, either. Amanda seemed to be extraordinary in many respects.

  Like the fact that she ate a robust breakfast more suitable to a farmer’s daughter. And that she—lik
e her mother—was dressed soberly this morning. Like him, they wore no expensive linens, no rich silks, no lace, as if somehow they’d known that serviceable wool gowns and cheap cotton fichus would be more suitable for today’s foray into town.

  “So where exactly are we going this morning?” Mrs. Keane asked.

  Stephen glanced at Amanda. “Didn’t you tell her?”

  “Not the specifics. You didn’t mention them when we discussed it. You were too busy making bargains.” She cast him a secretive little smirk that tightened every muscle in his body. He could practically see the look on her face last night as she’d blown him that kiss.

  “Ah, yes.” Let her smirk. He’d have the last laugh. “You said you wanted to speak to my sources. I thought we’d start in town with Mrs. Chapel.”

  “And what does Mrs. Chapel do at the mill?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are we visiting her?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Last night he’d decided there was only one way to decipher the real Amanda Keane—put her in certain situations and watch her react. Because he had to know where she stood. He owed it to himself . . . and to the girl whose memory he honored. To all the children who deserved better than a wretched existence as pauper apprentices.

  After they finished breakfast, they headed into the foyer. Amanda donned a somber blue cloak and bonnet very different from her festive green yesterday, yet they didn’t keep him from itching to kiss her as she passed under the bough.

  He scowled. Why the hell must she do this to him? He’d kissed plenty of women in his day. While at Oxford, he’d even joined Warren on a few expeditions to the stews of London. Yet nothing had ever affected him as profoundly as the simple pleasure of having Amanda in his arms. Indeed, it was all he could do not to drag her back into them as he helped her into the carriage.

  While the women settled against the squabs, he leapt in to take his seat opposite them and ordered the driver to go on. Then he leaned back to fix Amanda with an even look. “You mentioned touring some English mills. Which ones?”

  “Henley in Manchester. Wright’s in Liverpool. And of course, the most important one and the one I primarily wished to see—New Lanark.”