In Bed With...Collection. Emma Darcy
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?”
“Never!” came the emphatic reply.
“Did you ever observe him fondle me in what could be called an intimate manner?”
“Certainly not!”
“Did he ever display any sign of being a randy old man around me?”
Sedgewick looked affronted, as well he might. “Mr. Vivian was a gentleman.” Which, to Sedgewick, was the definitive reply, delivered in ringing tones.
However, since a similar declaration by her had not cleared Beau Prescott’s prejudice, Maggie continued to have the situation spelled out, her eyes glittering a proud challenge at her accuser at the other end of the table.
“In your own words, Sedgewick, what was Mr. Vivian’s manner towards me?”
“I believe he thought of you as his adopted daughter whose company was always a delight to him.”
“And my manner towards Mr. Vivian?”
“You wish me to be frank, Nanny Stowe?”
“Ruthlessly frank, Sedgewick.”
“I believe you thought of Mr. Vivian as a benevolent godfather who made beautiful things happen. You saw it as your job to make them even more beautiful for him.”
The truth. The simple truth. And it had been beautiful. It was wicked and destructive of Beau Prescott to soil it with his revolting and insulting interpretations. A rush of tears blurred her eyes and clogged her throat. “Thank you, Sedgewick,” she managed huskily.
He bowed to her in a show of respect. “At your service, Nanny Stowe. Would you like your coffee cup refilled?”
“Please.”
He handled the pot perfectly. Not a drop wavered or spilled. The masterly performance provided a sense of calm. “A refill for you also, sir?’ he inquired.
“No. I’ve been refreshed enough for now, thank you. Refreshed and reassured that my house is in very clean order. For which I thank both of you.”
His dry tone spurred Maggie to look at him again. He gave her a mocking glance as he rose from his chair and she knew instantly he still held suspicions about the innocence of her relationship with his grandfather, despite Sedgewick’s prime witness statements. However, he wasn’t about to comment any further on it at this point. He addressed himself to Sedgewick, his manner briskly purposeful.
“I trust my luggage has been taken up to my room?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Good. I’ll be off for the day as soon as I’ve showered and changed clothes. Please warn Wallace to have the car standing by.”
Maggie felt impelled to say, “If I can be of any assistance...”
His eyes glittered at her. “You are not my nanny, Maggie.”
Which swept the mat out from under her feet and left her feeling miserably hollow.
“I daresay I’ll see you at dinner tonight, taking your usual place,” he went on.
“If you’d prefer I didn’t...”
“On the contrary, I’ll look forward to the pleasure of your company.”
He was plotting something. She could feel it. With malice aforethought. Every nerve in her body was twanging a warning.
He started to leave, then paused, looking back at her, a sizzling challenge in his eyes. “Oh, and don’t put roses in my room, Maggie. I am not my grandfather.”
BEAU stood under the shower, willing the hard spray of water to beat out the sexual edginess Maggie Stowe had implanted. The woman was a witch. His grandfather had obviously been enchanted by her and she had Sedgewick curled around her little finger, too. Not to mention the rest of the household staff; Wallace