“You said you’d stay,” she told him.

“Until my job was done. This is what I do, Rachel. I figure out a recovery plan, then move on.”

Her heart raced. “But you can’t just abandon us.”

“I’ve done all here that I can do.”

“This puts me right back where I started. I don’t know anyone capable of taking over the business,” Rachel said. “I don’t know who to turn to, who to trust. There must be some way I can get you to stay. I’ll increase your fee.”

Mitch pushed out of the chair. “That’s not how I work.”

“I’ll double it again. Triple it.”

“No.”

She squeezed her hands into fists. “There must be some way I can get you to stay. Something I can do. Something I can say.”

“Say you’ll marry me.”

Praise for Judith Stacy

The Nanny

“One of the most entertaining and sweetly satisfying tales I’ve had the pleasure to encounter.”

—The Romance Reader

The Blushing Bride

“Lovable characters that grab your heartstrings…a fun read all the way.”

—Rendezvous

The Dreammaker

“A delightful story of the triumph of love.”

—Rendezvous

The Hired Husband
Judith Stacy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To:

David—For always being my friend, no matter what Judy and Stacy—For having the courage to walk your own paths

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Prologue

Los Angeles, 1897

“I now pronounce you man and wife.” The minister closed his Bible. “You may kiss the bride.”

Rachel Branford glared up at her new husband. “If you even think about kissing me, Mitch Kincade, I swear I’ll bite your lip off.”

She stomped away.

Mitch stood at the altar watching his bride storm past the rows of empty pews, her quick footsteps echoing through the silent church. Back stiff, dark hair drawn in a severe knot beneath her hat, she wore her least favorite dress—she’d made a point of telling him so, the one time she’d spoken to him this morning.

The woman could throw a blanket of frost over everything around her, no doubt about it.

And still, he wanted her.

Even if she couldn’t stand him.

Not that he blamed her, Mitch conceded, as he watched her bustle bobbing down the aisle. Not after the disaster her father had caused and her brother had compounded, the mess that she’d been left to fix…with her body.

But she’d given her word and she’d stuck by it. She’d gone through with the wedding. Why wouldn’t she? Rachel had as much at stake in this marriage as he did.

Now, through that series of unfortunate circumstances, Mitch stood on the verge of having the one thing he’d fought for, sweated blood over and dreamed of for years. So close he could taste it.

“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” Mitch mumbled.

“Excuse me?” the minister asked.

Mitch glanced back at him. “Nothing. Never mind,” he said.

The minister shifted uncomfortably. “Well, uh, congratulations.” He cleared his throat. “And…good luck.”

You’ll need it, his tone implied.

Mitch didn’t disagree.

Drawing in a breath, he popped on his bowler and headed down the aisle after his bride. He’d have what he wanted from Rachel Branford.

One way or the other.

Chapter One

Three weeks earlier

“A nother problem?” Rachel whispered. “No, Uncle Stuart, that can’t be.”

Stuart Parker shook his graying head kindly and leaned closer. “Please, Rachel, we must talk. Privately.” He bobbed his wiry eyebrows toward the other side of the room.

Across the large bedchamber Rachel’s father, Edward Branford, lay in bed, the nurses who attended him huddled nearby.

Her father. The man who’d told her bedtime stories, hugged away her adolescent broken heart and supported her at her mother’s funeral just months ago, now lay propped against his pillows, eyes closed, pale, drawn…dying? Rachel’s heart broke anew each time she looked at him.

“Rachel, please?” Uncle Stuart said.

She led the way out of the bedchamber and down one side of the twin staircases that wrapped the marble foyer. The house, located in the most fashionable district of the city, normally bustled with people and the sounds of life, yet had been like a tomb for weeks. The servants crept about silently, visitors stayed just long enough to inquire about Edward Branford’s health, then quickly departed. Her younger sister and brother rarely ventured out of their bedchambers.

In her father’s study, Rachel closed the door behind Stuart Parker. He was her father’s oldest, closest and most trusted friend. “Uncle” was an honorary title.

The scent of her father’s cigars, the smell of the leather furniture nearly overwhelmed Rachel, and for a moment she wished she’d taken Uncle Stuart to one of the sitting rooms. But she sensed this “problem” he wanted to talk about was important, and here in her father’s study seemed the best place for such a discussion.

Uncle Stuart drew in a breath. “I’m afraid I have bad news.”

“More bad news?” Rachel asked. “Is that possible?”

She didn’t see how it could be. Nor how her family—what was left of it—could bear up under any more troubles.

Not quite a year ago Edward had gone into semiretirement and turned over the day-to-day operation of his massive business holdings to Rachel’s older brother, George. Then came the train accident that had taken Rachel’s mother—and so much more. But thank goodness George was at the helm of the family empire.

Or so Rachel had thought at the time.

A new fear pierced her heart. “Is this about Georgie? Did the investigators learn anything about him?”

“No,” Uncle Stuart replied, “I’m afraid not.”

Rachel’s shoulders slumped. Now when she needed her brother the most, he was nowhere to be found. A few weeks ago George had disappeared. Simply vanished. The police and private detectives continued to investigate, yet had uncovered no information. At times, Rachel feared the worst.

She turned to Uncle Stuart. “What’s your bad news?”

“I received a visit from Mr. Rayburn today.”

“From the bank?” Rachel asked. “What did that pompous old windbag want?”

“He came by as a courtesy to tell me…” Stuart paused. “To tell me that your father’s bank accounts are all nearly…empty.”

“Empty?” Rachel reeled back. “No. It must be some sort of mistake.”

“There’s no mistake, Rachel. I went to the bank with Rayburn and reviewed the accounts myself.”

“But—but that’s impossible. How can they be empty?” Rachel waved her arms. “Look at this house. One of the biggest in the city. Father has business holdings throughout the entire state. Hundreds of employees. He has a whole town named after him up north. We can’t possibly be—”

“It’s true,” Uncle Stuart said, more forcefully this time. “Your father’s financial empire is teetering on collapse. Your family is nearly penniless. You could lose everything.”

Rachel’s breath came in short puffs as she gazed up at Stuart. “But—but where did it go?”

Stuart shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Rachel touched her fingers to her temple. “Oh, my gracious, what will people think?”

On top of everything they’d endured these past months the family could become destitute? There’d be talk, vicious talk. The unbearable notion of her family being fodder for the city’s rumor mill caused Rachel to cringe inwardly.

“Come sit down,” Uncle Stuart said, reaching for her.

“No. No, I’m fine—or I will be when this situation is handled. We must get to the bottom of this, Uncle Stuart. Right away. Before anyone finds out,” she said.

“I agree completely,” he replied, stroking his chin.

“We must go down to Father’s office and find someone who can look into the situation—” Rachel stopped herself. “No. No, we mustn’t do that. If we alert the employees, word will get out. Everyone will know what’s happened.”

“True, true,” Uncle Stuart said, nodding thoughtfully. “Once it’s known that your father’s business is in trouble, it could bring on even worse financial consequences.”

“Oh, yes. Of course,” Rachel said, realizing her uncle was right, even if that aspect of the crisis hadn’t been her first concern.

A quiet moment passed with only the ticking of the mantel clock to keep them company.

“You’ll need someone who can analyze the books,” Stuart said. “Someone who can figure out what happened and come up with a solution, a plan to return the business to solvency.”

“We must find someone from outside the city,” Rachel insisted.

“Of course. After all, we don’t know who’s involved with the disappearance of the funds. Who do we trust? In whom do we confide? Where do loyalties lie?”

Anger welled in Rachel. A thief, a trader in the heart of her father’s business? Stealing from them? Ruthlessly, callously leaving her family in this grave situation?

George floated into her mind. If only her brother were here he’d know what to do, how to handle the problem, how to solve it.

“Do you think—” Rachel clamped her lips together, holding back her own words. She’d very nearly suggested that Uncle Stuart look into the problem himself. But with her uncle nearly as old as her father and no longer as sharp as he’d once been, the job would undoubtedly prove too taxing for him.

“Do you think we can find someone who isn’t already involved in Father’s business?” she asked instead. “Someone knowledgeable who can be trusted?”

Uncle Stuart raised a brow. “Looking for a knight in shining armor?”

“I’ll settle for a bookkeeper who can keep his mouth shut.”

“I already have someone in mind,” Uncle Stuart told her. “An outsider. A man who knows nothing of the situation, except what he’ll discover in the account books and ledgers. He’ll be totally impartial with nothing to gain financially—beyond his salary.”

“Who is he?”

“Mitch Kincade. I met him during my last trip up to the Bay Area. He’s helped out in similar situations.”

“What are his qualifications?” Rachel asked.

“A financial genius, he’s been called.”

“Can he be trusted?”

“Implicitly,” Uncle Stuart said. “I learned of him from the highest sources.”

“This sort of thing happens often?” Rachel asked, troubled to think of other families suffering the same sort of problems.

“Yes, unfortunately.” Uncle Stuart shrugged. “But sometimes it’s only suspected, not confirmed. Other times a company might want an outsider to check into things as a way to keep the partners honest. And there are occasions when a fresh perspective from an outside source might reveal ways of doing things better.”

“If this Mr. Kincade is so intelligent, why doesn’t he run his own company?” Rachel asked. “Why is he working on salary for other firms?”

“There’s some prestige in being a hired gun,” Uncle Stuart pointed out.

“What about his background?”

“Nothing that caused a problem for his other employers. His credentials and references are beyond reproach. He’s worked for several men I know and maintains a sterling reputation.” Uncle Stuart looked down at her. “I’ve covered your immediate debts, Rachel, but I can’t do so forever. Something permanent must be done to contain this situation. And with George gone and your father ill, I’m afraid the problem falls squarely on your shoulders. What do you want to do?”

Impatience zinged through Rachel. The answer was obvious, of course, and she wanted to get this Mr. Kincade here yesterday.

Yet her mother’s face floated across her mind. The two of them had spent their time planning social functions, attending teas, redecorating the house room by room. Weighty issues? Matters of finance? Women involved in business? It simply wasn’t done. What would people say? It wasn’t her place. How many times had Rachel heard her mother say those things?

She’d have do it quietly, Rachel decided. Give the problem over to this stranger, let him come up with a plan. Then let him implement it and avoid the scandal.

She lowered her lashes, hoping to look demure when what she really wanted to do was race to San Francisco herself and drag that Mr. Kincade down here tonight.

“Do you think he can come right away?” she asked.

“I’ll see to it,” Stuart said.

“People will wonder why we’ve brought in this hired gun, as you call him, and given him free rein into Father’s business affairs,” Rachel said.

Uncle Stuart thought for a moment. “He’ll stay here at the house. You can explain that he’s a friend of the family, come to visit and offer assistance.”

Rachel shook her head. “Entertaining a guest so soon after Mother’s death and during Father’s illness? It’s highly inappropriate.”

“Then we’ll say he’s a very dear, old family friend,” Uncle Stuart told her. “Besides, it will be excellent cover for Edward’s illness. Everyone will think the company records are being brought to the house for your father to review.”

Rachel might have mumbled a little curse if her uncle hadn’t been in the room. The very last thing she wanted was to attempt to entertain a guest, especially a withered-up, boring accountant. She’d seen the prune-faced bookkeepers at her father’s offices, hunched over their ledgers, squinting at columns of figures. Having such a man underfoot would surely be a trial. Yet she’d have to do it.

“All right, then. It’s settled,” she said. “How long will this take?”

“Two weeks, three at the most,” Uncle Stuart said.

Rachel sighed with relief. Thank goodness. In only a few weeks time, her life would be back to normal.

Chapter Two

“T his one must be a dog. A real dog.”

“Wouldn’t be the first,” Mitch Kincade said and glanced across the hansom cab at his friend sprawled on the leather seat. They’d arrived at the train station barely an hour ago and headed immediately for the Branford home.

“She’s what—twenty years old? Isn’t that what the old guy, Parker, said? And she’s not married?” Leo Sinclair leaned his head back and laughed. “She’s a dog, all right.”

Mitch turned his attention out the window and watched the streets of Los Angeles roll past. In truth, he’d scarcely noticed the details of the Branford family that Stuart Parker had related to him two days ago in San Francisco. All Mitch cared was that Parker had showed up in person—the sign of a desperate situation—and hadn’t blinked an eye when Mitch quoted his fee.

“Bet me. Come on, bet me,” Leo said, still not letting the topic drop.

“I won’t bet you.”

“Because the ol’ girl’s a dog and you know I’m right,” Leo concluded. “And because you’ve still got change from the very first dollar you earned and wouldn’t risk it to save your best friend’s life.”

“You’re my best friend,” Mitch pointed out, “so it should be obvious why I wouldn’t squander my money on such an endeavor.”

Mitch saw a little grin pull at Leo’s lips; he seemed pleased at being reminded that the two of them were, in fact, best friends. Fate had thrown them together nearly twenty-five years ago when Mitch was only seven and Leo but five; circumstance kept them together.

“You and your visions, your plan,” Leo said and waved his arm. “Why can’t you relax? Enjoy life? All you do is work. Why can’t—”

“—I be more like you?” Mitch shook his head, but admitted to himself that, at the moment, the notion had appeal. The afternoon was warm and though he’d tossed his suit jacket and bowler on the seat next to him, he wasn’t nearly as comfortable as Leo appeared to be in his trousers, open-collar shirt and work boots.

“And there’s something wrong with that?” Leo asked, sitting a little higher on the seat. “I go where I want. Do what I want, when I feel like it. Take this trip. I was free to come down here with you on a whim. Nothing to hold me back. I’ve already had enough structured time in my life, and so have you.”

Mitch looked away, wanting no further reminders of the years he and Leo had spent growing up.

“Don’t tell me you really aren’t considering it,” Leo said. “Marrying this Branford girl, I mean. The ugly one. You’d do it.”

“The hell I would,” Mitch grumbled.

“Not even to get what you’ve really been after all these years?” Leo asked.

Wealth and power. Mitch had made no secret of wanting both for as long as he could remember. The wealth he could manage on his own, and he was well on his way to amassing enough money to launch his own business empire.

But there was only one way to achieve real power: acceptance among the wealthy elite. For someone like Mitch, the sole option available was to marry into it.

He’d been offered the hand of many of the daughters of his wealthy clients, clients whose financial futures he’d saved. But he’d turned them all down. Mitch intended to build his empire himself and be beholden to no one.

That way, no one could take it away.

“Just don’t be surprised when her father tries to push her off on you.” Leo grinned, then slouched low in the seat, folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

Mitch was glad for the peace and quiet, yet it offered no respite from his thoughts.

The Branford family. More stupid rich people. He knew their kind. Just because people had money it didn’t make them smart.

But Mitch was smart. That’s why people of that social circle came to him, begging for his help, paying him well—very well—for his expertise, his ideas, his solutions.

The Branfords would be no exception. Mitch knew it. He’d take his fee and be on his way in no time, his wallet fatter, his clients forever in his debt.

He didn’t make it easy for them, though. Mitch never accepted a job when first presented. He insisted on meeting the principals, hearing firsthand what the situation was. Then he accepted the work.

Mitch picked them. He never allowed them to pick him.

The hansom swung around a corner, rousing Leo. He sat up and gazed through the window, then turned to Mitch, his eyes wide. “Jesus…”

Mitch turned. Outside, the West Adams District passed before him. A neighborhood of staid elegance and a solid, stately air. Wide, palm-lined boulevards. Grand mansions.

The hansom pulled into a driveway of an imposing residence, towering three stories high. Ivory in color, trimmed in deep blue, decorated with carved scrollwork and gingerbread, it sported numerous balconies, a turret room and a black slate roof.

“Looks like you’ve hit the motherlode this time,” Leo said.

A very old, very familiar knot twisted in Mitch’s belly. He fought it off.

“Whatever they’re paying you, ask for more,” Leo advised.

“Maybe I’ll do just that,” he murmured.

The hansom drew to a stop just steps away from a large covered entryway surrounded by potted palms and blooming flowers. Mitch shrugged into his jacket.

“What are you going to do while I’m working?” he asked.

“Knock around a little. See the sights. Meet some people.”

Mitch nodded. It was more of a commitment than he expected to get from his wandering friend. Leo was apt to disappear for weeks at a time, and return looking worse for wear.

“Watch yourself,” Mitch said.

“Don’t I always?”

“No.” Mitch pulled his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and peeled off several bills. He held them out to Leo. After a moment’s hesitation, Leo took the money and shoved it deep into his trouser pocket.

“These people can tell you where to find me if you need anything,” Mitch said, nodding toward the house as he returned his wallet to his jacket.

“Try not to yack when you first lay eyes on the Branford’s ugly-duckling daughter,” Leo said with a smile.

“Good advice,” Mitch said, letting Leo have his fun.

He put on his bowler and climbed out of the hansom. The waiting driver accepted Mitch’s fare and tip, then climbed up top again and headed out of the driveway, leaving Mitch alone.

He turned and gazed up at the house. Huge. Expensive. So spectacular that Mitch’s stomach knotted again.

Once more he shoved down the old feelings. He wanted no part of them. Would tolerate none of the memories.

And the Branford’s ugly-duckling daughter? He wouldn’t give her a second look. All he wanted to see was the flash of green when he received his fee.

An old gray-haired butler opened the door when he rang, relieved Mitch of his bowler and gave him entrance.

“You’re expected, Mr. Kincade. This way, sir.”

Mitch followed the butler across the foyer, past the twin staircases that swept up to the second floor, and into a sitting room.

“Refreshments for you, sir,” the butler said, gesturing to a small, round table near the settee. “The others will join you shortly.”

Mitch glanced around the room as the butler’s footsteps faded. A lady’s sitting room, he guessed. Pale pink, flowers, ruffles. On the little table sat a maroon-and-ivory-colored tea service, trimmed with gold. Thin plates, cups and saucers. Trays of miniature cakes. The room smelled of food, tea and cleaning polish.

How many servants had worked to prepare the tea, the cakes? How many had labored to clean this room? Mitch wondered. How many hours of work? How much sweat? How many aches and pains?

He walked to the tea table. He wasn’t usually received in the homes of his clients. They met in bars, restaurants or offices to discuss business. Seldom in their homes. That’s the way Mitch wanted it. Clients, desperate for his help, always did it his way.

He picked up one of the teacups. Thin. Light. Delicate. Where had the set come from? How long had it been in the Branford family? Someone with exquisite taste had selected it. Someone who knew about such things, had access to them. Someone used to having money.

Returning the cup to the saucer, Mitch gazed around the room. Everywhere he looked he saw fine, expensive things. The sort of fine, expensive things he had been allowed to look at a long time ago, but not touch. Not own. Not have for himself.

The house, for all its grandeur, seemed to close in on him. Memories surfaced. Hiding under tables and around corners. Peeking out. Watching, afraid of being caught.

Mitch gave himself a mental shake. His fee just went up.

Rachel hiked up her dress and dashed down the staircase, her mind whirling. She’d heard the door chimes and was relieved to escape her younger sister’s bedchamber and her latest crying fit, yet distressed to think that the visitor might be the accountant Uncle Stuart had hired, and that he’d arrived early.

Early. And she wasn’t ready to receive. Rachel touched the back of her dark hair as she hurried across the foyer. She hadn’t checked the sitting room to ensure the servants had set it properly. She hadn’t yet selected the floral bouquet from the garden to scent the room. She hadn’t had time to think of appropriate topics so that she could make conversation with the dull, boring bookkeeper who awaited her.

Rachel cringed inwardly. What would her mother think of her?

She paused near the entrance of the sitting room, smoothed down the front of her green skirt and drew in a breath to calm herself. It certainly wouldn’t do to rush into a room short of breath and lacking in composure.

Rachel had been alarmed when Uncle Stuart had reported that this Mr. Kincade—her knight in shining armor, her uncle had called him—insisted upon meeting with her and the family before making his decision on accepting the job. So much was riding on this meeting. She had to make sure everything went well.

Rachel called upon each and every hostessing skill her mother had ingrained in her since early childhood, lifted her chin and walked calmly into the sitting room.

Then stopped. A tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a dark suit stood with his back to her near the tea service. Her gaze swept the room, then landed on the man once more.

Where was the accountant? This wasn’t him.

Alarm filled her once more. Had Mr. Kincade been insulted that she was late? Had he left? Had her best chance of saving her family’s financial future simply walked out because of a lapse in her hostessing skills?

The man turned his head, saw her, then came around slowly to face her. Rachel’s heart thudded into her throat, setting her pulse to pounding. A jumble of emotions swept her, all too confusing to name.

Except for one. This wasn’t her accountant. It couldn’t be.

This man was huge. Tall. Muscular. Square everywhere—jaw, shoulders, knuckles. And he was handsome. Thick brown hair and blue eyes just short of being beautiful.

This couldn’t be her Mr. Kincade. Never in her life had she seen an accountant who looked like this.

He studied her for a moment, seemingly as lost as she, then came forward. “Miss Branford? I’m Mitch Kincade.”

“No, you’re not.”

He paused and his brows drew together. “I’m positive that I am.”

“You’re Mitch Kincade?” Rachel’s gaze swept him from head to toe, then landed on his face once more. “You’re my knight in shining armor?”

Rachel’s cheeks flushed. Good gracious, had she actually said that aloud?

Mitch’s lips twitched. “You probably don’t recognize me because I left my white steed out front.”

Then he smiled and the most glorious warmth welled inside Rachel, making her smile in return.

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” she said, her voice little more than a breathy whisper.

They stared at each other for an awkward moment, then Mitch asked, “Are you Miss Branford? Rachel Branford?”

“Oh, yes.” Rachel felt her cheeks warm. “And I’m so pleased to meet you. Thank you for coming.”

He kept looking at her—studying her, actually—until Rachel realized she suddenly couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“Would you care for some refreshment?” She blurted out the words, thankful that something intelligent had finally floated through her mind, and walked to the tea service. “I have—”

Rachel stopped, frozen in horror. This was the wrong tea service. Here it was mid-April and the servants had put out the winter service.

She pressed her lips together, holding in a gasp and silently berating herself. She should have checked it herself, should have made sure the table was properly set. This simply wasn’t done. No wonder Mr. Kincade had been staring at the tea service when she walked in.

Rachel turned to him, sure her cheeks had grown even more pink. What could she say? How could she possibly explain this social insult?

“Is Mr. Parker here?” Mitch asked.

A few seconds passed before Rachel realized what he’d asked. “Not yet. But I’m sure Uncle Stuart will be here shortly. Would you care to sit down?”

Hell, yes, he wanted to sit down. Mitch moved to a chair and managed to stay on his feet until Rachel lowered herself onto the settee at his right.

This was Rachel Branford? The ugly duckling of the family?

But she was lovely. Tall, slender. Nicely filling out the front of her shirtwaist. Big brown eyes. Coral lips that made him want to—

“How was your trip?” Rachel asked.

Mitch shifted uncomfortably in the cramped chair. He wasn’t much for making small talk, especially now, looking at Rachel.

She sat erect, back straight, hands folded primly in her lap, feet placed firmly on the floor. A lady. A genuine lady perfectly at ease in this elegant, dignified setting.

“Fine,” he said. She gazed at him, as if expecting more conversation. Mitch cleared his throat and tried again. “The train—”

“Run!”

Mitch surged to his feet as a young girl swept into the room, tears streaming down her face.

“Run!” she shouted at Mitch, then pointed a finger at Rachel. “Get away from her!”

“Chelsey, please.” Rachel rose and said to Mitch, “My sister.”

“Run now! While you still can!”

“She’s fifteen,” Rachel told him in a low voice, as if that explained everything.

Mitch looked back and forth between the two of them, bewildered. Chelsey, in the throes of an all-out hissy fit, and Rachel, somehow managing to remain calm and composed.

Chelsey approached Mitch, not bothering to wipe the tears from her puffy eyes. “She’ll take over your life! She thinks she runs everything around here! Everything!”

“Chelsey, please, this is hardly the time,” Rachel pleaded. “We’ll discuss your situation—”

“It’s not a situation! It’s my education!” Chelsey drew in an anguished gulp of air. “You’re ruining my life!”

“Chelsey—”

She flung out both arms, as if beseeching the heavens. “And no one cares!”

Mitch was nearly overcome with the need to do something. Intervene, get to the bottom of the problem, comfort one of them—both of them. Do something.

But his attention darted to the doorway as a young man ambled inside. Dark haired, brown eyed. He vaguely resembled both Rachel and Chelsey. Their brother, surely.

Mitch guessed the boy fell between the two of them in the family line, probably around sixteen years old.

He ignored Mitch and his sisters, as if he hadn’t noticed any of them in the room, and went to a low cabinet beside the fireplace. Opening the door, he withdrew a bottle of whiskey, then turned.

Mitch’s chest tightened. The left sleeve of his shirt was knotted just below his shoulder. The boy had lost his arm.

“Noah?” Rachel called, making Mitch realize that both she and Chelsey had fallen silent. “Noah, please come meet our guest, Mr. Kincade.”

With practiced ease, the boy pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth, then caught it in his fingers as he turned up the bottle. He kept walking.

“Noah?”

Rachel spoke again, and Mitch heard the quiet desperation in her voice. A knot wound so tight in his stomach that Mitch didn’t think he could bear it.

Noah managed a salute in Mitch’s direction with the bottle, then disappeared out the door.

A heavy silence hung in the room. No one moved. No one spoke.

Then Chelsey turned to Rachel. “I hate you,” she declared, then put her nose in the air and stomped out of the room.

Mitch watched her go, his gut aching. He turned to Rachel. Her cheeks had lost their pretty little blush. They were white now. Her hands were clenched in front of her. She looked small and frail, suddenly, yet she stood straight, as if she’d put up a wall to protect herself from…everything?

Mitch took a step toward her. Then stopped.

No. No, he couldn’t do this.

“I hope you’ll excuse my family,” Rachel said softly, unable to meet his eyes. She straightened her shoulders. “Uncle Stuart should be here shortly. He can explain the details of—”

“No.” Mitch shook his head. “No, our deal is off. Forget it.”

He strode out of the room.

Chapter Three

“W ait! Mr. Kincade! Please, wait!”

Mitch didn’t acknowledge the plea he heard behind him as he headed toward the foyer. He was getting out of this place—now.

“Please?”

The desperation in Rachel’s voice touched his conscience. Mitch stopped and turned. Rachel, dress hiked up to ankles, rushed toward him. He fidgeted. He had to get out of here. Leave, and not look back.

But something about Rachel held him in place. A tug he couldn’t fight, at the moment.

“It’s the tea service, isn’t it,” she said, squeezing the words out as if they pained her.

He frowned down at her. “The tea—”

“I knew it,” she declared. She pressed her lips together and, for an instant, Mitch thought she might cry, though he didn’t have the slightest idea why.

“This is my fault. All my fault,” Rachel insisted. “I should have made sure the tea service was—”

“What are you talking about?” Mitch asked, walking closer.

“It’s a winter service. Completely inappropriate for spring. I saw you eyeing it when I walked into the room,” Rachel said.

Mitch just looked at her. She thought he knew the tea set—of all things—was wrong? That he was gentleman enough to realize the error?

For an instant Mitch didn’t know what was worse: to tell her that he didn’t know one tea service from another, or to reveal the real reason he wouldn’t accept the job.

He decided to take the easy way out.

“Stuart Parker mentioned that things have been difficult for you and your family,” Mitch said.

Rachel gazed up at him, her eyes wide with hope. “You’re not leaving because the tea service is all wrong?”

A proper tea service. Why the hell would a person give a damn one way or the other about a tea service? But reputations were made—or destroyed—because of just such details. Mitch had forgotten that.

Rachel leaned a little closer and rose on her toes. The fragrance of her hair wafted up to him. A most delightful scent. She touched his arm.

“Please, Mr. Kincade, if you would just hear me out?”

She whispered the words. Her sweet breath brushed Mitch’s ear warming him, yet somehow sending a chill down his spine.

“Won’t you please come back?” she breathed into his ear. “Let me explain things. I don’t want Chelsey or Noah—or the servants—to overhear us.”

Indecision seesawed through Mitch, a condition that he almost never experienced. A head full of old memories warred with the vision of this woman standing before him. He knew what he should do. Knew what was best for him. No question about it.

But the warmth of her body so close to his called to him. Made him want to ease forward just a bit. Brush against her soft—

“Please?” she whispered.

Mitch drew back, drawing on a familiar store of willpower. All right, he decided. He would listen. Just listen to what she said, then leave.

He gave her a brisk nod then was annoyed with himself because the little smile she gave him pleased him so. He followed her swaying bustle down the hallway and into the sitting room once more.

“We’ll have some tea,” she told him, as if that would make things better.

Wrong service or not, Rachel Branford looked perfect with the delicate cup and saucer in her hand. Easy, practiced motions. Flawless movements. Grace and charm. She’d done this all her life, obviously.

Mitch accepted the tea, though he didn’t really want it. He preferred a steaming mug of coffee with cream and lots of sugar.

“Would you care for a cake?” Rachel asked, gesturing to the tray on the table.

The little cakes on the platter held no appeal for Mitch. He was hungry, but he craved beef with potatoes smothered with gravy. He doubted such a meal had ever been served in this house.

“Thank you for staying, Mr. Kincade, for hearing me out.” Rachel sank onto the settee and sipped her tea.

Mitch’s cup rattled in the saucer as he sat down and placed it on the table beside him.

“I suppose Uncle Stuart told you that our family situation is…well, desperate,” Rachel said.

Had Parker told him that? Mitch didn’t remember, nor did he care. Every family, every company he worked for had a sob story of some sort. An illness, a death, a disgruntled ex-employee, a crooked partner. Mitch never listened to the details. All he cared about was doing his job and collecting his fee.

“It began last year,” Rachel said, “when Father turned the business over to my brother Georgie. A few months later my mother…well, she—”

“Died?” Mitch asked.

Rachel glanced away for a moment, then looked at Mitch again. “The train derailed. She and Father were taking Noah to look at colleges.”

“That’s how your brother lost his arm?” Mitch asked.

“Yes, and I think that was the start of Father’s health problems, too. Seeing them there in the wreckage…” Rachel shook her head as if shaking away the vision, and set her teacup aside. “Father’s been in decline since. A minor stroke, the doctors said. But it’s more than that. They can’t seem to pinpoint exactly what’s wrong.”

Mitch just waited.

“With Father ill, Georgie took complete control of the business several months ago.” She shook her head. “If only Georgie were here I’m sure he could handle everything.”

Mitch frowned. “He’s away now?”

“He didn’t even tell us he was leaving. We don’t know where he is or when he’ll come back.”

Mitch paused. “Your brother, who ran the business, disappeared suddenly, then shortly thereafter the family money vanished also?”

“Yes, isn’t it terrible? At times, I fear something dreadful has happened to him.”

Mitch shifted in the chair. “You don’t think it’s more than a coincidence?”

Rachel looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Whatever do you mean?”

Of course, there could be several reasons why George and the money’s disappearance coincided, other than the obvious. Mitch decided not to pursue it with Rachel.

“Georgie is my half brother, actually. My mother’s son from a previous marriage,” Rachel explained. “But Father never treated him any differently than the rest of us. He gave Georgie his name, educated him.”

“Turned the business over to him?”

“Oh, yes. Of course,” she said. “And I just know that as soon as Georgie returns, everything will be fine. The police are looking, and a detective agency of some sort has been engaged. We’ve learned nothing about his whereabouts, though. I just hope—”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Mitch said, wanting to relieve her distress. Making her feel better suddenly seemed important to him.

“Noah is having a particularly difficult time of it,” Rachel went on. “And Chelsey…well, Chelsey is a situation that must be handled, also. So you can see, Mr. Kincade, that our circumstances are, indeed, desperate.”

Mitch nodded. “They are.”

She leaned forward a little. “So you’ll reconsider? You’ll stay and help us?”

“No.”

A few seconds passed before his words seemed to dawn on her.

“But you just said you understood—”

“I do understand,” Mitch said. “But it doesn’t make any difference.”

“You know my father’s holdings are vast and complicated. You come highly recommended,” Rachel said. “There must be something I can say that will convince you to stay.”

“There’s not.”

She sat up straighter. “Then why come all this way? Why get my hopes up just to refuse the work?”

“I don’t have to give you a reason,” Mitch told her. “I choose my clients, not the other way around.”

“You must help us.” Rachel gave him a hopeful little smile. “After all, that’s what knights in shining armour do.”

“I’m not here to rescue you,” Mitch said, though he knew that’s what she wanted. He knew her type. He’d seen it dozens of times. Pampered and spoiled by a life of leisure. Circumspect, reserved, a slave to social status. And now she was completely out of her element after being thrust into these dire circumstances, and expected someone else to fix the problem.

“Then your reason must be…” Rachel nodded. “Oh, I understand.”

Mitch frowned. “Understand what?”

“That after arriving here, you can see that you aren’t up to the task.” Rachel smiled pleasantly. “It’s perfectly all right. I wouldn’t want you to take it on if you can’t handle it.”

Mitch uttered a laugh. “Let me assure you, Miss Branford, that I’ve untangled finances far more complicated than those of your father. I checked before I came here so I know what I’m talking about. I can have this job finished in less than two weeks.”

“Then you are the perfect man for the job,” Rachel insisted. “You are the only one who can help us.”

Mitch pushed out of the chair. “Listen, Miss Branford, I’m not your preacher, your helpful brother, or your knight in shining armor. I do this for money. That’s all.”

“Fine. If that’s what you care about, then that’s what you’ll have. I’ll double your salary.”

“No.”

“Triple it.”

Mitch shook his head. “I don’t want to work for you.”

“Quadruple it.”

He glared at her.

Rachel got to her feet and drew herself up. “We’re talking about my family, Mr. Kincade. Name your price.”

“I don’t want the job.”

She flung out her arms. “You don’t want four times your usual fee? For less than two weeks work? Really, Mr. Kincade, what sort of businessman are you?”

“Do you even know what my salary is?” he demanded. “Do you have any idea?”

“Whatever it is,” Rachel told him, “it’s nothing compared to the survival of my family.”

He’d be a fool to turn it down. The sum was impressive. In his mind, Mitch reviewed the ledger he kept that tracked his money and thus his dream, and imagined the balance shooting upward. That much closer to the things he’d worked for his entire life.

And all he had to do was stay here.

“Well?” Rachel asked.

A few moments dragged by while Mitch wrestled with his conscience, old memories and the ache in his stomach it all caused. Finally, the money won out.

“All right. I’ll do it,” he said. “For four times my usual fee.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.” Rachel drew in a breath. “I’ve already prepared a very nice room for you overlooking the rear gardens. You’ll—”

“You expect me to stay here?”

“Well, yes, of course.”

“No.” Mitch paced a few feet away.

“You must stay with us,” Rachel told him. “And you must work here, too.”

“No,” Mitch said. “That’s out of the question.”

Rachel huffed. “Fine. Then I’ll pay you five times your salary.”

He swung back to face her. “You don’t even know if you can afford that.”

“Then you’d better see to it that I can,” she told him.

A long moment dragged past with the two of them glaring at each other. Finally, Mitch broke the silence.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said. “I don’t care about you or your family. I’m here to do a job. That’s all.”

She drew herself up and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what sort of services you’ve provided for your previous employers, Mr. Kincade, but all I need you to do is the job for which you’ve been hired.”

“I expect to be left alone to do just that.”

“You can work in my father’s study. No one will disturb you.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

They glared at each other for another moment, then the reality of his decision and the situation it left him in struck Mitch like a kick in the knee. He’d finish this job. Get it done and leave.

And in only a few weeks, he’d have his old life back again.

Chapter Four

E verything would be all right now. Wouldn’t it?

The thought ran through Rachel’s mind once again as she sat on the settee, watching the late-afternoon shadows crawl toward her across the sitting-room floor. Yes, everything would be fine. Mr. Kincade had come highly recommended. At this very moment he was in Father’s study discussing the situation with Uncle Stuart. He’d fix their problem.

If he kept his word and stayed.

Another wave of anxiety rumbled through Rachel, setting her heart to beating faster. Mitch had said from the outset that he didn’t want the job. He’d refused it outright, initially. She’d had to bribe him with more money to get him to agree to stay.

But what if he changed his mind? What if he simply up and left?

Was that fear the reason she felt so anxious?

Rachel glanced down at the tablet in her hand and the blank page that taunted her, and realized Mitch’s potential abrupt departure was one of the many troubling things on her mind right now.

The pages of her tablet should be nearly filled by now. The guest list. The menu. Flowers. All those things still needed to be put into motion.

Usually, preparing for this sort of event delighted her.

Usually, she and her mother did it together.

With a heavy sigh, Rachel pushed the tablet away. She’d work on the luncheon preparations later.

Mitch came into her thoughts once more at the sound of his voice rumbling in the background. Not loud enough that she understood his words as he spoke with Uncle Stuart in the study down the hall, but a constant companion as she’d sat here.

The image of him filled her mind. Tall. Yes, he was certainly tall, strikingly tall. Broad shoulders. Big hands. They’d looked ridiculous earlier holding the teacup. Was he seated behind the desk in Father’s study? Had he taken off his jacket? Loosened his necktie? Opened his shirt collar…

Rachel gasped and hopped off the settee as if her own thoughts had given her a pinch. Good gracious, what had come over her, imagining Mr. Kincade—an accountant, of all things—without his shirt on?

Commotion at the sitting-room door caught Rachel’s attention. She turned, grateful for the distraction and expecting to see Chelsey in tears again, but found Claudia Everhart rushing into the room instead. Rachel hadn’t even heard the door chimes.

Gracious, had she been that deep in thought over Mitch Kincade’s chest?

“Rachel! It’s happening!” Claudia announced, her eyes wide, her cheeks as pink as the frothy gown she wore. “Tonight!”

Rachel gasped. She and the pretty, blond Claudia had been friends for years. That look on her face could mean only one thing.

“Graham?”

“Yes!”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight!” Claudia rushed to Rachel and clasped her hands. “Mother told me that Graham has asked to speak with Father. Tonight! He intends to ask Father’s permission to marry me. I rushed right over here. You’re the first to know!”

Rachel shared a quick hug with Claudia. “Graham Bixby asking for your hand. He’s the perfect husband.”

“Oh, yes he is, isn’t he?” Claudia sighed. “The Bixbys are one of the finest families, and Graham is so handsome and so refined, and so dignified. He’s terribly successful. He’s—he’s perfect.”

“He’ll look gorgeous in his tuxedo,” Rachel said, smiling along with her friend. “Your groom waiting at the altar for you.”

“Oh, and our wedding will be perfect. Absolutely perfect—” Claudia gasped and her eyes widened. “Oh, goodness, Rachel. How thoughtless of me. Rushing over here, prattling on about my news when you—”

“Don’t give it a thought,” Rachel insisted, forcing aside the unpleasant memory.

“But if things had been different, you and—”

“Please,” Rachel told her, shaking her head. “It’s over and done with.”

“Benjamin Blair,” Claudia said, disdain in her voice. “He should be shot for—”

“Has your mother started planning?” Rachel asked, anxious to talk about something different.

Claudia smiled. “Mother started planning a year ago when Graham asked permission to court me.”

Rachel’s heart swelled with delight over her friend’s good news. Claudia Everhart and Graham Bixby would truly make the perfect couple. They would have the perfect wedding, the perfect reception.

“I must get back home,” Claudia declared, rushing out of the sitting room. “I have to decide what to wear this evening when Graham comes over.”

“Something pink,” Rachel suggested, hurrying alongside her. “It’s your favorite color and it will—”

Mitch Kincade and Uncle Stuart stepped out of the study, stopping Rachel and Claudia in their tracks. Rachel’s gaze jumped between the two men. Mitch looked taller, sturdier, stronger next to her aging uncle.

And his shirt collar was buttoned up tight.

Rachel felt her cheeks color as the very unladylike thought zipped through her mind.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Uncle Stuart said with a smile.

Pleasantries were exchanged and, finally, Rachel had to introduce Mitch. She’d made thousands of introductions. Why did this man unnerve her so? Because he held the future of her family in the palm of his hand?

Or was it something else?

“Claudia, I’d like you to meet Mr. Mitch Kincade,” Rachel said. “Mr. Kincade is one of our family’s oldest and dearest friends, and he’s visiting with us for a while.”

Mitch seemed to bristle slightly at Rachel’s introduction, but gave no indication of anything amiss as he and Claudia exchanged greetings.

“Will you stay for supper, Uncle Stuart?” Rachel asked.

“No, dear, I must get home.” He turned to Mitch. “I’ll be speaking with you soon. Good afternoon, ladies.”

Mitch nodded to Rachel and Claudia as Stuart disappeared down the hallway, then returned to the study.

Claudia leaned close to Rachel, her gaze on the study door. “Oh, my…where have you been hiding him? He’s gorgeous.”

“Claudia! Have you forgotten about tonight?” Rachel asked.

“Graham is handsome, but Mr. Kincade…”

“He’s only here out of respect for Father,” Rachel insisted, hoping she sounded sincere. “When he heard about Father’s illness, he rushed down here to help out, if needed.”

“Lucky you,” Claudia murmured.

“Go home,” Rachel told her, taking her elbow and urging her toward the foyer. “You’ve got the perfect man coming to ask for your hand.”

“You’d better prepare yourself for what will happen when word of Mr. Kincade gets out. Every young woman in the city will try and steal that man right out of your own house.” Claudia said, with a crooked grin. Then she gave Rachel a quick hug. “I’ll give you the details tomorrow.”

“You’d better,” Rachel called as her friend hurried out the front door.

In the silence, Rachel’s smile faded. Claudia’s life was set, it seemed. Tonight she’d become engaged to Graham Bixby, a truly perfect man, presenting Claudia with a truly perfect future to look forward to. While Rachel’s life…

She fought off the sadness that crept into her thoughts and drew in a breath. She’d make it perfect again, just as it used to be. And the place to start was with Mitch Kincade.

Another troubling thought from earlier landed squarely in Rachel’s mind once more. What if he left? Before he finished his work here?

That brought on another recollection of Benjamin Blair. Determinedly, Rachel shoved it into the deepest recesses of her mind and focused once more on her family.

If Mitch threatened to leave, she’d forbid it, Rachel decided. Though he hardly seemed like a man who did anything that didn’t suit him, she would force him to stay. Somehow.

In the meantime, she had to get on with things. Mitch had insisted he be left alone to work, but that was impossible. He was a guest, after all. To ignore him simply wasn’t done.

When Rachel entered the study she found Mitch seated at the desk but his gaze was trained on the doorway, as if he’d expected her to walk in. He got to his feet immediately and Rachel thought once more how out of place he looked here among the ledgers and account books stacked up around him.

Surely the man was better suited for outdoor work, something physical, something in the sunshine, something that required no shirt.

Rachel winced and tried to force the heat from her cheeks. Good gracious, what was wrong with her?

Mitch seemed to be lost in his own thoughts and didn’t appear to notice her momentary distress. Rachel pushed on.

“Would you care for anything?” she asked. She glanced at the tray she’d sent to the study during Uncle Stuart’s visit and saw that, while the coffee had been drunk, the fruit and cakes hadn’t been touched.

“No. Nothing,” Mitch said.

“If you want anything—anything at all—all you need do is ask.”

To Rachel’s horror, the words came out in a breathy little whisper. She’d spoken them countless times to other guests but now they sounded like a wistful—and illicit—invitation. Mitch drew in a quick breath and his chest expanded. His gaze dipped to her breasts, then jumped back to her face, causing her to tingle all over.

Their eyes held on each other for a long awkward moment, then Mitch plopped into his chair and scooted under the desk. He snatched up a pencil and dropped his gaze to the open ledger in front of him.

As much as she wanted to, Rachel couldn’t just run from the room. She pressed her feelings down and sent her mind in search of something intelligent to say.

Good gracious, what had happened to her hostessing skills?

“Did, uh—” Rachel cleared her throat and tried again. “Did you and Uncle Stuart get things handled?”

Mitch looked up at her, seemingly grateful that she’d asked this harmless question.

“He gave me what I need to get started,” he said, then gestured to the ledgers and account books stacked around him and the others still in crates waiting to be opened. “But there’s a lot yet to do.”

“Yes, I’m sure there is,” Rachel said. “Is Uncle Stuart coming back to help?”

“I don’t need any help,” Mitch told her. “I’ll analyze the books and make my recommendations. I have no authority in your father’s business. It’s up to Parker whether or not to implement my plan.”

“Uncle Stuart and my father, of course,” Rachel said.

Mitch hesitated a moment. “According to Parker, he and your father drew up agreements years ago placing each other in charge of their finances, in case either became incapacitated, as your father is now.”

“I didn’t know.”

Mitch shrugged as if that didn’t surprise him. “Your uncle has already agreed to my first recommendation, selling off some warehouses to generate cash.”

“Warehouses? Don’t we need those?”

His eyebrow quirked. “I don’t usually explain myself.”

“Do you usually receive five times your normal salary?”

Mitch glared at her for a quick moment, then said, “You won’t need your warehouses if the business goes under and there’s nothing to store.”

“Oh, well, of course,” Rachel said, feeling a little foolish. She offered an apologetic half smile. “I’ve never been privy to the workings of the family business.”

“No reason for you to be,” Mitch said. “I’m sure you had other…important matters to attend do.”

The upcoming luncheon causing her so much anguish flashed in Rachel’s mind. It hardly seemed important compared to “generating cash” for the family.

“I can show you to your room now,” Rachel said, in a hurry to get this portion of her hostessing duties over and done with.

Mitch dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “I’m sure I can find it on my own,” he said.

“You are our guest,” Rachel reminded him.

He turned back to his ledger. “I’m a hired worker, here to do a job.”

“We don’t allow the hired help to wander through the house, either.”

Mitch’s gaze came up quickly and pinned her with a look Rachel didn’t know how to interpret. A hint of anger, a flash of embarrassment along with something more. Something different. Something she’d never seen before, certainly not on a man’s face.

But whatever it was passed quickly and Mitch pushed himself to his feet. “In that case, Miss Branford, I’d be pleased to have you accompany me to my bedchamber.”

Chapter Five

M itch walked alongside Rachel through the hallway and up one side of the twin staircases while she talked about the history of the house, the neighborhood and other things he wasn’t really listening to.

Walking with a woman required some attention, and he had to remind himself to shorten his strides. Though he didn’t really hear Rachel’s words, the melody of her voice wound through him.

Women’s voices were pleasing. Light. Delicate. Almost like music. Music accompanied by the rustle of clothing, the brush of gentle footsteps. Rachel was no different.

Mitch glanced down at her beside him on the stairs and his heart thudded harder in his chest. Rachel’s lilting voice seemed to call to him, draw him closer, suggest things not meant to be suggested between the two of them.

And her clothing. The rustling of petticoats under her skirt. How many were they? What sort of fabric caused the sound? How long would it take to slip them off?

Mitch pressed his lips together, trying to fight off the familiar response to such a thought. It didn’t work. This unexpected desire presented itself with a special urgency. He dropped back a step, thinking the distance would help, but then his gaze homed in on her bobbing bustle and swaying hips. Mitch groaned aloud.

Rachel stepped and turned back to him. “Is something wrong?”

That innocent face, those big brown eyes turned up to him, the fragrance of her hair wafting over him. Mitch nearly groaned again.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he managed to say.

She looked at him for another few seconds then headed up the stairs. At the top she turned right down the hallway, bobbing and swaying with each step. Mitch’s condition worsened.

Halfway down the hall, Rachel opened a door and stepped inside. She stood there for a moment, as if inspecting the room, then moved in and allowed Mitch to follow.

“This room is one of my favorites,” she said. “It overlooks the rear gardens. They’re especially nice this time of year. I thought you’d enjoy the view.”

“The view is spectacular,” Mitch mumbled, his gaze still on her backside.

“Your baggage was delivered from the train station,” Rachel said, gesturing across the room to what Mitch supposed was the dressing area. “But your valet wasn’t there.”

Valet? She expected him to have a valet? Mitch’s desire cooled. He had no valet. Never had. But Rachel thought it natural that he would.

“I’m sure Joseph won’t mind attending you,” Rachel went on. “With Georgie away, Father ill and Noah…well, I’m sure he’ll have time. If that’s all right with you, of course.”

“That’s fine,” Mitch mumbled, not sure just what he was supposed to do with a valet.

Rachel waited for a moment, then finally said, “Does the room suit you?”

He obliged her with a quick look around. The furniture was massive and ornately carved. Mahogany, Mitch thought, with black marble tops on the stands and dresser. There were spiral carvings on the bedposts, oversize claw feet on all the pieces, and a lion’s head carved in relief amid a fan crest on the armoire and headboard. A large floral arrangement, that surely Rachel had selected herself from the garden, sat atop the dresser, its blues picking up the colors of the room.

Mitch had never slept in a bedchamber this grand. He’d seen such a room, but only to peek inside when no one was looking.

“Mr. Kincade?”

Rachel’s voice freed him from the memories.

“The room is fine,” he said.

She looked relieved. “Supper will be served at six. We’ll eat in the—”

“That’s not necessary,” Mitch told her.

Rachel huffed. “Why are you making it so difficult to extend you even the simplest courtesy?”

“I made it clear to you when I accepted this job that I’m only here to work. Nothing more.”

“Yes, you’re here for the money. I do remember that,” Rachel said. Then she smiled. “The cost of your meals won’t be deducted from your fee, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Mitch just looked at her, fighting off the urge to smile back.

“Besides, we haven’t had a guest for supper in a while,” Rachel said. “A new face at the table will be welcome.”

“Fine, then,” Mitch agreed.

Rachel headed for the door. She stopped and looked back. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, all you need do is—”

“Ask?” Mitch finished the sentence for her, remembering her remark in the study that had set his blood to boiling and brought a blush to her cheeks.

Rachel smiled sweetly. “Yes, just ask…Joseph.”

She disappeared out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Desire roiled through him again. God, how he wanted her.

Mitch found his way to the dining room at six sharp. He was certain that somewhere in the house was a breakfast room and a formal dining room for larger gatherings.

But this room held a small table that seated six. The room was cozy, decorated in shades of green. The table was set with china, crystal, linens and a floral arrangement. It sparkled in the light of the overhead chandelier.

All that silverware. Mitch studied it. Which fork, which spoon for which dish? And the stemware. So many different pieces.

Rachel and her younger sister took his attention. They were arguing. Or at least Chelsey was arguing; Rachel seemed to be doing her best to stay calm and fend off the barrage of hostile words and accusations.

They stopped abruptly at the sight of Mitch. Rachel looked embarrassed, Chelsey angry.

“Good evening,” Rachel said.

She seemed relieved at seeing him, even though her smile was forced, and for some reason that pleased Mitch.

“Let’s all have a seat, shall we?” she suggested.

Mitch seated both Rachel and Chelsey across the table from each other in the spots he was certain they’d occupied all their lives. The two end positions, designated for their mother and father, remained conspicuously empty. Mitch took the chair next to Chelsey.

Noah ambled in a few minutes later and murmured a brief greeting as he sat down. The boy looked pale and drawn. His clothes—shirt and jacket, but no necktie—hung loosely on him. His brown wavy hair curled around his collar. Mitch hadn’t noticed these things earlier when he’d seen Noah. He couldn’t help but notice now that the boy smelled of liquor.

Rachel made an attempt at small talk as the soup was served which brought a contemptuous response from Chelsey. Noah remained silent. When the main course was served—beef, maybe, and something green—Noah looked at his plate and his cheeks flashed bright red. He rose from the table and walked away.

“Noah?” Rachel called. “Noah, please, don’t—”

“There. You’ve done it again!” Chelsey shouted.

“Chelsey, please don’t raise your voice at the supper table,” Rachel said, casting an embarrassed look at Mitch. “We have a guest and—”

“You always worry about the wrong things!” Chelsey declared. “Like that ridiculous luncheon! You care more about that stupid occasion than you do us!”

“Chelsey, that’s not true—”

“That horrid Mrs. Chalmers means more to you than we do!”

“Of course not—”

“It’s true!” Chelsey burst into tears and raced out of the room.

It was all Mitch could do to stay in his chair. He wanted to go after Chelsey and find out why she was crying, then give the cook a verbal lashing for embarrassing Noah with the meal preparation.

But the look on Rachel’s face kept Mitch from leaving the room. Mortified, embarrassed, troubled. Yet she kept her chin up and blinked back tears of her own. He wanted to round the table, slip his arm around her, lay her head against his shoulder and make everything all right for her.

Yet he didn’t dare.

Instead, Mitch caught Rachel’s gaze across the table.

“Thanks for insisting I join you for supper. These family occasions are certainly special,” he said and smiled.

For a few horrible seconds, Mitch thought Rachel might actually burst into tears at his gentle teasing. Then she smiled. Then she laughed. A quick giggle that took the edge off her emotions.

“I wanted your first evening with us to be memorable,” Rachel told him.

“And you’ve succeeded beyond your wildest hope.”

They shared another moment of smiling silence. Then Mitch asked, “Is there a reason Chelsey dislikes you so much?”

“I’m ruining her life,” Rachel reported.

“I see,” Mitch replied, though he still had no idea what was going on between the sisters.

Rachel’s smile faded. “But I truly wish I knew what to do about Noah. He’s sullen and moody, almost never speaks. He stays locked up in his room nearly all the time.”

And he drinks too much, Mitch thought.

“The doctor insists this is normal, that Noah needs to come to terms with…what happened…in his own way.” Rachel shook her head. “But I feel so helpless, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t even understand what’s wrong.”

Mitch didn’t offer his opinion. Who was he to butt into this business? The business of a real family?

Rachel pushed her plate away. “I’ve lost my appetite. But finish your meal. There’s dessert, of course.”

Mitch looked down at his plate. Chicken, he thought now, or maybe not. Something green. No potatoes. No gravy.

He’d starve to death if he didn’t get this job finished soon.

“I can’t eat anything else, either,” he said and rose from the table.

Mitch considered excusing himself, going to the study and getting in another hour or so of work on the Branford family business. But that idea held no appeal as he found himself walking alongside Rachel up the staircase. When they reached the second floor she turned to him.

“You’ll stay, won’t you?” she asked.

In the flickering light of the hall sconces, Mitch saw quiet desperation and hope in her expression. And something else also. Fear.

“Of course, I’ll stay,” he said, his words harsh. “I told you I would.”

She didn’t seem put off by his tone. “Yes, but I know you didn’t want this job. If…if you were to leave—”

“I won’t. I’ll stay until the job is done.”

She gazed at him, wanting him to say more, he was sure.

“What is it?” he asked, unable to stand the suspense. “What more assurance do you want?”

She hesitated another moment. Then, as she’d done earlier today in the foyer, she rose on her toes and whispered in his ear. Her breath, her sweet voice, sent a shiver through him, dissolving his irritation at having his intentions questioned.

“You can do this, can’t you? You can really figure out what’s wrong with Father’s business and fix it?”

He looked down at her and nodded. “I’m very good at this.”

Rachel gave him a hopeful smile.

“I’m very, very good at this,” he told her.

She seemed to relax a little and her fear morphed into something that resembled trust, hinted at faith. Mitch’s chest swelled, bringing on a myriad of emotions, few he’d ever experienced.

“Thank you.” She gave him a little smile, then turned and walked down the hallway to her bedchamber. At the door, she looked back, then disappeared inside.

Something within Mitch, some part of him, seemed to tear away and go along with her.

He ducked into his room and stared into the darkness.

He had to get this job done and leave this place.

Quickly.

Chapter Six

W aking to find another person in his bedchamber was disconcerting enough, but a man?

Mitch couldn’t even remember the last time he’d awakened with a woman in his room.

Morning sunlight drifted in through the tall windows as Mitch went about dressing. When he’d awakened and found a man creeping around his room, his first thought had been that a burglar had broken in. He’d vaulted out of bed and nearly given the gray-haired fellow a heart attack before realizing it was Joseph, his valet.

His valet. Mitch shrugged into his white shirt. He’d never had servants before, beyond the maids who worked at the hotels he called home when he traveled. He hadn’t known exactly what to do with Joseph.

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 even thought it?

Then Mitch reached out and cupped her chin. He lifted it until her gaze met his.

“Now there’s a spectacular shade of pink,” he said softly, rubbing his thumb over her cheek.

Her embarrassment fled. He’d done that before, turned her emotions with a look, a word…now with a touch.

Mitch leaned down and kissed her. He splayed his fingers across her cheek and touched his lips to hers. Rachel gasped as he settled his mouth over hers and moved with exquisite slowness.

He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes.

“You’re a bit pink now yourself,” she whispered.

“Shall I model for you?”

She smiled gently, caught up completely in this private moment with him. “Is that covered in the exorbitant fee I’m paying you?”

He grinned. “No extra charge.”

She looked at him for a few seconds, as if considering his offer, then shook her head. “I’m afraid that simply isn’t done.”

“My offer stands.”

“How very generous of you.”

He studied her and for an instant Rachel thought he might kiss her again. Instead, he backed up a step.

“I’d better get inside and earn my fee,” he told her.

Rachel watched as he headed toward the house, her head spinning slightly. Good gracious, what had just happened?

And how would she ever be able to ask Mitch the question that meant so much to her—without thinking of their kiss?

How the hell was he supposed to stay away from the woman when even the sound of her voice drew his attention? Sent his imagination reeling? Ratcheted up his desire?

Mitch pushed himself out of the desk chair and paced across the study. He’d been here since breakfast trying to work, trying to concentrate, trying to keep thoughts of Rachel out of his mind, and he’d failed miserably.

He’d tried to keep his body under control, but had failed miserably at that, too.

He’d kissed her. This morning in the yard he’d leaned down, put his mouth on hers and kissed her. Then he’d offered to model nude for her painting.

Mitch shook his head. Good God, what was wrong with him? He had to get Rachel out of his mind.

That was proving more difficult as the day passed.

Earlier, her friend had arrived and the two of them had been in the sitting room down the hall ever since. Whatever the two were discussing must have been important—to them, anyway. Mitch had heard nothing but giggling, gasping and a steady low murmur, all of which kept reminding him of how sweet Rachel’s kiss had been, kept him from concentrating on his work.

He paced to the door and gazed down the hall. He couldn’t see inside. What was Rachel wearing? he wondered. The same yellow thing she’d had on this morning when he’d looked out his bedchamber window and seen her painting at her easel? Had she changed clothing?

He hoped so. If he walked in on her now and saw her dressed as she’d been this morning—obviously without the armor of under things women wore—he didn’t know how he’d control himself.

Still, he wondered what sort of clothing she might have changed into. If he walked past the doorway, glanced inside he could—

Mitch drew himself up and pushed the thought from his mind. What the hell was wrong with him? Determinedly, he stalked back to his desk.

A few minutes later, the voices of the women grew louder. A cloud of the most delicate scent floated into the study. Mitch looked up as Rachel and Claudia walked past his doorway, heading toward the foyer.

Blue. She had on blue. A fresh wave of desire surged through Mitch. He leaned sideways, watching her drift down the hallway until he nearly fell out of his chair. He caught himself in time but sent a stack of ledgers tumbling onto the floor.

“Damn it…” Mitch grumbled under his breath as he dropped to his knees, gathering the ledgers.

Good God, what was he doing? Acting like a schoolboy instead of a grown man. Letting Rachel occupy so much of his thoughts that he—

“Mr. Kincade?”

Mitch’s head jerked up and he saw Rachel walk into the study. He dropped the ledgers again.

“Let me help you,” she said, coming toward him.

“No,” he barked, grabbing for the ledgers.

To his horror, she sank to her knees beside him. Her scent cascaded over him. She was so near that if he leaned forward, just a little, he could touch her. Kiss her. Lay his mouth against hers and once more feel the warmth of—

“Are you ill, Mr. Kincade?” she asked, gazing at him with concern.

Mitch drew back, clutching the ledgers against him, unsure whether or not she’d spoken.

“You look a little flushed.” Rachel smiled. “A little pink.”

He was pink and flushed, all right. And if he didn’t get some distance from her quickly, he’d lay her back on the floor—

“Mr. Kincade?”

He struggled to his feet and needed to slide into his chair, but he couldn’t leave her on the floor—for his own good as well as hers.

He offered his hand and she took it. Her small, soft palm pressed against his, sending his desire up another few notches. Another hot wave crashed through him.

How could this keep happening? When he only touched her hand?

Thankfully, Rachel got to her feet quickly. Mitch dropped into his chair and snatched up a pencil.

“I’m—I’m busy,” he grumbled, opening a ledger and flipping through the pages.

She lingered at his side for a moment, looking down at him. Then she bent low. From the corner of his eye, Mitch saw her bosom, filling out the front of her shirtwaist, coming closer. Then her breath brushed his ear.

“Your ledger is upside down,” she whispered.

Mitch’s cheeks flamed. They actually burned. He couldn’t remember a time—not once in his entire life—when that had happened.

He ground his lips together, pushing through his embarrassment and looked up at her. “I told you I’m very good at this.”

“I can see that you are, Mr. Kincade,” she said, giving him a knowing, secretive smile.

Mitch smiled back. He couldn’t help it. Rachel had seen his embarrassment and allowed it to pass without calling attention.

He wished he’d kissed her on the floor when he’d had the chance.

“I wanted to see if there’s anything you need,” Rachel said, easing around to the front of the desk again. “I can have Cook make your lunch now, if you’d like.”

Rachel, or the cook, or somebody had decided on his morning meal for him and brought it to him in the breakfast room. Oatmeal and fruit. He’d been hungry again fifteen minutes later.

“Nothing now,” Mitch said, thinking maybe he could sneak into the kitchen later and scrounge up a real meal.

“Oh, well then. All right.”

Rachel gave him a quick smile but didn’t leave. Silence yawned between them. She ran her finger along the edge of his desk.

How pretty she was. The thought ran through Mitch’s head as the afternoon sunlight beamed in through the window, highlighting her hair, turning a few strands golden. Her brown eyes sparkled. Her pink lips glistened.

If she didn’t leave soon, he was going to round this desk and kiss her. On the mouth. Right here in her father’s study.

“I, uh, I was wondering how things are going?” she said, gesturing around the room to nothing in particular.

“Fine,” Mitch said, though he hadn’t made as much progress as he’d expected to. But that was Rachel’s fault, thanks to his body’s reaction to his every thought of her.

Rachel gave him another smile and he tapped his fingernail on the desk. Still, she made no sign of leaving.

“Did you want to ask a question?” Mitch asked, coming to his senses and realizing that something troubled her.

“Well…” She cleared her throat and looked at him. “Yes, just something small, really. Before Georgie left he mentioned a factory he was thinking of purchasing. I wondered if you knew whether or not he’d done that.”

“A factory?”

“The City Ceramic Works. A Mr. Prescott owned it.”

Mitch’s gaze bounced around the room to the crates of documents he still had to review. “I haven’t seen anything about it. Not yet, anyway.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.

“But I’ll look for it,” he said quickly. “I’ll find out what’s going on with it and—”

Mitch stopped as Chelsey swept into the room. She drew herself up and narrowed her gaze at Rachel.

“I’m going out,” Chelsey declared, pushing her chin higher. “Trudy telephoned. She’s home for two days. She invited me over. And I’m going!”

“Please give Trudy’s family my regards,” Rachel said.

Chelsey shot her one final scathing look, whipped around and stomped out of the study.

The girl had worn on Mitch’s nerves the first time he’d laid eyes on her. He didn’t know how Rachel managed.

“Is there a reason she’s so unhappy?” Mitch asked. “Any reason at all?”

“Chelsey wants to finish out the term at the Franklin Academy for Young Ladies. It’s in San Bernardino. She’s attended for two years,” Rachel said. “She misses her friends and her studies. I understand that.”

“Then why isn’t she attending now?”

“She hasn’t attended since Mother died.”

“Why not?”

“Because the family is in mourning. It simply isn’t done.” She spoke the words as if the reasoning should be obvious.

“Does that have anything to do with the luncheon she spoke of at supper last night?” Mitch asked.

The reserve Rachel seemed to wrap tightly around her a moment ago, slipped completely. Her shoulders sagged and she pressed her fingers to her forehead.

“That luncheon…”

Mitch jumped out of his chair at the distressed look that had overcome Rachel. He didn’t know how a luncheon could do that to a person, but he had to find out.

“What about it?” he asked, the words coming out more harshly than he’d intended as he rounded the desk to stand next to her.

With some effort, Rachel drew herself up. “It’s the La-La luncheon,” she said gravely.

Mitch stopped. “What’s a la-la luncheon?”

“The Ladies Association of Los Angeles,” she said. “The La-La’s, for short. It’s the premiere women’s organization in the city, and the upcoming luncheon is the single most important event on our annual calendar. The luncheon is always—always—hosted here, in our home.”

So far, this didn’t seem like too big a problem to Mitch. “And…?”

“Mrs. Aurora Chalmers—she runs everything in the city—expects me to host the event, as always.”

“And…?”

“And it’s really Mother’s event. She always plans it, arranges things and does a beautiful job. But this year—”

“Your mother’s dead.”

Rachel nodded, sadness causing her shoulders to droop farther.

“And it’s too upsetting for you to do it this year,” he concluded.

She nodded again.

Mitch shrugged. “Then don’t host the luncheon.”

Rachel came to life then. “I can’t back out. Good gracious, what will people think? What will they say?”

“What difference does it make what people think or say?”

She looked at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses.

“It makes all the difference in the world,” Rachel declared. “What sort of reflection would that be on Mother, if I didn’t host the luncheon? What would people think of her? Of the family?”

“Let me get this straight,” Mitch said. “Chelsey can’t return to school, but you can host a luncheon?”

“These are two entirely different circumstances,” Rachel insisted. “There are parties, dances and outings at the school. This luncheon is for a service organization.”

Mitch didn’t really see the distinction, but he let it go and said, “You don’t have to host the luncheon. Not if you don’t want to.”

Rachel’s shoulders sagged again. “I’m afraid you simply don’t understand.”

She left the study. Mitch’s heart ached watching her go. She was right. He didn’t understand.

Chapter Seven

R achel couldn’t muster enough of an appetite for supper, Chelsey hadn’t returned from her friend’s house and this was one of Noah’s days to lurk on the staircase, so Rachel told Cook what to prepare for Mitch and went into the rear garden.

Evening shadows slid across the green grass as Rachel settled onto a bench surrounded by blooming shrubs. She looked at the tablet she’d brought outside with her. All afternoon she’d tried to work on the luncheon arrangements. She had yet to accomplish anything.

Of course there were lots of other things on her mind. Her father, for one. Dr. Matthews had come by the house today, as he did several times each week. She’d pressed him for details but the doctor had said nothing new, nothing hopeful. It irritated Rachel that he was always so evasive.

Though she hated to admit it to herself, she’d enjoyed the quiet of the afternoon, made possible by Chelsey’s absence. Her younger sister had no problem making her feelings known on each and every issue that crossed her path.

Unlike Noah. Though she’d seen him several times today, skulking through the upstairs hallway, peering over the railing and dawdling on the staircase when he thought no one was looking, he hadn’t spoken to Rachel. She’d learned months ago to ignore him on days like this.

Dr. Matthews had looked in on Noah, but the doctor had refused to answer any of Rachel’s questions about her brother. Everything was proceeding “as expected,” he’d assured her, though Rachel didn’t feel assured at all.

Her heart fluttered a bit as Mitch Kincade’s image floated into her mind. His presence here was unsettling, but Rachel didn’t know just how or why.

She did know that the big, strong, capable man had become completely flustered in the study this afternoon, pretending to read his ledger upside down. And it had brought on the strangest reaction in Rachel. She’d wanted to comfort him, make things better, see him without his shirt on—

Rachel gasped and shook her head at her own disconcerting thought. Yet that wasn’t as bad as this morning when he’d kissed her. Right there in the garden. For any neighbor who might be up at that hour to see. Or any of the servants who may have glanced out the window.

Rachel’s insides seemed to hum at the memory of Mitch leaning closer, his scent wafting over her, then his lips closing over hers. Was that recollection the reason she’d accomplished so little today? Could a kiss do that?

For an instant she considered discussing it discreetly with Claudia. She was officially engaged now. She might be willing to talk about men. She’d come to the house today showing off the gorgeous diamond and ruby ring Graham Bixby had presented her with, and given Rachel all the wonderful details of the upcoming nuptials.

Rachel sighed heavily as dusk settled over the garden. She was happy for Claudia. Happy and, perhaps, just the smallest bit—

The French doors that led inside opened, drawing Rachel’s attention. Mitch stepped out. Her heart gave an unexpected little jerk.

He stood on the porch for a moment, hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, gazing out over the garden. He looked solid and strong standing in the dim light. After a moment, he spotted her. Rachel saw the quick intake of his breath, the straightening of his shoulders. He hesitated, glanced back inside as if deciding something, then walked over.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for not joining you for supper,” Rachel said. “I had Cook prepare one of my favorite dishes for you.”

“Nothing like a plate of vegetables after a hard day’s work,” Mitch said. “And fruit to top it off.”

She slid over a little on the bench. “Would you like to join me?”

He looked down at her for a long moment. Even from a distance she sensed the heat rolling off him.

He glanced at the tablet on her lap—at least, she thought it was the tablet he was looking at.

“I’m working on the luncheon preparations,” she said. He glanced again at the tablet, at the blank page staring up at both of them. “I’m not getting very far,” she admitted.

“You don’t have to put yourself through this, Rachel,” he said softly. “If your friends don’t understand that, then hell with them.”

Rachel gasped. The idea. The very idea. Could Mitch really mean that? She couldn’t imagine.

Of course, Mitch didn’t know the situation in its entirety. He didn’t know that Rachel’s father had married beneath himself when he married her mother. A woman from outside their elite social circle, a widow once married, with a young son.

Rachel had watched her mother struggle to be “good enough” in the eyes of Father’s friends. Always careful to do exactly the right thing. Always worried about what other people thought. With the best of intentions, she’d impressed upon Rachel to worry about the same things. The actions of one family member were a reflection on them all.

Her father never seemed to notice the subtle slights, the whispers that her mother endured; she’d been too proud to bring them to his attention. Rachel often wondered if his love had been worth it.

She placed her tablet aside and got to her feet. “I feel like a walk through the garden this evening.”

Mitch hesitated a moment, then fell in step beside her as they headed off across the lawn.

“I saw your friend here today,” he said. “Claudia.”

“She’s officially engaged now to the most perfect man,” Rachel said.

“You don’t sound very happy for her.”

She paused, surprised that Mitch picked up on the subtle tone in her voice. “I’m happy for her. Really.”

“But?”

“Well, maybe I’m just a little envious. Claudia’s life is perfect now.”

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