Man Most Worthy Page 6

  “You were in no way to blame.” His tone gentled. “It was gracious of you to invite me for an outing. You cautioned me about riding your friend’s horse. It was silly pride on my part, so I deserve what I got.”

  She reached out and touched his hand. “He’s not my friend—not anymore. As a skilled horseman, Victor was the most responsible. He should have known better. You could have been killed.”

  His glance went to her hand and she felt herself coloring. Quickly, she removed it and sat with her hands clasped in her lap.

  “He is, isn’t he?”

  She frowned. “He’s what?”

  “A skilled horseman.”

  She made a face. “Oh, that. Well, yes, naturally.”

  “Naturally.” He mimicked the word. “I suppose he has been riding since he was five.”

  She giggled. “Oh, probably since he was four.”

  His dark eyes lit with humor. “His parents probably sat him atop a horse before he could walk.”

  “Oh, no, before he began to crawl!”

  They both ended up laughing.

  “Alice, what are you doing here?” Her father stood in the doorway to the library.

  She jumped up from her chair. “I am acting as—” she gave a little bow “—Mr. Tennent’s secretary.”

  Her father pursed his lips, his eyes going from her to Mr. Tennent and back again, making her feel as if she’d done something wrong. “That is not amusing.”

  “Of course it isn’t. Mr. Tennent is injured, and I feel partially responsible. As such, it is only right that I assist him while his injury heals.”

  “Mr. Shepard—” Mr. Tennent stood rigid, and her heart went out to him, having to work for her father.

  Her father advanced into the small room, cutting him off. “So, you are unable to write?”

  “I—” He cleared his throat and began again. “In a few days, perhaps—”

  Did Father inspire such fear in all his employees? “Dr. Baird gave clear instructions that Mr. Tennent is to do nothing to put undue pressure on his collarbone for a few weeks. He mustn’t bend his arm in a way that will aggravate the bone.”

  Her father had turned his attention back to her halfway through her speech. “In that case, I shall have to summon Mr. Simpson.”

  She gave a disbelieving laugh at the mention of Father’s old secretary. “Mr. Simpson is getting forgetful, you said so yourself. We are making splendid progress.” She took up the papers she’d completed and handed them to him.

  He took them without a word and examined them.

  Mr. Tennent cleared his throat. “Mr. Shepard, I assure you, in a few days, I’m sure I can manage on my own.”

  Her father handed the papers back to his secretary. “Very well. In the meantime I have to return to London. I shall determine things upon my return.” He turned to her. “I don’t want you making a nuisance of yourself here.”

  “I shan’t be a nuisance.”

  “Nevertheless, I prefer you not spend your time here, Alice.”

  She pressed her lips together, knowing it was useless to argue with her father and knowing just as certainly that this was one command she was going to disobey.

  Chapter Four

  The next few days were like a little bit of heaven to Nick. Despite the pain in his collarbone and ribs, coupled with the inconvenience of wearing a sling, he had never enjoyed such a time in his life. He felt as if he was living an interlude where all the best things were combined: work he enjoyed with a helper he was coming to admire more and more each day, carried out in the most agreeable surroundings he’d ever known in his life.

  Her father’s prohibition notwithstanding, Miss Shepard appeared in Nick’s little office every morning promptly at half-past eight and didn’t move from her chair until he gave in and let her help him with any writing he needed done.

  He realized now, looking at her bent head, that working had never been so lighthearted. For despite making progress on the reports he had to write, the hours seemed to fly by and many moments were spent in laughter as Miss Shepard found something amusing in what they were doing or reading.

  He eased the kinks out of his neck then stopped short at the shot of pain to his collarbone. Dr. Baird had not exaggerated when he’d warned Nick it would take some weeks before he was fully healed.

  “Are you all right?”

  He looked over to find Miss Shepard’s eyes on him. “Yes, I’m all right.” He’d also never had anyone as solicitous as she, seeming to anticipate his every need and be aware of every twinge of discomfort he experienced.

  She laid her pencil and pad on her lap. “You should take a rest. You’ve been bent over this desk since early morning.”

  There was still a lot to do before her father returned. Mr. Shepard hadn’t said how long he’d be away, yet Nick expected him at any moment. “You’re the one who should take a break. You are on holiday. Why don’t you go outside and play a game of tennis. You haven’t played since I had my fall, have you?” His tone came out sharper than he’d intended, but he thought once again about Mr. Shepard and what he’d say if he came back and found his daughter holed up in this office.

  She shrugged. “No. But I prefer being in here helping you. Besides, there is no one to play with.”

  “What about Victor?” He’d seen the boy hang about the corridor the first few days, looking daggers at him at the sight of Alice sitting beside him.

  Her eyes lit up in hilarity. “He finally packed his bags and had the pony cart hitched up to take him to the train station this morning.”

  “Where is your young lady friend?”

  “Lucy? Oh, she had to go home, too. Her family was going hiking in Scotland.” Her voice sounded wistful, and he realized once again how lonely this wealthy girl’s life was. The only mother figure she seemed to have was a middle-aged companion who preferred spending time with the housekeeper.

  Nick stood. “Well, it’s time we both had a break. It’s almost lunchtime anyway.” Usually he’d had a tray brought to the office but he decided to do something differently today.

  Miss Shepard stood immediately, a smile breaking out on her face. Nick steeled himself against that smile, reminding himself his life had no relation to hers. She clasped her hands in front of her. “What shall we do?”

  He hadn’t got as far as thinking of that part. “What would you like to do?”

  She tilted her head a fraction and thought a moment, a slim finger against her chin. Then she looked at him, a sparkle in her eyes. “Have you ever played chess?”

  He smiled in relief. Finally, there was something he did know how to do. “Yes.”

  If she was surprised, she didn’t show it. She turned to leave the room. “Well, come along then.”

  She led him to a wide veranda with latticed railing in the back of the house. “It’s too nice a day to be inside.” She sat on the floor and brought out a polished wooden box and a folded game board from a shelf under the low table and began to set out the ivory pieces.

  He remained standing, watching her array the carved chessmen in rows at either side of the checked board. “My mother taught me to play chess.”

  “My governess taught me. She said it was a good game of strategy…and patience.” She smiled as she added the last.

  “Were you in need of those qualities?”

  She shrugged. “All I knew then was that if I learned how to play chess, perhaps I could play with Father. But he had little inclination for games that last so long.”

  Before he could comment on that statement, she waved him to the low couch facing the board. “Have a seat, Mr. Tennent.” She gave him a sly smile under her tawny brows. “This should be an easy win for someone good at mathematics. I shall even let you be white, since you are the guest.”

  He sat down across from her and soon they were immersed in the game and even forgot about lunch.

  He found he enjoyed pitting his skill against hers. Just as with tennis, she didn’t make things eas
y for him, and he appreciated that. Whenever she captured one of his pieces, she’d give him a small smile of triumph.

  They played in silence for quite some time, when Miss Shepard raised her eyes to him. “Mr. Tennent?” There was no amusement in them now. “What was your house like growing up?”

  Surprised at her question, he answered flatly, “Small and dingy with the smell of boiled cabbage. It was always damp. And cold in the winter. My brothers and I would huddle together under a blanket.”

  She leaned her chin on her fist. “Were you the youngest?”

  He shook his head. “The second to youngest.”

  To his bemusement, she continued questioning him about his family, and he found himself telling her about his brothers—from Jim, working in the mill, and Thomas the postal clerk, to young Alfie, with his dream of opening his own shop.

  “So, you are the only bachelor among them?”

  “Yes,” he said in a guarded tone.

  She tilted her head a fraction, a gesture that never failed to enchant him. “Why haven’t you married? You are certainly old enough.”

  He shrugged. “Up to now, I haven’t had either the desire or the opportunity, I suppose. And although I am certainly old enough, I’m not that old.”

  She frowned. “But all your other brothers found the time.”

  “I have put all my energy into my work.” To help his brothers continue their education and support his mother. “It takes money to set up a household.”

  “Does it take so much money to support a wife?”

  “It certainly takes money to raise children.”

  “Do all your brothers have children?”

  “The oldest two do.”

  She smiled. “So you are an uncle at least.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they all still in Birmingham?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your mother?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you see them often?”

  He looked down. “No.”

  “That’s a pity.” She sighed.

  “A clerk has few holidays.”

  She sighed again.

  He focused once more on the board between them.

  “I’m almost a woman now.”

  He raised startled eyes to her. Where had that thought come from?

  Her violet eyes stared guilelessly into his. He kept his voice neutral, for fear of what she might read in it. “You have a few years yet.”

  With another sigh, she lowered her gaze to the chess pieces.

  Nick followed suit, determined to keep his thoughts on the game. He waited for her to move, his heartbeat thudding between his ears. What had she meant by that remark? He mustn’t forget himself around her, he cautioned himself, as he found himself doing countless times each day in her company.

  “Checkmate.” Amusement laced her tone.

  His glance jerked up. “What?” He followed her slim fingers, which held the queen she’d just moved. “How is that possible?”

  “See?” She gestured over the board. “If you move your king here, my knight will knock him off. If you move your king in the only other square, my other knight will get him.”

  He studied the only two possible moves available to his king, his brow knit. How had she done that?

  She sat back with a satisfied sigh. “Maybe if someone had been paying closer attention to his game, he wouldn’t have left himself open for attack.”

  He looked across to her laughing eyes. “Maybe if someone felt more comfortable with her skills, she wouldn’t have to rely on distracting me with idle talk to win the game.”

  “I won fairly and squarely. If you allow yourself to be so easily distracted, I can’t be held responsible for your loss. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my queen shall take your king to her castle and lock him in her tower.” She lifted both his king and her queen off the board in one swoop.

  Without thinking, he seized her hand in midair. “My king will call out his legions of knights to rescue him—”

  She giggled, pulling her hand away but he held it fast. “If you want your king back, you shall have to pay the ransom,” she said with a thrust of her chin, her laughing blue eyes glinting with challenge.

  He tightened his hold on her hand imperceptibly. “And what do you demand for the release of my king?”

  “A kiss.”

  Her gaze held his as securely as his hand held hers. Somewhere he heard a bird twitter on the lawn and far-off footsteps in the corridor, but he was helpless to look away.

  Like a spectator in a drama, he watched himself inch forward until her face was inches from his, and he breathed in the sweet flowery scent of her downy skin. Shutting off the warnings in his head, he closed the gap between them, touching his lips to hers.

  He leaned his elbows against the table, ignoring the pain the movement caused. Miss Shepard pressed her lips inexpertly against his.

  “Sweet Alice,” he breathed against her, taking a gulp of air before sealing her lips once again with his. This time they parted beneath his.

  He didn’t know how much time had elapsed—a few seconds or an eternity—when the clearing of a masculine throat penetrated the fog of his mind. Miss Shepard and he broke apart simultaneously.

  “Father!” She jumped up from the floor, her hand going to her mouth.

  Nick bumped his arm against the table and stifled the cry of pain as he struggled to his feet.

  He stood up as Mr. Shepard advanced into the room.

  His employer’s dark gaze traveled from one to the other. He gestured to Nick. “I didn’t realize I was paying you a salary to amuse yourself with my daughter.”

  Heat flooded Nick’s face, and he swallowed, unable to defend his conduct in any way.

  “Father, Mr. Shepard isn’t—”

  Mr. Shepard flicked his fingers in her direction. “Alice, leave us, please.”

  “But Father—”

  “Alice.” His tone was that hard, unyielding one Nick recognized from the office.

  “Yes, Father.” She lowered her head and walked back into the house.

  Mr. Shepard waited a few moments until they no longer heard his daughter’s footsteps. “I want you out of here. Now. You can collect any outstanding wages at the office.”

  The worst had come to pass. Nick stared at him. “But—you don’t—” He cleared his throat, hating the tremor his voice betrayed.

  The man eyed him as if he were a lower form of life. “I don’t want to hear any explanations from a man who presumes to rob my daughter of her innocence. Understood?”

  He nodded.

  Shepard turned away and began walking out the way he’d come. At the entrance he paused. “You can request the pony cart to take you to the station. Do not make any attempt to see my daughter or to address her in any way.” His heavy eyebrows bristled at him. “Is that understood?”

  Nick swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  In the echo of the closing door, Nick looked down at the toppled chess pieces. Slowly, he began picking them up with his left hand and setting them back into their box. He replaced the lid, his heart thudding all the while.

  Numbness invaded his thoughts as well as his heart.

  He had no idea where he would go or what he would do.

  His future was finished.

  He returned to London on the afternoon train as soon as he’d packed his small bag. He’d been forced to ask for Davy’s help and had to fight the sense of shame that he was being run off the property. Davy chatted away as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. He probably assumed it was natural for Nick to return to London after his week of convalescing.

  A part of Nick kept hoping for one last glimpse of Miss Shepard before he left the house but she was nowhere to be seen. She’d probably been sent to her room. How were young ladies of her class punished for stealing a kiss from an unsuitable young man?

  He leaned against the high-backed seat in the train, his growling stomach reminding him it had been
several hours since breakfast. He gazed out at the landscape, his mind going over Mr. Shepard’s words. He had no justification for what he’d done. How to explain to a man that he’d found his young daughter irresistible, that in all the years of his youth, he’d never done such a thing, until he’d met her—a girl on the brink of womanhood, more special, more beautiful, like no other girl he’d ever met?

  On arriving in the city, he stopped that same afternoon at the office and collected his wages. He stared down at the measly pile of coins. They were his only protection from the streets until he was well enough to seek another job.

  Suddenly, a spurt of rage replaced the numbness. After all these years, he would not return to the pool of anonymous clerks from which he’d used every ounce of toil and ingenuity to rise above. Because of one moment of foolishness, would he be condemned to the ranks of slavery the rest of his life?

  Pure, blind rage filled his veins and brought a pounding to his temples. He clenched his hands, ignoring the pain that shot through his collar. He thought of his oldest brother, breathing in the dust-laden air in the cotton mill, of Tom, who was trying to support his young brood on the hundred pounds he made a year as a shipping clerk, of Alfie, who dreamed of owning his own shop one day.

  How was he going to help each one get ahead? His mother counted on him. When she’d given him all she had to come to London, she’d told him, “The Lord has blessed you with a fine mind, Nicholas. It’s up to you to use it and make your way in the world to help your brothers.”

  And now none of that would materialize. All because of one moment of insanity with a young girl way above his reach.

  He banged the door of Shepard & Steward behind him, ignoring the call of one of the clerks. He didn’t stop until he reached the street. Then he kept walking, thrusting himself through the crowded sidewalk.

  “See there, watch where you’re going!” A red-faced hansom cab driver waved his whip at him.

  Nick stopped just in the nick of time at the edge of the curb.

  He didn’t know where he was going, he only knew he had to walk somewhere—anywhere—until this knot of rage loosened from his windpipe. It was strangling him.