Gallant Waif by Anne Gracie (the alpha prince and his bride full story free .txt) 📗

half-smile as he recalled the way she’d boldly faced him down, a stubborn little ragamuffin in her dreadful black hand-me-down dresses, sternly rejecting the clothes she desired so badly. And she did desire them; there was no doubt about it in his mind.

He could tell by the way she’d touched her cheek to the material, like a child caressing a puppy or kitten, by the way she’d slid her fingers through the silk of that nightgown, as if she’d never even imagined such a garment was possible.

Only Kate was no child. He’d been unable to resist teasing her, flirting, flustering her…

He tossed down the last of the brandy and signalled to the landlord to bring him another. A buxom tavern wench brought it instead, pressing up against him invitingly as she did so. Jack’s eyes automatically went to the gaping neckline that was presented for his enjoyment and he registered that she was both attractive and willing. He glanced up and shook his head, smiling to soften his rejection. No, a tumble with a willing tavern wench would not solve his problems.

He recalled the dreamy way Kate had draped the fine silk nightgown against her soft skin and felt his body tighten again, imagining her in it.

Impossible. . . unthinkable…

Perhaps he should take up the tavern wench’s offer after all… He glanced across at her again, but somehow she seemed too buxom, too willing, too… He realised the way his thoughts were heading and tried to quash them firmly.

Bloody hell! Was that what that scene in her bedroom had been all about? He couldn’t deny that he had been aroused by the sight of her with that damned silk thing. Was that what had prompted him to go so far, undoing the very buttons at her back? He recalled the feel of the warm silken skin of her nape and the scent of her body and swore darkly.

What the hell was he going to do? If he wasn’t more careful, things with Kate Farleigh would get out of hand. They almost had. Her teasing sense of fun, the wholehearted way she threw herself into a quarrel, her very defiance spurred him to want to push it further with her each time. He felt entirely too stimulated by her very presence. If she’d been a different sort of woman, he’d have no hesitation in making her his mistress—and what a mistress she’d make, he thought. All fire and passion and silky limbs and hair. He felt aroused just thinking about it.

But Kate was no kitchen maid, nor a tavern wench—she was a respectable lady, and after Julia Davenport he’d forsworn all dealings with respectable ladies for ever.

Damn it all to hell and back!

He wondered how his grandmother was faring with her enquiries into Kate’s situation. He hoped it was going well. The sooner she was out of his hair the better—for both of them.

He called for another drink.

 

 

 

Chapter Seven

Kate awoke very early one morning. She slid out of bed, padded across the chilly floor and peered outside. It was almost dawn, faint shards of morning light dimming the last of the stars. Winter had begun—outside it looked cold, but inviting. For the last week she had worked unceasingly indoors, and she was feeling stale and housebound. A good brisk walk was what she needed.

The house seemed deserted as she slipped out of the back door. Her boots crunched across the frosted grass. As the pure, cold air bit into her lungs, Kate felt a surge of exhilaration. The rich earthy scent of rotting leaves and the sharp contrast of pine was in the air and it felt good to be alive. Suddenly she felt free of all the constraints of her life—her poverty, her past, her concerns about the future, her problems with Jack Carstairs.

It had been more difficult than she’d expected, working in such close proximity, feeling as she did about him. Such shameless, entirely inappropriate feelings, too. Every night. Sometimes even during the day. It was dreadful. Kate had done her best to fight them with passages from the Bible, but even that failed to eradicate the problem. It was very lowering to discover how steeped in depravity she had become.

She told herself a thousand times a day that such dreams were foolish, as well as wicked. She was a disgraced woman. She could never enter his world. He would be disgusted if he ever found out about Henri.

Such dreams were impractical, too—even had she been as pure as the day she was born, she was still poor and Jack needed to marry an heiress to make up for the fortune he had lost when his father had disinherited him.

In fact, she told herself severely, Kate Farleigh had no business to be thinking anything at all about Jack Carstairs except what she would cook him for dinner. She knew the correct behaviour for a woman in her position and, even if she couldn’t make her feelings behave, she could try.

So she’d tried to keep out of his way, tried to keep a formal barrier between them, tried to follow Lady Cahill’s instructions to ensure her grandson lived in a civilised fashion, tried in all ways to be the perfect, invisible housekeeper.

But all her good resolutions had been ruthlessly undermined by Jack Carstairs himself. He always seemed to be watching her—appearing from nowhere, opening doors, seating her at table as if she were a fine lady. Glaring gimlet-eyed if he found her doing anything he deemed “inappropriate”, storming off in a temper when she pointed out in the most reasonable of tones that she knew what she was doing.

And she’d tried, so very hard, to resent it.

He was being ridiculous, she’d told herself. What did a man know about housekeeping anyway? He had no business interfering with things which were none of his domain. He was a bossy, meddlesome, arrogant pest!

But it was more difficult than she’d imagined. Her strength of mind was weakened by the realisation that he was