Page 6 of The Baronet’s Bartered Bride

He’d always wanted a companion he could think out loud with. A sensible woman of reason and intellect who could give him a proper perspective, as a man would, but without giving him instructions on what to do, as a man would. Amaranthe had served that role, but Amaranthe had other roles now.

And the women Joseph had previously attached himself to—well, one might say there wasn’t a strong record of good sense and intellect there. Those qualities tended not to rouse passion or the instinct to provide and protect.

“Here.” He cleared his throat and pointed to the Brussels carpet that covered the wooden floor. “What are you doing in this parlor?”

Because she wasn’t a servant, at least not one who had applied and interviewed for a position. He supposed she received a salary—one hoped he paid her something for her labors—but what exactly did she do? He had a housekeeper, a dour and efficient woman Amaranthe had installed to look after Joseph when she abandoned him to become a duchess. Mrs. Frost had some tragic history Joseph had never inquired about because Amaranthe tended to take in people who had suffered some tragedy.

His mind stalled. Had Inez? Was there more preying on her than concern for her father and his fate abroad?

Her posture went taut and alert. She was a slim woman beneath the cascade of skirts and apron. She could easily be coerced. Manipulated.

Or, come to that, physically moved about by some man who considered himself superior. The thought made Joseph’s blood thicken to a boil.

“I am bringing you coffee,” she said, her voice quiet, her accent emerging. “I am bringing you bread.”

“But why me? That is to say, you appear without forewarning. There is apparently some arrangement with my housekeeper that I don’t know about. I presume I am paying you a salary since you clearly perform some household duties. But what are they? Why are you allowed to come and go as you wish, with no questions and no accounting? Are all my servants contracted thusly?”

“Allowed?” Her shoulders went tense. “Allowed to come and go as I please? Isn’t every free person given that right?”

He brushed away her quibble; she was evading the point. “But why here? Why don’t you have a home of your own?”

She rose and moved to a shelf of small items, oddments on display. Amaranthe’s trinkets, of course; so little in this place was Joseph’s. Inez pulled a scrap of cloth from her apron pocket and began dusting the case with short, jerky movements.

“Why do I not have a home of my own?” Her tone was low and wounded, yet her movements careful and precise. “Because my father has left for a voyage that will last two years if not longer. Because my mother is dead. Because I have no other family, which may be a blessing, as there would be no home for them either.

“My place in the world—” here her movements grew jerky, angry— “is wherever I can find employment, usually no better than the scullery or the laundry, and that is if a respectable home will take me. More often I am told to take me to the bagnio or brothel, where they want girls with my color skin. To be sure, if I did work in such places, I would at least receive coin for my services. If I cannot keep a place in a respectable home, it is because there must come along a son or a husband or a friend of the house who believes my services are his for free.”

Whatever bitterness consumed him, hers had a sharper bite. Joseph sat chained to his chair, horrified by the picture she painted. Visions assaulted him of Inez being backed into dark corners, whether in the public baths or below stairs in great house, or even approached in the street, as it was a given that women in certain parts of town were displaying their wares for a purpose.

“I-I am…that should not be,” he said finally. Joseph thought himself a man of the world, but the world she hinted at was one he hadn’t known existed. “I— You should be allowed to work and move about without molestation.”

“What a lovely world it would be if all men believed as you do.” She slapped her dusting cloth at a small, enameled music box, one that had belonged to Joseph’s mother, and he feared in her vehemence she would damage the delicate cylinder inside.

He longed, suddenly, for the simple world he had grown up in, one governed by clear manners and morals. Gentlemen were kind to ladies. Ladies were gracious and demure. The lower and the very upper classes might turn things about into any muddle they liked, but for a gentleman’s family, courtesy ruled. Respect, dignity, and fair play.

If the world were fair, he would be head of his own bloody household already, with a beautiful wife and three lisping children he was teaching their letters, and a plum position that made him the envy of tutors throughout London and beyond.

Inez whirled to face him and crossed her arms over her chest. Joseph struggled not to let his eyes fall to the press of her bosom against her bodice and the linen neckerchief that swathed her, tied crosswise and tucked at her waist. He would not fall into that class of men who measured women by their potential to yield sexual satisfaction. He was a gentleman, for God’s sake.

“So that is why,” she said firmly, her lips once again making that movement where she seemed to press them together, yet their full shape made him able to think of nothing but ripe fruit, of licking and biting and sweetness.

“Why what?” he said, striving in vain not to think of other places on Inez where he would like to put his mouth.

“Why I am here.” She pointed at the carpet with its complex floral design.

Because his house was a refuge. Because Amaranthe would have taken her in with no questions, giving her a place to be free of persecution, supposing Joseph, who tended to get caught up in his own mind very frequently, might not even notice she was there.

He had noticed. It was impossible to overlook Inez.

“Very well, then,” he said gruffly.

She threw him a glare that would have shredded him, could glares cut. “Well what?”

“I understand now why you are here. And…you may stay.”

“I may stay.” Her eyes narrowed into slits, a golden-red fire deep within. “I might stay.”

“Well, yes. You will be safe here. I will see that you are sheltered. And you might go about as you wish—” He swirled a hand in the air, aware even as he did so that it was an awkward gesture— “without fear of interference, I hope.”