Son of a rogue and a gypsy, Hero Fiennes Tiffin was a notorious rake until a shattering betrayal left him alone and embittered in the Welsh countryside. Desperation drives quiet schoolteacher Josephine Langford to ask Hero Fiennes Tiffin to help sav...
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Hero awoke with a pounding headache, which he richly deserved. He lay still, eyes unopened, and took stock of his situation. Apparently his valet, Barnes, had put him to bed in a nightshirt. Hero much preferred sleeping in his skin, but he supposed that he was in no position to complain.
He moved his head a fraction, then stopped, since it seemed in danger of falling off. He had been a damned fool and was paying the price for it. Unfortunately, he hadn't drunk enough brandy to obliterate his memory of what had happened the previous afternoon. As he thought of the pugnacious little wench who had stamped in and taken up his ridiculous challenge, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Knowing the consequences to his head, he did neither.
He had trouble believing some of the things he had said, but his memories were too clear to permit denial. Lucky that Josephine Langford hadn't come armed; she might have decided that it was her Methodist duty to rid the world of a parasitical nobleman. He almost smiled at the thought. He had rather enjoyed their encounter, though he devoutly hoped that after mature consideration she would decide to stay home and let their bargain lapse. A female like her could seriously unbalance a man.
The door swung open and soft footsteps approached. Probably Barnes, coming to see if he was awake. Preferring to be left alone, Hero kept his eyes shut and the footsteps retreated.
But not for long. Five seconds later, icy water sluiced over Hero's head. "Bloody hell!" he roared, coming up swinging. He'd kill Barnes, he'd bloody kill him.
It wasn't his valet. Hero opened his bleary eyes to find Josephine Langford , who stood a safe distance away with an empty china pitcher in her hand.
At first he wondered if he was having an unusually vivid nightmare, but he could never have imagined the expression of sweet superciliousness on Josephine's small face, nor the cold water that saturated his nightshirt. He snarled, "Why the fuck did you do that for?"
"Tomorrow morning has turned into tomorrow afternoon, and I've been waiting for three hours for you to wake up," she said calmly. "Long enough to have a cup of tea, organize my list of requests for Penreith, and make a brief survey of the house to see what needs to be done to open the place properly. Rather a lot, as I'm sure you've noticed. Or perhaps you didn't—men can be amazingly unobservant. From sheer boredom, I decided to wake you. It seemed like the sort of thing that a mistress might do, and I'm trying my best to fill the role you have assigned me."
She spoke with a hint of lilting Welsh accent and a rich, husky voice that made him think of aged whiskey. Coming from a prim spinster, the effect was startlingly erotic. Wanting to discomfit her, he said, "My mistresses always wake me up in more interesting ways. Care for me to explain how?"
"Not particularly." She took a towel from the washstand and handed it to him.
He roughly dried his hair and face, then blotted the worst of the water from his nightshirt. Feeling more human, he tossed the towel back to Josephine.
