To Beguile a Beast by Elizabeth Hoyt Page A

cheese, and a herring.
    He turned his gaze to her. “What a magnificent feast. Did you use your own money?”
    Helen blushed. Naturally, she’d had to use her own money. “Well, I—”
    “How very generous of you, madam,” he rasped. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard tell before of a housekeeper using her own funds for her master.”
    “I’m sure you’ll repay me—”
    “Are you?” he murmured.
    She set her hands on her hips and blew a lock of hair out of her eyes. This afternoon had been the most trying of her entire life. “Yes, I’m sure. You’ll repay me because I begged and bullied that wretched driver into stopping in Glenlargo. Then I had to find the shops, wheedle the baker to reopen his shop—he closes at noon, would you believe?—bargain the butcher down from his quite scandalous prices, and tell the grocer I wasn’t going to buy wormy apples.” She didn’t even mention the task that’d taken up most of her time in the village. “And after that I had to persuade the carriage driver into bringing us back here and helping me unload the carriage. So, yes, the very least you could do is repay me!”
    A corner of those wide sensuous lips twitched.
    Helen leaned forward, on the verge of violence. “And don’t you dare laugh at me!”
    “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He reached for a knife in a drawer. “Abigail, can you put the kettle on for tea by yourself?” He began to slice the bread.
    “Yes, sir.” Abigail jumped to help.
    Helen let her arms fall, feeling a bit deflated. “I want to try it again. The housekeeping, I mean.”
    “And I, as the master of the house, am to have no say in the matter, I see. No, don’t touch that.” This last was directed at her as she began to unwrap the ham. “It’ll have to be boiled, and that’ll take hours.”
    “Well, really.”
    “Yes, really, Mrs. Halifax.” He glanced at her with that light brown eye. “You can butter the bread. I’m assuming, of course, that you are capable of buttering bread?”
    She didn’t bother replying to that insulting remark but merely took up a butter knife and began applying butter. His mood seemed to have lightened, but he still hadn’t indicated if he’d let her and the children stay. Helen bit her lip, darting a sideways glance at him. He looked perfectly content slicing bread. She blew out a breath. Easy for him to be at ease; he didn’t have to worry if he’d have a roof over his head tonight.
    Sir Alistair didn’t speak again for a bit but sliced and handed her bread to butter. Abigail had brought out the tea, and now she rinsed the new teapot with hot water before filling it. Soon they all sat down to a meal of tea, buttered bread, jam, apples, and cheese. It wasn’t until Helen bit into her second slice of bread that she realized how very odd this might look to anyone walking in. The master of the castle eating with his housekeeper and her children in the kitchen.
    She glanced at Sir Alistair and found him watching her. His long black hair fell over his brow and eye patch, giving him the appearance of a surly highwayman. He smiled—not very nicely—and she was put on the alert.
    “I’ve been wondering something, Mrs. Halifax,” he rasped in his broken voice.
    She swallowed. “Yes?”
    “What, exactly, was your position in the dowager Viscountess Vale’s household?”
    Damn. “Well, I did do some housekeeping.”
    Technically true since Lister had set her up in her own house. Of course, she’d had a paid housekeeper. . . .
    “But you weren’t the official housekeeper, I’m thinking, or Lady Vale would’ve said so in her letter.”
    Helen hastily took another bite of bread so she could think.
    Sir Alistair watched her in that disconcerting way, making her quite self-conscious. Other men had stared at her before, she was considered a beauty, and it was only false modesty not to admit the fact. And, of course, as the Duke of Lister’s mistress, she’d been an object of curiosity. So she