To Beguile a Beast by Elizabeth Hoyt Page B

was used to being stared at by men. But Sir Alistair’s gaze was different. Those other men had looked at her with lust or speculation or crass curiosity, but they hadn’t been looking at her really. They’d been looking at what she represented to them: physical love or a valuable prize or an object to be gawked at. When Sir Alistair stared at her, well, he was looking at her. Helen the woman. Which was rather disconcerting. It was almost as if she were naked before him.
    “You certainly weren’t the cook,” he murmured now, interrupting her thoughts. “I think we’ve established that.”
    She shook her head.
    “Perhaps you were a type of paid companion?”
    She swallowed. “Yes, I think you might call my position that.”
    “And yet I’ve never heard tell of a companion who was allowed to keep her children with her.”
    Helen glanced at the children across the table. Jamie was intent on devouring an apple, but Abigail looked back and forth between Helen and Sir Alistair with a worried expression.
    Helen threw the abominable man her best smile along with a conversational bomb. “Have I told you about the two footmen, three maids, and the cook I hired in town today?”
    M RS . H ALIFAX was the most astonishing woman, Alistair reflected as he deliberately set down his teacup. She was bent on staying at Castle Greaves, despite his inhospitality; on buying teapots and food; on, in fact, becoming his housekeeper of all things; and now she’d hired an entire staff of servants.
    She quite took his breath away.
    “You’ve hired half a dozen servants,” he said slowly.
    Her brows drew together, making two small lines in her otherwise smooth forehead. “Yes.”
    “Servants I neither want nor need.”
    “I think there can be no question that you need them,” she replied. “I’ve dealt with Mr. Wiggins. He seems unreliable.”
    “Wiggins is unreliable. He’s also cheap. Your servants will expect to be paid well, won’t they?” Grown men had been known to flee when he spoke thus.
    But not she. She tilted up her softly rounded chin. “Yes.”
    Fascinating. She appeared to have no fear of him. “What if I don’t have the money?”
    Her beautiful blue eyes widened. Had that thought never occurred to her? That a man who lived in a castle might not have servants because he couldn’t afford them?
    “I… I don’t know,” she stammered.
    “I do have the money to hire servants if I wished to.” He smiled kindly. “I don’t.”
    Actually, Alistair supposed he could be called rich, if the reports from his man of business were to be believed. Investments he’d made before he set off for the American Colonies had done very well. Then, too, his book describing the flora and fauna of New England had been a rather spectacular success. So, yes, he had money to hire a half dozen servants—or dozens more if he cared. Ironic, really, considering that he’d never set out to make a fortune.
    “Why not hire servants if you have the money?” She seemed honestly perplexed.
    Alistair leaned back in his ancient kitchen chair. “Why should I spend my money on servants that are useless to me?” He didn’t add, servants who would no doubt loiter in the halls to stare at him and his scars.
    “Cooks aren’t useless,” Jamie objected.
    Alistair raised his eyebrows at the lad. Jamie sat across from him, his elbows flat on the table, a slice of bread with jam between his hands.
    “Indeed?”
    “Not if they can make steak pie,” the boy pointed out. He had jam smeared on either side of his face. There was jam on the table in front of him as well. “Or custard.”
    Alistair felt his mouth quirk. Warm custard, fresh from the oven, had been a favorite of his as well when he’d been Jamie’s age. “Can this cook make steak pie and custard?”
    “I believe so,” Mrs. Halifax said primly.
    “Pleeease may we keep the cook?” Jamie’s eyes were wide and earnest.
    “Jamie!” Abigail chided. Her eyes weren’t pleading