Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,258

did she intrigue him? From the first time he had set eyes on her, there was something about Miss York. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Yes, she was attractive. Those warm brown eyes that still held his were the kind that a man could easily lose himself in. “I suppose it is a bit of a mix of both. I am trying to be a little nicer to you than I was yesterday, but I must confess to also being curious.”

She picked up her spoon and took another mouthful of her soup. Her gaze drifted from him to the other end of the table. “I was born in Manchester. My family were well-to-do in shipping and textiles. And yes, I did have a privileged upbringing. I had a governess, and fine clothes. My father used to rent a town house in London for the season.”

She closed her eyes and rubbed at her temple. Rhys was torn. He really should be a gentleman and seek to change the topic, but the need to know more about the intriguing Miss York kept him silent.

“And then a winter illness came, and it was all gone. Creditors soaked up what money might have come to me, and I was left having to go into paid service. A friend of a friend knew that Lady Kington was in need of a companion and secured me the position. It paid a pittance, but it was better than…excuse me.”

She put a hand to her lips. When she looked back at him, there were tears glistening in her eyes.

Rhys knew the pain of loss only too well. “It’s a life-changing thing to bury your parents.”

“Yes, it most certainly is.”

Deri and he had talked about the two of them sharing an orphans’ Christmas, yet here was someone else who had as much if not more right to a seat at that unhappy gathering than his cousin did.

He reached across and touched his hand briefly to hers on the table.

Wister blinked back tears. “Sorry.”

“Miss York, you don’t have to apologize for your grief. It’s the only thing we have left to give to our parents.”

His title had never bothered him before, but Rhys was in sudden need to shake it off—to set this relationship on a different footing, dare he think a more friendly one. “If we are to work together, I would like you to call me by my name. I am Rhys.”

Wister lifted her hand, but he quickly placed his other one on top of hers.

He was now holding her hand between both of his. “Please, Miss York, stay at Kington House until the new year. Work with me. Not as my servant, but as my advisor.”

Her gaze lifted from where he held her hands and settled on his face. He caught what at first glance might be seen as a hint of mistrust, but quickly decided it was more likely guarded wariness. He couldn’t blame her for that.

“Alright, Rhys. But you must understand that if I am to act as your advisor, I will offer up opinions that you may not particularly like, nor even agree with. As long as you are prepared to treat my thoughts as something worthy of your consideration, I will accept the role,” she said.

He grinned at her. “Thank you, Miss York.”

She slipped her hand free of his grasp. “Wister. My name is Wister.”

At the sound of her name, all thoughts of asking Miss York to shave his beard and cut his hair fled Rhys’s mind.

He wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight. Sitting alone with this enticing and thoroughly charming young woman was far better than anything the Royal Oak tavern had to offer.

Wister. Why am I not surprised that such an enchanting woman has a magical name?

Chapter Eight

If she had known that all it took in order to get a man to actually listen to her was to fry him up a spot of supper, Wister would have taken up cooking long ago. As it was, the potato cake was one of only a handful of recipes in her limited kitchen repertoire.

But it didn’t matter. She had a job. A formal appointment to a role she felt she could fulfil. Lord Carno…no, Rhys had asked for her assistance. For the first time since her arrival at Kington House, Wister held hopes of being valued by someone.

The following morning, she met Rhys downstairs. After a quick, but hearty bowl of oats and sliced dry apple, they made their way out the