Page 7 of Impossible
In the meantime, she’d better find out whether he actually had any livestock.
Max had managed to get through an entire day without suffering the presence of his unwanted guest. Still, he’d been deeply aware of her in the library. Why hadn’t he thought to situate her far from his study instead of immediately adjacent?
As he finished his toilet, he worked to breathe and think of inane things. When he went to pick up his coat, he cleared his mind completely. For whatever reason, the simple act of donning this garment so often took him back to Spain. To that horrible day…
It was perhaps the best argument to hire a valet, but he still couldn’t bring himself to do so. He’d managed quite well on his own, and allowing someone that close to him wasn’t something he wished to do. Furthermore, he wasn’t even supposed to be a viscount or live this bloody life. By all accounts, he should be dead. Instead, his father and brother were, and here he was.
Pleased that he’d successfully avoided the unwanted memories, he made his way downstairs to his study. Was Miss Treadway already at work in the library? She had been yesterday morning. Apparently, she was a very early riser since she’d been up before Max, and he rose with the sun—or before it, depending on how or if he slept. That she’d beat him downstairs also annoyed him. Everything about her annoyed him.
She was too damned pleasant. And she was obviously thinking constantly. No, not just thinking,plotting. She was organizing some scheme or even a series of schemes. Perhaps he was being paranoid. Mrs. Bundle would say so.
Upon arriving in his study, he repeated what he’d done yesterday—he went to the door leading to the library and gently pried it open a few inches. He peered through the small opening toward the table near the windows. There she was again, her dark hair piled neatly atop her head, the column of her throat arcing as she bent over her work.
She’d beat him again. Yes, he should have stationed her in the sitting room upstairs at the front of the house. Then she would have been on an entirely different floor. Perhaps he’d move her there today. When she took a break from her work, he’d have Timothy carry her things upstairs. Unless she didn’t take any breaks. That would be just like her to be annoyingly committed to her work.
Closing the door, he retreated to his desk, then froze. A folded piece of parchment sat in the center. His name was written in beautiful strokes across the paper. There was no question who had put it there.
With a scowl, he snatched it up and opened it. She’d written out a series of questions. Did he have any vacant cottages? Any vacant farms? Did he personally collect the quarterly rents, and if not, who did? It went on and on, with a dozen or more queries. The last asked whether he had livestock, and if so, how many and what kind?
He read the closing twice, astonished by her brazenness.
I would be delighted if you would respond in person; however, if you would prefer to do so in writing, I have left space so that you may record your answers on this paper. I do appreciate your time.
Most sincerely,
Miss Treadway
Was she angling to become his steward? No, she already had a job at Lucien’s infernal club in London, which Lucien kept trying to persuade Max to join. The thought of mingling with people, socially or otherwise, made Max’s lip curl. That was why he’d mostly stayed away from the House of Lords, though he ought to attend. He’d been a few times, and on each occasion had beaten as hasty a retreat as possible.
It was the way people looked at him—with warmth and pride as they thanked him for his heroism. If they only knew the truth, they would revile him instead. He’d be banned from the Lords, his title stripped, probably. Not that he cared about any of that. His brother should have inherited the title, but fate had stolen him too. Everyone whom Max cared about met the same end. Well, most everyone. Hence, he now cared for no one.
He returned his mind to the need for a steward. He’d driven poor Acton away by refusing to allow him to spend money on improvements and by being generally obnoxious. Max had declined to meet with him, nor did he read the man’s reports. Frustrated, Acton had taken another position, which was precisely what Max had hoped. Indeed, he’d been satisfied when most of the retainers at Stonehill had taken themselves off. The fewer people around him, the better.
He grudgingly admitted that Miss Treadway was slightly impressive, at least in her zeal. In one day, she’d invested more time into his estate than he did in a month. He flinched, his shoulders twitching.
Going back to the library door, he pried it open again and looked in.
“My lord?”
Startled, he pulled the door shut more loudly than he would have preferred. He turned to see Mrs. Bundle setting his breakfast tray on the desk. “Just leave it there,” he said grumpily.
The housekeeper’s dark brows arched briefly. “Are you going to eat?”
“Of course.” But he made no move toward the desk.
Mrs. Bundle pursed her lips before turning and leaving. Exhaling, Max carefully opened the door again, half expecting to find Miss Treadway right there in response to hearing the door shut. But she wasn’t. She was still seated at her table, her attention wholly focused on her task.
Max clenched her missive in his grasp and walked toward her. She was incredibly engaged in her work, for she didn’t look up at all as he approached. He noted the little pleats between her brows as she read the book laid open on the table beneath her gaze. She was rather attractive, in an adorable, endearing way. Which was asinine because there was nothing he found adorable nor endearing.
He scowled just as she looked up, a brilliant smile lighting her face. She instantly went from adorable to captivating. He hated that his body responded with a mild heat.
“You ask too many damned questions.”
She nodded, unperturbed by his sourness. “I do. It’s a personality trait that some find aggravating, I admit. But I can’t help my curiosity.” She smiled again. “In this case, my questions are quite necessary. Will you answer them?” She sounded both hopeful and doubtful at the same time.
“My steward collected the rents until he left last year.”
“And who has collected them since?”
