Love & Mayhem
Chapter One
London, England, 1882
Sybil Woodbridge shut the door and sank onto the hard chair behind the desk in the study of the rented house. She glanced at the threadbare carpet, more dirt than pattern, then at the dirt under her fingernails. She was filthy from scrubbing the top layer of grime in the rooms they’d use. If it were up to her, she’d--
But it wasn’t up to her. A spinster sister had few rights even in these more enlightened times. Married women had even fewer. Thank goodness that at the ripe old age of twenty-nine offers of marriage had dried up.
She shivered as the damp cold penetrated her gown. That smell was in this room, too. She was used to strong odours, being a sheep farmer, but those smells were the natural result of raising animals. She enjoyed them: hay, damp fleece, manure. This smell—she wrinkled her nose. She suspected several mouse carcasses lay within the walls. A rodent crypt.
She got up and stirred the fire, then placed a few more lumps of coal on the grate. Late February was frigid this year, and the house was impossible to keep warm. No wonder her brother had been able to rent it so cheaply.
Seated again at her desk with heat from the fire warming her back, she moved her journal to one side and shuffled through papers and ledgers. Balancing the accounts from the previous year should have been done weeks ago. But with one thing and another, the tedious chore had been moved from one day’s list of tasks to the next. And the next, and the next. Most days she could find any number of things she’d rather do than sit in the virtual counting house. Most days—well, all the time—she had a farm to manage and fields to tromp.
Unfortunately, her silly brother had gotten an idea in his head, and so here she was, in London, in a rented house, with naught to do but add income and subtract expenses—the larger of the two sums.
Squirming in the chair, she rubbed at her leg. Dratted wool stockings, always prickling and itching. And crawling--
Crawling. Blast. Sybil hiked up her skirts. The sensation of tiny legs scrabbling over her flesh increased tenfold. Now the buggers were on her thighs heading toward--
She pulled the skirts to her waist, spread her legs, and searched the skin.
Oswald had rented a flea-infested hovel!
Where were the buggers? She felt them crawling through the hair on her head and up her back. Blast it all to—when she saw her brother again…
The door opened.
“Christ.”
She raised her head to verbally skewer the speaker, but it wasn’t Oswald. It was a man, though. An attractive man. The handsomest man she’d ever seen. Or imagined. Tall, swarthy, with brilliant blue eyes staring at her—oh!
Sybil tried lowering her skirt but it had become tangled with itself and the hem was caught on the arm of the chair.
Oh heavens, her face burned. She was not a pretty blusher, but instead looked like she’d been slapped hard. Finally, finally, she got her legs covered and again met the man’s gaze. “Who are you?”
****
Maxwell Bretherton closed the door at his back and leaned against the solid wood. Sybil, in the flesh. And what gloriously pale, smooth flesh it was, covering slender legs. All the way to her frilly drawers.
What a sight for sexually deprived eyes. He’d not gazed on a woman’s naked body in months. Not that she was naked but he’d like her to be. He’d forgotten how pretty she was. Blonde hair gleaming in the lamplight. Green eyes wide, surprised, embarrassed.
Angry?
His cock stirred. Definitely too long since he’d slept with a woman. Though, since his mistress never came to his house, and he never spent the night in hers, sleep didn’t enter the picture. Best to give it the proper name—tupping, fornicating, fucking.
Finding Sybil with her legs spread wide put all those words at the front of his brain.
“I said, who are you?” Definitely angry.
“Don’t you recognize me? I knew you instantly, even with that charming distraction.” He moved closer to the heat from the fire. And into the circle of light.
“Good heavens.” Her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes widened farther and the colour drained from her cheeks. “What the hell are you doing here?”
London, England, 1882
Sybil Woodbridge shut the door and sank onto the hard chair behind the desk in the study of the rented house. She glanced at the threadbare carpet, more dirt than pattern, then at the dirt under her fingernails. She was filthy from scrubbing the top layer of grime in the rooms they’d use. If it were up to her, she’d--
But it wasn’t up to her. A spinster sister had few rights even in these more enlightened times. Married women had even fewer. Thank goodness that at the ripe old age of twenty-nine offers of marriage had dried up.
She shivered as the damp cold penetrated her gown. That smell was in this room, too. She was used to strong odours, being a sheep farmer, but those smells were the natural result of raising animals. She enjoyed them: hay, damp fleece, manure. This smell—she wrinkled her nose. She suspected several mouse carcasses lay within the walls. A rodent crypt.
She got up and stirred the fire, then placed a few more lumps of coal on the grate. Late February was frigid this year, and the house was impossible to keep warm. No wonder her brother had been able to rent it so cheaply.
Seated again at her desk with heat from the fire warming her back, she moved her journal to one side and shuffled through papers and ledgers. Balancing the accounts from the previous year should have been done weeks ago. But with one thing and another, the tedious chore had been moved from one day’s list of tasks to the next. And the next, and the next. Most days she could find any number of things she’d rather do than sit in the virtual counting house. Most days—well, all the time—she had a farm to manage and fields to tromp.
Unfortunately, her silly brother had gotten an idea in his head, and so here she was, in London, in a rented house, with naught to do but add income and subtract expenses—the larger of the two sums.
Squirming in the chair, she rubbed at her leg. Dratted wool stockings, always prickling and itching. And crawling--
Crawling. Blast. Sybil hiked up her skirts. The sensation of tiny legs scrabbling over her flesh increased tenfold. Now the buggers were on her thighs heading toward--
She pulled the skirts to her waist, spread her legs, and searched the skin.
Oswald had rented a flea-infested hovel!
Where were the buggers? She felt them crawling through the hair on her head and up her back. Blast it all to—when she saw her brother again…
The door opened.
“Christ.”
She raised her head to verbally skewer the speaker, but it wasn’t Oswald. It was a man, though. An attractive man. The handsomest man she’d ever seen. Or imagined. Tall, swarthy, with brilliant blue eyes staring at her—oh!
Sybil tried lowering her skirt but it had become tangled with itself and the hem was caught on the arm of the chair.
Oh heavens, her face burned. She was not a pretty blusher, but instead looked like she’d been slapped hard. Finally, finally, she got her legs covered and again met the man’s gaze. “Who are you?”
****
Maxwell Bretherton closed the door at his back and leaned against the solid wood. Sybil, in the flesh. And what gloriously pale, smooth flesh it was, covering slender legs. All the way to her frilly drawers.
What a sight for sexually deprived eyes. He’d not gazed on a woman’s naked body in months. Not that she was naked but he’d like her to be. He’d forgotten how pretty she was. Blonde hair gleaming in the lamplight. Green eyes wide, surprised, embarrassed.
Angry?
His cock stirred. Definitely too long since he’d slept with a woman. Though, since his mistress never came to his house, and he never spent the night in hers, sleep didn’t enter the picture. Best to give it the proper name—tupping, fornicating, fucking.
Finding Sybil with her legs spread wide put all those words at the front of his brain.
“I said, who are you?” Definitely angry.
“Don’t you recognize me? I knew you instantly, even with that charming distraction.” He moved closer to the heat from the fire. And into the circle of light.
“Good heavens.” Her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes widened farther and the colour drained from her cheeks. “What the hell are you doing here?”