Free Persistent Earl : Signet Regency Romance (9781101578841) by Gail Eastwood

He lifted one eyebrow, managing to produce a mischievous expression despite his obvious fatigue.
    Sobering again, he continued. “Mullins’s handwriting resembles chicken scratches more than anything alphabetical in nature, and I will have letters that must be sent. So, after what happened today, I would like to arrange with you in advance for your services. Will you help me?”
    Phoebe folded her hands in her lap and fought the impulse to get up again. Did she really have a choice?
    She ventured a glance at Devenham, only to discover his blue eyes regarding her intently. She could feel his magnetism; indeed, she had been more than a little aware of it from the moment she stepped into the room. She decided it was inescapable and that she had better become accustomed to it. Some perverse fate seemed to have decreed that she must spend time with the earl.
    â€œDo you promise to behave?” she asked.
    â€œYou have my word on it.”
    So much for her decision to avoid him. She closed her eyes, feeling that somehow, just when she had decided to take charge of her life, everything in it was spinning in different directions, out of control.
    â€œYou may call Mullins in now,” Devenham said softly.

Chapter Five
    T he following days settled into a regular pattern. Phoebe divided her mornings and afternoons, spending part of each with the children at their lessons, and part with Lord Devenham, assisting him with correspondence or whatever else he required. Her hours with him passed quietly, measured more by the scratch of her pen on foolscap and the deep, regular cadences of his voice than by anything else, Phoebe thought.
    She had not desired to deepen her acquaintance with the earl. His presence in her life, while unsettling, was temporary, and once he was gone, she planned to get on with the business of building some sort of future for herself.
    However, her role as his secretary had suddenly positioned her squarely, if uncomfortably, on intimate terms with his private affairs. Her elegantly rounded script spelled out seemingly endless instructions and queries to his bailiffs at three estates, and comforting reassurances to his mother in Rutland. She penned letters to his commander and to fellow officers in his regiment, and others to solicitors and bankers. She even wrote notes to several of his personal friends, whose names she recognized as among London’s most notorious. She was relieved that these contained nothing even remotely out of the ordinary. And, he had not asked her to write to any women.
    In truth, she found no evidence to support the dire reputation he was supposed to have. From what she could tell, he was nothing if not conscientious, dutiful, responsible, and courteous—just exactly what she had not expected. His demeanor toward her was businesslike, except for his occasional lapses in language and a tendency to ask her discomforting questions.
    â€œWhere did you get that God-awful stuff you’ve been passing off on me as tea?” he asked one afternoon when she had finally allowed him to indulge in a cup of the regular beverage.
    He was ensconced in the wing chair, which had been pulled over to the window. She sat in the straight chair opposite him, with a small writing table between them. For the moment, it was burdened with tea things rather than papers.
    â€œThat was tea,” she replied calmly, “just not of the Chinese variety. Milfoil, or yarrow as some call it, has been known for centuries as an aid to healing wounds and combating fevers. An old name for it is Soldier’s Wort.”
    â€œDid you make it?”
    â€œI instructed our kitchen help in making the tea. I grow the herbs right out there in the garden.” She nodded toward the window.
    â€œAh, that explains the scent.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThe scent you wear. It has been haunting me ever since I arrived here.”
    Suddenly the conversation seemed to have become