Houston looked toward the attics. “Forgive him, Mme. de Pompadour,” she whispered.
With resolution, she pulled back the curtains, tied them in a fat knot so they’d stay in place, and let the sunlight in.
“Good morning, Mr. Taggert,” she said loudly, as she stood over his bed.
Kane roused, turned over, but continued sleeping.
He was exposed from the waist up, nude, and, she suspected, nude the rest of the way down, too. For a moment she stood still, looking at him. It was few times that she’d seen a man’s bare chest before and Kane was built like a prizefighter—big, muscular, his chest very hairy. His skin was dark and warm-looking.
One minute she was standing beside the bed and the next minute a great hand caught her thigh and she was pulled across him, and into the bed.
“Couldn’t wait for me, could you?” Kane said, as he began hungrily kissing her neck and throat as his hands energetically ran over her body. “I’ve always been partial to a good romp in the mornin’.”
Houston struggled against him for a moment, saw it was useless and began looking for other ways to stop his attack on her. Her groping hand came in contact with the handle of the pitcher on the table, and she swiftly brought it down on his head.
The thin chalkware broke, and water and pieces of the pitcher cascaded down as Houston jumped out of the bed, moving safely to the foot of it.
“What the hell—,” Kane began, sitting up, rubbing his head. “You could a killed me.”
“Not likely,” Houston said. “I correctly assumed your taste in quality toiletries would match your taste in furniture.”
“Listen, you little bitch, I’ll—.”
“No, Mr. Taggert, you listen to me. If I am to be your wife, you will treat me with the respect due a woman in that position. I will not be treated as some hussy you’ve . . . you’ve hired for the evening.” Her face turned red but she continued. “I did not come to your bedroom because, as you say, I couldn’t wait to share your bed. I was in a sense blackmailed into this. Below, I have a tailor waiting to measure you for a suit, I have furniture movers arriving any minute, a cook is coming with a wagonload of food and, in less than an hour, a barber will remove that mass of hair you’re sporting. If I am going to prepare both you and this house for a wedding, I will unfortunately need your presence, and therefore you cannot be allowed to loll about in bed, sleeping the day away.”
Kane just looked at her while she delivered her speech. “Is my head bleedin’?” he asked.
With a sigh, Houston went to him and examined his head, until he caught her about the waist and pressed his face against her breast. “Any of that paddin’?” he asked.
Houston pushed him away in disgust. “Get up, get dressed and come downstairs as quickly as possible,” she said before turning on her heel and leaving the room.
“Damned bossy female,” she heard him say behind her.
Downstairs, everything was chaos. The six men Susan’d hired were strolling through the house as if they owned it, shouting comments to one another. Willie and Mrs. Murchison were waiting to ask her questions and Mr. Bagly had decided to leave.
Houston set to work.
By nine o’clock, she was wishing she knew how to use a whip. She had immediately fired two of the furniture movers for insolence and then asked who wanted to earn a day’s pay.
Kane didn’t like Mr. Bagly touching him and didn’t like Houston deciding what he could and could not wear.
Mrs. Murchison was beside herself, trying to cook in the bare kitchen.
When the barber arrived, Houston slipped out the side door and nearly ran for the privacy of the big glasshouse that for days she’d been wanting to explore. She closed the door and gazed with pleasure down the three-hundred-foot-long expanse of flowering plants. The fragrance and the peace were what she needed.
“Noise too much for you?”
She turned to see Edan, as be set down a big pot of azaleas. He was nearly as large as Kane, handsome, blond, and, she guessed, younger than, Kane. “I guess we woke you,” she said. “There seems to have been a great deal of shouting this morning.”
“If Kane’s around, people usually shout,” he said matter-of-factly. “Could I show you my plants?”
“This is yours?”
“More or less. There’s a little house past the rose garden where a Japanese family lives. They take care of the outside gardens, but in here is mine. I have plants from all over the world.”
She knew she had no time, but she also knew she wanted a few minutes of quiet.
With pride, Edan showed her the many plants in the glasshouse: cyclamen, primroses, tree ferns, orchids, exotic things she’d never heard of.