It is clear and sunny but bitterly cold, a day where her breath precedes her in a cloud of vapor as she hurries along Chelsea Embankment. There are still large patches of snow welded in icy clumps to the sidewalks, but the roads have been sanded. Traffic has returned to normal, and London is up and running again. Alessia’s train was delayed this morning, and now she’s a little late. But she would have happily walked from Brentford just to see him.

Alessia grins. She is finally at the front door to the Mister’s apartment, her favorite place in the world. She slips her key in the lock and braces herself for the sound of the alarm but is relieved at the silence. Closing the door, she’s surprised by the smell. The apartment reeks of stale alcohol.

Crinkling her nose at the unexpected odor, she removes her boots and pads barefoot into the kitchen. The worktops are littered with empty bottles of beer and greasy pizza boxes.

She jumps when she sees an athletic, attractive young man standing at the open fridge drinking orange juice directly from the carton. His skin is dark, he has long, knotted hair, and he’s dressed only in his boxer shorts. Alessia gapes at him. He turns toward her, and his face erupts in a broad grin of perfect white teeth.

“Well, hi there,” he says, his dark eyes widening in appreciation.

Alessia blushes and mumbles, “Hi,” then scurries into the laundry room.

Who is this man?

She scrambles out of her coat, and from her plastic bag slips on her cleaning uniform: housecoat and headscarf. Lastly she slides her feet into her sneakers.

Alessia peeks around the laundry room door into the kitchen. The Mister, wearing a black T-shirt and his ripped jeans, is standing beside the fridge sharing the carton of orange juice with the stranger.

“I just frightened your barefoot help. You tapped that yet? She’s hot.”

“Fuck off, Joe. And I’m not surprised you frightened her. Put some clothes on, you fucking exhibitionist.”

“Sorry, your lordship.” The stranger tugs at his hair and bows his head.

“Fuck off again,” the Mister says mildly, and he takes another swig of orange juice. “You can use my bathroom.”

The dark-haired man laughs and, turning to go, spies Alessia watching the banter. He grins again and waves at her, causing the Mister to look in her direction. His eyes light up, and a slow smile spreads across his face, and Alessia has no choice but to come out of hiding.

“Joe, this is Alessia. Alessia, Joe.” There is a warning tone to his voice, but Alessia doesn’t know if it is directed at her or at Joe.

“Good morning, Alessia. Please excuse my state of undress.” Joe gives her a theatrical bow, and when he’s upright, he has a wicked, amused glint in his dark eyes. His body is toned and lean—like the Mister’s. Each muscle of his abdomen is clearly defined.

“Good morning,” she whispers.

The Mister gives Joe a brooding glare. But Joe ignores him and winks at Alessia before he strolls out of the kitchen, whistling.

“Sorry about that,” the Mister says as he turns emerald eyes on her. “How are you today?” His slow smile returns.

Her flush deepens as her heart somersaults. Any inquiry he makes about her well-being, even one so commonplace, lifts her spirits.

“I am good. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you made it here. The trains running okay?”

“They are a little late.”

“Good morning.” A man with fiery red hair limps into the kitchen wearing only his boxer shorts and a scowl.

“Good God,” the Mister mumbles under his breath, and he scrapes his hand through his tousled hair.

Alessia regards this new friend who has joined them. Tall and handsome, his limbs are fair, with shockingly livid scars that crisscross his left leg and his left side like the tracks at a railway junction.

He notices Alessia staring at his scars.

“War wound,” he growls.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and she lowers her gaze to the floor, wishing it would open and swallow her whole.

“Tom, do you want some coffee?” the Mister asks, and it seems to Alessia he’s trying to defuse the sudden tension in the room.

“Bloody right. I need something for this god-awful hangover.”

Alessia scuttles back into the laundry room to start on the ironing. At least she’s out of sight and won’t offend any of the Mister’s friends from in there.

* * *

I watch Alessia’s hasty retreat into the scullery, her plait bouncing from side to side and brushing her waist.

“Who’s the pretty girl?”

“My daily.”

Tom nods with lascivious approval. I’m glad she’s gone back into her lair, away from Tom’s and Joe’s prying eyes. Their reaction makes me uneasy. Suddenly, surprisingly, I feel proprietary. It’s an unfamiliar emotion. I don’t want my friends ogling her. She’s mine. Well, she’s my employee.

You’re the Earl of Trevethick now. She’ll need to go on the payroll.

Shit.

She’s almost my employee. I need to sort out her employment status sooner rather than later. I don’t want Oliver or the Revenue breathing down my neck.

“What happened to Krystyna? I liked the old bird,” Tom says as he rubs his face.

“Krystyna’s gone back to Poland. Now, will you go and put some fucking clothes on? There is a lady present, for fuck’s sake,” I growl.

“Lady?”

Tom pales at the look I give him, and for once he doesn’t rise to the bait. “Sorry, old chap. I’ll go and get dressed. Milk, no sugar for me.” He shuffles out of the kitchen and back to the guest room. I chide myself for inviting my friends to stay when Alessia is working here. I’m not going to make that mistake again.

* * *

Alessia has managed to avoid the men for most of the morning, and she’s glad when they finally leave. She even contemplated hiding in the forbidden room, but Krystyna had been adamant. She is not to enter.

She’s cleared the blankets off the sofa in the living room and has stripped and remade the bed in the spare room. His bedroom is now tidy, and she was surprised and delighted to note there were still no used condoms in the wastebasket. Perhaps he’s disposing of them a different way. She doesn’t dwell on this thought, because it depresses her. She enters his walk-in closet to put away the ironing and gather up his dirty clothes. It’s only been a couple of days, but it’s a mess again.

The Mister is sitting at his computer and working, doing whatever it is that he does. She still has no idea how he makes his living. She recalls the smile that lit up his face when he first saw her this morning. His dazzling smile is contagious. Grinning like an idiot, she examines the pile of clothing on the floor of his closet. Kneeling down, she picks up one shirt, then glances quickly at the half-open door. Satisfied that she’s alone, she holds the shirt to her face, closes her eyes, and inhales his scent.

So good.

“There you are,” he says.

Alessia jumps and bolts upright rather too quickly, so that she stumbles backward. Two strong hands grab her arms and save her from falling.

“Easy,” he says, and gently holds her while she finds her balance. As soon as she does, to her regret, he releases her, but his touch still echoes through her body. “I was looking for a sweater. It’s a bright day, but cold. Are you warm enough?” he asks.

She nods vigorously, trying to catch her breath. Right now, in this small space with him, she’s too warm.

He surveys the pile of clothes on the floor and frowns. “It’s a mess, I know,” he mumbles with a sheepish expression on his face. “I’m pathologically untidy.”

“Path-o-log—”

“Pathological.”

“I do not know this word.”

“Oh…um…it refers to an extreme behavior.”

“I see,” Alessia responds, and she looks down at the clothes again and nods. “Yes. Pathological.” She gives him a wry expression, and he laughs.

“I’ll sort this out,” he says.

“No. No. I do it.” Alessia waves him away.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“It is my job.”

He grins and reaches across her for a chunky cream sweater on one of the shelves. His arm brushes her shoulder, and she freezes as her heart goes into overdrive.

“Sorry,” he says, looking a little disheartened as he leaves the closet.

Once he’s gone, Alessia recovers her equilibrium.

Can he not tell the effect he has on me?

And he caught her sniffing his shirt. She covers her face. He must think she’s a complete idiot. Feeling mortified and angry with herself, she sinks to her knees and sorts through the pile of clothing, folding the clothes that don’t need washing and putting all his dirty stuff into the laundry basket.

* * *

I can’t keep my hands off her. Any excuse.

Leave her alone, dude.

And if I touch her, she freezes. I amble back to the drawing room, feeling glum. She just doesn’t like me.

Is this a first?

I think so. I’ve never struggled with women before. They’ve always been an easy diversion for me. With a healthy bank account, a flat in Chelsea, a pretty face, and an aristocratic family, I’ve never had a problem.

Ever.