Carla Kelly by Reforming Lord Ragsdale

with your shirt on, you may, but it seems a little ramshackle, even for an Englishman.”
    He tried to glare at her, but the effort of squinting must have hurt his tender head. “Who said I was going to take a bath?” he asked and rubbed his forehead.
    “I did, my lord,” she stated firmly. “You are disgusting, and we have things to do today. Now, take off your shirt.”
    “I won't.”
    “You will.”
    He did, to her surprise. The maids returned with more water, which they poured into the tub, and then beat a hasty retreat for the door, their eyes wide with amazement. The footman stood there with a towel draped over his arm, grinning from ear to ear. “Come on, my lord,” he wheedled. “It's not so bad.”
    Lord Ragsdale lay back down again and stared up at Emma. “I seem to recall something last night. I signed a paper. Emma! What are you doing?”
    “If you won't unbutton your trousers, then I will,” she said, hoping that her voice sounded firm and her hands did not shake. “You asked me to reform you, and even signed a statement to that effect. Hold still, my lord, or do it yourself.”
    He leaped up from the bed, nearly toppled over, and sank down, his head in his hands. “Emma, this is insane.”
    “I have it in writing, my lord,” she stated. “Once you are reformed, I am released from my indenture. Now take off your pants and get in that tub.” Emma rose and went to the door. “Hanley here said that he would fill in as your valet, my lord.”
    “I want a drink first,” Lord Ragsdale said and looked toward the dressing room. The longing in his eyes was unmistakable.
    He looked at her, his eyes pleading, and she had a moment's pause. Such Turkish treatment is a lot to thrust on a fellow, she thought. I shall enjoy this part especially.
    “So that's where you keep it,” she exclaimed and hurried into the dressing room, stepping over dirty laundry and nearly tripping over his boots by the door. She found two brandy bottles and a quart of wine, which she tucked under her arm.
    Lord Ragsdale watched her from the bed and smiled as she came back into his room. He held out his hand. “Give it here, Emma,” he ordered.
    Emma took a deep breath and went to the open window. She looked down to make sure that no one was passing below and then dropped each bottle out of the window, listening with satisfaction to the crash and tinkle on the pavement below.
    She did not think it was possible for Lord Ragsdale to go any paler than he already was, but he did. He whimpered something disjointed and flopped back on his bed as though she had shot him. He lay there in silence for a long moment, and then he waved his hand toward the footman.
    “Hanley, go to the cellar and get me some more brandy.”
    The footman grinned and shook his head. “Oh, I can't, my lord. It's been sealed up, according to your orders.”
    “What?” he shrieked.
    “Just so, my lord,” Emma chimed in. “You signed a paper last night. I am to reform you.”
    “Never!”
    Emma returned to the bed and started on his pants. “If I have to serve an indenture with you, my lord, one of us is going to change. It's not going to be me.”
    “I,” he corrected automatically. “Don't you shanty Irish know anything?”
    Emma resisted the urge to smile. “Well, sir, do you continue with your trousers, or must I?”
    “Dare you, Emma,” he said as he stood up again, clutching his half-unbuttoned pants with one hand and the bedpost with the other.
    Emma sighed, reminded of her little brother. “Lord Ragsdale, you are the worst kind of whiner. Hold still.” She unbuttoned his trousers and held them down until he had no choice but to stagger out of them.
    “Very good, my lord,” she said as he leaned against the bedpost, clad only in his small clothes. “I am sure that Hanley can carry on from here.”
    Lord Ragsdale shook his head and then clutched it with an oath.
    “Oh, no, Emma Costello,” he said, and there was a little bite to his