The Wagered Miss Winslow by Kasey Michaels Page A

much rather have had it out with Rosalind then and there, explaining in less than fifty well-chosen words why Bridget had addressed him as “Bobby Reilly,” and then silenced any remaining arguments or protests by the simple expedience of kissing Miss Rosalind “How- dare -you-sirrah!” Winslow senseless.
    “Don’t pout, Mr. Remington,” Woodrow admonished now, standing in front of Beau, holding a basin of warm water. “Only the lower orders pout. You will simply have to go downstairs and make a clean breast of everything, as you did with me before I agreed to take you on. I am convinced Miss Winslow will understand, although all this business of a marriage between you is simply out of the question for the nonce.”
    “The oracle speaks,” Beau rejoined testily. “But you may be right. Instead of sitting here, feeling all woeful and sorry for myself, I might be better engaged in knocking your two eyes into one. Yes, I think I’d like that, Woodrow. A good, rousing fight has always been a sure enough cure for ennui.”
    The valet sighed, having long ago learned that, while Mr. Remington might threaten him with great regularity, he would never resort to violence. “Thank you, sir, for making my point. We may have succeeded in applying a veneer of civilized conduct and temperament, but we have a long, long way to go, which is why I manufactured that slight fib about a relative in the neighborhood. You were prepared to dismiss me, sir, and I knew we were not yet done with our improvements. Now if you would be so kind as to remove to the dressing table, I believe it is time we were shaved.”
    Beau was nonplussed for a moment as it dawned on him, slowly, that Woodrow had come extremely close to admitting that he had begun to feel some slight fondness for his employer-cum-student. “You mean to stick by me, Woodrow?” he asked, rising, then walked to the dressing table and picked up his razor for, no matter how Woodrow protested, he had been shaving himself for many a year and wasn’t about to change his habits simply because he was now filthy rich.
    The valet nodded, and Beau smiled, believing he had heard a slight creak in the valet’s usually unbending neck.
    “I see in you the greatest challenge in my career of service, sir,” Woodrow went on doggedly. “I could not desert you at this juncture and still consider myself worthy to serve as a gentleman’s gentleman. Tut-tut! We have succeeded in nicking our chin, haven’t we? Here you go, sir—allow me to dab at that blood with a clean towel.”
    “Woodrow,” a flattered Beau said as he stood still for once and allowed the valet to do his job, “you fair bid to unman me with your loyalty. Remind me to double your wages,” he added, slightly ashamed of himself, for he had vivid memories of some of the unkind thoughts he had harbored against the man.
    “That is not necessary, sir,” Woodrow protested as he stepped back, unwilling to be showered with water as Beau dipped his hands into the basin and proceeded to wash his face with the same enthusiasm a puppy employed in frolicking in his water bowl. “A wise head of household knows that loyalty cannot be bought, and does not so demean himself as to grossly overpay servants in a pathetic appeal for fealty.”
    Beau lifted his head from the towel Woodrow had handed him, eyeing the man owlishly. “All right. Remind me to cut your wages by a third, Woodrow. God forbid I should appear to be begging for crumbs of affection from my own servants. Oh, the humiliation of the thing!’
    “Mr. Remington jokes,” the valet countered, holding out a fresh shirt as Beau stripped himself to his waist, the bulging muscles of his arms and chest causing Woodrow to turn his head in mild disgust. His employer was too muscular by half, and would never be a credit to his tailor, or his valet—although he did possess a creditably small waist and good, straight, if distressingly powerful, bulging legs.
    “Mr. Remington