He gaped at her, alarm running up his navel and refracting off his sternum and into his limbs. He desperately tried to remember last night—
Only, the half of the bed Hulda was in wasn’t his bed.
He let out a tense breath. The house had shifted again, during the night! Reforming bedrooms, cutting his and the housekeeper’s in half and gluing them together!
And he didn’t have pants on.
Cool sweat broke over his forehead as he secured the blanket to his hips and tried to figure if it would be better to sneak away or to wake Hulda immediately. Neither could end well.
He scooted toward the edge of the mattress, making a vow to start sleeping fully clothed from now on.
As he pushed his feet over the edge, he glanced back at Hulda, ensuring she was still asleep. She was, probably because she was lying on her side, her back turned to the window. The blanket rested across her ribs, revealing the gauzy sleeves of her nightgown. Her hair fell over one shoulder in a braid that was barely still plaited; most of the walnut locks had freed themselves and waved over her neck and pillow. She didn’t wear her glasses, of course.
He’d never noticed her eyelashes before. They were dark and full and splayed across the crest of her cheeks. And the way the morning sun poured from the window . . . she looked almost angelic.
Then he noticed that her nightgown dipped, revealing a good eyeful of milky cleavage.
Admittedly, he stared at that for a few seconds longer than he should have. He ought not to have stared at all. But he was a man, and . . . God help him, she was going to murder him.
It’s not my fault! his thoughts spat as he sped from the mattress and grabbed yesterday’s trousers, pulling them on with impressive speed. He’d determined to sneak away and alert Beth, have her wake Hulda, when he turned and saw the portrait from the reception hall was standing upright on the carpet, watching him with an impish smile.
Merritt shrieked. Hulda bolted upright. It took only a few heartbeats for her to shriek as well.
“Where am I?” Her accusing eyes landed on him as she snatched the blanket and shielded herself.
Trying to tamp down his flustered nerves, Merritt managed, “It would seem the house decided two bedrooms should be one during the night.” Then, in self-defense, “I only just discovered it myself.”
Admittedly, it was fascinating to watch Hulda’s face darken to the redness of a high-summer rose.
He backed away. “I’ll . . . get Miss Taylor.” He nearly knocked over the portrait in his haste to escape, unsure if the ensuing sound of mortification was from the door hinges or Hulda’s mouth.
Might be better for the both of them if he didn’t find out.
Suddenly Mr. Culdwell back in New York did not seem as bad a landlord as Merritt had always thought him. He had never rearranged his things—his furniture, his windows, his walls—while he slept. Lord knew he’d had enough of magic to last him the rest of his life.
All the more reason to get on with the exorcism. He buttered a piece of toast. Baptiste had already eaten—he made it a habit to eat before anyone else did, but that might be due to the fact that he woke up before anyone else, including Hulda, who kept a schedule so rigid even the military would be impressed.
Her schedule was, understandably, not so rigid today. She came to breakfast late, her shoulders stiff and her nose high, a folder of papers in her hands.
Merritt perked up. “Do tell me you’ve discovered who our wizard is.”
Pulling out a chair, Hulda sat. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Fernsby. I’ve only just started sorting through them. Though you’ll be pleased to know the house is fixing its second floor.”
A snap of wood upstairs punctuated the statement.
The slightest flush could be discerned under Hulda’s eyes. Merritt determined he would say nothing more on the matter other than “Thank you,” as he assumed it was Hulda’s expertise that had convinced this wretched house to put itself back into order.
Setting down his half-eaten toast, he said, “Remind me why a wizard inhabits a house.”
“Usually two reasons,” she answered without glancing up, pulling out papers from the file. “They’ve been tethered to it somehow, or their life purpose was unfulfilled in some important way. But a person must have significant magical ability to move their spirit into an inanimate body. Not just anyone can do it, which is why it’s becoming a less common phenomenon.”
“Could you do it?”
She glanced his way. There were flecks of green in her eyes. “No. And I wouldn’t want to, besides.”