John Herbert Fortescue, manservant extraordinaire, cream of the British butler crop, had been in service at Brook House for ten years. He’d come as an under butler with the previous butler from another great house—though not as great as this one—and when that silver-haired gentleman had retired, Fortescue had stepped into his mentor’s place as smoothly as a key fit into the lock it was made for.
In all those years he had never once padded his accounts or skimmed from his budget or pocketed so much as a silver sugar spoon. In fact, in all those years he had never put his own desires before the needs of the household and the master …
Except once.
Now he stood in the afternoon shadows of the upstairs hall and watched her walk toward him with her ladyship’s tea tray. Patricia, the flame-haired Irish witch who had stirred him so profoundly that he’d been driven to disregard the proper order of things.
The English did not value Irish servants, except perhaps for their near-magical abilities with horses. An Irish girl did not take up service in a great house as anything but a scullery maid. Most worked as factory girls,
or in the case of extreme tolerance, as a lowly sort of shop girl.
For Patricia to serve the lady of the house as personal maid was unheard of in this strata of society—a fact that Fortescue had trampled with uncharacteristic lack of respect. None of the staff had dared gainsay his decision, his lordship probably hadn’t noticed, and her ladyship had so far made no indication that she thought it was a terrible idea.
If she did—if his lordship demanded that Fortescue put an end to this incredible lapse of custom—if the entire staff of Brook House rose up in mutiny—
Fortescue simply couldn’t bring himself to care. Look at her there, with her fiery hair and her emerald eyes and the proud tilt of her head. Patricia O’Malley didn’t believe she was inferior to anyone. Quite frankly, neither did he.
He made a noise as she approached. She started slightly, then bobbed a jaunty curtsy with a smile.
“’Twas a fine day for a wedding, wasn’t it, Mr. Fortescue?”
He still had his doubts about that, but he only nodded gravely. “Is her ladyship settled in all right?”
A shadow crossed her expression. “She’s a bit—” She wrinkled her nose, because no one had yet told her that house servants of their caliber didn’t make faces. Fortescue should have, but since he found the expression entirely delightful, he didn’t.
“Could be her nerves gettin’ the best of her, sir. Me ma used to brew a tea from thistle that worked a wonder on twitchy brides. Should I speak to Cook, d’you think?”
He cleared his throat. “The tea sounds … ah … delicious, but I believe Cook has a very nice cure for nerves already.”
Patricia nodded. “Aye. I doubt thistle be so easy to come by in Mayfair, eh?” She grinned at him briefly, then remembered her station. The easy smile faded and she bobbed another curtsy. “Sorry, sir. Me ma says I’m far too bold.”
It was like the sun going behind a cloud. He wished he could tease free another grin, or even a breezy laugh—but he’d been Fortescue for too long to simply be John again. “Well … ahem … be sure to let her ladyship know that we have already heard from Lady Tessa. It seems that after the ceremony our coachman mistakenly delivered her to the wrong house and then drove away at great speed when she tried to climb back in.”
Patricia bit her lip so hard he could see it turn white. He folded his hands formally before him and gazed sternly at her. “It seems there was some mix-up at the Primrose Street house. With no one to watch over them, her staff simply locked up and left—all but for the cook, who has apparently been drinking up everything left in the household accounts.”
He thought she’d laugh then for certain, but her eyes went wide.
“Oh, poor Miss Sophie! Can’t we save her?”
He tilted his head back and raised a brow. “It is not our business to save anyone, Patricia. His lordship has no obligation to help Miss Blake unless her ladyship requests it.” He held up his hand to stop what he knew came next. “It is not our place to nag our employers to do their duty to their family.”
She looked frustrated. Then she brightened. “Lady Tessa’s maid, Nan, is my friend, sir. Could I ask Cook to make up a basket for a friend in trouble?”
He inhaled thoughtfully. “Why, yes, I believe that it would be entirely appropriate to send Lady Tessa’s maidservant a very
large
basket in her time of need. After all, she was, for a brief time, one of our own household.”
Patricia didn’t bother to repress the sunny smile that blossomed at that. “Yes, sir! I’ll tend to it right off, sir!” She bobbed a hurried curtsy, then bustled down the hall, carrying the heavy tray as if it were no more than an empty salver.
Fortescue remained where he was for a long moment. Then, because he was entirely sure he was alone, he rubbed one palm over his chest, right over the spot where it ached the most. He was being quite ridiculous. She hadn’t even truly been smiling at
him.
After a little while, he found he could breathe normally again.
Nearly.
DECIDING TO WAGE Brookhaven’s Waterloo was one thing—coming up with a workable plan turned out to be something else entirely. Deirdre had been staring out the window in her bedchamber for quite a while now, seeing little but her own powerless future stretching before her.
Somehow, it was no real surprise when the small voice came from the doorway behind her.
“He doesn’t love you, you know.”
Since truer words had never been spoken, Deirdre
managed not to turn on the spawn-of-Beast. Instead, she shrugged, never taking her gaze from the scene outside. “Do you want an award for such keen observation?”
“He loves Mama,” Lady Margaret continued doggedly. “She was so beautiful that he fell in love with her the first moment he saw her. We all would be living happily ever after if she hadn’t been kidnapped and the kidnapper turned the carriage over.”
Deirdre rolled her eyes. “That’s an interesting version—” Turning, she halted in mid-sarcasm. Little Lady Margaret stood in the precise center of the doorway, neither in nor out, with bony shoulders hunched and grimy little fingers twisted tightly together before her.
Despite the defiance in the little girl’s eyes, she knew the truth. Deirdre could see it in every tense inch of her.
It was a familiar sight. She’d seen herself in the mirror often enough as a child. She knew the story as well—how the prince would have loved the princess forever, had she not been tragically taken from him. An ordinary woman became the perfect loving mother, perfect wife, perfect gracious lady, with no distressing actuality to steal the golden glow from the dream.
Yet Lady Margaret’s story was an ugly one, tainted with betrayal and secrets that the entire world knew well. How the little monster had held onto her fantasy against that tide of gossip was a testament to her sheer force of will.
“You’re dirty.” Deirdre waved to the wooden chair that accompanied the dainty escritoire. “You can sit there. Next time, you can sit on the settee … if you’ve bathed.”
Lady Margaret considered the offer, apparently
detected no hint of adult condescension within, and moved to the chair with an air of having been on her way there anyway. Wiggling her bottom farther back on the seat, she let her skinny stocking-clad legs dangle, kicking her booted little feet against the spindled rungs.
“You shouldn’t be in here, you know. This is my mama’s room.” She pronounced it the French way: ma
ma
. “I remember her brushing her hair in front of that mirror.”
Since Lady Margaret had been all of two years of age when her ladyship died that was unlikely, but Deirdre would be the last person to say so. She had many such scraps of memory of her mother, bits and moments—a smile, a hand taking hers, a scent, a kiss on her brow. Each was as precious as a jewel, taken out and polished again and again in her child’s mind.
“Your mother was very beautiful,” she said neutrally.
“I saw her once, you know.”
Hungry eyes locked to hers. “You did?” There was real surprise there, as if until that moment Margaret hadn’t actually believed her mother was real.
Or perhaps it was Deirdre herself who wasn’t real.
Deirdre moved casually closer, idly arranging the silver brushes on the vanity. “I was just sixteen. It was in Hyde Park. It was a beautiful day and everyone was out. Lady Tessa had allowed me to come to London for a few days and my governess and I could not stay indoors.
“We were strolling in the park alongside the drive and I saw Lady Brookhaven driving in an open carriage with—” With her lover, the man she would flee Brookhaven with only days later. “With a friend. She smiled at me when she drove by. She nodded her head
just like a queen. I remember thinking that she was the very loveliest of the ladies of the
ton.
So young and beautiful, with everything a woman could want … a fine husband, a great estate—”
“And me.”
“—and a lovely new daughter, although mind you, I didn’t know about you at the time.” Everything a woman could ever long for, and the silly creature had thrown it all away for an
actor
. The fact that she’d left her only child behind, while ultimately fortunate for Margaret, only made Deirdre despise Melinda more. Even Tessa had stopped short of complete abandonment.
Deirdre let her gaze flicker over the little beast’s filthy locks for a moment, then turned her attention back to the brushes. “And such hair! Well, I needn’t tell
you
that, for you remember it perfectly well. As black as midnight it was, and it shone nearly blue in the bright sunlight that day.”
Deirdre sighed in unfeigned admiration. “I remember thinking that if I were ever blessed with hair so beautiful, I should take such grateful care of it.”
Lady Margaret sat in silence for a long moment, looking down at her scuffed boots as they thumped the rungs. “Your hair is all right.”
Deirdre smiled slightly. “That’s very kind of you to say. You’ll be rather fortunate in that way yourself … someday.”
“Um.”
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Then the child slid from the chair and walked from the room. At the door, she turned. “I suppose it’s all right if you stay in Mama’s room … since you knew her.”
Sympathy rose through Deirdre’s anger. Brookhaven
had a great deal to answer for. He’d been nearly as bad as Melinda, leaving his daughter behind at Brookhaven all these years. He really ought to be made to pay for that.
An important step in that process would be to write the solicitors at Stickley & Wolfe about needing her inheritance after all.
But first …
“Lady Margaret?”
The grimy child turned back. “What?”
Deirdre smiled. Her manners were hideous. How perfect. “You don’t really want me to be your mother, do you?”
Lady Margaret folded her wiry little arms. “You wouldn’t want to bloody try it.”
Deirdre nodded. “I have no intention of doing so. I do, however, wish to have my balls and my parties and my new gowns.”
She seated herself on the pristine cream silk cushions of the settee and patted the one beside her. “Sit with me for a moment, my lady. I have a proposition for you.”
In Calder’s bedchamber, his valet, Argyle, was all set to prepare the master for his wedding night. Steaming bowls of water for shaving sat next to his best silk dressing gown and the only cologne he cared for, a light woodsy scent mixed just for him at half the strength other men seemed to find necessary.
“May I offer my congratulations again, my lord? What an exciting day for us all.” The valet beamed at him. Hadn’t the man been present at the disastrous introductions this afternoon?
Calder gazed at the gleaming shaving instruments and wondered if perhaps those were best kept far from his new bride’s hands. She was none too pleased with the situation—nor was he himself any too pleased with her—and it simply didn’t seem right to embark on … er, nuptials at this delicate moment in time.
He cleared his throat. “Her ladyship—is not expecting me this evening.” Or was she? Would she coldly go through the motions
now?
After all, by making her vows she had agreed to precisely that. He would be within his right to barge into that scented bastion of femininity and demand, well, pretty much anything he wanted.
Deirdre naked, golden hair streaming down over her full breasts, kneeling obediently at his feet
—
Which would be abhorrent, of course. No right-thinking man would ever force a woman, not even—or rather—especially not his own lady wife.
She might like it.
Calder gazed helplessly at the door to the adjoining chamber. He truly didn’t know. He’d married a stranger—again—and so far nothing was going quite as he’d planned.
Again.
Melinda, although apparently willing, had wept quietly when he’d consummated their union. He’d been gentle and thorough, so he knew he hadn’t truly hurt her. He’d thought it merely maidenly fear and silently cursed her mother for preparing her so ill. Although she never seemed to truly enjoy it, she’d never refused him, in fact—until the night she’d left him. Up until that moment, he’d had no idea that she despised him so. She’d seemed rather wan in the months after Meggie’s birth, but he’d chalked it up to womanly emotions and gone about his business.
Then, facing him down in her silken boudoir with her color high and her fists clenched, she had spilled out her hatred and contempt in a bursting dam of bitterness and gleeful abandon. She was leaving with her lover, she’d told him, leaving to board the first ship that would carry them far from him and Brookhaven, which apparently she hated as much as she hated him.
Then the lover had appeared from where he’d been secreted by Melinda’s faithful maid and the battle had ensued. Calder had awoken to find himself lying on the
cream-colored carpet with a lump on his skull—from a lamp wielded by Melinda herself, apparently—and had run from the room in pursuit of his beautiful, betraying wife.
He’d not stepped foot in that room since. Had the staff ever managed to get his blood from the carpet? Or repaired the chipped mantel from when Melinda had flung a vase at his head and missed? The ugly scene wore the patina of time in his memory, not as clear or vivid as it ought to have been, perhaps.
What rose more vividly in his mind now was the way that Deirdre, gloriously gowned from their wedding ceremony, had stood on the steps of Brook House and defied him openly, with anger snapping brightly in her sapphire eyes.
Perhaps … perhaps he’d been right about Miss Deirdre Cantor after all. He was a formidable man, he knew. Most people scarcely dared speak to him, yet the lovely Deirdre had raised her chin and called him out, on his turf, in front of his own staff yet.
He didn’t let the tug on his lips quite form a smile, but he gazed at the closed door with a bit more hope. She had looked magnificent in that moment, hadn’t she? Spirited and furious and arousing, if a man were to be honest with himself … .
Without quite realizing it, he reached out to press the latch of the door. He was simply remembering her eyes, furious and a bit hurt, now that he thought about it. He could go to her now and—well, he certainly had nothing to apologize for. Still, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to … to end the day on a more benevolent note—
The door didn’t move. Calder looked down in
surprise at the first latch ever to be locked against him in his own house. He pushed harder in disbelief. The door didn’t budge.
If he was a cursing man, he’d be cursing now.
He turned sharply and strode from his room, turned a forceful left and took the distance between the doors in a few large, impatient steps. This time the door gave in to his ownership. He flung it open to glare at the woman within—
Who jerked her head up in surprise and covered her wet, naked breasts with soapy hands.
Oh damn
. His imagination hadn’t even come close. There she was, his bride, immersed in a great copper tub before the fire—bare, wet, gleaming, dripping in scented suds and succulent flesh—
And more furious at him than ever.
“How dare—!” She halted. It was his house, after all. Every damned stone of it, including those lucky ones in front of the fire that supported the most fortunate copper tub in all of England.
She lifted her chin, though she blushed furiously—her cheeks were nearly the color of the pink nipples he’d spotted for a brief but memorable moment—and narrowed her eyes at him.
“What do you want … my lord?”
You. Now. Hot and dripping all over those sheets there and maybe a bit slippery still, just so that my hands can slide more quickly over your beautiful skin.
If he’d thought she was lovely when dressed, he’d had no idea what was in store beneath the perfect, stylish wardrobe. He’d angered this outrageously desirable creature on their wedding day? Was he completely out of his mind?
If he’d been a smoother man—like his persuasive brother, for instance—he would have said something charming, endearing, just a tad bawdy and certain to grant him entrance to more than just the door.
Alas, he was only himself, a man without the inclination to make pretty words. How he wished he’d practiced more. “You locked me out.”
No, that wasn’t it.
He tried again. “This is my house and you are my wife.”
All true, but hardly smooth, old man.
“I can come and go as I please.” Wait, no. That hadn’t come out quite right—
Let’s hope she’s too innocent to detect that double entendre.
Her eyes widened and she blinked at him, genuinely shocked now.
No such luck. Too bad. It might have been the best night of your life.
Idiot.
So be it. He ducked the flying sponge neatly and flicked suds from his sleeve. “I shall say no more on the subject. Pray take care not to lock my doors in the future.”
He made his escape, shutting the door just in time to let it take the impact of a bottle of bath scent.