by Anne Barton
“Thank you.”
“Now. Your workspace is through here.” Mrs. Pottsbury walked toward a door across from the bed and reached for a key on her belt. She fiddled with the lock until it clicked, and the door to the one-time nursery swung open. “This room’s been closed up since… well, for a long time.”
The large room had a picture window, and once Mrs. Pottsbury opened the drapes, Anabelle could see it overlooked a colorful garden in the back of the townhouse. A few bulky pieces of furniture were hidden by sheets, and everything in the room was covered with a thin layer of dust. Tiny motes floated in the air, illuminated by the morning light streaming through the cloudy windowpanes.
It was perfect.
The housekeeper nodded as though she concurred with Anabelle’s thought. “I’ll send up a couple of maids to dust and remove the drop cloths. Thomas and Roger—they’re the footmen—will bring up some tables and additional lanterns.” She let her gaze sweep across the room. “Is there anything else? Any questions?”
Oh, Anabelle had questions, like, when would she meet with the sisters, and did they know she’d used a secret about Olivia to try to extort money from their brother? And why had the duke taken pity on her? But she said, “No. Thank you.”
“I hate to mention it, but the duke did seem rather adamant about your cap.” Mrs. Pottsbury fiddled with her keys. “I have several that are quite smart and… less worn. You may pick one to use until the rest of your things come.”
“Thank you, but I’ll make do with what I have.”
Mrs. Pottsbury deflated. “He won’t be pleased. I’ve no idea why it vexes him so.”
“Nor do I.” But she was not going to let him tell her what she could and could not wear. She had precious little freedom as it was.
The housekeeper gave her a suit-yourself smile, turned to go, and then spun around like a top. “Would you like me to send your glasses out to be repaired?”
Although Anabelle would have loved nothing more, she could not afford it. She had no wish to be further indebted to the duke. “No, thank you. I have a spare pair at home,” she lied.
“Oh. Very well, then.” The kindly woman patted Anabelle on the shoulder. “Get some rest, and I’ll see you at lunchtime. I suspect you’ll have your first meeting with the young ladies this afternoon.”
Anabelle waited until Mrs. Pottsbury left the nursery—er, workroom—and then walked back into her room through the adjoining door. She shed her dreary black shawl and placed it on the bed. The shawl’s coarse, rough texture was distinctly incongruous with all the lovely luxury in the room. It was the only thing that didn’t belong—besides her.
She walked around the four-poster and sat at the small desk below the window. Locating the paper, pen, and ink was easy. Deciding how much to tell Mama and Daphne was much more difficult.
Dearest Mother and Sister,
I’m sure you are shocked to receive correspondence from me, so let me allay your fears at once: I have excellent news. I have been commissioned by the Duke of Huntford to create entirely new wardrobes for both of his sisters. It is a wonderful opportunity, and I’ll be earning much more than I did at the dress shop. In fact, the duke has generously advanced a portion of my wages so that I can pay Dr. Conwell as well as the rent we owe. I will send you money for other expenses as soon as I am able.
My only regret is that I must stay here, at the duke’s residence in Mayfair, until my assignment is completed. It is no hardship, I assure you, except that I shall miss both of you dreadfully. I wish I could be there to help with household matters.
However, I expect that I will be working here for about three months. I will write regularly, of course, and you must keep me apprised of everything Dr. Conwell says and how Mama is faring. If you need me, send word to this address, and I will come as quickly as I can.
Lovingly yours,
Anabelle
Relieved to have the letter written and frustrated that there was nothing more she could do at the moment, she removed her spectacles, tugged off her cap, pulled the pins from her hair, and rubbed her aching scalp. After slipping off her shoes, she climbed onto the bed and sank into the mattress. Although she’d been awake for two days straight, she was far too anxious to sleep. She would try to rest, though. She curled up on her side and let the silky pillowcase cradle her cheek.
Although her living arrangements were more than comfortable, she would not let down her guard. Members of the aristocracy were not to be trusted. Her own titled grandparents were the perfect example. They’d disowned their son—just because he’d married a commoner.
Wealth and privilege corrupted a person, and the Duke of Huntford had plenty of both. He also had the sort of green eyes that dazzled unsuspecting women.
Which was neither here nor there.
She was thinking of those heavy-lidded, soulful eyes, when, despite her best intentions, she drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Five
Binding: (1) A long strip of fabric used to create a neat or decorative finish on an edge. (2) Chafing or restricting, as is often the case with tightly laced corsets.
After returning from Hyde Park that morning, Owen spent a few hours holed up in his study. He sent a message to Mrs. Smallwood, letting the proprietor of the dress shop know that her prized employee was on special assignment for a few months. She replied that she’d be happy to lend Miss Honeycote’s services and that the dress shop would supply all the fabric and trimmings.
It occurred to him that Miss Honeycote’s punishment was turning out to be a rather expensive prospect.
At breakfast he’d informed his sisters of the morning’s developments. He left out the bit about the bridge and the extortion.
They’d seemed delighted when he told them that Miss Honeycote would be making each of them several new gowns, and even more delighted when he mentioned that she’d be staying with them. As if it was a damned social visit.
A fly buzzing around Owen’s head distracted him from the papers that his steward had sent from Huntford Manor. He glanced at the clock on the mantel and realized that although it was almost two in the afternoon, he still hadn’t shaved or eaten lunch. Deciding he needed an excuse to stretch his legs, he walked upstairs to his bedchamber and, since his valet was not hovering about, saw to the task of lathering his face himself.
The cool blade scratched over his beard, and when the task was completed, he felt a tad more civilized. Now, if he could only locate a decent sandwich, he’d be a happy man. He strode down the corridor and turned toward the stairs, then stopped. Something at the other end of the hall looked odd. Different.
The door to the nursery. It was ajar.
He walked over and pushed it open. No one was there, but someone had been. The sheets covering the furniture were gone, and the shelves had been dusted and cleared. Four small desks were pushed together to make a table, and two other large tables had been placed against the wall opposite the windows. The center of the rug was worn thin from all the battles he’d reenacted with his wooden figures as a boy. But now, there was a full-length mirror propped against a chair. And baskets on the floor. Upon closer inspection, he could see that they held pins, scissors, buttons, and other things he would not venture to name.
Remnants of his boyhood remained. A globe in the corner. Slates on a shelf. A volume of Homer’s works, in Latin—the mere sight of which made him shudder. But it was clear that, at least for now, his old nursery would be used as a sewing room.
It was a good plan. No sense in keeping rooms closed off just because of an unpleasant memory or two when—
Interesting. The inside door that led to an adjoining guest room was open. He crossed the nursery and entered the bedchamber. Everything looked normal.
Except.
There, in the middle of the four-poster bed, a woman slept. He knew he should leave at once, before she awoke or someone saw him here. But he froze.
Her long hair flowed over the pillow in shiny, chestnut waves. Her
smooth cheek was tinged with pink. As though she’d been dreaming of something wicked. Her slightly parted lips were the color of a lush peach and curled in the hint of a smile.
He moved toward the bed, pausing and holding his breath when she shifted in her sleep. When he reached her side, he realized the identity of the sleeping beauty.
Beautiful was not a word he would ever have imagined he’d apply to Miss Honeycote. Proud, devious, stubborn, and prickly—those words described her. But the evidence lay before him. Her features were almost perfect, save for the concave slope of her nose—the reason her spectacles never stayed put. Her body was lithe, and though he could not see her legs, he imagined they would be long.
The kind he liked to wrap around his waist. Or better yet, caress. Starting at an ankle, lingering behind a knee, grazing the skin on the inside of a thigh, and teasing the soft, swollen—
She bolted upright. “Your Grace?” It was a question and a scolding at the same time. She grabbed the pillow to her torso, as though attempting to cover her nakedness when, in fact, she was fully clothed.
A shame, that. “Good morning, Miss Honeycote.”
Out of the corner of her eyes, she peered at the window. “I slept through the night?”
“No. I jest.”
She scowled.
“I was in the nursery, saw the door open, and wandered in here. I thought Mrs. Pottsbury planned to set you up in the attic.”
Blushing deeply, she said, “She insisted this room would be fine. But I would be happy in an attic room. Would prefer it, actually—”
“No. This is fine.”
“Well, then,” she said, still clutching the pillow to her chest, “perhaps you could give me some privacy?”
It would have been the gentlemanly, decent thing to do. “We still have a few matters to discuss.”
“Now?”
“I assumed you’d be eager to send word—and the necessary funds—to your mother and sister.” He was a true cad.
“I am,” she said quickly. “I’ve written a letter explaining my new circumstances.” Eying him warily, she eased herself off the bed and maneuvered around him toward the desk. The pillow was her shield, positioned between them at all times. She handed him the letter. “Here.”
He slapped the folded parchment against his palm. “How much did you tell them?”
“Just that you hired me for three months… and that the salary you offered was generous.”
“Indeed,” he said dryly. “I think we should settle your debts immediately. I’d like some level of confidence that you won’t be pocketing my priceless artifacts and hocking them at the nearest pawn shop. Who is your mother’s doctor, and how much do you owe him?”
“We owe Dr. Conwell fifteen pounds, and the apothecary, Mr. Vanders, two pounds.”
That must be a lot of money for someone like her. “My curiosity is piqued, Miss Honeycote. How much do seamstresses make?”
“Ten shillings a week.” She jerked her chin up, and her eyes flashed. “That’s why I’ve fallen so behind with payments.”
“What other debts do you have outstanding?”
She swallowed and gazed at the floor. “The rent. We owe Mrs. Bowman ten pounds.”
“Anyone else?”
“No… but my mother and sister have no money for food or any other basic things, like candles or oil for the lamps. If you could lend me a few extra shillings, I’d be grateful.”
Her lips were pressed together in a thin line as she awaited his response. Asking for help couldn’t be easy for her. He’d already planned to send her family spending money, but he guessed she would be uncomfortable receiving outright charity.
“I’m prepared to give you an advance on your salary. You’ll be earning it over the next three months.” He flicked his eyes to the mussed bedding. “Which, by the way, doesn’t begin until you actually start working.”
She threw the pillow on the bed and clenched her fists. She glanced at the dresser where her spectacles and cap lay, and then attempted to shoulder past him. But she stepped awkwardly on one of her slippers, and a leg buckled underneath her.
With a yelp, she started to fall, flailed her arms, and clipped him on the jaw.
He winced but caught her around her tiny waist. And steadied her against his body.
Her palms were pressed against his chest, where his heart beat faster than it should have. Her body felt right next to his. Surprisingly strong, yet soft. The silky ends of her hair brushed the back of his hand, and he inhaled the clean scents of soap and cotton.
When she gazed up at him, her gray eyes weren’t hard and stormy, as he’d expected. They were warm and sultry. She bit her lower lip, plump and moist. His cock went hard.
God, he wanted to kiss her—had to try. He leaned in, and she raised a hand to his face. With a smooth fingertip, she slowly traced a line on his chin. His skin tingled where she’d touched him.
“I scratched you,” she said.
He blinked and said nothing.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” His voice was more gruff than usual.
“You can, ah, release me now.”
Christ, he was still holding her as though they were about to dance a bloody waltz. “Of course.” Reluctantly, he let her go and attempted to smooth the crumpled letter in his hand. He held it up. “I will see that this is delivered to your residence along with enough money to last them several months. I don’t want you to worry about your family while you’re here. It would only distract you from your duties.”
She nodded soberly.
“Shall I have a footman bring your things here?”
“Oh yes, please. After my sister, Daphne, reads my letter, she’ll know what to pack for me.”
“Very well. I shall inform my sisters to meet you in the workroom”—he nodded toward the nursery—“after you’ve eaten your lunch, at say, three o’clock. They know nothing of your extortion scheme, by the way. I’d prefer to protect them from that bit of ugliness.”
She hung her head, her hair forming a lovely veil around her face. “I understand. I… I promise not to hurt them.”
“Rose, in particular, is fragile,” he said. He never knew how to explain her quirks. “She doesn’t speak to anyone but Olivia—and only rarely. But she’s very bright and communicates in other ways. Olivia understands her intuitively, but I…” He shook his head, unsure why he was telling all this to the seamstress. “I just want to see them happy.”
“Then that will be my goal,” she said, and he believed her. She’d been able to put Rose at ease at the dress shop; maybe she could work other small miracles.
They looked at each other for a long moment. Although he was a duke and she was an indentured servant, and there was a whole complicated social structure separating them, he felt an undeniable connection with her. She seemed to feel it, too.
He turned to leave through the nursery door so that no one who happened to be in the hallway would know he’d been in Miss Honeycote’s room. As he passed by the dresser where her broken spectacles lay, he slipped them into his palm and deposited them in his pocket. Fortunately, she didn’t notice.
He’d be damned if she was going to walk around his house wearing broken spectacles. It was the principle of the thing. She might sew a crooked seam on one of his sister’s dresses or miss a step and break her neck on the bloody stairs. There was enough drama in the household already.
He paused at the doorway. “I think this arrangement may work out better than either of us had hoped.”
She shot him a dubious look—he’d expect nothing less—and he shut the door behind him. When he heard the lock click, he smiled to himself.
Though he was uncharacteristically optimistic about the seamstress, he mustn’t forget what she’d done or why she was here.
And he definitely couldn’t kiss her. Or even have thoughts about kissing her.
Just two nights ago, he’d lectured Olivia on this very topic. Relationships between no
bility and servants were forbidden—and with good reason. Those types of affairs were socially damaging for the lady or gentleman, true, but the servant had the most to lose. He would never be so callous—or desperate—as to use a member of his staff that way.
The problem was that he hadn’t expected Miss Honeycote to be so beautiful. If one could get past her blasted cap and spectacles and her perpetual scowl, she was nothing short of stunning.
Fortunately, he did not expect their paths to cross very often over the next three months. She’d likely spend her time in the nursery and with his sisters. He’d be busy running his damned dukedom and attending tedious social functions featuring pampered debutantes.
He withdrew the sorry spectacles from his pocket. Only someone as stubborn as Miss Honeycote would insist that she could see perfectly well through a cobweb of cracks.
No, there was no reason to think he would see her, except in passing. But then, one never knew.
Anabelle let out the breath she’d been holding.
What on earth was wrong with her?
She should never have fallen asleep. This assignment was her chance to prove to the duke that she wasn’t a lazy opportunist intent on taking advantage of others. She’d planned to impress him with her dedication and hard work but had, somehow, ended up napping.
But that wasn’t the only reason she deserved to be flogged. Instead of throwing him out of the room the moment he’d entered, she’d engaged in conversation with him. Worse, she’d been in complete dishabille, and that had put her at a distinct disadvantage during their exchange. While he’d worn an impeccably tailored jacket that showed his broad shoulders to advantage, she’d been caught—quite literally—with her hair down. It was humiliating.
The way the duke had looked at her was disturbing. And heady. During the few moments in his arms, she’d behaved like a complete wanton—sinking into him and touching his face—before managing to regain her common sense. Thank goodness she had, because, unlikely as it seemed, she suspected he’d been about to kiss her.
